Chapter III: Act I: Scene I

_Before_ SIR OLIVER TWILIGHT’S _house_.[3]

_Enter_ PHILIP TWILIGHT _and_ SAVOURWIT.

PHIL. I’m at my wit’s ends, Savourwit.
SAV. And I
Am even following after you as fast
As I can, sir.
PHIL. My wife will be forc’d from me,
My pleasure!
SAV. Talk no more on’t, sir; how can there
Be any hope i’ the middle, when we’re both
At our wit’s end in the beginning? my invention
Was ne’er so gravell’d since I first set out upon’t.
PHIL. Nor does my stop stick only in this wheel,
Though’t be a main vexation; but I’m grated
In a dear, absolute friend, young master Sandfield—
SAV. Ay, there’s another rub too!
PHIL. Who supposes
That I make love to his affected mistress,[4]
When ’tis my father works against the peace
Of both our spirits, and wooes unknown to me:
He strikes out sparks of undeservèd anger
’Twixt old steel friendship and new stony hate;
As much forgetful of the merry hours
The circuits of our youth have[5] spent and worn,
As if they had not been, or we not born.
SAV. See where he comes.[6]

_Enter_ SANDFIELD.

SAND. Unmerciful in torment!
Will this disease never forsake mine eye?
PHIL. It must be kill’d first, if it grow so painful;
Work it out strongly at one time, that th’ anguish
May never more come near thy precious sight.
If my eternal sleep will give thee rest,
Close up mine eyes with opening of my breast.
SAND. I feel thy wrongs at midnight, and the weight
Of thy close treacheries: thou hast a friendship
As dangerous as a strumpet’s, that will kiss
Men into poverty, distress, and ruin;
And to make clear the face of thy foul deeds,
Thou work’st by seconds. [_Drawing his sword._
PHIL. Then may the sharp point of an inward horror
Strike me to earth, and save thy weapon guiltless!
SAND. Not in thy father?
PHIL. How much is truth abus’d
When ’tis kept silent! O defend me, friendship!
SAV. True,[7] your anger’s in an error all this while,
sir,
But that a lover’s weapon ne’er[8] hears reason,
’Tis out still, like a madman’s: hear but me, sir;
’Tis my young master’s injury, not yours,
That you quarrel with him for; and this shews
As if you’d challenge a lame man the field,
And cut off’s head, because he has lost his legs:
His grief makes him dead flesh, as it appear’d
By offering up his breast to you; for, believe it, sir,
Had he not greater crosses of his own,
Your hilts could not cross him——
SAND. How!
SAV. Not your hilts, sir.
Come, I must have you friends; a pox of weapons!
There’s a whore gapes for’t; put it up i’ the scabbard.
SAND. [_sheathing his sword_] Thou’rt a mad slave!
SAV. Come, give me both your hands,
You’re in a quagmire both; should I release you now,
Your wits would both come home in a stinking pickle;
Your father’s old nose would smell you out presently.
PHIL. Tell him the secret, which no mortal knows
But thou and I; and then he will confess
How much he wrong’d the patience of his friend.
SAV. Then thus the marigold opens at the splendour
Of a hot, constant friendship ’twixt you both.
’Tis not unknown to your ear, some ten years since,
My mistress, his good mother, with a daughter
About the age of six, crossing to Guernsey,
Was taken by the Dunkirks,[9] sold both, and separated,
As the last news brings hot,—the first and last
So much discover’d; for in nine years’ space
No certain tidings of their life or death,
Or what place held ’em, earth, the sea, or heaven,
Came to the old man’s ears, the knight my master,
Till about five months since a letter came,
Sent from the mother, which related all
Their taking, selling, separation,
And never meeting; and withal requir’d
Six hundred crowns for ransom; which my old master
No sooner heard the sound, but told the sum,
Gave him[10] the gold, and sent us both aboard:
We landing by the way—having a care
To lighten us of our carriage, because gold
Is such a heavy metal—eas’d our pockets
In wenches’ aprons: women were made to bear,
But for us gentlemen ’tis most unkindly.[11]
SAND. Well, sir?
PHIL. A pure rogue still!
SAV. Amongst the rest, sir,
’Twas my young master’s chance there to doat finely
Upon a sweet young gentlewoman, but one
That would not sell her honour for the Indies,
Till a priest struck the bargain, and then half
A crown despatch’d it;
To be brief, wedded her and bedded her,
Brought her home hither to his father’s house,
And, with a fair tale of mine own bringing up,
She passes for his sister that was sold.
SAND. Let me not lose myself in wondering at thee!
But how made you your score even for the mother?
SAV. Pish, easily; we told him how her fortunes
Mock’d us as they mock’d her; when we were o’ the sea
She was o’ the land; and, as report was given,
When we were landed, she was gone to heaven.
So he believes two lies one error bred,
The daughter ransom’d, and the mother dead.
SAND. Let me admire thee, and withal confess
My injuries to friendship!
PHIL. They’re all pardon’d:
These are the arms I bore against my friend.
SAV. But what’s all this to the present? this
discourse
Leaves you i’ the bog still.
PHIL. On, good Savourwit.
SAV. For yet our policy has cross’d ourselves;
For the old knave, my master, little thinking her
Wife to his son, but his own daughter still,
Seeks out a match for her——
PHIL. Here I feel the surgeon
At second dressing.
SAV. And has entertain’d,
Even for pure need, for fear the glass should crack
That is already broken but well solder’d,
A mere sot for her suitor, a rank fox,
One Weatherwise, that wooes by the almanac,
Observes the full and change, an arrant moon-calf;
And yet, because the fool demands no portion
But the bare dower[12] of her smock, the old fellow,
Worn to the bone with a dry, covetous[13] itch,
To save his purse, and yet bestow his child,
Consents to waste [her on] lumps of almanac-stuff
Kned with May-butter.[14] Now, as I have thought on’t,
I’ll spoil him in the baking.
SAND. Prithee, as how, sirrah?
SAV. I’ll give him such a crack in one o’ the sides,
He shall quite run out of my master’s favour.
PHIL. I should but too much love thee for that.
SAV. Thus, then,
To help you both at once, and so good night to you:
After my wit has shipp’d away the fool,
As he shall part, I’ll buzz into the ear
Of my old master, that you, sir, master Sandfield,
Dearly affect his daughter, and will take her
With little or no portion; well stood out in’t;
Methinks I see him caper at that news,
And in the full cry, O! This brought about
And wittily dissembled on both parts—
You to affect his love, he to love yours—
I’ll so beguile the father at the marriage,
That each shall have his own; and both being welcom’d
And chamber’d in one house.—as ’tis his pride
To have his children’s children got successively
On his forefathers’ feather-beds,—in the daytimes,
To please the old man’s eyesight, you may dally,
And set a kiss on the wrong lip—no sin in’t,
Brothers and sisters do’t, cousins do more;
But, pray, take heed you be not kin to them:
So in the night-time nothing can deceive you,
Let each know his own work; and there I leave you.
SAND. Let me applaud thee!
PHIL. Blest be all thy ends
That mak’st arm’d enemies embracing friends!
About it speedily. [_Exit with_ SANDFIELD.
SAV. I need no pricking;
I’m of that mettle, so well pac’d and free,
There’s no good riders that use spur to me.

_Enter_ GRACE.

O, are you come?
GRACE. Are any comforts coming?
SAV. I never go without ’em.
GRACE. Thou sportest joys that utterance cannot
perfect.
SAV. Hark, are they risen?
GRACE. Yes, long before I left ’em;
And all intend to bring the widow homeward.
SAV. Depart then, mistress, to avoid suspect;
Our good shall arrive time enough at your heart.
[_Exit_ GRACE.
Poor fools, that evermore take a green surfeit
Of the first fruits of joys! Let a man but shake the
tree,
How soon they’ll hold up their laps to receive comfort!
The music that I struck made her soul dance—
Peace—

_Enter_ LADY GOLDENFLEECE _with_ SIR GILBERT LAMBSTONE,
PEPPERTON, _and_ OVERDONE; _after them_, SIR OLIVER
TWILIGHT _and_ SUNSET, _with_ GRACE _and_ JANE.

Here comes the lady widow, the late wife
To the deceas’d sir Avarice Goldenfleece,
Second to none for usury and extortion,
As too well it appears on a poor gentleman,
One master Low-water, from whose estate
He pull’d that fleece that makes his widow weight.
Those are her suitors now, sir Gilbert Lambstone,
Master Pepperton, [and] master Overdone. [_Aside._
L. GOLD. Nay, good sir Oliver Twilight, master Sunset,
We’ll trouble you no farther.
SIR O. TWI. } No trouble, sweet madam.
SUN. }
SIR G. LAMB. We’ll see the widow at home, it shall be
our charge that.
L. GOLD. It shall be so indeed.
Thanks, good sir Oliver; and to you both
I am indebted for those courtesies
That will ask me a long time to requite.
SIR O. TWI. Ah, ’tis but your pleasant condition[15] to
give it out so, madam.
L. GOLD. Mistress Grace and mistress Jane, I wish you
both
A fair contented fortune in your choices,
And that you happen right.
GRACE. } Thanks to you, good madam;
JANE. }
GRACE. There’s more in that word _right_ than you
imagine. [_Aside._
L. GOLD. I now repent, girls, a rash oath I took,
When you were both infants, to conceal a secret.
GRACE. What does’t concern, good madam?
L. GOLD. No, no;
Since you are both so well, ’tis well enough;
It must not be reveal’d; ’tis now no more
Than like mistaking of one hand for t’other:
A happy time to you both!
GRACE. } The like to you, madam!
JANE. }
GRACE. I shall long much to have this riddle open’d.
[_Aside_.
JANE. I would you were so kind to my poor kinswoman,
And the distressèd gentleman her husband,
Poor master Low-water, who on ruin leans;
You keep this secret as you keep his means. [_Aside._
L. GOLD. Thanks, good[16] sir Oliver Twilight;—
welcome,
Sweet master Pepperton;—master Overdone, welcome.

[_Exeunt all except_ SIR OLIVER TWILIGHT _and_
SAVOURWIT.

SIR O. TWI. And goes the business well ’twixt those
young lovers?
SAV. Betwixt your son and master Sunset’s daughter
The line goes even, sir.
SIR O. TWI. Good lad, I like thee.
SAV. But, sir, there’s no proportion, height, or
evenness,
Betwixt that equinoctial and your daughter.
SIR O. TWI. ’Tis true, and I’m right glad on’t.
SAV. Are you glad, sir,
There’s no proportion in’t?
SIR O. TWI. Ay, marry am I, sir:
I can abide no word that ends in portion;
I’ll give her nothing.
SAV. Say you should not, sir—
As I’ll ne’er urge your worship ’gainst your nature—
Is there no gentleman, think you, of worth and credit,
Will open ’s bed to warm a naked maid?
A hundred gallant fellows, and be glad
To be so set a-work: virginity
Is no such cheap ware as you make account on,
That it had need with portion be set off,
For that sets off a portion in these days.
SIR O. TWI. Play on, sweet boy;
O, I could hear this music all day long,
When there’s no money to be parted from!
Strike on, good lad.
SAV. Do not wise men and great often bestow
Ten thousand pound in jewels that lie by em?
If so, what jewel can lie by a man
More precious than a virgin? if none more precious,
Why should the pillow of a fool be grac’d
With that brave spirits with dearness have embrac’d?
And then, perhaps, ere the third spring come on,
Sends home your diamond crack’d, the beauty gone;
And more to know her, ’cause you shall not doubt her,
A number of poor sparks twinkling about her.
SIR O. TWI. Now thou play’st Dowland’s _Lacrymæ_[17]
to thy master.
SAV. But shall I dry your eyes with a merry jig now,
And make you look like sunshine in a shower?
SIR O. TWI. How, how, my honest boy, sweet Savourwit?
SAV. Young master Sandfield, gallant master Sandfield—
—
SIR O. TWI. Ha! what of him?
SAV. Affects your daughter strangely.
SIR O. TWI. Brave master Sandfield!—let me hug thy
zeal
Unto thy master’s house;—ha, master Sandfield!
But he’ll expect a portion.
SAV. Not a whit, sir,
As you may use the matter.
SIR O. TWI. Nay, and[18] the matter fall into my
using,
The devil a penny that he gets of me!
SAV. He lies at the mercy of your lock and key, sir;
You may use him as you list.
SIR O. TWI. Say’st thou me so?
Is he so far in doing?
SAV. Quite over head and ears, sir;
Nay, more, he means to run mad, and break his neck
Off some high steeple, if he have her not.
SIR O. TWI. Now bless the young gentleman’s gristles!
I hope to be
A grandfather yet by ’em.
SAV. That may you, sir,
To, marry, a chopping girl with a plump buttock,
Will hoist a farthingale at five years old,
And call a man between eleven and twelve
To take part of a piece of mutton with her.
SIR O. TWI. Ha, precious wag! hook him in finely, do.
SAV. Make clear the way for him first, set the gull
going.
SIR O. TWI. An ass, an ass, I’ll quickly dash his
wooing.
SAV. Why, now the clocks
Go right again: it must be a strange wit
That makes the wheels of youth and age so hit;
The one are dry, worn, rusty, furr’d, and soil’d,
Love’s wheels are glib, ever kept clean and oil’d.
[_Aside, and exit._
SIR O. TWI. I cannot choose but think of this good
fortune;
That gallant master Sandfield!

_Enter_ WEATHERWISE.
WEA. Stay, stay, stay!
What comfort gives my almanac[19] to-day?
[_Taking out an almanac._
Luck, I beseech thee! [_Reads_] _Good days,—evil days,—
June,—July_;—speak a good word for me now, and I have
her: let me see, _The fifth day, ’twixt hawk and
buzzard; The sixth day, backward and forward_,—that was
beastly to me, I remember; _The seventh day, on a
slippery pin; The eighth day, fire and tow; The ninth
day, the market is marred_,—that’s ’long of the
hucksters, I warrant you; but now the tenth day—luck, I
beseech thee now, before I look into’t!—_The tenth[20]
day, against the hair_,—a pox on’t, would that hair had
been left out! against the hair? that hair will go nigh
to choke me; had it been against any thing but that,
’twould not have troubled me, because it lies cross i’
the way. Well, I’ll try the fortune of a good face yet,
though my almanac leave me i’ the sands. [_Aside._
SIR O. TWI. Such a match too, I could not wish a
better! [_Aside._
WEA. Mass, here he walks. [_Aside._]—Save you,
sweet sir Oliver—sir Oliver Twilight.
SIR O. TWI. O, pray come to me a quarter of a year
hence;
I have a little business now.
WEA. How, a quarter of a year hence? what, shall I come
to you in September?
SIR O. TWI. Nor in November neither, good my friend.
WEA. You’re not a mad knight! you will not let your
daughter hang past August, will you? she’ll drop down
under tree then: she’s no winter-fruit, I assure you, if
you think to put her in crust after Christmas.
SIR O. TWI. Sir, in a word, depart; my girl’s not for
you;
I gave you a drowsy promise in a dream,
But broad awake now, I call’t in again:
Have me commended to your wit,—farewell, sir. [_Exit._
WEA. Now the devil run away with you, and some lousy
fiddler with your daughter! may Clerkenwell have the
first cut of her, and Houndsditch pick the bones! I’ll
never leave the love of an open-hearted widow for a
narrow-eyed maid again; go out of the roadway, like an
ass, to leap over hedge and ditch; I’ll fall into the
beaten path again, and invite the widow home to a
banquet: let who list seek out new ways, I’ll be at my
journey’s end before him:
My almanac told me true how I should fare;
Let no man think to speed against the hair.[21]
[_Exit._

SCENE II.

_A room in_ LOW-WATER’S _house_.

_Enter_ MISTRESS LOW-WATER.

MIS. LOW. Is there no saving means, no help religious,
For a distressèd gentlewoman to live by?
Has virtue no revenue? who has all then?
Is the world’s lease from hell, the devil[22]
head-landlord?
O, how was conscience, the right heir, put by?
Law would not do such an unrighteous deed,
Though with the fall of angels[23] ’t had been fee’d.
Where are our hopes in banks? was honesty,
A younger sister, without portion left,
No dowry in the chamber beside wantonness?
O miserable orphan!
’Twixt two extremes runs there no blessèd mean,
No comfortable strain,[24] that I may kiss it?
Must I to whoredom or to beggary lean,
My mind being sound? is there no way to miss it?
Is’t not injustice that a widow laughs,
And lays her mourning part upon a wife?
That she should have the garment, I the heart?
My wealth her uncle left her, and me her grief.
Yet, stood all miseries in their loathed’st forms
On this hand of me, thick like a foul mist;
And here the bright enticements of the world
In clearest colours, flattery and advancement,
And all the bastard glories this frame jets[25] in,—
Horror nor splendour, shadows fair nor foul,
Should force me shame my husband, wound my soul.

_Enter_ JANE.

Cousin, you’re welcome; this is kindly done of you,
To visit the despis’d.
JANE. I hope not so, coz;
The want of means cannot make you despis’d;
Love not by wealth, but by desert, is priz’d.
MIS. LOW. You’re pleas’d to help it well, coz.
JANE. I’m come to you,
Beside my visitation, to request you
To lay your wit to mine, which is but simple,
And help me to untie a few dark words
Made up in knots,—they’re of the widow’s knitting,
That ties all sure,—for my wit has not strength
Nor cunning to unloose ’em.
MIS. LOW. Good: what are they?
Though there be little comfort of my help.
JANE. She wish’d sir Oliver’s daughter and myself
Good fortune in our choices, and repented her
Of a rash oath she took, when we were both infants,
A secret to conceal; but since all’s well,
She holds it best to keep it unreveal’d:
Now, what this is, heaven knows.
MIS. LOW. Nor can I guess:
The course of her whole life and her dead husband’s
Was ever full of such dishonest riddles,
To keep right heirs from knowledge of their own:
And now I’m put i’ the mind on’t, I believe
It was some price[26] of land or money given,
By some departing friend upon their deathbed,
Perhaps to yourself; and sir Oliver’s daughter
May wrongfully enjoy it, and she hir’d—
For she was but an hireling in those days—
To keep the injury secret.
JANE. The most likeliest
That ever you could think on!
MIS. LOW. Is it not?
JANE. Sure, coz, I think you have untied the knot;
My thoughts lie at more ease: as in all other things,
In this I thank your help; and may you live
To conquer your own troubles and cross ends,
As you are ready to supply your friends!
MIS. LOW. I thank you for the kind truth of your
heart,
In which I flourish when all means depart.—
Sure in that oath of hers there sleeps some wrong
Done to my kinswoman. [_Aside._

_Enter Footman._

JANE. Who’d you speak withal?
FOOT. The gentlewoman of this house, forsooth.
JANE. Whose footman are you?
FOOT. One sir Gilbert Lambstone’s.
JANE. Sir Gilbert Lambstone’s? there my cousin walks.
FOOT. Thank your good worship. [_Exit_ JANE.
MIS. LOW. How now? whence are you?
FOOT. This letter will make known.
[_Giving letter to_ MIS. LOW-WATER.
MIS. LOW. Whence comes it, sir?
FOOT. From the knight my master, sir Gilbert Lambstone.
MIS. LOW. Return’t; I’ll receive none on’t.
[_Throwing down letter._
FOOT. There it must lie then; I were as good run to
Tyburn a-foot, and hang myself at mine own charges, as
carry it back again. [_Exit._
MIS. LOW. ’Life, had he not his answer? what strange
impudence
Governs in man when lust is lord of him!
Thinks he me mad? ’cause I’ve no monies on earth,
That I’ll go forfeit my estate in heaven,
And live eternal beggar? he shall pardon me,
That’s my soul’s jointure—I’ll starve ere I sell that.
O, is he gone, and left the letter here?
Yet I will read it, more to hate the writer. [_Reads._
_Mistress Low-water,—If you desire to understand
your own comfort, hear me out ere you refuse me. I’m
in the way now to double the yearly means that first
I offered you; and to stir you more to me, I’ll
empty your enemy’s bags to maintain you; for the
rich widow, the lady Goldenfleece, to whom I have
been a longer suitor than you an adversary,[27] hath
given me so much encouragement lately, insomuch that
I am perfectly assured the next meeting strikes the
bargain. The happiness that follows this ’twere idle
to inform you of; only consent to my desires, and
the widow’s notch shall lie open to you. This much
to your heart; I know you’re wise. Farewell. Thy
friend to his and another’s, Gilbert Lambstone._
In this poor brief[28] what volumes has he thrust
Of treacherous perjury and adulterous lust!
So foul a monster does this wrong appear,
That I give pity to mine enemy here.
What a most fearful love reigns in some hearts,
That dare oppose all judgment to get means,
And wed rich widows only to keep queans!
What a strange path he takes to my affection,
And thinks’t the nearest way! ’twill never be;
Goes through mine enemy’s ground to come to me.
This letter is most welcome; I repent now
That my last anger threw thee at my feet,
My bosom shall receive thee.
[_Putting letter in her bosom._

_Enter_ SIR GILBERT LAMBSTONE.

SIR G. LAMB. ’Tis good policy too
To keep one that so mortally hates the widow;
She’ll have more care to keep it close herself:
And look, what wind her revenge goes withal,
The self-same gale whisks up the sails of love!
I shall lose[29] much good sport by that. [_Aside._]—
Now, my sweet mistress!
MIS. LOW. Sir Gilbert! you change suits[30] oft, you
were here
In black but lately.
SIR G. LAMB. My mind never shifts though.
MIS. LOW. A foul mind the whilst:
But sure, sir, this is but a dissembling glass[31]
You sent before you; ’tis not possible
Your heart should follow your hand.
SIR G. LAMB. Then may both perish!
MIS. LOW. Do not wish that so soon, sir: can you make
A three-months’ love to a rich widow’s bed,
And lay her pillow under a quean’s head?
I know you can’t, howe’er you may dissemble’t;
You’ve a heart brought up better.
SIR G. LAMB. Faith, you wrong me in’t;
You shall not find, it so; I do protest to thee,
I will be lord of all my promises,
And ere ’t be long, thou shalt but turn a key,
And find ’em in thy coffer; for my love
In matching with the widow is but policy
To strengthen my estate, and make me able
To set off all thy kisses with rewards;
That the worst weather our delights behold,
It may hail pearl, and shower the widow’s gold.
MIS. LOW. You talk of a brave[32] world, sir.
SIR G. LAMB. ’Twill seem better
When golden happiness breaks forth itself
Out of the vast part of the widow’s chamber.
MIS. LOW. And here it sets.
SIR G. LAMB. Here shall the downfal be;
Her wealth shall rise from her, and set in thee.
MIS. LOW. You men have th’ art to overcome poor women;
Pray give my thoughts the freedom of one day,
And all the rest take you.
SIR G. LAMB. I straight obey.—
This bird’s my own! [_Aside, and exit._
MIS. LOW. There is no happiness but has her season,
Herein[33] the brightness of her virtue shines:
The husk falls off in time, that long shut[34] up
The fruit in a dark prison; so sweeps by
The cloud of miseries from wretches’ eyes,
That yet, though faln, at length they see to rise;
The secret powers work wondrously and duly.

_Enter_ LOW-WATER.

LOW. Why, how now, Kate?
MIS. LOW. O, are you come, sir? husband,
Wake, wake, and let not patience keep thee poor,
Rouse up thy spirit from this falling slumber!
Make thy distress seem but a weeping dream,
And this the opening morning of thy comforts;
Wipe the salt dew off from thy careful eyes,
And drink a draught of gladness next thy heart,
T’ expel the infection of all poisonous sorrows!
LOW. You turn me past my senses!
MIS. LOW. Will you but second
The purpose I intend, I’ll be first forward;
I crave no more of thee but a following spirit,
Will you but grant me that.
LOW. Why, what’s the business
That should transport thee thus?
MIS. LOW. Hope of much good,
No fear of the least ill; take that to comfort thee.
LOW. Yea?
MIS. LOW. Sleep not on’t, this is no slumbering
business;
’Tis like the sweating sickness, I must keep
Your eyes still wake, you’re gone if once you sleep.
LOW. I will not rest then till thou hast thy wishes.
MIS. LOW. Peruse this love-paper as you go.
[_Giving letter._
LOW. A letter? [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_A room in_ SIR OLIVER TWILIGHT’S _house_.

_Enter_ SIR OLIVER TWILIGHT, SANDFIELD, PHILIP TWILIGHT,
_and_ SAVOURWIT.

SIR O. TWI. Good master Sandfield, for the great
affection
You bear toward my girl, I am well pleas’d
You should enjoy her beauty; heaven forbid, sir,
That I should cast away a proper gentleman,
So far in love, with a sour mood or so.
No, no;
I’ll not die guilty of a lover’s neck-cracking.
Marry, as for portion, there I leave you, sir,
To the mercy of your destiny again;
I’ll have no hand in that.
SAND. Faith, something, sir,
Be’t but t’ express your love.
SIR O. TWI. I’ve no desire, sir,
T’ express my love that way, and so rest satisfied;
I pray take heed in urging that too much
You draw not my love from me.
SAND. Fates foresee, sir.
SIR O. TWI. Faith, then you may go, seek out a high
steeple,
Or a deep water—there’s no saving of you.
SAV. How naturally he plays upon himself! [_Aside._
SIR O. TWI. Marry, if a wedding-dinner, as I told you,
And three years’ board, well lodgèd in mine house,
And eating, drinking, and a sleeping portion,
May give you satisfaction, I’m your man, sir;
Seek out no other.
SAND. I’m content to embrace it, sir,
Rather than hazard languishment or ruin.
SIR O. TWI. I love thee for thy wisdom; such a
son-in-law
Will cheer a father’s heart: welcome, sweet master
Sandfield.
Whither away, boys? Philip![35]
PHIL. To visit my love, sir,
Old master Sunset’s daughter.
SIR O. TWI. That’s my Philip!—
Ply’t hard, my good boys both, put ’em to’t finely;
One day, one dinner, and one house shall join you.
SAND. } That’s our desire, sir.
PHIL. }
[_Exeunt_ SANDFIELD _and_ PHILIP.
SIR O. TWI. Pist![36] come hither, Savourwit;
Observe my son, and bring me word, sweet boy,
Whether has a speeding wit or no in wooing.
SAV. That will I, sir.—That your own eyes might tell
ye[37]
I think it speedy; your girl has a round belly.
[_Exit._
SIR O. TWI. How soon the comfortable shine of joy
Breaks through a cloud of grief!
The tears that I let fall for my dead wife
Are dried up with the beams of my girl’s fortunes:
Her life, her death, and her ten years’ distress,
Are even forgot with me; the love and care
That I ought[38] her, her daughter sh’ owes[39] it all;
It can but be bestow’d, and there ’tis well.

_Enter_ SERVANT.

How now? what news?
SER. There’s a Dutch merchant, sir, that’s now come
over,
Desires some conference with you.
SIR O. TWI. How! a Dutch merchant?
Pray, send him in to me. [_Exit Servant._]—What news
with him, trow?[40]

_Enter Dutch Merchant, with a little Dutch Boy in great
slops._[41]

D. MER. Sir Oliver Twilight?
SIR O. TWI. That’s my name indeed, sir;
I pray, be cover’d,[42] sir; you’re very welcome.
D. MER. This is my business, sir; I took into my
charge
A few words to deliver to yourself
From a dear friend of yours, that wonders strangely
At your unkind neglect.
SIR O. TWI. Indeed! what might
He be, sir?
D. MER. Nay, you’re i’ the wrong gender now;
’Tis that distressèd lady, your good wife, sir.
SIR O. TWI. What say you, sir? my wife!
D. MER. Yes, sir, your wife:
This strangeness now of yours seems more to harden
Th’ uncharitable neglect she tax’d you for.
SIR O. TWI. Pray, give me leave, sir; is my wife
alive?
D. MER. Came any news to you, sir, to the contrary?
SIR O. TWI. Yes, by my faith, did there.
D. MER. Pray, how long since, sir?
SIR O. TWI. ’Tis now some ten weeks.
D. MER. Faith, within this month, sir,
I saw her talk and eat; and those, in our calendar,
Are signs of life and health.
SIR O. TWI. Mass, so they are in ours!
D. MER. And these were the last words her passion[43]
threw me,—
No grief, quoth she, sits to my heart so close
As his unkindness, and my daughter’s loss.
SIR O. TWI. You make me weep and wonder; for I swear
I sent her ransom, and that daughter’s here.
D. MER. Here! that will come well to lighten her of
one grief;
I long to see her, for the piteous moan
Her mother made for her.
SIR O. TWI. That shall you, sir.—
Within there!

_Re-enter Servant._

SER. Sir?
SIR O. TWI. Call down my daughter.
SER. Yes, sir. [_Exit._
SIR O. TWI. Here is strange budgelling:[44] I tell
you, sir,
Those that I put in trust were near me too—
A man would think they should not juggle with me—
My own son and my servant; no worse people, sir.
D. MER. And yet ofttimes, sir, what worse knave to a
man
Than he that eats his meat?
SIR O. TWI. Troth, you say true, sir:
I sent ’em simply, and that news they brought,
My wife had left the world; and, with that son[45]
I sent to her, this brought his sister home:
Look you, sir, this is she.

_Enter_ GRACE.

D. MER. If my eye sin not, sir,
Or misty error falsify the glass,
I saw that face at Antwerp in an inn,
When I set forth first to fetch home this boy.
SIR O. TWI. How? in an inn?
GRACE. O, I’m betray’d, I fear! [_Aside._
D. MER. How do you, young mistress?
GRACE. Your eyes wrong your tongue, sir,
And make[46] you sin in both; I am not she.
D. MER. No? then I ne’er saw face twice.—Sir Oliver
Twilight,
I tell you my free thoughts, I fear you’re blinded;
I do not like this story; I doubt much
The sister is as false as the dead mother.
SIR O. TWI. Yea, say you so, sir? I see nothing
lets[47] me
But to doubt so too then.—
So, to your chamber; we have done with you.
GRACE. I would be glad you had: here’s a strange
storm!— [_Aside._
Sift it out well, sir; till anon I leave you, sir.
[_Exit._
D. MER. Business commands me hence; but, as a pledge
Of my return, I’ll leave my little son with you,
Who yet takes little pleasure in this country,
’Cause he can speak no English, all Dutch he.
SIR O. TWI. A fine boy; he is welcome, sir, to me.
D. MER. Where’s your leg and your thanks to
the gentleman?
D. BOY. _War es you neighgen an you thonkes you,
Ick donck you, ver ew edermon vrendly kite._
SIR O. TWI. What says he, sir?
D. MER. He thanks you for your kindness.
SIR O. TWI. Pretty knave!
D. MER. Had not some business held me by the way,
This news had come to your ear ten days ago.
SIR O. TWI. It comes too soon now, methinks; I’m your
debtor.
D. MER. But I could wish it, sir, for better ware.
SIR O. TWI. We must not be our own choosers in our
fortunes.
[_Exit Dutch Merchant._

Here’s a cold pie to breakfast! wife alive,
The daughter doubtful, and the money spent!
How am I juggled withal!

_Re-enter_ SAVOURWIT.

SAV. It hits, i’faith, sir;
The work goes even.
SIR O. TWI. O, come, come, come!
Are you come, sir?
SAV. Life, what’s the matter now!
SIR O. TWI. There’s a new reckoning come in since.
SAV. Pox on’t,
I thought all had been paid; I can’t abide
These after-reckonings. [_Aside._
SIR O. TWI. I pray, come near, sir, let’s be
acquainted with you;
You’re bold enough abroad with my purse, sir.
SAV. No more than beseems manners and good use, sir.
SIR O. TWI. Did not you bring me word, some ten weeks
since,
My wife was dead?
SAV. Yes, true, sir, very true, sir.
SIR O. TWI. Pray, stay, and take my horse along with
you,—
And with the ransom that I sent for her,
That you redeem’d my daughter?
SAV. Right as can be, sir;
I ne’er found your worship in a false tale yet.
SIR O. TWI. I thank you for your good word, sir; but
I’m like
To find your worship now in two at once.
SAV. I should be sorry to hear that.
SIR O. TWI. I believe you, sir:
Within this month my wife was sure alive,
There’s six weeks bated of your ten weeks’ lie;
As has been credibly reported to me
By a Dutch merchant, father to that boy,
But now come over, and the words scarce cold.
SAV. O strange!— [_Aside._
’Tis a most rank untruth; where is he, sir?
SIR O. TWI. He will not be long absent.
SAV. All’s confounded!— [_Aside._
If he were here, I’d[48] tell him to his face, sir,
He wears a double tongue, that’s Dutch and English.
Will the boy say’t?
SIR O. TWI. ’Las, he can speak no English.
SAV. All the better; I’ll gabble something to him.
[_Aside._]—_Hoyste kaloiste, kalooskin ee vou, dar sune,
alla gaskin?_
D. BOY. _Ick wet neat watt hey zackt; Ick unverston ewe
neat._
SAV. Why, la, I thought as much!
SIR O. TWI. What says the boy?
SAV. He says his father is troubled with an imperfection
at one time of the moon, and talks like a madman.
SIR O. TWI. What, does the boy say so?
SAV. I knew there was somewhat in’t:
Your wife alive! will you believe all tales, sir?
SIR O. TWI. Nay, more, sir; he told me he saw this
wench,
Which you brought home, at Antwerp in an inn;
Tell[s] me, I’m plainly cozen’d of all hands,
’Tis not my daughter neither.
SAV. All’s broke out!— [_Aside._
How! not your daughter, sir? I must to’t again.—
_Quisquinikin sadlamare, alla pisse kickin sows clows,
hoff tofte le cumber shaw, bouns bus boxsceeno._
D. BOY. _Ick an sawth no int hein clappon de heeke, I
dinke ute zein zennon._
SAV. O, _zein zennon_! Ah ha! I thought how ’twould
prove i’ th’ end:—the boy says they never came near
Antwerp, a quite contrary way, round about by Parma.
SIR O. TWI. What’s the same _zein zennon_?
SAV. That is, he saw no such wench in an inn: ’tis well
I came in such happy time, to get it out of the boy
before his father returned again: pray, be wary, sir,
the world’s subtle; come and pretend a charitable
business in policy, and work out a piece of money on
you.
SIR O. TWI. Mass, art advised of that?
SAV. The age is cunning, sir; beside, a Dutchman will
live upon any ground, and work butter out of a thistle.
SIR O. TWI. Troth, thou say’st true in that; they’re the
best thrivers
In turnips, hartichalks, and cabbishes;[49]
Our English are not like them.
SAV. O fie, no, sir!
SIR O. TWI. Ask him from whence they came when they
came hither.
SAV. That I will, sir.—_Culluaron lagooso, lageen,
lagan, rufft, punkatee_?
D. BOY. _Nimd aweigh de cack._
SAV. What, what? I cannot blame him then.
SIR O. TWI. What says he to thee?
SAV. The poor boy blushes for him: he tells me his
father came from making merry with certain of his
countrymen, and he’s a little steeped in English beer;
there’s no heed to be taken of his tongue now.
SIR O. TWI. Hoyday! how com’st thou by all this? I
heard him
Speak but three words to thee.
SAV. O sir, the Dutch is a very wide language; you shall
have ten English words even for one; as, for example,
_gullder-goose_—there’s a word for you, master!
SIR O. TWI. Why, what’s that same _gullder-goose_?
SAV. How do you and all your generation?
SIR O. TWI. Why, ’tis impossible! how prove you that,
sir?
SAV. ’Tis thus distinguished, sir: _gull_, how do you;
_der_, and; _goose_, your generation.
SIR O. TWI. ’Tis a most saucy language; how cam’st
thou by’t?
SAV. I was brought up to London in an eel-ship,
There was the place I caught it first by the tail.—
I shall be tript anon; pox, would I were gone!—
[_Aside._
I’ll go seek out your son, sir; you shall hear
What thunder he’ll bring with him.
SIR O. TWI. Do, do, Savourwit;
I’ll have you all face to face.
SAV. Cuds me, what else, sir?—
And[50] you take me so near the net again,
I’ll give you leave to squat[51] me; I’ve scap’d fairly:
We’re undone in Dutch; all our three months’ roguery
Is now come over in a butter-firkin.
[_Aside_, _and exit_.
SIR O. TWI. Never was man so tost between two tales!
I know not which to take, nor which to trust;
The boy here is the likeliest to tell truth,
Because the world’s corruption is not yet
At full years in him; sure he cannot know
What deceit means, ’tis English yet to him:
And when I think again, why should the father
Dissemble for no profit? he gets none,
Whate’er he hopes for, and I think he hopes not.
The man’s in a good case, being old and weary,
He dares not lean his arm on his son’s shoulder,
For fear he lie i’ the dirt, but must be rather
Beholding[52] to a stranger for his prop. [_Aside._

_Re-enter Dutch Merchant._

D. MER. I make bold once again, sir, for a boy here.
SIR O. TWI. O sir, you’re welcome! pray, resolve[53]
me one thing, sir;
Did you within this month, with your own eyes,
See my wife living?
D. MER. I ne’er borrow’d any:
Why should you move that question, sir? dissembling
Is no part of my living.
SIR O. TWI. I have reason
To urge it so far, sir—pray, be not angry though—
Because my man, was here since your departure,
Withstands all stiffly; and to make it clearer,
Question’d your boy in Dutch, who, as he told me,
Return’d this answer first to him,—that you
Had imperfection at one time o’ the moon,
Which made you talk so strangely.
D. MER. How! how’s this?—_Zeicke yongon, ick ben ick
quelt medien dullek heght, ee untoit van the mon, an
koot uram’d._
D. BOY. _Wee ek heigh lieght in ze bokkas, dee’t site._
D. MER. Why, la, you, sir, here’s no such thing! he
says
He lies in’s throat that says it.
SIR O. TWI. Then the rogue lies in’s throat, for he
told me so;
And that the boy should answer at next question,
That you ne’er saw this wench, nor came near Antwerp.
D. MER. Ten thousand devils!—_Zeicke hee ewe ek kneeght,
yongon, dat wee neeky by Antwarpon ne don cammen no
seene de doughter dor._
D. BOY. _Ick hub ham hean sulka dongon he zaut, hei es
an skallom an rubbout._
D. MER. He says he told him no such matter; he’s a knave
and a rascal.
SIR O. TWI. Why, how am I abus’d! Pray, tell me one
thing,
What’s _gullder-goose_ in Dutch?
D. MER. How! _gullder-goose?_ there’s no
Such thing in Dutch; it may be an ass in English.
SIR O. TWI. Hoyday! then am I that ass in plain
English;
I’m grossly cozen’d, most inconsiderately!
Pray, let my house receive you for one night,
That I may quit[54] these rascals, I beseech you, sir.
D. MER. If that may stead you, sir, I’ll not refuse
you.
SIR O. TWI. A thousand thanks, and welcome.—
On whom can fortune more spit out her foam,
Work’d on abroad, and play’d upon at home!
[_Exeunt._