Chapter II: Act I: Scene I

_A Street in a Country Town._

_Enter_ WITGOOD.

WIT. All’s gone! still thou’rt a gentleman, that’s all;
but a poor one, that’s nothing. What milk bring[2] thy
meadows forth now? where are thy goodly uplands, and thy
down lands? all sunk into that little pit, lechery.
Why should a gallant pay but two shillings for his
ordinary[3] that nourishes him, and twenty times two
for his brothel[4] that consumes him? But where’s
Long-acre?[5] in my uncle’s conscience, which is
three years’ voyage about: he that sets out upon his
conscience ne’er finds the way home again; he is either
swallowed in the quicksands of law-quillets, or
splits upon the piles of a _præmunire_; yet these old
fox-brained and ox-browed uncles have still defences for
their avarice, and apologies for their practices, and
will thus greet our follies:

_He that doth his youth expose
To brothel, drink, and danger,
Let him that is his nearest kin
Cheat him before a stranger:_

and that’s his uncle; ’tis a principle in usury. I dare
not visit the city: there I should be too soon visited
by that horrible plague, my debts; and by that means I
lose a virgin’s love, her portion, and her virtues.
Well, how should a man live now that has no living?
hum,—why, are there not a million of men in the world
that only sojourn upon their brain, and make their wits
their mercers; and am I but one amongst that million,
and cannot thrive upon’t? Any trick out of the compass
of law[6] now would come happily to me.

_Enter Courtesan._

COUR. My love!
WIT. My loathing! hast thou been the secret consumption
of my purse, and now comest to undo my last means, my
wits? wilt leave no virtue in me, and yet thou ne’er the
better?
Hence, courtesan, round-webb’d tarantula,
That dry’st the roses in the cheeks of youth!
COUR. I’ve[7] been true unto your pleasure; and all
your lands
Thrice rack’d, were[8] never worth the jewel which
I prodigally gave you, my virginity:
Lands mortgag’d may return, and more esteem’d,
But honesty once pawn’d, is ne’er redeem’d.
WIT. Forgive: I do thee wrong
To make thee sin, and then to chide thee for’t.
COUR. I know I am your loathing now; farewell.
WIT. Stay, best invention, stay.
COUR. I that _have been the secret consumption of your
purse_, shall I stay now _to undo your last means, your
wits? hence, courtesan, away!_
WIT. I prithee, make me not mad at my own weapon: stay
(a thing few women can do, I know that, and therefore
they had need wear stays), be not contrary: dost love
me? Fate[9] has so cast it that all my means I must
derive from thee.
COUR. From me? be happy then;
What lies within the power of my performance
Shall be commanded of thee.
WIT. Spoke like
An honest drab, i’faith: it may prove something;
What trick is not an embryon at first,
Until a perfect shape come over it?
COUR. Come,[10] I must help you: whereabouts left you?
I’ll proceed:
Though you beget, ’tis I must help to breed.
Speak, what is’t? I’d fain conceive it.
WIT. So, so, so: thou shalt presently take the name and
form upon thee of a rich country widow, four hundred
a-year valiant,[11] in woods, in bullocks, in barns, and
in rye-stacks; we’ll to London, and to my covetous
uncle.
COUR. I begin to applaud thee; our states being both
desperate, they are soon resolute: but how for horses?
WIT. Mass, that’s true; the jest will be of some
continuance. Let me see; horses now, a bots on ’em!
Stay, I have acquaintance with a mad host, never yet
bawd to thee; I have rinsed the whoreson’s gums in
mull-sack many a time and often: put but a good tale
into his ear now, so it come off cleanly, and there’s
horse and man for us, I dare warrant thee.
COUR. Arm your wits then
Speedily; there shall want nothing in me,
Either in behaviour, discourse, or fashion,
That shall discredit your intended purpose.
I will so artfully disguise my wants,
And set so good a courage on my state,
That I will be believ’d.
WIT. Why, then, all’s furnished.[12] I shall go nigh to
catch that old fox mine uncle: though he make but some
amends for my undoing, yet there’s some comfort in’t, he
cannot otherwise choose (though it be but in hope to
cozen me again) but supply any hasty want that I bring
to town with me. The device well and cunningly carried,
the name of a rich widow, and four hundred a-year in
good earth, will so conjure up a kind of usurer’s love
in him to me, that he will not only desire my presence,—
which at first shall scarce be granted him, I’ll keep
off a’ purpose,—but I shall find him so officious to
deserve, so ready to supply! I know the state of an old
man’s affection so well: if his nephew be poor indeed,
why, he lets God alone with him; but if he be once rich,
then he’ll be the first man that helps him.
COUR. ’Tis right the world; for, in these days, an old
man’s love to his kindred is like his kindness to his
wife, ’tis always done before he comes at it.
WIT. I owe thee for that jest. Begone: here’s all my
wealth; prepare thyself, away. I’ll to mine host with
all possible haste; and with the best art, and most
profitable form, pour the sweet circumstance into his
ear, which shall have the gift to turn all the wax to
honey. [_Exit Courtesan._]—How no[w]? O, the right
worshipful seniors of our country!

_Enter_ ONESIPHORUS HOARD, LIMBER, _and_ KIX.[13]

ONES. H. Who’s that?
LIM. O, the common rioter; take no note of him.
WIT. You will not see me now; the comfort is,
Ere it be long you will scarce see yourselves.
[_Aside; and exit._
ONES. H. I wonder how he breathes; has consum’d all
Upon that courtesan.
LIM. We have heard so much.
ONES. H. You’ve[14] heard all truth. His uncle and my
brother
Have been these three years mortal adversaries:
Two old tough spirits, they seldom meet but fight,
Or quarrel when ’tis calmest:
I think their anger be the very fire
That keeps their age alive.
LIM. What was the quarrel, sir?
ONES. H. Faith, about a purchase, fetching over a young
heir. Master Hoard, my brother, having wasted much time
in beating the bargain, what did me old Lucre, but as
his conscience moved him, knowing the poor gentleman,
stept in between ’em, and cozened him himself.
LIM. And was this all, sir?
ONES. H. This was e’en it, sir; yet, for all this, I
know no reason but the match might go forward betwixt
his wife’s son and my niece: what though there be a
dissension between the two old men, I see no reason it
should put a difference between the two younger; ’tis as
natural for old folks to fall out, as for young to fall
in. A scholar comes a-wooing to my niece; well, he’s
wise, but he’s poor: her son comes a-wooing to my niece;
well, he’s a fool, but he’s rich.
LIM. Ay, marry, sir.
ONES. H. Pray, now, is not a rich fool better than a
poor philosopher?
LIM. One would think so, i’faith.
ONES. H. She now remains at London with my brother, her
second uncle, to learn fashions, practise music; the
voice between her lips, and the viol[15] between her
legs, she’ll be fit for a consort very speedily: a
thousand good pound is her portion; if she marry, we’ll
ride up and be merry.
KIX. A match, if it be a match. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_Another Street in the same Town._

_Enter_ WITGOOD, _meeting Host_.

WIT. Mine host!
HOST. Young master Witgood!
WIT. I have been laying[16] all the town for thee.
HOST. Why, what’s the news, bully Had-land?
WIT. What geldings are in the house, of thine own?
answer me to that first.
HOST. Why, man, why?
WIT. Mark me what I say: I’ll tell thee such a tale in
thine ear, that thou shalt trust me spite of thy teeth,
furnish me with some money wille nille, and ride up with
me thyself _contra voluntatem et professionem_.
HOST. How? let me see this trick, and I’ll say thou hast
more art than a conjurer.
WIT. Dost thou joy in my advancement?
HOST. Do I love sack and ginger?
WIT. Comes my prosperity desiredly to thee?
HOST. Come forfeitures to a usurer, fees to an officer,
punks to an host, and pigs to a parson desiredly? why,
then, la.
WIT. Will the report of a widow of four hundred a-year,
boy, make thee leap, and sing, and dance, and come to
thy place again?
HOST. Wilt thou command me now? I am thy spirit; conjure
me into any shape.
WIT. I ha’ brought her from her friends, turned back
the horses by a slight;[17] not so much as one among
her six men, goodly large yeomanly fellows, will she
trust with this her purpose: by this light, all
unmanned, regardless of her state, neglectful of
vain-glorious ceremony, all for my love. O, ’tis a
fine little voluble tongue, mine host, that wins a
widow!
HOST. No, ’tis a tongue with a great T, my boy, that
wins a widow.
WIT. Now, sir, the case stands thus: good mine host, if
thou lovest my happiness, assist me.
HOST. Command all my beasts i’ th’ house.
WIT. Nay, that’s not all neither: prithee, take truce
with thy joy, and listen to me. Thou knowest I have a
wealthy uncle i’ th’ city, somewhat the wealthier by my
follies: the report of this fortune, well and cunningly
carried, might be a means to draw some goodness from the
usuring rascal; for I have put her in hope already of
some estate that I have either in land or money: now, if
I be found true in neither, what may I expect but a
sudden breach of our love, utter dissolution of the
match, and confusion of my fortunes for ever?
HOST. Wilt thou but trust the managing of thy business
with me?
WIT. With thee? why, will I desire to thrive in my
purpose? will I hug four hundred a-year, I that know the
misery of nothing? Will that man wish a rich widow, that
has ne’er a hole to put his head in? With thee, mine
host? why, believe it, sooner with thee than with a
covey of counsellors.
HOST. Thank you for your good report, i’faith, sir; and
if I stand you not in stead, why then let an host come
off _hic et hæc hostis_, a deadly enemy to dice, drink,
and venery. Come, where’s this widow?
WIT. Hard at Park-end.
HOST. I’ll be her serving-man for once.
WIT. Why, there we let off together: keep full time; my
thoughts were striking then just the same number.
HOST. I knew’t: shall we then see our merry days again?
WIT. Our merry nights—which ne’er shall be more seen.
[_Aside._]
[_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_A Street._[18]

_Enter_[19] LUCRE _and_ HOARD _quarrelling_; LAMPREY,
SPICHCOCK, FREEDOM, _and_ MONEYLOVE, _coming
between to pacify them_.

LAM. Nay, good master Lucre, and you, master Hoard,
anger is the wind which you’re both too much troubled
withal.
HOA. Shall my adversary thus daily affront[20] me,
ripping up the old wound of our malice, which three
summers could not close up? into which wound the very
sight of him drops scalding lead instead of balsamum.
LUC. Why, Hoard, Hoard, Hoard, Hoard, Hoard! may I not
pass in the state of quietness to mine own house? answer
me to that, before witness, and why? I’ll refer the
cause to honest, even-minded gentlemen, or require the
mere indifferences of the law to decide this matter. I
got the purchase, true: was’t not any man’s case? yes:
will a wise man stand as a bawd, whilst another wipes
his nose[21] of the bargain? no; I answer no in that
case.
LAM. Nay, sweet master Lucre.
HOA. Was it the part of a friend—no, rather of a Jew;—
mark what I say—when I had beaten the bush to the last
bird, or, as I may term it, the price to a pound, then,
like a cunning usurer, to come in the evening of the
bargain, and glean all my hopes in a minute? to enter,
as it were, at the back door of the purchase? for thou
ne’er camest the right way by it.
LUC. Hast thou the conscience to tell me so without any
impeachment to thyself?
HOA. Thou that canst defeat thy own nephew, Lucre,
lap his lands into bonds, and take the extremity of
thy kindred’s forfeitures, because he’s a rioter, a
wastethrift, a brothel-master,[22] and so forth;
what may a stranger expect from thee but _vulnera
dilacerata_, as the poet says, dilacerate dealing?
LUC. Upbraidest thou me with nephew? is all imputation
laid upon me? what acquaintance have I with his follies?
if he riot, ’tis he must want it; if he surfeit, ’tis he
must feel it; if he drab it, ’tis he must lie by’t:
what’s this to me?
HOA. What’s all to thee? nothing, nothing; such is the
gulf of thy desire and the wolf of thy conscience: but
be assured, old Pecunius[23] Lucre, if ever fortune so
bless me, that I may be at leisure to vex thee, or any
means so favour me, that I may have opportunity to mad
thee, I will pursue it with that flame of hate, that
spirit of malice, unrepressed wrath, that I will blast
thy comforts.
LUC. Ha, ha, ha!
LAM. Nay, master Hoard, you’re a wise gentleman——
HOA. I will so cross thee——
LUC. And I thee.
HOA. So without mercy fret thee——
LUC. So monstrously oppose thee——
HOA. Dost scoff at my just anger? O, that I had as much
power as usury has over thee!
LUC. Then thou wouldst have as much power as the devil
has over thee.
HOA. Toad!
LUC. Aspic!
HOA. Serpent!
LUC. Viper!
SPI. Nay, gentlemen, then we must divide you perforce.
LAM. When the fire grows too unreasonable hot, there’s
no better way than to take off the wood.

[_Exeunt_ LAMPREY _and_ SPICHCOCK, _drawing off_ LUCRE
_and_ HOARD _different ways: manent_[24] FREEDOM
_and_ MONEYLOVE.

FREE. A word, good signior.
MON. How now, what’s the news?
FREE. ’Tis given me to understand that you are a rival
of mine in the love of mistress Joyce, master Hoard’s
niece: say me ay, say me no?
MON. Yes, ’tis so.
FREE. Then look to yourself, you cannot live long: I’m
practising every morning; a month hence I’ll challenge
you.
MON. Give me your hand upon’t; there’s my pledge I’ll
meet you. [_Strikes him, and exit._
FREE. O, O! what reason had you for that, sir, to strike
before the month? you knew I was not ready for you, and
that made you so crank:[25] I am not such a coward to
strike again, I warrant you. My ear has the law of her
side, for it burns horribly. I will teach him to strike
a naked face, the longest day of his life: ’slid, it
shall cost me some money but I’ll bring this box into
the chancery. [_Exit._

SCENE IV.

_Another Street._

_Enter_ WITGOOD _and Host_.

HOST. Fear you nothing, sir; I have lodged her in a
house of credit, I warrant you.
WIT. Hast thou the writings?
HOST. Firm, sir.
WIT. Prithee, stay, and behold two the most prodigious
rascals that ever slipt into the shape of men; Dampit,
sirrah, and young Gulf his fellow-caterpillar.
HOST. Dampit? sure I have heard of that Dampit?
WIT. Heard of him? why, man, he that has lost both his
ears may hear of him; a famous infamous trampler of
time; his own phrase. Note him well: that Dampit,
sirrah, he in the uneven beard and the serge cloak, is
the most notorious, usuring, blasphemous, atheistical,
brothel-vomiting rascal, that we have in these latter
times now extant; whose first beginning was the stealing
of a masty[26] dog from a farmer’s house.
HOST. He looked as if he would obey the commandment[s]
well, when he began first with stealing.
WIT. True: the next town he came at, he set the dogs
together by th’ ears.
HOST. A sign he should follow the law, by my faith.
WIT. So it followed, indeed; and being destitute of all
fortunes, staked his masty against a noble,[27] and by
great fortune his dog had the day: how he made it up ten
shillings, I know not; but his own boast is, that he
came to town but with ten shillings in his purse, and
now is credibly worth ten thousand pound.
HOST. How the devil came he by it?

_Enter_ DAMPIT _and_ GULF.

WIT. How the devil came he not by it? If you put in the
devil once, riches come with a vengeance: has been a
trampler of the law,[28] sir; and the devil has a care
of his footmen. The rogue has spied me now; he nibbled
me finely once, too:—a pox search you! [_Aside._]—O,
master Dampit!—the very loins of thee! [_Aside._]—Cry
you mercy, master Gulf; you walk so low, I promise you I
saw you not, sir.
GULF. He that walks low walks safe, the poets tell us.
WIT. And nigher hell by a foot and a half than the
rest of his fellows.— [_Aside._
But, my old Harry!
DAM. My sweet Theodorus!
WIT. ’Twas a merry world when thou camest to town with
ten shillings in thy purse.
DAM. And now worth ten thousand pound, my boy. Report
it; Harry Dampit, a trampler of time, say, he would be
up in a morning, and be here with his serge gown, dashed
up to the hams in a cause; have his feet stink about
Westminster Hall, and come home again; see the galleons,
the galleasses,[29] the great armadas of the law; then
there be hoys and petty vessels, oars and scullers of
the time; there be picklocks of the time too; then would
I be here; I would trample up and down like a mule: now
to the judges, _May it please your reverend honourable
fatherhoods_; then to my counsellor, _May it please your
worshipful patience_; then to the examiner’s office,
_May it please your mastership’s gentleness_; then to
one of the clerks, _May it please your worshipful
lousiness_,—for I find him scrubbing in his cod-piece;
then to the hall again, then to the chamber again——
WIT. And when to the cellar again?
DAM. E’en when thou wilt again: tramplers of time,
motions of Fleet Street, and visions of Holborn;[30]
here I have fees of one, there I have fees of another;
my clients come about me, the fooliaminy and coxcombry
of the country: I still trashed[31] and trotted for
other men’s causes; thus was poor Harry Dampit made rich
by others’ laziness, who, though they would not follow
their own suits, I made ’em follow me with their purses.
WIT. Didst thou so, old Harry?
DAM. Ay, and I soused ’em with bills of charges,
i’faith; twenty pound a-year have I brought in for
boat-hire, and I ne’er stept into boat in my life.
WIT. Tramplers of time!
DAM. Ay, tramplers of time, rascals of time,
bull-beggars![32]
WIT. Ah, thou’rt a mad old Harry!—Kind master Gulf, I am
bold to renew my acquaintance.
GULF. I embrace it, sir. [_Exeunt._