Chapter XXIX: Act V: Scene I

_A street._

_Enter_ FRANKLIN _senior in mourning_, GEORGE
CRESSINGHAM, _and_ FRANKLIN _junior disguised as an
old Serving-man_.

G. CRES. Sir, your son’s death, which has apparell’d
you
In this darker wearing, is a loss wherein
I've ample share; he was my friend.
FRANK. SEN. He was my nearest
And dearest[966] enemy; and the perpetual
Fear of a worse end, had he continuèd
His former dissolute course[s], makes me weigh
His death the lighter.
G. CRES. Yet, sir, with your pardon,
If you value him every way as he deserv’d,
It will appear your scanting of his means,
And the lord Beaufort’s most unlordly breach
Of promise to him, made him fall upon
Some courses, to which his nature and mine own—
Made desperate likewise by the cruelty of
A mother-in-law—would else have been as strange
As insolent greatness is to distress’d virtue.
FRANK. SEN. Yes, I have heard of that too; your
defeat[967]
Made upon a mercer; I style’t modestly,
The law intends it plain cozenage.
G. CRES. ’Twas no less;
But my penitence and restitution may
Come fairly off from’t: it was no impeachment
To the glory won at Agincourt’s great battle,
That the achiever of it in his youth
Had been a purse-taker; this with all reverence
To the great example. Now to my business,
Wherein you’ve made such noble trial of
Your worth, that in a world so dull as this,
Where faith is almost grown to be a miracle,
I've found a friend so worthy as yourself,
To purchase all the land my father sold
At the persuasion of a riotous woman,
And charitable, to reserve it for his use
And the good of his three children; this, I say,
Is such a deed shall style you our preserver,
And owe the memory of your worth, and pay it
To all posterity.
FRANK. SEN. Sir, what I've done
Looks to the end of the good deed itself,
No other way i' the world.
G. CRES. But would you please,
Out of a friendly reprehension,
To make him sensible of the weighty wrong
He has done his children? yet I would not have’t
Too bitter, for he undergoes already
Such torment in a woman’s naughty pride,
Too harsh reproof would kill him.
FRANK. SEN. Leave you that
To my discretion: I have made myself
My son’s executor, and am come up
On purpose to collect his creditors;
And where I find his pennyworth conscionable,
I'll make them in part satisfaction.

_Enter_ GEORGE.

O, this fellow was born near me, and his trading here i'
the city may bring me to the knowledge of the men my son
ought[968] money to.
GEO. Your worship’s welcome to London; and I pray, how
do[969] all our good friends i' the country?
FRANK. SEN. They are well, George: how thou art shot up
since I saw thee! what, I think thou art almost out of
thy time?
GEO. I am out of my wits, sir; I have lived in a kind of
bedlam these four years; how can I be mine own man then?
FRANK. SEN. Why, what’s the matter?
GEO. I may turn soap-boiler, I have a loose body: I am
turned away from my master.
FRANK. SEN. How! turned away?
GEO. I am gone, sir, not in drink, and yet you may
behold my indentures [_shewing indenture_]. O the wicked
wit of woman! for the good turn I did bringing her home,
she ne’er left sucking my master’s breath, like a cat,
kissing him, I mean, till I was turned away.
FRANK. SEN. I have heard she’s a terrible woman.
GEO. Yes, and the miserablest! her sparing in
housekeeping has cost him somewhat—the Dagger-pies[970]
can testify: she has stood in’s light most miserably,
like your fasting days before red letters in the
almanac; saying the pinching of our bellies would be a
mean to make him wear scarlet the sooner. She had once
persuaded him to have bought spectacles for all his
servants, that they might have worn ’em dinner and
supper.
FRANK. SEN. To what purpose?
GEO. Marry, to have made our victuals seem bigger than
’t was: she shews from whence she came, that my
wind-colic can witness.
FRANK. SEN. Why, whence came she?
GEO. Marry, from a courtier, and an officer too, that
was up and down I know not how often.
FRANK. SEN. Had he any great place?
GEO. Yes, and a very high one, but he got little by it;
he was one that blew the organ in the court chapel; our
Puritans,[971] especially your Puritans in Scotland,
could ne’er away with[972] him.
FRANK. SEN. Is she one of the sect?
GEO. Faith, I think not, for I am certain she denies her
husband the supremacy.
FRANK. SEN. Well, George, your difference may be
reconciled. I am now to use your help in a business that
concerns me; here’s a note of men’s names here i' the
city unto whom my son ought[973] money, but I do not
know their dwelling.
GEO. [_taking note from_ FRANK. SEN.] Let me see, sir:
[_reads_] _Fifty pound ta’en up at use of Master
Waterthin the brewer._
FRANK. SEN. What’s he?
GEO. An obstinate fellow, and one that denied payment
of the groats till he lay by the heels for’t; I know
him: [_reads_] _Item, fourscore pair of provant
breeches,[974] a' the new fashion, to Pinchbuttock, a
hosier in Birchen Lane_, so much.
FRANK. SEN. What the devil did he with so many pair of
breeches?
FRANK. JUN. Supply a captain, sir; a friend of his went
over to the Palatinate.
GEO. [_reads_] _Item, to my tailor, master Weatherwise,
by St. Clement’s church._
G. CRES. Who should that be? it may be ’tis the new
prophet, the astrological tailor.
FRANK. JUN. No, no, no, sir, we have nothing to do with
him.
GEO. Well, I'll read no further; leave the note to my
discretion, do not fear but I'll inquire them all.
FRANK. SEN. Why, I thank thee, George.[975]—Sir, rest
assured I shall in all your business be faithful to you,
and at better leisure find time to imprint deeply in
your father the wrong he has done you.
G. CRES. You are worthy in all things.—
[_Exeunt._ FRANKLIN _senior_, FRANKLIN _junior_,
_and_ GEORGE.

(_Scene changes[976] to a room in_ SIR F. CRESSINGHAM’S
_house_.)

_Enter_ SAUNDER.

Is my father stirring?
SAUN. Yes, sir: my lady wonders you are thus chargeable
to your father, and will not direct yourself unto some
gainful study, may quit him of your dependance.
G. CRES. What study?
SAUN. Why, the law; that law that takes up most a' the
wits i' the kingdom, not for most good but most gain; or
divinity, I have heard you talk well, and I do not think
but you’d prove a singular fine churchman.
G. CRES. I should prove a plural better, if I could
attain to fine benefices.
SAUN. My lady, now she has money, is studying to do good
works; she talked last night what a goodly act it was of
a countess[977]—Northamptonshire breed belike, or
thereabouts—that to make Coventry a corporation, rode
through the city naked, and by daylight.
G. CRES. I do not think but you have ladies living would
discover as much in private, to advance but some member
of a corporation.
SAUN. Well, sir, your wit is still goring at my lady’s
projects: here’s your father.

_Enter_ SIR FRANCIS CRESSINGHAM.

SIR F. CRES. Thou comest to chide me, hearing how like
a ward I am handled since the sale of my land.
G. CRES. No, sir, but to turn your eyes into your own
bosom.
SIR F. CRES. Why, I am become my wife’s pensioner; am
confined to a hundred mark[978] a-year, t' one suit, and
one man to attend me.
SAUN. And is not that enough for a private gentleman?
SIR F. CRES. Peace, sirrah, there is nothing but knave
speaks in thee:—and my two poor children must be put
forth to ’prentice!
G. CRES. Ha! to ’prentice? sir, I do not come to grieve
you, but to shew how wretched your estate was, that you
could not come to see order until foul disorder pointed
the way to’t;
So inconsiderate,[979] yet so fruitful still
Is dotage to beget its own destruction.
SIR F. CRES. Surely I am nothing, and desire[980] to be
so.—Pray thee, fellow, entreat her only to be quiet; I
have given her all my estate on that condition.
SAUN. Yes, sir, her coffers are well lin’d, believe
me.
SIR F. CRES. And yet she’s not contented: we observe
The moon is ne’er so pleasant and so clear
As when she’s at the full.
G. CRES. You did not use
My mother with this observance; you are like
The frogs, who, weary of their quiet king,
Consented to th' election of the stork,
Who in the end devour’d them.
SIR F. CRES. You may see
How apt man is to forfeit all his judgment
Upon the instant of his fall.
G. CRES. Look up, sir.
SIR F. CRES. O, my heart’s broke! weighty are injuries
That come from an enemy, but those are deadly
That come from a friend, for we see commonly
Those are ta’en most to heart. She comes.
G. CRES. What a terrible eye she darts on us!

_Enter_ LADY CRESSINGHAM.

SIR F. CRES. O, most natural for lightning to go before
the thunder.
L. CRES. What! are you in council? are ye levying
faction against us?
SIR F. CRES. Good friend——
L. CRES. Sir, sir, pray, come hither; there is winter in
your looks, a latter winter; do you complain to your
kindred? I'll make you fear extremely, to shew you have
any cause to fear.—Are the bonds sealed for the six
thousand pounds I put forth to use?
SAUN. Yes, madam.
L. CRES. The bonds were made in my uncle’s name?
SAUN. Yes.
L. CRES. ’Tis well.
SIR F. CRES. ’Tis strange though.
L. CRES. Nothing strange; you’ll think the allowance I
have put you to as strange, but your judgment cannot
reach the aim I have in’t: you were pricked last year to
be high sheriff, and what it would have cost you I
understand now; all this charge, and the other by the
sale of your land, and the money at my dispose, and your
pension so small, will settle you in quiet, make you
master of a retired life; and our great ones may think
you a politic man, and that you are aiming at some
strange business, having made all over.
SIR F. CRES. I must leave you: man is never truly awake
till he be dead!
[_Exeunt._ SIR F. CRESSINGHAM _and_ SAUNDER./
G. CRES. What a dream have you made of my father!
L. CRES. Let him be so, and keep the proper place of
dreams, his bed, until I raise him.
G. CRES. Raise him! not unlikely; ’tis you have ruined
him.
L. CRES. You do not come to quarrel?
G. CRES. No, certain, but to persuade you to a thing,
that, in the virtue of it, nobly carries its own
commendation, and you shall gain much honour by it,
which is the recompence of all virtuous actions,—to use
my father kindly.
L. CRES. Why, does he complain to you, sir?
G. CRES. Complain? why should a king complain for any
thing, but for his sins to heaven? the prerogative of
husband is like to his over his wife.
L. CRES. I'm full of business, sir, and will not mind
you.
G. CRES. I must not leave you thus; I tell you, mother,
’tis dangerous to a woman when her mind raises her to
such height, it makes her only capable of her own merit,
nothing of duty. O, ’twas a strange, unfortunate
o’erprizing your beauty, brought him, otherwise
discreet, into the fatal neglect of his poor children!
What will you give us of the late sum you received?
L. CRES. Not a penny; away, you are troublesome and
saucy.
G. CRES. You are too cruel: denials even from princes,
who may do what they list, should be supplied with a
gracious verbal usage, that, though they do not cure the
sore, they may abate the sense of’t: the wealth you seem
to command over is his, and he, I hope, will dispose
of’t to our use.
L. CRES. When he can command my will.
G. CRES. Have you made him so miserable, that he must
take a law from his wife?
L. CRES. Have you not had some lawyers forced to groan
under the burden?
G. CRES. O, but the greater the women, the more visible
are their vices!
L. CRES. So, sir,
You’ve been so bold: by all can bind an oath,
And I'll not break it, I'll not be the woman
To you hereafter you expected.
G. CRES. Be not;
Be not yourself, be not my father’s wife,
Be not my lady Cressingham, and then
I'll thus speak to you, but you must not answer
In your own person.
L. CRES. A fine puppet-play!
G. CRES. Good madam, please you, pity the distress of a
poor gentleman, that is undone by a cruel mother-in-law;
you do not know her, nor does she deserve the knowledge
of any good one, for she does not know herself; you
would sigh for her that e’er she took you[r] sex, if you
but heard her qualities.
L. CRES. This is a fine crotchet.
G. CRES. Envy and pride flow in her painted breasts, she
gives no other suck; all her attendants do not belong to
her husband; his money is hers, marry, his debts are his
own: she bears such sway, she will not suffer his
religion be his own, but what she please to turn it to.
L. CRES. And all this while I am the woman you libel
against.
G. CRES. I remember, ere the land was sold, you talked
of going to Ireland; but should you touch there, you
would die presently.
L. CRES. Why, man?
G. CRES. The country brooks no poison:[981] go,
You’ll find how difficult a thing it is
To make a settled or assur’d estate
Of things ill-gotten: when my father’s dead,
The curse of lust and riot follow you!
Marry some young gallant that may rifle you;
Yet add one blessing to your needy age,
That you may die full of repentance.
L. CRES. Ha, ha, ha!
G. CRES. O, she is lost to any kind of goodness!
[_Exeunt severally._

SCENE III.

_A room._[982]

_Enter_ LORD BEAUFORT _and_ KNAVESBY.

L. BEAU. Sirrah, begone! you’re base.
KNA. Base, my good lord?
’Tis a ground part in music, trebles, means,[983]
All is but fiddling:[984] your honour bore a part,
As my wife says, my lord.
L. BEAU. Your wife’s a strumpet!
KNA. Ah ha! is she so? I am glad to hear it;
Open confession, open payment;
The wager’s mine then, a hundred a-year, my lord;
I said so before, and stak’d my head against it:
Thus after darksome night the day is come, my lord.
L. BEAU. Hence, hide thy branded head; let no day see
thee,
Nor thou any but thy execution-day.
KNA. That’s the day after washing-day; once a-week
I see’t at home, my lord.
L. BEAU. Go home and see
Thy prostituted wife—for sure ’tis so—Now
folded in a boy’s adultery,
My page, on whom the hot-rein’d harlot doats:
This night he hath been her attendant; my house
He is fled from, and must no more return:
Go, and make haste, sir, lest your reward be lost
For want of looking to.
KNA. My reward lost?
Is there nothing due for what is past, my lord?
L. BEAU. Yes, pander, wittol,[985] macrio,[986] basest
of knaves,
Thou bolster-bawd to thine own infamy!
Go, I've no more about me at this time;
When I am better stor’d thou shalt have more,
Where’er I meet thee.
KNA. Pander, wittol, macrio, base knave, bolster-bawd!
here is but five mark toward a hundred
a-year; this is poor payment. If lords may be trusted
no better than thus, I will go home and cut my
wife’s nose off; I will turn over a new leaf, and
hang up the page; lastly, I will put on a large pair
of wet-leather boots, and drown myself; I will sink
at Queen-hive,[987] and rise again at Charing Cross,
contrary to the statute in _Edwardo primio_. [_Exit._

_Enter_ FRANKLIN _senior_, FRANKLIN _junior disguised as
before_, GEORGE, _and several Creditors_.

FRANK. SEN. Good health to your lordship!
L. BEAU. Master Franklin, I heard of your arrival, and
the cause of this your sad appearance.
FRANK. SEN. And ’tis no more than as your honour says,
indeed, appearance; it has more form than feeling
sorrow, sir, I must confess: there’s none of these
gentlemen, though aliens in blood, but have as large
cause of grief as I.
FIRST C. No, by your favour, sir, we are well satisfied;
there was in his life a greater hope, but less
assurance.
SEC. C. Sir, I wish all my debts of no better promise
to pay me thus; fifty in the hundred comes fairly
homewards.
FRANK. JUN. Considering hard bargains and dead
commodities, sir.
SEC. C. Thou sayest true, friend—and from a dead debtor,
too.
L. BEAU. And so you have compounded and agreed all your
son’s riotous debts?
FRANK. SEN. There’s behind but one cause of worse
condition; that done, he may sleep quietly.
FIRST C. Yes, sure, my lord, this gentleman is come a
wonder to us all, that so fairly, with half a loss,
could satisfy those debts were dead, even with his son,
and from whom we could have nothing claimed.
FRANK. SEN. I shewed my reason; I would have a good name
live after him, because he bore my name.
SEC. C. May his tongue perish first—and that will spoil
his trade—that first gives him a syllable of ill!
L. BEAU. Why, this is friendly.

_Enter_ WATER-CAMLET.

W.-CAM. My lord!
L. BEAU. Master Camlet! very welcome.
W.-CAM. Master Franklin, I take it: these gentlemen
I know well, good master Pennystone, master
Philip, master Cheyney: I am glad I shall take
my leave of so many of my good friends at once.
Your hand first, my lord—fare you well, sir—nay,
I must have all your hands to my pass.
[_Taking their hands._
GEO. Will you have mine too, sir?
W.-CAM.. Yes, thy two hands, George, and, I think, two
honest hands of a tradesman, George, as any between
Cornhill and Lombard Street.
GEO. Take heed what you say, sir, there’s Birchin Lane
between ’em.
L. BEAU. But what’s the cause of this, master Camlet?
W.-CAM.. I have the cause in handling now, my lord;
George, honest George, is the cause, yet no cause of
George’s; George is turned away one way, and I must go
another.
L. BEAU. And whither is your way, sir?
W.-CAM.. E'en to seek out a quiet life, my lord: I do
hear of a fine peaceable island.
L. BEAU. Why, ’tis the same you live in.
W.-CAM.. No; ’tis so fam’d,
But we th' inhabitants find it not so:
The place I speak of[988] has been kept with thunder,
With frightful lightnings, amazing noises;
But now, th' enchantment broke, ’tis the land of peace,
Where hogs and tobacco yield fair increase.
L. BEAU. This is a little wild, methinks.
W.-CAM.. Gentlemen, fare you well, I am for the Bermudas.
L. BEAU. Nay, good sir, stay: and is that your only
cause, the loss of George?
W.-CAM.. The loss of George, my lord? make you that no
cause? why, but examine, would it not break the stout
heart of a nobleman to lose his george,[989] much more
the tender bosom of a citizen?
L. BEAU. Fie, fie, I'm sorry your gravity should run
back to lightness thus: you go to the Bermothes![990]
FRANK. SEN. Better to Ireland, sir.
W.-CAM.. The land of Ire? that’s too near home; my wife
will be heard from Hellbree to Divelin.[991]
FRANK. SEN. Sir, I must of necessity a while detain you:
I must acquaint you with a benefit that’s coming towards
you; you were cheated of some goods of late—come, I'm a
cunning man, and will help you to the most part again,
or some reasonable satisfaction.
W.-CAM.. That’s another cause of my unquiet life, sir;
can you do that, I may chance stay another tide or two.

_Enter_ MISTRESS WATER-CAMLET.

My wife! I must speak more private with you—by forty
foot, pain of death, I dare not reach her! no words of
me, sweet gentlemen. [_Slips behind the arras._
GEO. I had need hide too. [_Follows_ W.-CAMLET.
MIS. W.-CAM. O, my lord, I have scarce tongue enough yet
to tell you—my husband, my husband’s gone from me! your
warrant, good my lord! I never had such need of your
warrant; my husband’s gone from me!
L. BEAU. Going he is, ’tis true, has ta’en his leave of
me and all these gentlemen, and ’tis your sharp tongue
that whips him forwards.
MIS. W.-CAM. A warrant, good my lord!
L. BEAU. You turn away his servants, such on whom his
estate depends, he says, who know his books, his debts,
his customers; the form and order of all his affairs you
make orderless—chiefly, his George you have banished
from him.
MIS. W.-CAM. My lord, I will call George again.
GEO. [_behind the arras_] Call George again!
L. BEAU. Why, hark you, how high-voiced you are, that
raise an echo from my cellarage, which we with modest
loudness cannot!
MIS. W.-CAM. My lord, do you think I speak too loud?
GEO. [_behind the arras_] Too loud!
L. BEAU. Why, hark, your own tongue answers you, and
reverberates your words into your teeth!
MIS. W.-CAM. I will speak lower all the days of my life;
I never found the fault in myself till now: your
warrant, good my lord, to stay my husband!
L. BEAU. Well, well, it shall o’ertake him ere he pass
Gravesend, provided that he meet his quietness at home,
else he’s gone again.
FRANK. SEN. And withal to call George again.
MIS. W.-CAM. I will call George again.
GEO. [_behind the arras_] Call George again!
L. BEAU. See, you are rais’d again, the echo tells
you!
MIS. W.-CAM. I did forget myself indeed, my lord; this
is my last fault: I will go make a silent inquiry after
George, I will whisper half a score porters in the ear,
that shall run softly up and down the city to seek him.
Be wi' ye, my lord- bye all, gentlemen. [_Exit._
L. BEAU. George, your way lies before you now [GEORGE
_comes from behind the arras_]; cross the street, and
come into her eyes; your master’s journey will be
stayed.
GEO. I'll warrant you bring it to better subjection yet.
[_Exit._
L. BEAU. These are fine flashes! [WATER-CAMLET _comes
from behind the arras_.]—How now, master Camlet?
W.-CAM.. I had one ear lent to youward, my lord,
And this o' th' other[992] side; both sounded sweetly:
I've whole recover’d my late losses, sir;
The one half paid, the other is forgiven.
L. BEAU. Then your journey is stayed?
W.-CAM. Alas, my lord, that was a trick of age!
For I had left never a trick of youth
Like it, to succour me.

_Enter_ SWEETBALL _with_ KNAVESBY.

L. BEAU. How now? what new object’s here?
SWEET. The next man we meet shall judge us.
KNA. Content, though he be but a common councilman.
L. BEAU. The one’s a knave, I could know him at twelve
score distance.
FRANK. SEN. And t’other’s a barber-surgeon, my lord.
KNA. I'll go no further; here is the honourable lord
that I know will grant my request. My lord—
SWEET. Peace; I will make it plain to his lordship. My
lord, a covenant by _jus jurandum_ is between us; he is
to suffocate my respiration by his _capistrum_, and I to
make incision so far as mortification by his jugulars.
L. BEAU. This is not altogether so plain neither, sir.
SWEET. I can speak no plainer, my lord, unless I wrong
mine art.
KNA. I can, my lord, I know some part of the law: I am
to take him in this place where I find him, and lead him
from hence to the place of execution, and there to hang
him till he dies; he in equal courtesy is to cut my
throat with his razor, and there’s an end of both on’s.
SWEET. There is the end, my lord, but we want the
beginning: I stand upon it to be strangled first, before
I touch either his _gula_ or _cervix_.
KNA. I am against it, for how shall I be sure to have my
throat cut after he’s hanged?
L. BEAU. Is this a condition betwixt you?
KNA. A firm covenant, signed and sealed by oath and
handfast, and wants nothing but agreement.
L. BEAU. A little pause: what might be the cause on
either part?
SWEET. My passions are grown to putrefaction, and my
griefs are gangrened; master Camlet has scarified me all
over, besides the loss of my new brush.
KNA. I am kept out of mine own castle, my wife keeps the
hold against me; your page, my lord, is her champion: I
summoned a parle[993] at the window, was answered with
defiance: they confess they have lain together, but what
they have done else, I know not.
L. BEAU. Thou canst have no wrong that deserves pity,
thou art thyself so bad.
KNA. I thank your honour for that; let me have my throat
cut then.
W.-CAM.. Sir, I can give you a better remedy than his
_capistrum_;—your ear a little.

_Enter_ MISTRESS KNAVESBY, _and_ MISTRESS GEORGE
CRESSINGHAM _in female attire_.

MIS. KNA. I come with a bold innocence to answer
The best and worst that can accuse me here.
L. BEAU. Your husband.
MIS. KNA. He’s the worst, I dare his worst.
KNA. Your page, your page.
MIS. KNA. We lay together in bed,
It is confess’d; you and your ends of law
Make[994] worser of’t, I did it for reward.
L. BEAU. I'll hear no more of this.—Come, gentlemen,
will you walk?

_Enter_ GEORGE CRESSINGHAM.

G. CRES. My lord, a little stay; you’ll see a sight
That neighbour amity will be much pleas’d with:
It is already come;[995] my father, sir.

_Enter_ SIR FRANCIS CRESSINGHAM _in rich apparel_.

L. BEAU. There must be cause, certain, for this good
change.—
Sir, you are bravely[996] met;
This is the best I ever saw you at.[997]
SIR F. CRES. My lord, I am amazement to myself:
I slept in poverty, and am awake
Into this wonder: how I came[998] thus brave,
My dreams did not so much as tell me of;
I am of my kind son’s new making up;
It exceeds the pension much that yesternight
Allow’d me, and my pockets centupled;
But I'm my son’s child, sir, he knows of me
More than I do myself.
G. CRES. Sir, you yet have
But earnest of your happiness, a pinnace
Fore-riding a goodly vessel, by this near anchor,
Bulk’d like a castle, and with jewels fraught—
Joys above jewels, sir—from deck to keel:
Make way for the receipt; empty your bosom
Of all griefs and troubles; leave not a sigh
To beat her back again; she is so stor’d,
Y'had need have room enough to take her lading.
SIR F. CRES. If one commodity be wanting now,
All this is nothing.
G. CRES. Tush, that must out too:
There must be no remembrance, not the thought
That ever youth in woman did abuse you,
That e’er your children had a stepmother,
That you sold lands to please your punishment,
That you were circumscrib’d and taken in,
Abridg’d the large extendure of your grounds,
And put into the pin-fold that belong’d to’t,
That your son did cheat for want of maintenance;
That he did beg you shall remember only,
For I have begg’d off all these troubles from you.
L. BEAU. This was a good week’s labour.
G. CRES. Not an hour’s, my lord, but ’twas a happy
one.—
See, sir, a new day shines on you.

_Enter_ LADY CRESSINGHAM _in civil[999] habit_,
MARIA _and_ EDWARD _very gallant, and_
SAUNDER.

L. CRES. O sir,
Your son has robb’d me——
SIR F. CRES. Ha, that way I instructed!
G. CRES. Nay, hear her, sir.
L. CRES. Of my good purpose, sir;
He hath forc’d out of me what lay conceal’d,
Ripen’d my pity with his dews of duty:
Forgive me, sir, and but keep the number
Of every grief that I have pain’d you with,
I'll ten-fold pay with fresh obedience.
W.-CAM. O that my wife were here to learn this lesson!
L. CRES. Your state[1000] is not abated, what was yours
is still your own; and take the cause withal of my
harsh-seeming usage,—it was to reclaim faults in
yourself, the swift consumption of many large revenues,
gaming; that of not much less speed, burning up house
and land, not casual, but cunning fire, which, though it
keeps the chimney, and outward shews like hospitality,
is only devourer on’t, consuming chemistry,—there I have
made you a flat banquerout,[1001] all your stillatories
and labouring minerals are demolished—that part of hell
in your house is extinct;
Put out your desire with them, and then these feet
Shall level with my hands until you raise
My stoop’d humility to higher grace,
To warm these lips with love, and duty do
To every silver hair, each one shall be
A senator to my obedience.
SIR F. CRES. All this I knew[1002] before: whoe’er of
you
That had but one ill thought of this good woman,
You owe a knee to her, and she is merciful
If she forgive you.

_Re-enter_ GEORGE _and_ MISTRESS WATER-CAMLET.

L. BEAU. That shall be private penance, sir; we’ll all
joy in public with you.
GEO. On the conditions I tell you, not else.
MIS. W.-CAM. Sweet George, dear George, any conditions.
W.-CAM.. My wife!
FRANK. SEN. Peace; George is bringing her to conditions.
W.-CAM.. Good ones, good George!
GEO. You shall never talk your voice above the key sol,
sol, sol.
MIS. W.-CAM. Sol, sol, sol—ay, George.
GEO. Say, Welcome home, honest George, in that pitch.
MIS. W.-CAM. Welcome home, honest George!
GEO. Why, this is well now.
W.-CAM.. That’s well indeed, George.
GEO. _Rogue_ nor _rascal_ must never come out of your
mouth.
MIS. W.-CAM. They shall never come in, honest George.
GEO. Nor I will not have you call my master plain
_husband_, that’s too coarse; but as your gentlewomen in
the country use, and your parsons' wives in the town,—
’tis comely, and shall be customed in the city,—call him
_master_ Camlet at every word.
MIS. W.-CAM. At every word, honest George.
GEO. Look you, there he is, salute him then.
MIS. W.-CAM. Welcome home, good master Camlet!
W.-CAM.. Thanks, and a thousand,[1003] sweet—_wife_, I
may say, honest George?
GEO. Yes, sir, or _bird_, or _chuck_, or _heart’s-ease_,
or plain _Rachel_; but call her _Rac_ no more, so long
as she is quiet.
W.-CAM.. God-a-mercy, sha’t have thy new suit a' Sunday,
George.
MIS. W.-CAM. George shall have two new suits, master
Camlet.
W.-CAM.. God-a-mercy, i’faith, chuck.
SWEET. Master Camlet, you and I are friends, all even
betwixt us?
W.-CAM.. I do acquit thee, neighbour Sweetball.
SWEET. I will not be hanged then—Knavesby, do thy worst;
nor I will not cut thy throat.
KNA. I must do’t myself.
SWEET. If thou comest to my shop, and usurpest my chair
of maintenance, I will go as near as I can, but I will
not do’t.
G. CRES. No, ’tis I must cut Knavesby’s throat, for
slandering a modest gentlewoman and my wife, in shape of
your page, my lord; in her own I durst not place her so
near your lordship.
L. BEAU. No more of that, sir; if your ends have
acquired their own events, crown ’em with your own joy.
G. CRES. Down a' your knees, Knavesby, to your wife;
she’s too honest for you.
SWEET. Down, down, before you are hanged, 'twill be too
late afterwards, and long thou canst not ’scape it.
[KNAVESBY _kneels_.
MIS. KNA. You’ll play the pander no more, will you?
KNA. O, that’s an inch into my throat!
MIS. KNA. And let out your wife for hire?[1004]
KNA. O, sweet wife, go no deeper!
MIS. KNA. Dare any be bail for your better behaviour?
L. BEAU. Yes, yes, I dare; he will mend one day.
MIS. KNA. And be worse the next.
KNA. Hang me the third then; dear, merciful wife,
I will do any thing for a quiet life. [_Rises._
L. BEAU. All then is reconciled?
SWEET. Only my brush is lost, my dear new brush.
FRANK. SEN. I will help you to satisfaction for that
too, sir.
SWEET. O spermaceti! I feel it heal already.
FRANK. SEN. Gentlemen, I have fully satisfied my dead
son’s debts?
CREDITORS. All pleased, all paid, sir.
FRANK. SEN. Then once more here I bring him back to
life,
From my servant to my son: nay, wonder not,
I have not dealt by fallacy with any;
My son was dead; whoe’er outlives his virtues
Is a dead man; for when you hear of spirits
That walk in real bodies, to th' amaze
And cold astonishment of such as meet ’em,
And all would shun, those are men of vices,
Who nothing have but what is visible,
And so, by consequence, they have no souls;
But if the soul return, he lives again,
Created newly; such my son appears,
By my blessing rooted, growing by his tears.
CREDITORS. You have beguiled us honestly, sir.
FRANK. JUN. And you shall have your brush again.
SWEET. My basins shall all ring for joy.
L. BEAU. Why, this deserves a triumph,[1005] and my
cost
Shall begin a feast to it, to which I do
Invite you all; such happy reconcilements
Must not be past without a health of joy:
Discorded friends aton’d,[1006] men and their wives,
This hope proclaims your after quiet lives.
[_Exeunt omnes._