Chapter VIII: Appendix: Extracts From the Critics (1)

GIFFORD: There is much good writing in this comedy. All the speeches of Satan are replete with the most biting satire, delivered with an appropriate degree of spirit. Fitzdottrel is one of those characters which Jonson delighted to draw, and in which he stood unrivalled, a _gull_, i. e., a confident coxcomb, selfish, cunning, and conceited. Mrs. Fitzdottrel possesses somewhat more interest than the generality of our author’s females, and is indeed a well sustained character. In action the principal amusement of the scene (exclusive of the admirable burlesque of witchery in the conclusion) was probably derived from the mortification of poor Pug, whose stupid stare of amazement at finding himself made an _ass_ of on every possible occasion must, if portrayed as some then on the stage were well able to portray it, have been exquisitely comic.

This play is strictly moral in its conception and conduct. Knavery and folly are shamed and corrected, virtue is strengthened and rewarded, and the ends of dramatic justice are sufficiently answered by the simple exposure of those whose errors are merely subservient to the minor interests of the piece.

HERFORD (_Studies in the Literary Relations of England and Germany_, pp. 318-20): Jonson had in fact so far the Aristophanic quality of genius, that he was at once a most elaborate and minute student of the actual world, and a poet of the airiest and boldest fancy, and that he loved to bring the two rôles into the closest possible combination. No one so capable of holding up the mirror to contemporary society without distorting the slenderest thread of its complex tissue of usages; no one, on the other hand, who so keenly delighted in startling away the illusion or carefully undermining it by some palpably fantastic invention. His most elaborate reproductions of the everyday world are hardly ever without an infusion of equally elaborate caprice,--a leaven of recondite and fantastic legend and grotesque myth, redolent of old libraries and antique scholarship, furtively planted, as it were, in the heart of that everyday world of London life, and so subtly blending with it that the whole motley throng of merchants and apprentices, gulls and gallants, discover nothing unusual in it, and engage with the most perfectly matter of fact air in the business of working it out. The purging of Crispinus in the _Poetaster_, the Aristophanic motive of the _Magnetic Lady_, even the farcical horror of noise which is the mainspring of the _Epicœne_, are only less elaborate and sustained examples of this fantastic realism than the adventure of a Stupid Devil in the play before us. Nothing more anomalous in the London of Jonson’s day could be conceived; yet it is so managed that it loses all its strangeness. So perfectly is the supernatural element welded with the human, that it almost ceases to appear supernatural. Pug, the hero of the adventure, is a pretty, petulant boy, more human by many degrees than the half fairy Puck of Shakespeare, which doubtless helped to suggest him, and the arch-fiend Satan is a bluff old politician, anxious to ward off the perils of London from his young simpleton of a son, who is equally eager to plunge into them. The old savage horror fades away before Jonson’s humanising touch, the infernal world loses all its privilege of peculiar terror and strength, and sinks to the footing of a mere rival state, whose merchandise can be kept out of the market and its citizens put in the Counter or carted to Tyburn.

A. W. WARD (_Eng. Dram. Lit._, pp. 372-3): The oddly-named comedy of _The Devil is an Ass_, acted in 1616, seems already to exhibit a certain degree of decay in the dramatic powers which had so signally called forth its predecessor. Yet this comedy possesses a considerable literary interest, as adapting both to Jonson’s dramatic method, and to the general moral atmosphere of his age, a theme connecting itself with some of the most notable creations of the earlier Elizabethan drama.... The idea of the play is as healthy as its plot is ingenious; but apart from the circumstance that the latter is rather slow in preparation, and by no means, I think, gains in perspicuousness as it proceeds, the design itself suffers from one radical mistake. Pug’s intelligence is so much below par that he suffers as largely on account of his clumsiness as on account of his viciousness, while remaining absolutely without influence upon the course of the action. The comedy is at the same time full of humor, particularly in the entire character of Fitzdottrel.

SWINBURNE (_Study of Ben Jonson_, pp. 65-7): If _The Devil is an Ass_ cannot be ranked among the crowning masterpieces of its author, it is not because the play shows any sign of decadence in literary power or in humorous invention. The writing is admirable, the wealth of comic matter is only too copious, the characters are as firm in outline or as rich in color as any but the most triumphant examples of his satirical or sympathetic skill in finished delineation and demarcation of humors. On the other hand, it is of all Ben Jonson’s comedies since the date of _Cynthia’s Revels_ the most obsolete in subject of satire, the most temporary in its allusions and applications: the want of fusion or even connection (except of the most mechanical or casual kind) between the various parts of its structure and the alternate topics of its ridicule makes the action more difficult to follow than that of many more complicated plots: and, finally, the admixture of serious sentiment and noble emotion is not so skilfully managed as to evade the imputation of incongruity. [The dialogue between Lady Tailbush and Lady Eitherside in Act 4. Sc. 1 has some touches ‘worthy of Molière himself.’ In Act 4. Sc. 3 Mrs. Fitzdottrel’s speech possesses a ‘a noble and natural eloquence,’ but the character of her husband is ‘almost too loathsome to be ridiculous,’ and unfit ‘for the leading part in a comedy of ethics as well as of morals.’] The prodigality of elaboration lavished on such a multitude of subordinate characters, at the expense of all continuous interest and to the sacrifice of all dramatic harmony, may tempt the reader to apostrophize the poet in his own words:

You are so covetous still to embrace
More than you can, that you lose all.

Yet a word of parting praise must be given to Satan: a small part as far as extent goes, but a splendid example of high comic imagination after the order of Aristophanes, admirably relieved by the low comedy of the asinine Pug and the voluble doggrel by the antiquated Vice.

TEXT

EDITOR’S NOTE

The text here adopted is that of the original edition of 1631. No changes of reading have been made; spelling, punctuation, capitalization, and italics are reproduced. The original pagination is inserted in brackets; the book-holder’s marginal notes are inserted where 1716 and Whalley placed them. In a few instances modern type has been substituted for archaic characters. The spacing of the contracted words has been normalized.

1641 = Pamphlet folio of 1641.
1692 = The Third Folio, 1692.
1716 = Edition of 1716 (17).
W = Whalley’s edition, 1756.
G = Gifford’s edition, 1816.
SD. = Stage directions at the beginning of a scene.
SN. = Side note, or book-holder’s note.
om. = omitted.
ret. = retained.
f. = and all later editions.
G§ = a regular change. After a single citation only
exceptions are noted. See Introduction, page xvi.

Mere changes of spelling have not been noted in the variants. All changes of form and all suggestive changes of punctuation have been recorded.

THE DIUELL IS AN ASSE:

A COMEDIE ACTED IN THE YEARE, 1616.

_BY HIS MAIESTIES_ SERVANTS.

The Author BEN: IONSON.

HOR. _de_ ART. POET.
_Ficta voluptatis Cauſâ, ſint proxima veris._

[DEVICE OF A GRIFFIN’S HEAD ERASED]

_LONDON_.

Printed by _I. B._ for ROBERT ALLOT, and are
to be ſold at the ſigne of the _Beare_, in _Pauls_
Church-yard. 1631.

THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY.

SATAN. _The great diuell._ [93]
PVG. _The leſſe diuell._
INIQVITY. _The Vice._
FITZ-DOTTRELL. _A Squire of_ Norfolk.
Miſtreſſe FRANCES. _His wife._ 5
MEERE-CRAFT. _The Proiector._
EVERILL. _His champion._
WITTIPOL. _A young Gallant._
MANLY. _His friend._
INGINE. _A Broaker._ 10
TRAINES. _The Proiectors man._
GVILT-HEAD. _A Gold-ſmith._
PLVTARCHVS. _His ſonne._
Sir POVLE EITHER-SIDE. _A Lawyer, and Iuſtice._
Lady EITHER-SIDE. _His wife._ 15
Lady TAILE-BVSH. _The Lady Proiectreſſe._
PIT-FALL. _Her woman._
AMBLER. _Her Gentlemanvſher._
SLEDGE. _A Smith, the conſtable._
SHACKLES. _Keeper of Newgate._ 20

SERIEANTS.

_The Scene_, LONDON.

The Prologue.

_The_ DIVELL _is an_ Aſſe. _That is, to day,
The name of what you are met for, a new Play.
Yet, Grandee’s, would you were not come to grace
Our matter, with allowing vs no place.
Though you preſume_ SATAN _a ſubtill thing, 5
And may haue heard hee’s worne in a thumbe-ring;
Doe not on theſe preſumptions, force vs act,
In compaſſe of a cheeſe-trencher. This tract
Will ne’er admit our_ vice, _becauſe of yours.
Anone, who, worſe then you, the fault endures 10
That your ſelues make? when you will thruſt and ſpurne,
And knocke vs o’ the elbowes, and bid, turne;
As if, when wee had ſpoke, wee muſt be gone,
Or, till wee ſpeake, muſt all runne in, to one,
Like the young adders, at the old ones mouth? 15
Would wee could ſtand due_ North; _or had no_ South,
_If that offend: or were_ Muſcouy _glaſſe,
That you might looke our_ Scenes _through as they paſſe.
We know not how to affect you. If you’ll come
To ſee new Playes, pray you affoord vs roome, 20
And ſhew this, but the ſame face you haue done
Your deare delight, the_ Diuell _of_ Edmunton.
_Or, if, for want of roome it muſt miſ-carry,
’Twill be but Iuſtice, that your cenſure tarry,
Till you giue ſome. And when ſixe times you ha’ ſeen’t, 25
If this_ Play _doe not like, the Diuell is in’t._

[93] Dramatis Personæ 1716, f. G places the women’s names after those
of the men.

[94] 1, 2 Devil 1692, f.

[95] 4 Fabian Fitzdottrel G

[96] 5 Mrs. Frances Fitzdottrel G || His wife] om. G

[97] 9 Eustace Manly G

[98] 10 Engine 1716, f.

[99] 12 Thomas Gilthead G

[100] 15 His wife] om. G

[101] 18 Gentleman-usher to lady Tailbush G

[102] 21 Serjeants, officers, servants, underkeepers, &c. G

[103] 22 The] om. 1716, W

[104] The Prologue.] follows the title-page 1716, W

[105] 5 _subtle_ 1692 f.

[106] 10 than 1692, f. passim in this sense. Anon 1692, f.

[107] 12 o’] on G§

[108] 14 till] ’till 1716

[109] 25 ha’] have G§

THE DIVELL IS AN ASSE. [95]

ACT. I. SCENE. I.

DIVELL. PVG. INIQVITY.

Hoh, hoh, hoh, hoh, hoh, hoh, hoh, hoh, &c.
To earth? and, why to earth, thou foooliſh Spirit?
What wold’ſt thou do on earth?

PVG. For that, great Chiefe!
As time ſhal work. I do but ask my mon’th.
Which euery petty _pui’nee Diuell_ has; 5
Within that terme, the Court of _Hell_ will heare
Some thing, may gaine a longer grant, perhaps.

SAT. For what? the laming a poore Cow, or two?
Entring a Sow, to make her caſt her farrow?
Or croſſing of a Mercat-womans Mare, 10
Twixt this, and _Totnam_? theſe were wont to be
Your maine atchieuements, _Pug_, You haue ſome plot, now,
Vpon a tonning of Ale, to ſtale the yeſt,
Or keepe the churne ſo, that the buttter come not;
Spight o’ the houſewiues cord, or her hot ſpit? 15
Or ſome good Ribibe, about _Kentiſh_ Towne,
Or _Hogſden_, you would hang now, for a witch,
Becauſe ſhee will not let you play round _Robbin_:
And you’ll goe ſowre the Citizens Creame ’gainſt Sunday?
That ſhe may be accus’d for’t, and condemn’d, 20
By a _Middleſex_ Iury, to the ſatisfaction
Of their offended friends, the _Londiners_ wiues
Whoſe teeth were ſet on edge with it? Fooliſh feind,
Stay i’ your place, know your owne ſtrengths, and put not
Beyond the ſpheare of your actiuity. 25
You are too dull a Diuell to be truſted [96]
Forth in thoſe parts, _Pug_, vpon any affayre
That may concerne our name, on earth. It is not
Euery ones worke. The ſtate of _Hell_ muſt care
Whom it imployes, in point of reputation, 30
Heere about _London_. You would make, I thinke
An Agent, to be ſent, for _Lancaſhire_,
Proper inough; or ſome parts of _Northumberland_,
So yo’ had good inſtructions, _Pug_.

PVG. _O Chiefe!_
You doe not know, deare _Chiefe_, what there is in mee. 35
Proue me but for a fortnight, for a weeke,
And lend mee but a _Vice_, to carry with mee,
To practice there-with any play-fellow,
And, you will ſee, there will come more vpon’t,
Then you’ll imagine, pretious _Chiefe_.

SAT. What _Vice_? 40
What kind wouldſt th’ haue it of?

PVG. Why, any _Fraud_;
Or _Couetouſneſſe_; or Lady _Vanity_;
Or old _Iniquity_: I’ll call him hither.

INI. What is he, calls vpon me, and would ſeeme to lack a _Vice_?
Ere his words be halfe ſpoken, I am with him in a trice; 45
Here, there, and euery where, as the Cat is with the mice:
True _vetus Iniquitas_. Lack’ſt thou Cards, friend, or Dice?
I will teach thee cheate, Child, to cog, lye, and ſwagger,
And euer and anon, to be drawing forth thy dagger:
To ſweare by Gogs-nownes, like a lusty _Iuuentus_, 50
In a cloake to thy heele, and a hat like a pent-houſe.
Thy breeches of three fingers, and thy doublet all belly,
With a Wench that shall feede thee, with cock-ſtones and gelly.

PVG. Is it not excellent, _Chiefe_? how nimble he is!

INI. Child of hell, this is nothing! I will fetch thee a leape 55
From the top of _Pauls_-ſteeple, to the Standard in _Cheepe_:
And lead thee a daunce, through the ſtreets without faile,
Like a needle of _Spaine_, with a thred at my tayle.
We will ſuruay the _Suburbs_, and make forth our ſallyes,
Downe _Petticoate-lane_, and vp the _Smock-allies_, 60
To _Shoreditch_, _Whitechappell_, and so to Saint _Kathernes_.
To drinke with the _Dutch_ there, and take forth their patternes:
From thence, wee will put in at _Cuſtome-houſe_ key there,
And ſee, how the Factors, and Prentizes play there,
Falſe with their Maſters; and gueld many a full packe, 65
To ſpend it in pies, at the _Dagger_, and the _Wool-ſacke_.

PVG. Braue, braue, _Iniquity_! will not this doe, _Chiefe_?

INI. Nay, boy, I wil bring thee to the Bawds, and the Royſters,
At _Belins-gate_, feaſting with claret-wine, and oyſters,
From thence ſhoot the _Bridge_, childe, to the Cranes
i’ the _Vintry_, 70
And ſee, there the gimblets, how they make their entry!
Or, if thou hadſt rather, to the _Strand_ downe to fall,
’Gainſt the Lawyers come dabled from _Weſtminſter-hall_ [97]
And marke how they cling, with their clyents together,
Like Iuie to Oake; so Veluet to Leather: 75
Ha, boy, I would ſhew thee.

PVG. Rare, rare!

DIV. Peace, dotard,
And thou more ignorant thing, that ſo admir’ſt.
Art thou the ſpirit thou ſeem’ſt? ſo poore? to chooſe
This, for a _Vice_, t’aduance the cauſe of _Hell_,
Now? as Vice ſtands this preſent yeere? Remember, 80
What number it is. _Six hundred_ and _ſixteene_.
Had it but beene _fiue hundred_, though ſome _ſixty_
Aboue; that’s _fifty_ yeeres agone, and _ſix_,
(When euery great man had his _Vice_ ſtand by him,
In his long coat, ſhaking his wooden dagger) 85
I could conſent, that, then this your graue choice
Might haue done that with his Lord _Chiefe_, the which
Moſt of his chamber can doe now. But _Pug_,
As the times are, who is it, will receiue you?
What company will you goe to? or whom mix with? 90
Where canſt thou carry him? except to Tauernes?
To mount vp ona joynt-ſtoole, with a _Iewes_-trumpe,
To put downe _Cokeley_, and that muſt be to Citizens?
He ne’re will be admitted, there, where _Vennor_ comes.
Hee may perchance, in taile of a Sheriffes dinner, 95
Skip with a rime o’ the Table, from _New-nothing_,
And take his _Almaine_-leape into a cuſtard,
Shall make my Lad _Maioreſſe_, and her ſiſters,
Laugh all their hoods ouer their shoulders. But,
This is not that will doe, they are other things 100
That are receiu’d now vpon earth, for Vices;
Stranger, and newer: and chang’d euery houre.
They ride ’hem like their horſes off their legges,
And here they come to _Hell_, whole legions of ’hem,
Euery weeke tyr’d. Wee, ſtill ſtriue to breed, 105
And reare ’hem vp new ones; but they doe not ſtand,
When they come there: they turne ’hem on our hands.
And it is fear’d they haue a ſtud o’ their owne
Will put downe ours. Both our breed, and trade
VVill ſuddenly decay, if we preuent not. 110
Vnleſſe it be a _Vice_ of quality,
Or faſhion, now, they take none from vs. Car-men
Are got into the yellow ſtarch, and Chimney-ſweepers
To their tabacco, and ſtrong-waters, _Hum_,
_Meath_, and _Obarni_. VVe muſt therefore ayme 115
At extraordinary ſubtill ones, now,
When we doe ſend to keepe vs vp in credit.
Not old _Iniquities_. Get you e’ne backe, Sir,
To making of your rope of ſand againe.
You are not for the manners, nor the times: [98] 120
They haue their _Vices_, there, moſt like to _Vertues_;
You cannnot know ’hem, apart, by any difference:
They weare the ſame clothes, eate the ſame meate,
Sleepe i’ the ſelfe-ſame beds, rid i’ thoſe coaches.
Or very like, foure horſes in a coach, 125
As the beſt men and women. Tiſſue gownes,
Garters and roſes, foureſcore pound a paire,
Embroydred ſtockings, cut-worke ſmocks, and ſhirts,
More certaine marks of lechery, now, and pride,
Then ere they were of true nobility! 130
But _Pug_, ſince you doe burne with ſuch deſire
To doe the Common-wealth of Hell ſome ſeruice;
I am content, aſſuming of a body,
You goe to earth, and viſit men, a day.
But you muſt take a body ready made, _Pug_, 135
I can create you none: nor ſhall you forme
Your ſelfe an aery one, but become ſubiect
To all impreſſion of the fleſh, you take,
So farre as humane frailty. So, this morning,
There is a handſome Cutpurſe hang’d at _Tiborne_, 140
Whoſe ſpirit departed, you may enter his body:
For clothes imploy your credit, with the Hangman,
Or let our tribe of Brokers furniſh you.
And, looke, how farre your ſubtilty can worke
Thorow thoſe organs, with that body, ſpye 145
Amongſt mankind, (you cannot there want vices,
And therefore the leſſe need to carry ’hem wi’ you)
But as you make your ſoone at nights relation,
And we ſhall find, it merits from the State,
Your ſhall haue both truſt from vs, and imployment. 150

PVG. Most gracious _Chiefe_!

DIV. Onely, thus more I bind you,
To ſerue the firſt man that you meete; and him
I’le ſhew you, now: Obserue him. Yon’ is hee,
_He ſhewes_ Fitz-dottrel _to him, comming forth_.
You ſhall ſee, firſt, after your clothing. Follow him:
But once engag’d, there you muſt ſtay and fixe;
Not ſhift, vntill the midnights cocke doe crow.

PVG. Any conditions to be gone.

DIV. Away, then. 157

[110] SD. DIVELL] _Devil_, 1692 || _Satan_ 1716, W || DIVELL ...]
_Enter_ SATAN _and_ PUG. G

[111] 1 &c. om. G

[112] 9 entering G

[113] 10 Market 1641, 1692, 1716 || market W, G

[114] 11 Tottenham G

[115] 15 Housewive’s 1716 || housewife’s W, f.

[116] 23 with’t W, G

[117] 24 i’] in G§ || strength 1692, f.

[118] 30 employs W, G

[119] 33 enough 1692, f.

[120] 34 you ’ad 1716 you had W, G

[121] 38 there with 1692, f.

[122] 41 th’] thou G Why any, Fraud, 1716 Why any: Fraud, W, G

[123] 43 I’ll ...] _Sat._ I’ll ... W, G] _Enter_ INIQUITY. G

[124] 48 cheate] to cheat W [to] cheat G

[125] 57 Dance 1716 || dance 1641. W, G

[126] 69 _Billings-gate_ 1692 _Billingsgate_ 1716 Billingsgate
W Billinsgate G

[127] 76 thee.] thee--G || DIV.] Dev. 1692 || _Sat._ 1716, f.

[128] 79 t’] to G

[129] 84 5 () om. G§

[130] 98 Lady 1692, 1716 lady W, G

[131] 101 Vices 1641, 1692, 1716, G vices W

[132] 103 ’hem] ’em 1692, 1716, W passim them G§

[133] 106 ’hem om. G stand,] stand; G

[134] 107 there:] there W there, G

[135] 116 subtle 1692, f.

[136] 120 manner G

[137] 128 Embrothered 1641 Embroider’d 1716, f. stockins 1641

[138] 130 [_Exit Iniq._ G

[139] 137 airy 1692, f. passim

[140] 139 human W, G

[141] 140 _Tyburn_ 1692, f. passim

[142] 142 employ W, G

[143] 146, 7 () ret. G

[144] 147 wi’] with G§

[145] 150 employment W, G

[146] 151, 157 DIV.] _Dev._ 1692 _Sat._ 1716, f.

[147] 153 now] new 1716

[148] 153 SN.] _Shews him Fitzdottrel coming out of his
house at a distance._ G

[149] 157 _Exeunt severally._ G

ACT. I. SCENE. II.

FITZ-DOTTRELL.

I, they doe, now, name _Bretnor_, as before, [97]
They talk’d of _Greſham_, and of Doctor _Fore-man_,
_Francklin_, and _Fiske_, and _Sauory_ (he was in too)
But there’s not one of theſe, that euer could
Yet ſhew a man the _Diuell_, in true ſort. 5
They haue their chriſtalls, I doe know, and rings,
And virgin parchment, and their dead-mens ſculls
Their rauens wings, their lights, and _pentacles_,
With _characters_; I ha’ ſeene all theſe. But--
Would I might ſee the _Diuell_. I would giue 10
A hundred o’ theſe pictures, to ſee him
Once out of picture. May I proue a cuckold,
(And that’s the one maine mortall thing I feare)
If I beginne not, now, to thinke, the Painters
Haue onely made him. ’Slight, he would be ſeene, 15
One time or other elſe. He would not let
An ancient gentleman, of a good houſe,
As moſt are now in _England_, the _Fitz-Dottrel’s_
Runne wilde, and call vpon him thus in vaine,
As I ha’ done this twelue mone’th. If he be not, 20
At all, why, are there Coniurers? If they be not,
Why, are there lawes againſt ’hem? The beſt artiſts
Of _Cambridge_, _Oxford_, _Middlesex_, and _London_,
_Essex_, and _Kent_, I haue had in pay to raiſe him,
Theſe fifty weekes, and yet h’appeares not. ’Sdeath, 25
I ſhall ſuſpect, they, can make circles onely
Shortly, and know but his hard names. They doe ſay,
H’will meet a man (of himſelfe) that has a mind to him.
If hee would ſo, I haue a minde and a halfe for him:
He ſhould not be long abſent. Pray thee, come 30
I long for thee. An’ I were with child by him,
And my wife too; I could not more. Come, yet,
_He expreſſes a longing to ſee the Diuell_
Good _Beelezebub_. Were hee a kinde diuell,
And had humanity in him, hee would come, but
To ſaue ones longing. I ſhould vſe him well, 35
I ſweare, and with reſpect (would he would try mee)
Not, as the Conjurers doe, when they ha’ rais’d him.
Get him in bonds, and ſend him poſt, on errands.
A thouſand miles, it is prepoſterous, that; [100]
And I beleeue, is the true cauſe he comes not. 40
And hee has reaſon. Who would be engag’d,
That might liue freely, as he may doe? I ſweare,
They are wrong all. The burn’t child dreads the fire.
They doe not know to entertaine the _Diuell_.
I would ſo welcome him, obſerue his diet, 45
Get him his chamber hung with _arras_, two of ’hem,
I’ my own houſe; lend him my wiues wrought pillowes:
And as I am an honeſt man, I thinke,
If he had a minde to her, too; I should grant him,
To make our friend-ſhip perfect. So I would not 50
To euery man. If hee but heare me, now?
And ſhould come to mee in a braue young ſhape,
And take me at my word? ha! Who is this?

[150] SD. ACT. I. om. 1716, f. (as regularly, after SC. I. of each act.) ACT ...] SCENE II. _The street before Fitzdottrel’s House. Enter_ FITZDOTTREL. G

[151] 12 picture, 1641

[152] 17 a] as W [as] G || good] good a G

[153] 21, 22 comma om. after ‘why’ and ‘Why’ 1692 f.

[154] 25 h’] he G

[155] 26 circle 1641

[156] 30 Prithee G

[157] 31 An’] an G

[158] 32 SN. _expresseth_ 1692, 1716, W || SN. om. G

ACT. I. SCENE. IIJ.

PVG. FITZ-DOTTRELL.

Sir, your good pardon, that I thus preſume
Vpon your priuacy. I am borne a Gentleman,
A younger brother; but, in ſome diſgrace,
Now, with my friends: and want ſome little meanes,
To keepe me vpright, while things be reconcil’d. 5
Pleaſe you, to let my ſeruice be of vſe to you, Sir.

FIT. Seruice? ’fore hell, my heart was at my mouth,
Till I had view’d his ſhooes well: for, thoſe roſes
Were bigge inough to hide a clouen foote.
_Hee lookes and ſuruay’s his feet: ouer and ouer._
No, friend, my number’s full. I haue one ſeruant, 10
Who is my all, indeed; and, from the broome
Vnto the bruſh: for, iuſt so farre, I truſt him.
He is my Ward-robe man, my Cater, Cooke,
Butler, and Steward; lookes vnto my horſe:
And helpes to watch my wife. H’has all the places, 15
That I can thinke on, from the garret downward,
E’en to the manger, and the curry-combe.

PVG. Sir, I ſhall put your worſhip to no charge,
More then my meate, and that but very little,
I’le ſerue you for your loue.

FIT. Ha? without wages? 20
I’le harken o’ that eare, were I at leaſure.
But now, I’m buſie. ’Pr’y the, friend forbeare mee,
And’ thou hadſt beene a _Diuell_, I ſhould ſay [101]
Somewhat more to thee. Thou doſt hinder, now,
My meditations.

PVG. Sir, I am a _Diuell_. 25

FIT. How!

PVG. A true _Diuell_, S^r.

FIT. Nay, now, you ly:
Vnder your fauour, friend, for, I’ll not quarrell.
I look’d o’ your feet, afore, you cannot coozen mee,
Your ſhoo’s not clouen, Sir, you are whole hoof’d.
_He viewes his feete againe._
PVG. Sir, that’s a popular error, deceiues many: 30
But I am that, I tell you.

FIT. What’s your name?

PVG. My name is _Diuell_, S^r.

FIT. Sai’ſt thou true.

PVG. in-deed, S^r.

FIT. ’Slid! there’s ſome _omen_ i’ this! what countryman?

PVG. Of _Derby-ſhire_, S^r. about the _Peake_.

FIT. That Hole
Belong’d to your Anceſtors?

PVG. Yes, _Diuells_ arſe, S^r. 35

FIT. I’ll entertaine him for the name ſake. Ha?
And turne away my tother man? and ſaue
Foure pound a yeere by that? there’s lucke, and thrift too!
The very _Diuell_ may come, heereafter, as well.
Friend, I receiue you: but (withall) I acquaint you, 40
Aforehand, if yo’ offend mee, I muſt beat you.
It is a kinde of exerciſe, I vſe.
And cannot be without.

PVG. Yes, if I doe not
Offend, you can, ſure.

FIT. Faith, _Diuell_, very hardly:
I’ll call you by your ſurname, ’cauſe I loue it. 45

[159] 46 ’hem] ’em G

[160] 47 Wife’s 1716 wife’s W, G passim

[161] 53 word?--_Enter_ PUG _handsomely shaped and apparelled_. G

[162] SD. on. G

[163] 9 SN. on. G || _Aside._ G

[164] 13 m’acater W

[165] 15 He has W, G

[166] 17 Even G

[167] 21 I’d W, G

[168] 22 I am G ’Prythe 1692 ’Prithee 1716, W Prithee G

[169] 23 An’ 1716, W An G || hadſt] hast 1692, 1716

[170] 26 Sir 1641. f. passim

[171] 28 cozen 1692, f. passim

[172] 29 SN. om. G

[173] 31 that, I] that I 1692, f.

[174] 37 t’other 1692, f.

[175] 39 [_Aside._ G

[176] 41 you W, G

ACT. I. SCENE. IIII.

INGINE. WITTIPOL. MANLY.
FITZDOTTRELL. PVG.

Yonder hee walkes, Sir, I’ll goe lift him for you.

WIT. To him, good _Ingine_, raiſe him vp by degrees,
Gently, and hold him there too, you can doe it.
Shew your ſelfe now, a _Mathematicall_ broker.

ING. I’ll warrant you for halfe a piece.

WIT. ’Tis done, S^r. 5

MAN. Is’t poſſible there ſhould be ſuch a man?

WIT. You ſhall be your owne witneſſe, I’ll not labour
To tempt you paſt your faith.

MAN. And is his wife
So very handſome, ſay you?

WIT. I ha’ not ſeene her,
Since I came home from trauell: and they ſay, 10
Shee is not alter’d. Then, before I went,
I ſaw her once; but ſo, as ſhee hath ſtuck
Still i’ my view, no obiect hath remou’d her.

MAN. ’Tis a faire gueſt, Friend, beauty: and once lodg’d [102]
Deepe in the eyes, ſhee hardly leaues the Inne. 15
How do’s he keepe her?

WIT. Very braue. Howeuer,
Himselfe be fordide, hee is ſenſuall that way.
In euery dreſſing, hee do’s ſtudy her.

MAN. And furniſh forth himselfe ſo from the _Brokers_?

WIT. Yes, that’s a hyr’d ſuite, hee now has one, 20
To ſee the _Diuell_ is an _Aſſe_, to day, in:
(This _Ingine_ gets three or foure pound a weeke by him)
He dares not miſſe a new _Play_, or a _Feaſt_,
What rate ſoeuer clothes be at; and thinkes
Himſelfe ſtill new, in other mens old.

MAN. But ſtay, 25
Do’s he loue meat ſo?

WIT. Faith he do’s not hate it.
But that’s not it. His belly and his palate
Would be compounded with for reaſon. Mary,
A wit he has, of that ſtrange credit with him,
’Gainſt all mankinde; as it doth make him doe 30
Iuſt what it liſt: it rauiſhes him forth,
Whither it pleaſe, to any aſſembly’or place,
And would conclude him ruin’d, ſhould hee ſcape
One publike meeting, out of the beliefe
He has of his owne great, and Catholike ſtrengths, 35
In arguing, and diſcourſe. It takes, I ſee:
H’has got the cloak vpon him.

Ingine _hath won_ Fitzdottrel, _to ’ſay on the cloake_.

FIT. A faire garment,
By my faith, _Ingine_!

ING. It was neuer made, Sir,
For three ſcore pound, I aſſure you: ’Twill yeeld thirty.
The pluſh, Sir, coſt three pound, ten ſhillings a yard! 40
And then the lace, and veluet.

FIT. I ſhall, _Ingine_,
Be look’d at, pretitly, in it! Art thou ſure
The _Play_ is play’d to day?

ING. O here’s the bill, S^r.
_Hee giues him the_ Play-_bill_.
I’, had forgot to gi’t you.

FIT. Ha? the _Diuell_!
I will not loſe you, Sirah! But, _Ingine_, thinke you, 45
The Gallant is ſo furious in his folly?
So mad vpon the matter, that hee’ll part
With’s cloake vpo’ theſe termes?

ING. Truſt not your _Ingine_,
Breake me to pieces elſe, as you would doe
A rotten _Crane_, or an old ruſty _Iacke_, 50
That has not one true wheele in him. Doe but talke with him.

FIT. I ſhall doe that, to ſatisfie you, _Ingine_,
And my ſelfe too. With your leaue, Gentlemen.
_Hee turnes to_ Wittipol.
Which of you is it, is ſo meere Idolater
To my wiues beauty, and ſo very prodigall 55
Vnto my patience, that, for the ſhort parlee?
Of one ſwift houres quarter, with my wife,
He will depart with (let mee ſee) this cloake here
The price of folly? Sir, are you the man?

WIT. I am that vent’rer, Sir.

FIT. Good time! your name 60
Is _Witty-pol_?

WIT. The ſame, S^r.

FIT. And ’tis told me, [103]
Yo’ haue trauell’d lately?

WIT. That I haue, S^r.

FIT. Truly,
Your trauells may haue alter’d your complexion;
But ſure, your wit ſtood ſtill.

WIT. It may well be, Sir.
All heads ha’ not like growth.

FIT. The good mans grauity, 65
That left you land, your father, neuer taught you
Theſe pleaſant matches?

WIT. No, nor can his mirth,
With whom I make ’hem, put me off.

FIT. You are
Reſolu’d then?

WIT. Yes, S^r.

FIT. Beauty is the _Saint_,
You’ll ſacrifice your ſelfe, into the ſhirt too? 70

WIT. So I may ſtill cloth, and keepe warme your wiſdome?

FIT. You lade me S^r!

WIT. I know what you wil beare, S^r.

FIT. Well, to the point. ’Tis only, Sir, you ſay,
To ſpeake vnto my wife?

WIT. Only, to ſpeake to her.

FIT. And in my preſence?

WIT. In your very preſence. 75

FIT. And in my hearing?

WIT. In your hearing: ſo,
You interrupt vs not.

FIT. For the ſhort ſpace
You doe demand, the fourth part of an houre,
I thinke I ſhall, with ſome conuenient ſtudy,
And this good helpe to boot, bring my ſelfe to’t. 80

_Hee ſhrugs himſelfe vp in the cloake._

WIT. I aske no more.

FIT. Pleaſe you, walk to’ard my houſe,
Speake what you liſt; that time is yours: My right
I haue departed with. But, not beyond,
A minute, or a ſecond, looke for. Length,
And drawing out, ma’aduance much, to theſe matches. 85
And I except all kiſſing. Kiſſes are
Silent petitions ſtill with willing _Louers_.

WIT. _Louers?_ How falls that o’ your phantſie?

FIT. Sir.
I doe know ſomewhat. I forbid all lip-worke.

WIT. I am not eager at forbidden dainties. 90
Who couets vnfit things, denies him ſelfe.

FIT. You ſay well, Sir, ’Twas prettily ſaid, that ſame,
He do’s, indeed. I’ll haue no touches, therefore,
Nor takings by the armes, nor tender circles
Caſt ’bout the waſt, but all be done at diſtance. 95
Loue is brought vp with thoſe ſoft _migniard_ handlings;
His pulſe lies in his palme: and I defend
All melting ioynts, and fingers, (that’s my bargaine)
I doe defend ’hem, any thing like action.
But talke, Sir, what you will. Vſe all the _Tropes_ 100
And _Schemes_, that Prince _Quintilian_ can afford you:
And much good do your _Rhetoriques_ heart. You are welcome, Sir.
_Ingine_, God b’w’you.

WIT. Sir, I muſt condition
To haue this Gentleman by, a witneſſe.

FIT. Well,
I am content, ſo he be ſilent.

MAN. Yes, S r. 105

FIT. Come _Diuell_, I’ll make you roome, ſtreight.
But I’ll ſhew you
Firſt, to your Miſtreſſe, who’s no common one,
You muſt conceiue, that brings this game to ſee her. [104]
I hope thou’ſt brought me good lucke.

PVG. I ſhall do’t. Sir.

[177] SD. ACT. ...] _Enter, behind_, ENGINE, _with a cloke on his
arm_, WITTIPOL, _and_ MANLY. G

[178] 5 [_Engine goes to Fitzdottrel and takes him aside._ G

[179] 19 _Broker_ 1692, 1716 broker W

[180] 20 on 1641, f.

[181] 28 Marry 1692, f.

[182] 32 whether 1716

[183] 36 SN. ’say] say 1641, f. SN. om. G

[184] 37 _Fitz._ [_after saying on the cloke._] G

[185] 42 prettily 1641. f.

[186] 44 I’, had] I’d 1716 I had W, G gi’t] give it G

[187] 48 upon 1716, f.

[188] 50 _Cain_ 1692 _Cane_ 1716

[189] 51 with him] with W

[190] 53 too. [_comes forward._] G SN. om. G

[191] 60 venturer G

[192] 62 You G§

[193] 70 comma om. after ‘selfe’ 1692, f. to W, G

[194] 80 SN. _Hee_ om. G

[195] 82 is om. 1641

[196] 85 may W, G

[197] 88 phant’sie W phantasy G o’ret. G

[198] 99 comma om. W, G

[199] 102 [_Opens the door of his house._ G

[200] 103 b’w’] be wi’ G

[201] 108 this om. 1641

[202] 109 [_They all enter the house._ G

ACT. I. SCENE. V.

VVITTIPOL. MANLY.

_Ingine_, you hope o’ your halfe piece? ’Tis there, Sir.
Be gone. Friend _Manly_, who’s within here? fixed?

Wittipol _knocks his friend o’ the breſt_.

MAN. I am directly in a fit of wonder
What’ll be the iſſue of this conference!

WIT. For that, ne’r vex your ſelfe, till the euent. 5
How like yo’ him?

MAN. I would faine ſee more of him.

WIT. What thinke you of this?

MAN. I am paſt degrees of thinking.
Old _Africk_, and the new _America_,
With all their fruite of Monſters cannot ſhew
So iuſt a prodigie.

WIT. Could you haue beleeu’d, 10
Without your ſight, a minde ſo ſordide inward,
Should be ſo ſpecious, and layd forth abroad,
To all the ſhew, that euer ſhop, or ware was?

MAN. I beleeue any thing now, though I confeſſe
His _Vices_ are the moſt extremities 15
I euer knew in nature. But, why loues hee
The _Diuell_ ſo?

WIT. O S^r! for hidden treaſure,
Hee hopes to finde: and has propos’d himſelfe
So infinite a Maſſe, as to recouer,
He cares not what he parts with, of the preſent, 20
To his men of Art, who are the race, may coyne him.
Promiſe gold-mountaines, and the couetous
Are ſtill moſt prodigall.

MAN. But ha’ you faith,
That he will hold his bargaine?

WIT. O deare, Sir!
He will not off on’t. Feare him not. I know him. 25
One baſeneſſe ſtill accompanies another.
See! he is heere already, and his wife too.

MAN. A wondrous handſome creature, as I liue!

[203] SD. ACT. ...] om. SCENE III. _A Room in_ FITZDOTTREL’S _House_.
_Enter_ WITTIPOL, MANLY, _and_ ENGINE. G

[204] 2 SN.] gone. [_Exit Engine._] || fixed! [_knocks him on the
breast._ G

[205] 4 ’ll] will G

ACT. I. SCENE. VI. [105]

FITZ-DOTTRELL. Miſtreſſe FITZ-DOTTRELL.
WITTIPOL. MANLY.

Come wife, this is the Gentleman. Nay, bluſh not.

M^rs. FI. Why, what do you meane Sir? ha’ you your reaſon?

FIT. Wife,
I do not know, that I haue lent it forth
To any one; at leaſt, without a pawne, wife:
Or that I’haue eat or drunke the thing, of late, 5
That ſhould corrupt it. Wherefore gentle wife,
Obey, it is thy vertue: hold no acts
Of diſputation.

M^rs. FI. Are you not enough
The talke, of feaſts, and meetingy, but you’ll ſtill
Make argument for freſh?

FIT. Why, carefull wedlocke, 10
If I haue haue a longing to haue one tale more
Goe of mee, what is that to thee, deare heart?
Why ſhouldſt thou enuy my delight? or croſſe it?
By being ſolicitous, when it not concernes thee?

M^rs. FI. Yes, I haue ſhare in this. The ſcorne will fall 15
As bittterly on me, where both are laught at.

FIT. Laught at, ſweet bird? is that the ſcruple? Come, come,
Thou art a _Niaiſe_.
_A_ Niaiſe _is a young Hawke, tane crying out of the neſt._
Which of your great houſes,
(I will not meane at home, here, but abroad)
Your families in _France_, wife, ſend not forth 20
Something, within the ſeuen yeere, may be laught at?
I doe not ſay ſeuen moneths, nor ſeuen weekes,
Nor ſeuen daies, nor houres: but ſeuen yeere wife.
I giue ’hem time. Once, within ſeuen yeere,
I thinke they may doe ſomething may be laught at. 25
In _France_, I keepe me there, ſtill. Wherefore, wife,
Let them that liſt, laugh ſtill, rather then weepe
For me; Heere is a cloake coſt fifty pound, wife,
Which I can ſell for thirty, when I ha’ ſeene
All _London_ in’t, and _London_ has ſeene mee. 30
To day, I goe to the _Black-fryers Play-houſe_,
Sit ithe view, ſalute all my acquaintance,
Riſe vp betweene the _Acts_, let fall my cloake,
Publiſh a handſome man, and a rich ſuite
(As that’s a ſpeciall end, why we goe thither, 35
All that pretend, to ſtand for’t o’ the _Stage_)
The Ladies aske who’s that? (For, they doe come [106]
To ſee vs, _Loue_, as wee doe to ſee them)
Now, I ſhall loſe all this, for the falſe feare
Of being laught at? Yes, wuſſe. Let ’hem laugh, wife, 40
Let me haue ſuch another cloake to morrow.
And let ’hem laugh againe, wife, and againe,
And then grow fat with laughing, and then fatter,
All my young Gallants, let ’hem bring their friends too:
Shall I forbid ’hem? No, let heauen forbid ’hem: 45
Or wit, if’t haue any charge on ’hem. Come, thy eare, wife,
Is all, I’ll borrow of thee. Set your watch, Sir,
Thou, onely art to heare, not ſpeake a word, _Doue_,
To ought he ſayes. That I doe gi’ you in precept,
No leſſe then councell, on your wiue-hood, wife, 50
Not though he flatter you, or make court, or _Loue_
(As you muſt looke for theſe) or ſay, he raile;
What ere his arts be, wife, I will haue thee
Delude ’hem with a trick, thy obſtinate ſilence;
I know aduantages; and I loue to hit 55
Theſe pragmaticke young men, at their owne weapons.
Is your watch ready? Here my ſaile beares, for you:
Tack toward him, ſweet _Pinnace_, where’s your watch?

_He diſpoſes his wife to his place, and ſets his watch._

WIT. I’le ſet it. Sir, with yours.

M^rs. FI. I muſt obey.

MAN. Her modeſty ſeemes to ſuffer with her beauty, 60
And ſo, as if his folly were away,
It were worth pitty.

FIT. Now, th’are right, beginne, Sir.
But firſt, let me repeat the contract, briefely.
_Hee repeats his contract againe._
I am, Sir, to inioy this cloake, I ſtand in,
Freely, and as your gift; vpon condition 65
You may as freely, ſpeake here to my ſpouſe,
Your quarter of an houre alwaies keeping
The meaſur’d diſtance of your yard, or more,
From my ſaid Spouſe: and in my ſight and hearing.
This is your couenant?

WIT. Yes, but you’ll allow 70
For this time ſpent, now?

FIT. Set ’hem ſo much backe.

WIT. I thinke, I ſhall not need it.

FIT. Well, begin, Sir,
There is your bound, Sir. Not beyond that ruſh.

WIT. If you interrupt me, Sir, I ſhall diſcloake you.
Wittipol _beginnes_.
The time I haue purchaſt, Lady, is but ſhort; 75
And, therefore, if I imploy it thriftily,
I hope I ſtand the neerer to my pardon.
I am not here, to tell you, you are faire,
Or louely, or how well you dreſſe you, Lady,
I’ll ſaue my ſelfe that eloquence of your glaſſe, 80
Which can ſpeake these things better to you then I.
And ’tis a knowledge, wherein fooles may be
As wiſe as a _Count Parliament_. Nor come I,
With any preiudice, or doubt, that you [107]
Should, to the notice of your owne worth, neede 85
Leaſt reuelation. Shee’s a ſimple woman,
Know’s not her good: (who euer knowes her ill)
And at all caracts. That you are the wife,
To ſo much blaſted fleſh, as ſcarce hath ſoule,
In ſtead of ſalt, to keepe it ſweete; I thinke, 90
Will aske no witneſſes, to proue. The cold
Sheetes that you lie in, with the watching candle,
That ſees, how dull to any thaw of beauty,
Pieces, and quarters, halfe, and whole nights, ſometimes,
The Diuell-giuen _Elfine_ Squire, your husband, 95
Doth leaue you, quitting heere his proper circle,
For a much-worſe i’ the walks of _Lincolnes Inne_,
Vnder the Elmes, t’expect the feind in vaine, there
Will confeſſe for you.

FIT. I did looke for this geere.

WIT. And what a daughter of darkneſſe, he do’s make you, 100
Lock’d vp from all ſociety, or object;
Your eye not let to looke vpon a face,
Vnder a Conjurers (or ſome mould for one,
Hollow, and leane like his) but, by great meanes,
As I now make; your owne too ſenſible ſufferings, 105
Without the extraordinary aydes,
Of ſpells, or ſpirits, may aſſure you, Lady.
For my part, I proteſt ’gainſt all ſuch practice,
I worke by no falſe arts, medicines, or charmes
To be said forward and backward.

FIT. No, I except: 110

WIT. Sir I ſhall ease you.

_He offers to diſcloake him._

FIT. Mum.

WIT. Nor haue I ends, Lady,
Vpon you, more then this: to tell you how _Loue_
Beauties good Angell, he that waits vpon her
At all occaſions, and no leſſe then _Fortune_,
Helps th’ aduenturous, in mee makes that proffer, 115
Which neuer faire one was ſo fond, to loſe;
Who could but reach a hand forth to her freedome:
On the firſt ſight, I lou’d you: ſince which time,
Though I haue trauell’d, I haue beene in trauell
More for this second blessing of your eyes 120
Which now I’haue purchas’d, then for all aymes elſe.
Thinke of it, Lady, be your minde as actiue,
As is your beauty: view your object well.
Examine both my faſhion, and my yeeres;
Things, that are like, are ſoone familiar: 125
And Nature ioyes, ſtill in equality.
Let not the ſigne o’ the husband fright you, Lady.
But ere your ſpring be gone, inioy it. Flowers,
Though faire, are oft but of one morning. Thinke,
All beauty doth not laſt vntill the _autumne_. 130
You grow old, while I tell you this. And ſuch, [108]
As cannot vſe the preſent, are not wiſe.
If Loue and Fortune will take care of vs,
Why ſhould our will be wanting? This is all.
What doe you anſwer, Lady?

_Shee stands mute._

FIT. Now, the sport comes. 135
Let him ſtill waite, waite, waite: while the watch goes,
And the time runs. Wife!

WIT. How! not any word?
Nay, then, I taſte a tricke in’t. Worthy Lady,
I cannot be ſo falſe to mine owne thoughts
Of your preſumed goodneſſe, to conceiue 140
This, as your rudeneſſe, which I ſee’s impos’d.
Yet, ſince your cautelous _Iaylor_, here ſtands by you,
And yo’ are deni’d the liberty o’ the houſe,
Let me take warrant, Lady, from your ſilence,
(Which euer is interpreted conſent) 145
To make your anſwer for you: which ſhall be
To as good purpoſe, as I can imagine,
And what I thinke you’ld ſpeake.

FIT. No, no, no, no.

WIT. I ſhall reſume, S^r.

MAN. Sir, what doe you meane?

_He ſets_ M^r. Manly, _his friend, in her place_.

WIT. One interruption more, Sir, and you goe 150
Into your hoſe and doublet, nothing ſaues you.
And therefore harken. This is for your wife.

MAN. You muſt play faire, S^r.

WIT. Stand for mee, good friend.
_And ſpeaks for her._
Troth, Sir, tis more then true, that you haue vttred
Of my vnequall, and ſo ſordide match heere, 155
With all the circumſtances of my bondage.
I haue a husband, and a two-legg’d one,
But ſuch a moon-ling, as no wit of man
Or roſes can redeeme from being an Aſſe.
H’is growne too much, the ſtory of mens mouthes, 160
To ſcape his lading: ſhould I make’t my ſtudy,
And lay all wayes, yea, call mankind to helpe,
To take his burden off, why, this one act
Of his, to let his wife out to be courted,
And, at a price, proclaimes his aſinine nature 165
So lowd, as I am weary of my title to him.
But Sir, you ſeeme a Gentleman of vertue,
No leſſe then blood; and one that euery way
Lookes as he were of too good quality,
To intrap a credulous woman, or betray her: 170
Since you haue payd thus deare, Sir, for a viſit,
And made ſuch venter, on your wit, and charge
Meerely to ſee mee, or at moſt to ſpeake to mee,
I were too ſtupid; or (what’s worſe) ingrate
Not to returne your venter. Thinke, but how, 175
I may with ſafety doe it; I ſhall truſt
My loue and honour to you, and preſume;
You’ll euer huſband both, againſt this huſband; [109]
Who, if we chance to change his liberall eares,
To other enſignes, and with labour make 180
A new beaſt of him, as hee ſhall deſerue,
Cannot complaine, hee is vnkindly dealth with.
This day hee is to goe to a new play, Sir.
From whence no feare, no, nor authority,
Scarcely the _Kings_ command, Sir, will reſtraine him, 185
Now you haue fitted him with a _Stage_-garment,
For the meere names ſake, were there nothing elſe:
And many more ſuch iourneyes, hee will make.
Which, if they now, or, any time heereafter,
Offer vs opportunity, you heare, Sir, 190
Who’ll be as glad, and forward to imbrace,
Meete, and enioy it chearefully as you.
I humbly thanke you, Lady.

_Hee ſhifts to his owne place againe_

FIT. Keepe your ground Sir.

WIT. Will you be lightned?

FIT. Mum.

WIT. And but I am,
By the ſad contract, thus to take my leaue of you 195
At this ſo enuious distance, I had taught
Our lips ere this, to ſeale the happy mixture
Made of our ſoules. But we muſt both, now, yeeld
To the neceſſity. Doe not thinke yet, Lady,
But I can kiſſe, and touch, and laugh, and whiſper, 200
And doe those crowning court-ſhips too, for which,
Day, and the publike haue allow’d no name
But, now, my bargaine binds me. ’Twere rude iniury,
T’importune more, or vrge a noble nature,
To what of it’s owne bounty it is prone to: 205
Elſe, I ſhould ſpeake--But, Lady, I loue ſo well,
As I will hope, you’ll doe ſo to. I haue done, Sir.

FIT. Well, then, I ha’ won?

WIT. Sir, And I may win, too.

FIT. O yes! no doubt on’t. I’ll take carefull order,
That ſhee ſhall hang forth enſignes at the window, 210
To tell you when I am abſent. Or I’ll keepe
Three or foure foote-men, ready ſtill of purpoſe,
To runne and fetch you, at her longings, Sir.
I’ll goe beſpeake me ſtraight a guilt caroch,
For her and you to take the ayre in. Yes, 215
Into _Hide-parke_, and thence into _Black-Fryers_,
Viſit the painters, where you may ſee pictures,
And note the propereſt limbs, and how to make ’hem.
Or what doe you ſay vnto a middling Goſſip
To bring you aye together, at her lodging? 220
Vnder pretext of teaching o’ my wife
Some rare receit of drawing _almond_ milke? ha?
It shall be a part of my care. Good Sir, God b’w’you.
I ha’ kept the contract, and the cloake is mine.

WIT. Why, much good do’t you S^r; it may fall out, [110] 225
That you ha’ bought it deare, though I ha’ not ſold it.

FIT. A pretty riddle! Fare you well, good Sir.
Wife, your face this way, looke on me: and thinke
Yo’ haue had a wicked dreame, wife, and forget it.

_Hee turnes his wife about._

MAN. This is the ſtrangeſt motion I ere ſaw. 230

FIT. Now, wife, ſits this faire cloake the worſe vpon me,
For my great ſufferings, or your little patience? ha?
They laugh, you thinke?

M^rs. FI. Why S^r. and you might ſee’t.
What thought, they haue of you, may be ſoone collected
By the young Genlemans ſpeache.

FIT. Youug Gentleman? 235
Death! you are in loue with him, are you? could he not
Be nam’d the Gentleman, without the young?
Vp to your Cabbin againe.

M^rs. FI. My cage, yo’ were beſt
To call it?

FIT. Yes, ſing there. You’ld faine be making
_Blanck Manger_ with him at your mothers! I know you. 240
Goe get you vp. How now! what ſay you, _Diuell_?

[206] SD. om. _Enter_ FITZDOTTRELL, _with Mrs._ FRANCES _his wife_. G

[207] 9 Meetings 1692, 1716 meetings 1641, W, G

[208] 11 I haue] I’ve W haue a] a 1641. f.

[209] 18 SN. om. G

[210] 19 () ret. G

[211] 32 i’ the 1641, 1692, 1716, W in the G

[212] 44 ’hem] ’em G

[213] 46 ’t] it G || ’hem] ’em G

[214] 49 gi’] give G

[215] 51 though 1641, f.

[216] 52 () om. G

[217] 58 SN.] _He disposes his wife to her place._ G

[218] 59 [_Aside._ G

[219] 63 th’art 1641, 1692, 1716 they are W, G SN. om. G

[220] 64 enjoy 1692, f.

[221] 74 SN. om. G

[222] 76 employ W, G

[223] 83 came W

[224] 88 characts 1692 Characts 1716

[225] 99 jeer W, G

[226] 115 adventrous 1692, 1716 advent’rous W || th’] the G

[227] 117 forth] out 1641

[228] 121 I’ haue] I have 1692 I’ve 1716, f.

[229] 127 o’] of G

[230] 134, 5 misplaced t adjusted 1692. f.

[231] 135 SN. om. G

[232] 139 my G

[233] 143 you’re 1716, W you are G

[234] 149, 153 SN. [_Sets Manly in his place, and speaks for the lady._
(after ‘friend.’ 153) G

[235] 154 utt’red 1692 utter’d 1716, f.

[236] 160 He’s 1716, f.

[237] 161 T’ escape W To ’scape 1716

[238] 172, 5 venture 1692, f.

[239] 182 dealt 1692, f.

[240] 187 nothing] no things 1692, 1716

[241] 191 embrace 1692, f.

[242] 193 SN. om. 1641, 1692, 1716 || _Hee_ om. G

[243] 194 lighten’d 1716, f.

[244] 195 sad] said W, G

[245] 211 I am] I’m W

[246] 223 be wi’ G

[247] 224 is mine] is mine owne 1641 is mine own
1692 ’s mine own 1716, W, G

[248] 226 I ha’] I’ve G [_Exit._ G

[249] 229 Ya’ have 1692 You’ve 1716 You W, G SN. om. G

[250] 230 [_Exit._ G

[251] 235 Youug] Young 1641, f. || Gentlmans 1641 Gentleman’s 1692,
1716 gentleman’s W, G

[252] 240 him] it 1641

[253] 241 up.--[_Exit Mrs. Fitz. Enter_ PUG. G

ACT. I. SCENE. VII.

PVG. FITZDOTTREL. INGINE.

Heere is one _Ingine_, Sir, deſires to ſpeake with you.

FIT. I thought he brought ſome newes, of a broker! Well,
Let him come in, good _Diuell_: fetch him elſe.
O, my fine _Ingine_! what’s th’affaire? more cheats?

ING. No Sir, the Wit, the Braine, the great _Proiector_, 5
I told you of, is newly come to towne.

FIT. Where, _Ingine_?

ING. I ha’ brought him (H’is without)
Ere hee pull’d off his boots, Sir, but ſo follow’d,
For buſineſſes: