Chapter IV: Act II: Scene I

_A large room in_ WEATHERWISE’S _house_.

_Enter_ WEATHERWISE _while Servants are setting out a
table, and_ PICKADILL _looking on_.
WEA. So, set the table ready; the widow’s i’ the next
room, looking upon my clock with the days and the months
and the change of the moon; I’ll fetch her in presently.
[_Exit._
PICK. She’s not so mad to be fetched in with the moon, I
warrant you: a man must go roundlier to work with a
widow, than to woo her with the hand of a dial, or stir
up her blood with the striking part of a clock; I should
ne’er stand to shew her such things in chamber.
[_Exeunt Servants._

_Re-enter_ WEATHERWISE _handing in_ LADY GOLDENFLEECE,
SIR GILBERT LAMBSTONE, PEPPERTON, _and_ OVERDONE.

WEA. Welcome, sweet widow, to a bachelor’s house here!
a single man I, but for two or three maids that I keep.
L. GOLD. Why, are you double with them, then?
WEA. An exceeding good mourning-wit! women are wiser
than ever they were, since they wore doublets. You must
think, sweet widow, if a man keep maids, they’re under
his subjection.
L. GOLD. That’s most true, sir.
WEA. They have no reason to have a lock but the master
must have a key to’t.
L. GOLD. To him, sir Gilbert! he fights with me at a
wrong weapon now.
WEA. Nay, and[55] sir Gilbert strike, my weapon falls,
I fear no thrust but his: here are more shooters,
But they have shot two arrows without heads,
They cannot stick i’ the butt yet: hold out, knight,
And I’ll cleave the black pin in the midst o’ the white.
[_Aside, and exit._
L. GOLD. Nay, and he led me into a closet, sir, where
he shewed me diet-drinks for several months; as
scurvy-grass for April, clarified whey for June, and
the like.
SIR G. LAMB. O, madam, he is a most necessary
property,[56] an’t be but to save our credit; ten pound
in a banquet.
L. GOLD. Go, you’re a wag, sir Gilbert.
SIR G. LAMB. How many there be in the world of his
fortunes, that prick their own calves with briars, to
make an easy passage for others; or, like a toiling
usurer, sets his son a-horseback in cloth-of-gold
breeches, while he himself goes to the devil a-foot in a
pair of old strossers![57]
But shall I give a more familiar sign?
His are the sweetmeats, but the kisses mine.
[_Kisses her._
OVER. Excellent!—A pox a’ your fortune! [_Aside._
PEP. Saucy courting has brought all modest wooing clean
out of fashion: you shall have few maids now-a-days got
without rough handling, all the town’s so used to’t; and
most commonly, too, they’re joined before they’re
married, because they’ll be sure to be fast enough.
OVER. Sir, since he strives t’ oppose himself against
us,
Let’s so combine our friendships in our straits,
By all means graceful, to assist each other;
For, I protest, it shall as much glad me
To see your happiness, and his disgrace,
As if the wealth were mine, the love, the place.
PEP. And with the like faith I reward your friendship;
I’ll break the bawdy ranks of his discourse,
And scatter his libidinous whispers straight.—
Madam——
L. GOLD. How cheer you, gentlemen?
SIR G. LAMB. Pox on ’em,
They wak’d me out of a fine sleep! three minutes
Had fasten’d all the treasure in mine arms. [_Aside._
PEP. You took no note of this conceit, it seems,
madam?
L. GOLD. Twelve trenchers,[58] upon every one a month!
January, February, March, April——
PEP. Ay, and their posies under ’em.
L. GOLD. Pray, what says May? she’s the spring lady.
PEP. [_reads_]
_Now gallant May,[59] in her array,
Doth make the field pleasant and gay._
OVER. [_reads_]
_This month of June use clarified whey
Boil’d with cold herbs, and drink alway._
L. GOLD. Drink’t all away, he should say.
PEP. ’Twere much better indeed, and wholesomer for his
liver.
SIR G. LAMB. September’s a good one here, madam.
L. GOLD. O, have you chose your month? let’s hear’t, sir
Gilbert.
SIR G. LAMB. [_reads_]
_Now may’st thou physics safely take,
And bleed, and bathe for thy health’s sake;
Eat figs, and grapes, and spicery,
For to refresh thy members dry._
L. GOLD. Thus it is still, when a man’s simple meaning
lights among wantons: how many honest words have
suffered corruption since Chaucer’s days! a virgin would
speak those words then that a very midwife would blush
to hear now, if she have but so much blood left to make
up an ounce of grace. And who is this ’long on, but such
wags as you, that use your words like your wenches? you
cannot let ’em pass honestly by you, but you must still
have a flirt at ’em.
PEP. You have paid some of us home, madam.

_Re-enter_ WEATHERWISE.

WEA. If conceit[60] will strike this stroke, have
at[61] the widow’s plum-tree! I’ll put ’em down all for
a banquet. [_Aside._]—Widow and gentlemen, my friends
and servants, I make you wait long here for a bachelor’s
pittance.
L. GOLD. O, sir, you’re pleased to be modest.
WEA. No, by my troth, widow, you shall find it
otherwise.

[_Music. The banquet[62] is brought in, six of_
WEATHERWISE’S _tenants carrying the Twelve Signs,
Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Virgo, Libra,
Scorpio, Sagittarius, Capricorn, Aquarius, and Pisces,
made of banqueting-stuff_.

L. GOLD. What, the Twelve Signs!
WEA. These are the signs of my love, widow.
L. GOLD. Worse meat would have serv’d us, sir; by my
faith,
I’m sorry you should be at such charges, sir,
To feast us a whole month together here.
WEA. Widow, thou’rt welcome a whole month, and ever!
L. GOLD. And what be those, sir, that brought in the
banquet?
WEA. Those are my tenants; they stand for
fasting-days.
SIR G. LAMB. Or the six weeks in Lent.
WEA. You’re i’ the right, sir Gilbert.—
Sweet widow, take your place at Aries here,
That’s the head sign; a widow is the head
Till she be married. [LADY GOLD. _sits_.
L. GOLD. What is she then?
WEA. The middle.
L. GOLD. ’Tis happy she’s no worse.
WEA. Taurus—sir Gilbert Lambstone, that’s for you;
They say you’re a good town-bull.
SIR G. LAMB. O, spare your friends, sir! [_Sits._
WEA. And Gemini for master Pepperton,
He had two boys at once by his last wife.
PEP. I hear the widow find no fault with that, sir.
[_Sits._
WEA. Cancer, the crab, for master Overdone;
For when a thing’s past fifty, it grows crooked.
[OVERDONE _sits_.
L. GOLD. Now for yourself, sir.
WEA. Take no care for me, widow;[63] I can be any where:
here’s Leo, heart and back; Virgo, guts and belly; I can
go lower yet, and yet fare better, since Sagittarius
fits me the thighs; I care not if I be about the thighs,
I shall find meat enough. [_Sits._
L. GOLD. But, under pardon, sir,
Though you be lord o’ the feast and the conceit both,
Methinks it had been proper for the banquet
T’ have had the signs all fill’d, and no one idle.
WEA. I know it had; but who’s fault’s that, widow? you
should have got you more suitors to have stopt the gaps.
L. GOLD. Nay, sure, they should get us, and not we
them:
There be your tenants, sir; we are not proud,
You may bid them sit down.
WEA. By the mass, it’s true too!—Then sit down, tenants,
once with your hats on; but spare the meat, I charge
you, as you hope for new leases: I must make my signs
draw out a month yet, with a bit every morning to
breakfast, and at full moon with a whole one; that’s
restorative: sit round, sit round, and do not speak,
sweet tenants; you may be bold enough, so you eat but
little. [_Tenants sit._]—How like you this now, widow?
L. GOLD. It shews well, sir,
And like the good old hospitable fashion.
PICK. How! like a good old hospital? my mistress makes
an arrant gull on him. [_Aside._
L. GOLD. But yet, methinks, there wants clothes for the
feet.
WEA. That part’s uncovered yet: push,[64] no matter
for the feet.
L. GOLD. Yes,[65] if the feet catch cold, the head
will feel it.
WEA. Why, then, you may draw up your legs, and lie
rounder together.
SIR G. LAMB. Has answered you well, madam!
WEA. And[66] you draw up your legs too, widow, my tenant
will feel you there, for he’s one of the calves.
L. GOLD. Better and better, sir; your wit fattens as he
feeds.
PICK. Sh’as took the calf from his tenant, and put it
upon his ground now. [_Aside._

_Enter Servant._

WEA. How now, my lady’s man? what’s the news, sir?
SER. Madam, there’s a young gentleman below
Has earnest business to your ladyship.
WEA. Another suitor, I hold my life, widow.
L. GOLD. What is he, sir?
SER. He seems a gentleman,
That’s the least of him, and yet more I know not.
L. GOLD. Under the leave o’ the master of the house
here,
I would he were admitted.
WEA. With all my heart, widow; I fear him not,
Come cut and long tail.[67] [_Exit Servant._
SIR G. LAMB. I have the least fear
And the most firmness, nothing can shake me. [_Aside._
WEA. If he be a gentleman, he’s welcome: there’s a
sign does nothing, and that’s fit for a gentleman. The
feet will be kept warm enough now for you, widow; for if
he be a right gentleman, he has his stockings warmed,
and he wears socks beside, partly for warmth, partly for
cleanliness; and if he observe Fridays too, he comes
excellent well, Pisces will be a fine fish-dinner for
him.
L. GOLD. Why, then, you mean, sir, he shall sit as he
comes?
WEA. Ay; and he were a lord, he shall not sit above my
tenants; I’ll not have two lords to them, so I may go
look my rent in another man’s breeches; I was not
brought up to be so unmannerly.

_Enter_ MISTRESS LOW-WATER, _disguised as a gallant
gentleman, and_ LOW-WATER _as a serving-man_.

MIS. LOW. I have picked out a bold time: much good do
you, gentlemen.
WEA. You’re welcome, as I may say, sir.
MIS. LOW. Pardon my rudeness, madam.
L. GOLD. No such fault, sir;
You’re too severe to yourself, our judgment quits you:
Please you to do as we do.
MIS. LOW. Thanks, good madam.
L. GOLD. Make room, gentlemen.
WEA. Sit still, tenants; I’ll call in all your old
leases, and rack you else.
TENANTS. O, sweet landlord!
MIS. LOW. Take my cloak, sirrah. [_Giving cloak to_
LOW-WATER.]—If any be disturb’d,
I’ll not sit, gentlemen: I see my place.
WEA. A proper woman turned gallant! If the widow refuse
me, I care not if I be a suitor to him; I have known
those who have been as mad, and given half their living
for a male companion. [_Aside._
MIS. LOW. How? Pisces! is that mine? ’tis a conceited
banquet. [_Sits._
WEA. If you love any fish, pray, fall to, sir; if you
had come sooner, you might have happened among some of
the flesh-signs, but now they’re all taken up: Virgo had
been a good dish for you, had not one of my tenants been
somewhat busy with her.
MIS. LOW. Pray, let him keep her, sir; give me meat
fresh;
I’d rather have whole fish than broken flesh.
SIR G. LAMB. What say you to a bit of Taurus?
MIS. LOW. No, I thank you, sir;
The bull’s too rank for me.
SIR G. LAMB. How, sir?
MIS. LOW. Too rank, sir.
SIR G. LAMB. Fie, I shall strike you dumb, like all
your fellows.
MIS. LOW. What, with your heels or horns?
SIR G. LAMB. Perhaps with both.
MIS. LOW. It must be at dead low water,
When I’m dead then.
LOW. ’Tis a brave Kate, and nobly spoke of thee!
[_Aside._
WEA. This quarrel must be drowned.—Pickadill, my lady’s
fool.
PICK. Your, your own man, sir.
WEA. Prithee, step in to one of the maids.
PICK. That I will, sir, and thank you too.
WEA. Nay, hark you, sir, call for my sun-cup presently,
I’d forgot it.
PICK. How, your sun-cup?—Some cup, I warrant, that he
stole out o’ the Sun-tavern. [_Aside, and exit._
L. GOLD. The more I look on him, the more I thirst
for’t;
Methinks his beauty does so far transcend,
Turns the signs back, makes that the upper end.
[_Aside._
WEA. How cheer you, widow?—Gentlemen, how cheer you?
Fair weather in all quarters!
The sun will peep anon, I’ve sent one for him;
In the mean time I’ll tell you a tale of these.
This Libra here, that keeps the scale so even,
Was i’ th’ old time an honest chandler’s widow,
And had one daughter which was callèd Virgo,
Which now my hungry tenant has deflower’d.
This Virgo, passing for a maid, was sued to
By Sagittarius there, a gallant shooter,
And Aries, his head rival; but her old
Crabb’d uncle, Cancer here, dwelling in Crooked Lane,
Still crost the marriage, minding to bestow her
Upon one Scorpio, a rich usurer;
The girl, loathing that match, fell into folly
With one Taurus, a gentleman, in Townbull[68] Street,
By whom she had two twins, those Gemini there,
Of which two brats she was brought a-bed in Leo,
At the Red Lion, about Tower Hill:
Being in this distress, one Capricorn,
An honest citizen, pitied her case, and married her
To Aquarius, an old water-bearer,
And Pisces was her living ever after;
At Standard[69] she sold fish, where he drew water.
ALL. It shall be yours, sir.
L. GOLD. Meat and mirth too! you’re lavish;
Your purse and tongue have[70] been at cost to-day, sir.
SIR G. LAMB. You may challenge all comers at these
twelve weapons, I warrant you.

_Re-enter_ PICKADILL _carrying the sun-cup, without his
doublet, and with a veil over his face_.

PICK. Your sun-cup, call you it? ’tis a simple voyage
that I have made here; I have left my doublet within,
for fear I should sweat through my jerkin; and thrown a
cypress[71] over my face, for fear of sun-burning.
WEA. How now? who’s this? why, sirrah!
PICK. Can you endure it, mistress?
L. GOLD. Endure what, fool?
WEA. Fill the cup, coxcomb.
PICK. Nay, an’t be no hotter, I’ll go put on my doublet
again. [_Exit._
WEA. What a whorson sot is this!—Prithee, fill the cup,
fellow, and give’t the widow.
MIS. LOW. Sirrah, how stand you?
Bestow your service there upon her ladyship.

[LOW-WATER _fills the cup and presents it to_ LADY
GOLDENFLEECE.

L. GOLD. What’s here? a sun?
WEA. It does betoken, madam,
A cheerful day to somebody.
L. GOLD. It rises
Full in the face of yon[72] fair sign, and yet
By course he is the last must feel the heat. [_Aside._
Here, gentlemen, to you all,
For you know the sun must go through the Twelve Signs.
[_Drinks._
WEA. Most wittily, widow; you jump with my conceit
right,
There’s not a hair between us.
L. GOLD. Give it sir Gilbert.
SIR G. LAMB. I am the next through whom the golden
flame
Shines, when ’tis spent in thy celestial ram;
The poor feet there must wait and cool awhile.
[_Drinks._
MIS. LOW. We have our time, sir; joy and we shall
meet;
I’ve known the proud neck lie between the feet.
WEA. So, round it goes.
[_The others drink in order._

_Re-enter_ PICKADILL.

PICK. I like this drinking world well.
WEA. So, fill’t him again.
PEP. Fill’t me! why, I drunk last, sir.
WEA. I know you did; but Gemini must drink twice,
Unless you mean that one of them shall be chok’d.
L. GOLD. Fly from my heart all variable thoughts!
She that’s entic’d by every pleasing object,
Shall find small pleasure and as little rest:
This knave hath lov’d me long, he’s best and worthiest;
I cannot but in honour see him requited. [_Aside._
Sir Gilbert Lambstone——
MIS. LOW. How? pardon me, sweet lady,
That with a bold tongue I strike by your words;
Sir Gilbert Lambstone!
SIR G. LAMB. Yes, sir, that’s my name.
MIS. LOW. There should be a rank villain of that name;
Came you out of that house?
SIR G. LAMB. How, sir slave!
MIS. LOW. Fall to your bull, leave roaring till anon.
WEA. Yet again! and[73] you love me, gentlemen, let’s
have no roaring here. If I had thought that, I’d have
sent my bull to the bear-garden.
PEP. Why, so you should have wanted one of your signs.
WEA. But I may chance want two now, and[73] they fall
together by the ears.
L. GOLD. What’s the strange fire that works in these
two creatures?
Cold signs both, yet more hot than all their fellows.
WEA. Ho, Sol in Pisces! the sun’s in New Fish Street;
here’s an end of this course.
PICK. Madam, I am bold to remember your worship for a
year’s wages and a livery cloak.
L. GOLD. How, will you shame me? had you not both last
week, fool?
PICK. Ay, but there’s another year past since that.
L. GOLD. Would all your wit could make that good, sir!
PICK. I am sure the sun has run through all the Twelve
Signs since, and that’s a year; these[74] gentlemen can
witness.
WEA. The fool will live, madam.
PICK. Ay, as long as your eyes are open, I warrant him.
MIS. LOW. Sirrah.
LOW. Does your worship call?
MIS. LOW. Commend my love and service to the widow,
Desire her ladyship to taste that morsel.
[_Giving letter to_ LOW-WATER, _who carries it to_ LADY
GOLDENFLEECE.
LOW. This is the bit I watch’d for all this while,
But it comes duly. [_Aside._
SIR G. LAMB. And wherein has this name of mine
offended,
That you’re so liberal of your infamous titles,
I but a stranger to thee? it must be known, sir,
Ere we two part.
MIS. LOW. Marry, and reason good, sir.
L. GOLD. O, strike me cold!—This should be your hand,
sir Gilbert?
SIR G. LAMB. Why, make you question of that, madam? ’tis
one of the letters I sent you.
L. GOLD. Much good do you, gentlemen. [_Rising._
PEP. } How now? what’s the matter?
OVER. }
[_All rise._
WEA. Look to the widow, she paints white.—Some _aqua
cœlestis_ for my lady! run, villain.
PICK. _Aqua solister?_ can nobody help her case but a
lawyer, and so many suitors here?
L. GOLD. O treachery unmatch’d, unheard of!
SIR G. LAMB. How do you, madam?
L. GOLD. O impudence as foul! does my disease
Ask how I do? can it torment my heart,
And look with a fresh colour in my face?
SIR G. LAMB. What’s this, what’s this?
WEA. I am sorry for this qualm, widow.
L. GOLD. He that would know a villain when he meets
him,
Let him ne’er go to a conjuror; here’s a glass
Will shew him without money, and far truer.—
Preserver of my state, pray, tell me, sir,
That I may pay you all my thanks together,
What blest hap brought that letter to your hand,
From me so fast lock’d in mine enemy’s power.
MIS. LOW. I will resolve[75] you, madam. I’ve a
kinsman
Somewhat infected with that wanton pity
Which men bestow on the distress of women,
Especially if they be fair and poor;
With such hot charity, which indeed is lust,
He sought t’ entice, as his repentance told me,
Her whom you call your enemy, the wife
To a poor gentleman, one Low-water——
L. GOLD. Right, right, the same.
LOW. Had it been right, ’t had now been. [_Aside._
MIS. LOW. And, according to the common rate of
sinners,
Offer’d large maintenance, which with her seem’d
nothing;
For if she would consent, she told him roundly,
There was a knight had bid more at one minute
Than all his wealth could compass; and withal,
Pluck’d out that letter, as it were in scorn,
Which by good fortune he put up in jest,
With promise that the writ should be returnable
The next hour of his meeting. But, sweet madam,
Out of my love and zeal, I did so practise
The part upon him of an urgent wooer,
That neither he nor that return’d more to her.
SIR G. LAMB. Plague a’ that kinsman! _Aside._
WEA. Here’s a gallant rascal!
L. GOLD. Sir, you’ve appear’d so noble in this action,
So full of worth and goodness, that my thanks
Will rather shame the bounty of my mind
Than do it honour.—O, thou treacherous villain!
Does thy faith bear such fruit?
Are these the blossoms of a hundred oaths
Shot from thy bosom? was thy love so spiteful,
It could not be content to mock my heart,
Which is in love a misery too much,
But must extend so far to the quick ruin
Of what was painfully got, carefully left me;
And, ’mongst a world of yielding needy women,
Choose no one to make merry with my sorrows,
And spend my wealth on in adulterous surfeits,
But my most mortal enemy! O, despiteful!
Is this thy practice? follow it, ’twill advance thee;
Go, beguile on. Have I so happily found
What many a widow has with sorrow tasted,
Even when my lip touch’d the contracting cup,
Even then to see the spider? ’twas miraculous!
Crawl with thy poisons hence; and for thy sake
I’ll never covet titles and more riches,
To fall into a gulf of hate and laughter:
I’ll marry love hereafter, I’ve enough;
And wanting that, I’ve nothing. There’s thy way.
OVER. Do you hear, sir? you must walk.
PEP. Heart, thrust him down stairs!
WEA. Out of my house, you treacherous, lecherous
rascal!
SIR G. LAMB. All curses scatter you!
WEA. Life, do you thunder here! [_Exit_ SIR G. LAMBSTONE.] If
you had stayed a little longer, I’d have ript out some of my
Bull out of your belly again.
PEP. ’Twas a most noble discovery; we must love you for
ever for’t.
L. GOLD. Sir, for your banquet and your mirth we thank
you;—
You, gentlemen, for your kind company;—
But you, for all my merry days to come,
Or this had been the last else.
MIS. LOW. Love and fortune
Had more care of your safety, peace, and state, madam.
WEA. Now will I thrust in for’t. [_Aside._
PEP. I’m for myself now. [_Aside._
OVER. What’s fifty years? ’tis man’s best time and
season;
Now the knight’s gone, the widow will hear reason.
[_Aside._
LOW. Now, now, the suitors flatter, hold on, Kate;
The hen may pick the meat while the cocks prate.
[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_A street._

_Enter_ SANDFIELD, PHILIP TWILIGHT, _and_ SAVOURWIT.

PHIL. If thou talk’st longer, I shall turn to marble,
And death will stop my hearing.
SAND. Horrible fortune!
SAV. Nay, sir, our building is so far defac’d,
There is no stuff left to raise up a hope.
PHIL. O, with more patience could my flesh endure
A score of wounds, and all their several searchings,
Than this that thou hast told me!
SAV. Would that Flemish ram
Had ne’er come near our house! there’s no going home
As long as he has a nest there, and his young one,
A little Flanders egg new fledg’d: they gape
For pork, and I shall be made meat for ’em.
PHIL. ’Tis not the bare news of my mother’s life—
May she live long and happy!—that afflicts me
With half the violence that the latter draws;
Though in that news I have my share of grief,
As I had share of sin and a foul neglect;
It is my love’s betraying, that’s the sting
That strikes through flesh and spirit; and sense nor wit
From thee, in whom I ne’er saw ebb till now,
Nor comforts from a faithful friend can ease me;
I’ll try the goodness of a third companion,
What he’ll do for me. [_Drawing his sword._
SAND. Hold! why, friend——
SAV. Why, master, is this all your kindness, sir? offer
to steal into another country, and ne’er take your leave
on’s? troth, I take it unkindly at your hands, sir; but
I’ll put it up for once. [_Sheathing_ PHILIP’S _sword_.]
Faith, there was no conscience in this, sir; leave me
here to endure all weathers, whilst you make your soul
dance like a juggler’s egg upon the point of a rapier!
By my troth, sir, you’re to blame in’t; you might have
given us an inkling of your journey; perhaps others
would as fain have gone as you.
PHIL. Burns this clay-lamp of miserable life,
When joy, the oil that feeds it, is dried up?

_Enter_ LADY TWILIGHT, BEVERIL, _and Servants_.

L. TWI. He has remov’d his house.
BEV. So it seems, madam.
L. TWI. I’ll ask that gentleman.—Pray, can you tell
me, sir,
Which is sir Oliver Twilight’s?
PHIL. Few can better, gentlewoman;
It is the next fair house your eye can fix on.
L. TWI. I thank you, sir.—Go on. [_Exeunt Servants._]—
He had a son
About some ten years since.
PHIL. That son still lives.
L. TWI. I pray, how does he, sir?
PHIL. Faith, much about my health,—that’s never
worse.— [_Aside._
If you have any business to him, gentlewoman,
I can cut short your journey to the house;
I’m all that ever was of the same kind.
L. TWI. [_embracing him_] O, my sweet son! never fell
fresher joy
Upon the heart of mother!—This is he, sir.
BEV. My seven-years’ travel has e’en worn him out
Of my remembrance.
SAV. O, this gear’s worse and worse! [_Aside._
PHIL. I am so wonder-struck at your blest presence,
That, through amaz’d joy, I neglect my duty.
[_Kneels._
L. TWI. [raising him] Rise, and a thousand blessings
spring up with thee!
SAV. I would we had but one in the meantime;
Let the rest grow at leisure. [_Aside._
L. TWI. But know you not this gentleman yet, son?
PHIL. I take it’s master Beveril.
BEV. My name’s Beveril, sir.
PHIL. Right welcome to my bosom! [_Embracing him._
L. TWI. You’d not think, son,
How much I am beholding[76] to this gentleman,
As far as freedom; he laid out the ransom,
Finding me so distress’d.
PHIL. ’Twas worthily done, sir,
And I shall ever rest your servant for’t.
BEV. You quite forget your worth: ’twas my good hap,
sir,
To return home that way, after some travels;
Where, finding your good mother so distress’d,
I could not but in pity see her releas’d.
PHIL. It was a noble charity, sir; heaven quit[77]
you!
SAV. It comes at last! [_Aside._
BEV. I left a sister here,
New married when I last took leave of England.
PHIL. O, mistress Low-water.
BEV. Pray, sir, how does she?
PHIL. So little comfort I can give you, sir,
That I would fain excuse myself for silence.
BEV. Why, what’s the worst, sir?
PHIL. Wrongs have[78] made her poor.
BEV. You strike my heart: alas, good gentlewoman!
PHIL. Here’s a gentleman—
You know him—master Sandfield—
BEV. I crave pardon, sir.
PHIL. He can resolve[79] you from her kinswoman.
SAND. Welcome to England, madam!
LADY TWI. Thanks, good sir.
PHIL. Now there’s no way to ’scape, I’m compass’d
round;
My shame is like a prisoner set with halberds.
SAV. Pish, master, master, ’tis young flood again,
And you can take your time now; away, quick!
PHIL. Push,[80] thou’st a swimming head.
SAV. Will you but hear me?
When did you lose your tide when I set forth with you?
PHIL. That’s true.
SAV. Regard me then, though you’ve no feeling;
I would not hang by the thumbs with a good will.
PHIL. I hang by th’ heart, sir, and would fain have
ease.
SAV. Then this or none: fly to your mother’s pity,
For that’s the court must help you; you’re quite gone
At common law, no counsellor can hear you;
Confess your follies, and ask pardon for ’em;
Tell her the state of all things, stand not nicely;
The meat’s too hard
To be minc’d now, she breeds young bones by this time;
Deal plainly, heaven will bless thee; turn out all,
And shake your pockets after it; beg, weep,
Kneel, any thing, it will break no bones, man:
Let her not rest, take breathing time, nor leave thee,
Till thou hast got her help.
PHIL. Lad, I conceive thee.
SAV. About it, then; it requires haste—do’t well;
There’s but a short street between us and hell.
BEV. Ah, my poor sister!
L. TWI. ’Las, good gentlewoman!
My heart even weeps for her.—Ay, son, we’ll go now.
PHIL. May I crave one word, madam?
[_Staying_ LADY TWILIGHT.[81]
L. TWI. With me, son?
The more, the better welcome.
SAV. Now, now, luck!
I pray not often; the last prayer I made
Was nine-year old last Bartholomew-tide; ’twould have
been
A jolly chopper and[82] ’t had liv’d till this time.
L. TWI. Why do your words start back? are they afraid
Of her that ever lov’d them?
PHIL. I’ve a suit to you, madam.
L. TWI. You’ve told me that already; pray, what is’t?
If’t be so great, my present state refuse it,
I shall be abler, then command and use it;
Whate’er ’t be, let me have warning, to provide for’t.
PHIL. [_kneels_] Provide forgiveness then, for that’s
the want
My conscience feels. O, my wild youth has led me
Into unnatural wrongs against your freedom once!
I spent the ransom which my father sent,
To set my pleasures free, while you lay captive.
SAV. He does it finely, faith. [_Aside._
L. TWI. And is this all now?
You use me like a stranger; pray, stand up.
PHIL. Rather fall flat; I shall deserve yet worse.
L. TWI. [_raising_ PHILIP] Whate’er your faults are,
esteem me still a friend,
Or else you wrong me more in asking pardon
Than when you did the wrong you ask’d it for;
And since you have prepar’d me to forgive you,
Pray, let me know for what; the first fault’s nothing.
SAV. ’Tis a sweet lady every inch of her! [_Aside._
PHIL. Here comes the wrong then that drives home the
rest:
I saw a face at Antwerp that quite drew me
From conscience and obedience; in that fray
I lost my heart, I must needs lose my way;
There went the ransom, to redeem my mind;
’Stead of the money, I brought over her;
And to cast mists before my father’s eyes,
Told him it was my sister, lost so long,
And that yourself was dead: you see the wrong.
L. TWI. This is but youthful still.—O, that word
_sister_
Afflicts me when I think on’t!—I forgive thee
As freely as thou didst it; for, alas,
This may be call’d good dealing to[83] some parts
That love and youth play[84] daily among sons.
SAV. She helps our knavery well, that’s one good
comfort. [_Aside._
PHIL. But such is the hard plight my state lives in,
That ’twixt forgiveness I must sin again,
And seek my help where I bestow’d my wrongs:
O mother, pity once, though against reason,
’Cause I can merit none; though my wrongs grieve ye,[85]
Yet let it be your glory to relieve me!
L. TWI. Wherein have I given cause yet of mistrust,
That you should doubt my succour and my love?
Shew me but in what kind I may bestow ’em.
PHIL. There came a Dutchman with report this day
That you were living.
L. TWI. Came he so lately?
PHIL. Yes, madam;
Which news so struck my father on the sudden,
That he grows jealous[86] of my faith in both:
These five hours have I kept me from his sight,
And wish’d myself eternally so hid;
And surely, had not your blest presence quicken’d
The flame of life in me, all had gone out.
Now, to confirm me to his trust again,
And settle much aright in his opinion,
Say but she is my sister, and all’s well.
L. TWI. You ask devotion[87] like a bashful beggar,
That pure need urges, and not lazy impudence;
And to express how glad I am to pity you,
My bounty shall flow over your demand;
I will not only with a constant breath
Approve[88] that, but excuse thee for my death.
SAV. Why, here’s
A woman made as a man would wish to have her!
[_Aside._
PHIL. O, I am plac’d higher in happiness
Than whence I fell before!
SAV. We’re brave fellows once again, and[89] we can
keep our own:
Now hoffte toffte, our pipes play as loftily!
[_Aside._
BEV. My sister fled!
SAND. Both fled, that’s the news now: want must obey;
Oppressions came so thick, they could not stay.
BEV. Mean are my fortunes, yet, had I been nigh,
Distress nor wrong should have made virtue fly.
L. TWI. Spoke like a brother, worthy such a sister!
BEV. Grief’s like a new wound, heat beguiles the
sense,
For I shall feel this smart more three days hence.
Come, madam, sorrow’s rude, and forgets manners.
[_Exeunt all except_ SAVOURWIT.
SAV. Our knavery is for all the world like a shifting
bankrupt; it breaks in one place, and sets up in
another: he tries all trades, from a goldsmith to a
tobacco-seller; we try all shifts, from an outlaw to a
flatterer: he cozens the husband, and compounds with the
widow; we cozen my master, and compound with my
mistress: only here I turn o’ the right hand from him,—
he is known to live like a rascal, when I am thought to
live like a gentleman. [_Exit._

SCENE III.

_A room in_ LADY GOLDENFLEECE’S _house_.

_Enter_ MISTRESS LOW-WATER _and_ LOW-WATER, _both
disguised as before_.

MIS. LOW. I’ve sent in one to the widow.
LOW. Well said, Kate!
Thou ply’st thy business close; the coast is clear yet.
MIS. LOW. Let me but have warning,
I shall make pretty shift with them.
LOW. That thou shalt, wench. [_Exit._

_Enter Servant._

SER. My lady, sir, commends her kindly to you,
And for the third part of an hour, sir,
Desires your patience;
Two or three of her tenants out of Kent
Will hold her so long busied.
MIS. LOW. Thank you, sir;
’Tis fit I should attend her time and leisure.
[_Exit Servant._
Those were my tenants once; but what relief
Is there in what hath been, or what I was?
’Tis now that makes the man: a last-year’s feast
Yields little comfort for the present humour;
He starves that feeds his hopes with what is past.—

_Re-enter_ LOW-WATER.

How now?
LOW. They’re come, newly alighted.
MIS. LOW. Peace, peace!
I’ll have a trick for ’em; look you second me well now.
LOW. I warrant thee.
MIS. LOW. I must seem very imperious, I can tell you;
therefore, if I should chance to use you roughly, pray,
forgive me beforehand.
LOW. With all my heart, Kate.
MIS. LOW. You must look for no obedience in these[90]
clothes; that lies in the pocket of my gown.
LOW. Well, well, I will not then.
MIS. LOW. I hear ’em coming, step back a little, sir.
[LOW-WATER _retires_.]—Where be those fellows?

_Enter_ WEATHERWISE, PEPPERTON, _and_ OVERDONE.

Who looks out there? is there ne’er a knave i’ th’ house
to take those gentlemen’s horses? where wait you to-day?
how stand you, like a dreaming goose in a corner? the
gentlemen’s horses, forsooth!
LOW. Yes, an’t like[91] your worship. [_Exit._
PEP. What’s here? a strange alteration!
WEA. A new lord! would I were upon my mare’s back again
then!
MIS. LOW. Pray, gentlemen, pardon the rudeness of
these grooms,
I hope they will be brought to better fashion;
In the meantime, you’re welcome, gentlemen.
ALL. We thank you, sir.
WEA. Life, here’s quick work! I’ll hold my life, has
struck the widow i’ the right planet, _Venus in cauda_!
I thought ’twas a lecherous planet that goes to’t with a
caudle.

_Re-enter_ LOW-WATER.

MIS. LOW. How now, sir?
LOW. The gentlemen’s horses are set up, sir.
PEP. No, no, no, we’ll away.
WEA. We’ll away.
MIS. LOW. How! by my faith, but you shall not yet, by
your leave.—Where’s Bess?—Call your mistress, sir, to
welcome these kind gentlemen, my friends.
[_Exit_ LOW-WATER.
PEP. How! Bess?
OVER. Peg?
WEA. Plain Bess? I know how the world goes then; he has
been a-bed with Bess: i’faith, there’s no trust to these
widows; a young horsing gentleman carries ’em away
clear.

_Re-enter_ LOW-WATER.

MIS. LOW. Now, where’s your mistress, sir? how chance
she comes not?
LOW. Sir, she requests you to excuse her for a while;
she’s busy with a milliner about gloves.
MIS. LOW. Gloves!
WEA. Hoyday! gloves too!
MIS. LOW. Could she find no other time to choose gloves
but now, when my friends are here?
PEP. No, sir, ’tis no matter; we thank you for your good
will, sir: to say truth, we have no business with her at
all at this time, i’faith, sir.
MIS. LOW. O, that’s another matter; yet stay, stay,
gentlemen, and taste a cup of wine ere you go.
OVER. No, thank you, sir.
MIS. LOW. Master Pepperton—master Weatherwise, will you,
sir?
WEA. I’ll see the wine in a drunkard’s shoes first, and
drink’t after he has brewed it. But let her go; she’s
fitted, i’faith; a proud, surly sir here, he domineers
already; one that will shake her bones, and go to dice
with her money, or I have no skill in a calendar: life,
he that can be so saucy to call her Bess already, will
call her prating quean a month hence.
[_Exeunt_ WEATHERWISE, PEPPERTON, _and_ OVERDONE.
LOW. They’ve given thee all the slip.
MIS. LOW. So, a fair riddance!
There’s three rubs gone, I’ve a clear way to the
mistress[92].
LOW. You’d need have a clear way, because you’re a bad
pricker.
MIS. LOW. Yet if my bowl take bank, I shall go nigh
To make myself a saver,
Here’s alley-room enough; I’ll try my fortune:
I’m to begin the world like a younger brother;
I know that a bold face and a good spirit
Is all the jointure he can make [a] widow,
And’t shall go hard but I’ll be as rich as he.
Or at least seem so, and that’s wealth enough;
For nothing kills a widow’s heart so much
As a faint, bashful wooer; though he have thousands,
And come with a poor water-gruel spirit
And a fish-market face, he shall ne’er speed;
I would not have himself left a poor widower.
LOW. Faith, I’m glad I’m alive to commend thee, Kate; I
shall be sure now to see my commendations delivered.
MIS. LOW. I’ll put her to’t, i’faith.
LOW. But soft ye, Kate;
How and[93] she should accept of your bold kindness?
MIS. LOW. A chief point to be thought on, by my faith!
Marry, therefore, sir, be you sure to step in,
For fear I should shame myself and spoil all.
LOW. Well, I’ll save your credit then for once; but look
you come there no more.
MIS. LOW. Away! I hear her coming.
LOW. I am vanish’d. [_Exit._

_Enter_ LADY GOLDENFLEECE.

MIS. LOW. How does my life, my soul, my dear sweet
madam?
L. GOLD. I’ve wrong’d your patience, made you stand
too long here.
MIS. LOW. There’s no such thing, i’faith, madam, you’re
pleas’d to say so.
L. GOLD. Yes, I confess I was too slow, sir.
MIS. LOW. Why, you shall make me amends for that, then,
with a quickness in your bed.
L. GOLD. That were a speedy mends, sir.
MIS. LOW. Why, then, you are out of my debt; I’ll cross
the book, and turn over a new leaf with you.
L. GOLD. So, with paying a small debt, I may chance run
into a greater.
MIS. LOW. My faith, your credit will be the better then;
there’s many a brave gallant would be glad of such
fortune, and pay use for’t.
L. GOLD. Some of them have nothing else to do; they
would be idle and[94] ’twere not for interest.
MIS. LOW. I promise you, widow, were I a setter up, such
is my opinion of your payment, I durst trust you with
all the ware in my shop.
L. GOLD. I thank you for your good will, I can have no
more.
MIS. LOW. Not of me, i’faith; nor that neither, and[94]
you knew[95] all. [_Aside._]—Come, make but short
service, widow, a kiss and to bed; I’m very hungry,
i’faith, wench.
L. GOLD. What, are you, sir?
MIS. LOW. O, a younger brother has an excellent stomach,
madam, worth a hundred of your sons and heirs, that stay
their wedding-stomachs with a hot bit of a common
mistress, and then come to a widow’s bed like a flash of
lightning: you’re sure of the first of me, not of the
five-hundredth of them: I never took physic yet in my
life; you shall have the doctor continually with them,
or some bottle for his deputy, out flies your moneys for
restoratives and strengthenings; in me ’tis saved in
your purse and found in your children: they’ll get
peevish[96] pothecaries’ stuff, you may weigh ’em by th’
ounces; I, boys of war, brave commanders, that shall
bear a breadth in their shoulders and a weight in their
hips, and run over a whole country with a pound a’ beef
and a biscuit in their belly. Ho, widow, my kisses are
virgins, my embraces perfect, my strength solid, my love
constant, my heat comfortable; but, to come to the
point, inutterable——
L. GOLD. But soft ye, soft ye; because you stand so
strictly
Upon your purity, I’ll put you to’t, sir;
Will you swear here you never yet knew woman?
MIS. LOW. Never, as man e’er knew her, by this light,
widow!
L. GOLD. What, what, sir?—’Shrew my heart, he moves me
much.
[_Aside._
MIS. LOW. Nay, since you love to bring a man on’s
knees,
I take into the same oath thus much more,
That you are the first widow, or maid, or wife,
That ever I in suit of love did court,
Or honestly did woo: how say you to that, widow?
L. GOLD. Marry, I say, sir, you had a good portion of
chastity left you, though ill fortune run away with the
rest.
MIS. LOW. That I kept for thee, widow; she’s of fortune,
and all her strait-bodied daughters; thou shalt have’t,
widow. [_Kissing her._
L. GOLD. Push,[97] what do you mean?
MIS. LOW. I cannot bestow’t better.
L. GOLD. I’ll call my servants.
MIS. LOW. By my troth, you shall not, madam.

_Re-enter_ LOW-WATER.

LOW. Does your worship call, sir?
MIS. LOW. Ha, pox! are you peeping?—
[_Throws[98] something at_ LOW-WATER, _who goes out_.
He came in a good time, I thank him for’t. [_Aside._
L. GOLD. What do you think of me? you’re very forward,
sir!
MIS. LOW. Extremity of love.
L. GOLD. You say you’re ignorant;
It should not seem so surely by your play,
For aught I see, you may make one yourself,
You need not hold the cards to any gamester.
MIS. LOW. That love should teach men ways to wrong
itself!
L. GOLD. Are these the first-fruits of your boldness,
sir?
If all take after these, you may boast on ’em,
There comes few such to market among women;
Time you were taken down, sir.—Within there!
MIS. LOW. I’ve lost my way again:
There’s but two paths that lead[99] to widows’ beds,
That’s wealth or forwardness, and I’ve took the wrong
one. [_Aside._

_Re-enter_ WEATHERWISE, PEPPERTON, _and_ OVERDONE, _with
Servant_.

SER. He marry my lady! why, there’s no such thought
yet. [_Exit._
MIS. LOW. O, here they are all again too! [_Aside._
L. GOLD. Are you come, gentlemen?
I wish no better men.
WEA. O, the moon’s chang’d now!
L. GOLD. See you that gentleman yonder?
PEP. Yes, sweet madam.
L. GOLD. Then, pray, be witness all of you, with this
kiss [_Kisses_ MISTRESS LOW-WATER.
I choose him for my husband——
WEA. }
PEP. } A pox on’t!
OVER. }
L. GOLD. And with this parted gold, that two hearts
join.
[_Breaks gold into two pieces, and gives one to_
MISTRESS LOW-WATER.
MIS. LOW. Never with chaster love than this of mine!
L. GOLD. And those that have the hearts to come to the
wedding,
They shall be welcome for their former loves. [_Exit._
PEP. No, I thank you; you’ve choked me already.
WEA. I never suspected mine almanac till now; I believe
he plays cogging[100] John with me, I bought it at his
shop; it may learn the more knavery by that.
MIS. LOW. Now indeed, gentlemen, I can bid you
welcome;
Before ’twas but a flourish.
WEA. Nay, so my almanac told me there should be an
eclipse, but not visible in our horizon, but about the
western inhabitants of Mexicana and California.
MIS. LOW. Well, we have no business there, sir.
WEA. Nor we have none here, sir; and so fare you well.
MIS. LOW. You save the house a good labour, gentlemen.
[_Exeunt_ WEATHERWISE, PEPPERTON, _and_ OVERDONE.]—The
fool carries them away in a voider.[101] Where be these
fellows?

_Re-enter Servant_, PICKADILL, _and_ LOW-WATER.

SER. Sir?
PICK. Here, sir!
SER. What[’s] your worship[’s] pleasure?
MIS. LOW. O, this is something like.—Take you your
ease, sir;
Here are those now more fit to be commanded.
LOW. How few women are of thy mind! she thinks it too
much to keep me in subjection for one day; whereas some
wives would be glad to keep their husbands in awe all
days of their lives, and think it the best bargain that
e’er they made. [_Aside, and exit._
MIS. LOW. I’ll spare no cost for the wedding; some
device too,
To shew our thankfulness to wit and fortune;
It shall be so.—Run straight for one o’ the wits.
PICK. How? one o’ the wits? I care not if I run on that
account: are they in town, think you?
MIS. LOW. Whither runnest thou now?
PICK. To an ordinary for one of the wits.
MIS. LOW. Why to an ordinary above a tavern?
PICK. No, I hold your best wits to be at ordinary;
nothing so good in a tavern.
MIS. LOW. And why, I pray, sir?
PICK. Because those that go to an ordinary[102] dine
better for twelve pence than he that goes to a tavern
for his five shillings; and I think those have the best
wits that can save four shillings, and fare better too.
MIS. LOW. So, sir, all your wit then runs upon victuals?
PICK. ’Tis a sign ’twill hold out the longer then.
MIS. LOW. What were you saying to me?
SER. Please your worship,
I heard there came a scholar over lately
With old sir Oliver’s lady.
MIS. LOW. Is she come?— [_Aside._
What is that lady?
SER. A good gentlewoman,
Has been long prisoner with the enemy.
MIS. LOW. I know’t too well, and joy in her release.—
[_Aside._
Go to that house then straight, and in one labour
You may bid them, and entreat home that scholar.
SER. It shall be done with speed, sir. [_Exit._
PICK. I’ll along with you, and see what face that
scholar has brought over; a thin pair of
parbreaking[103] sea-water green chops, I warrant you.
[_Exit._
MIS. LOW. Since wit has pleasur’d me, I’ll pleasure
wit;
Scholars shall fare the better. O my blessing!
I feel a hand of mercy lift me up
Out of a world of waters, and now sets me
Upon a mountain, where the sun plays most,
To cheer my heart even as it dries my limbs.
What deeps I see beneath me, in whose falls
Many a nimble mortal toils,
And scarce can feed[104] himself! the streams of
fortune,
’Gainst which he tugs in vain, still beat him down,
And will not suffer him—past hand to mouth—
To lift his arm to his posterity’s blessing:
I see a careful sweat run in a ring
About his temples, but all will not do;
For, till some happy means relieve his state,
There he must stick, and bide the wrath of fate.
I see this wrath upon an uphill land;
O blest are they can see their falls and stand!

_Re-enter Servant, shewing in_ BEVERIL.

How now?
SER. With much entreating, sir, he’s come. [_Exit._
MIS. LOW. Sir, you’re—my brother! joys come thick
together.—— [_Aside._
Sir, when I see a scholar—pardon me—
I am so taken with affection[105], for him,
That I must run into his arms and clasp him.
[_Embracing him._
BEV. Art stands in need, sir, of such cherishers;
I meet too few: ’twere a brave world for scholars,
If half a kingdom were but of your mind, sir;
Let ignorance and hell confound the rest.
MIS. LOW. Let it suffice,[106] sweet sir, you cannot
think
How dearly you are welcome.
BEV. May I live
To shew you service for’t!
MIS. LOW. Your love, your love, sir;
We go no higher, nor shall you go lower.
Sir, I am bold to send for you, to request
A kindness from your wit, for some device
To grace our wedding; it shall be worth your pains,
And something more t’ express my love to art;
You shall not receive all in bare embracements.
BEV. Your love I thank; but, pray, sir, pardon me,
I’ve a heart says I must not grant you that.
MIS. LOW. No! what’s your reason, sir?
BEV. I’m not at peace
With the lady of this house; now you’ll excuse me;
Sh’as wrong’d my sister; and I may not do’t.
MIS. LOW. The widow knows you not.
BEV. I never saw her face to my remembrance:
O that my heart should feel her wrongs so much,
And yet live ignorant of the injurer!
MIS. LOW. Let me persuade thee, since she knows you
not,
Make clear the weather, let not griefs betray you;
I’ll tell her you’re a worthy friend of mine,
And so I tell her true, thou art indeed.
Sir, here she comes.

_Re-enter_ LADY GOLDENFLEECE.

L. GOLD. What, are you busy, sir?
MIS. LOW. Nothing less, lady; here’s a gentleman
Of noble parts, beside his friendship to me;
Pray, give him liberal welcome.
L. GOLD. He’s most welcome.
MIS. LOW. The virtues of his mind will deserve
largely.
L. GOLD. Methinks his outward parts deserve as much
then;
A proper[107] gentleman it is. [_Aside._
MIS. LOW. Come, worthy sir.
BEV. I follow.
[_Exeunt_ L. GOLDENFLEECE _and_ MIS. LOW-WATER.
Check thy blood,
For fear it prove too bold to wrong thy goodness:
A wise man makes affections but his slaves;
Break ’em in time, let ’em not master thee.
O, ’tis my sister’s enemy! think of that:
Some speedy grief fall down upon the fire,
Before it take my heart; let it not rise
’Gainst brotherly nature, judgment, and these wrongs.
Make clear the weather![108]
O who could look upon her face in storms!
Yet pains may work it out; griefs do but strive
To kill this spark, I’ll keep it still alive. [_Exit._