Chapter I: Part 1

WIT WITHOUT MONEY,

A COMEDY.

* * * * *

Persons Represented in the Play.

Valentine, _a Gallant that will not be perswaded to keep his Estate_.

Francisco, _his younger Brother_.

_Master_ Lovegood _their Uncle_.

_A_ Merchant, _Friend to Master_ Lovegood.

Fountain, }
Bellamore,} _companions of_ Valentine, _and Sutors to the_ Widow.
Hairbrain,}

Lance, _a Falkner, and an ancient servant to_ Valentines _Father_.

Shorthose, _the Clown, and servant to the_ Widow.

Roger, Ralph, _and_ Humphrey, _three servants to the_ Widow.

_Three Servants_.

_Musicians_.

Lady Hartwel, a _Widow_.

Isabel, _her Sister_.

Luce, _a waiting Gentlewoman to the Widow_.

* * * * *

_Actus primus. Scena prima._

* * * * *

_Enter_ Uncle _and_ Merchant.

_Merc._ When saw you _Valentine_?

_Uncle._ Not since the Horse-race, he's taken up with those that woo the Widow.

_Mer._ How can he live by snatches from such people? he bore a worthy mind.

_Uncle._ Alas, he's sunk, his means are gone, he wants, and which is worse, Takes a delight in doing so.

_Mer._ That's strange.

_Unc._ Runs Lunatick, if you but talk of states, he cannot be brought (now he has spent his own) to think there's inheritance, or means, but all a common riches, all men bound to be his Bailiffs.

_Mer._ This is something dangerous.

_Uncle._ No Gentleman that has estate to use it in keeping house, or followers, for those wayes he cries against, for Eating sins, dull Surfeits, cramming of Serving-men, mustering of Beggars, maintaining Hospitals for Kites, and Curs, grounding their fat faiths upon old Country proverbs, God bless the Founders; these he would have ventured into more manly uses, Wit, and carriage, and never thinks of state, or means, the ground-works: holding it monstrous, men should feed their bodies, and starve their understandings.

_Mer._ That's most certain.

_Uncle._ Yes, if he could stay there.

_Mer._ Why let him marry, and that way rise again.

_Uncle._ It's most impossible, he will not look with any handsomeness upon a Woman.

_Mer._ Is he so strange to Women?

_Uncle._ I know not what it is, a foolish glory he has got, I know not where, to balk those benefits, and yet he will converse and flatter 'em, make 'em, or fair, or foul, rugged, or smooth, as his impression serves, for he affirms, they are only lumps, and undigested pieces, lickt over to a form by our affections, and then they show. The Lovers let 'em pass.

_Enter_ Fountain, Bellamore, Hairbrain.

_Mer._ He might be one, he carries as much promise; they are wondrous merry.

_Uncle._ O their hopes are high, Sir.

_Fount._ Is _Valentine_ come to Town?

_Bella._ Last night, I heard.

_Fount._ We miss him monstrously in our directions, for this Widow is as stately, and as crafty, and stands I warrant you--

_Hair._ Let her stand sure, she falls before us else, come let's go seek _Valentine_.

_Mer._ This Widow seems a Gallant.

_Uncle._ A goodly Woman, and to her handsomness she bears her state, reserved, and great Fortune has made her Mistress of a full means, and well she knows to use it.

_M[e]r._ I would _Valentine_ had her.

_Uncle._ There's no hope of that, Sir.

_Mer._ O' that condition, he had his Mortgage in again.

_Uncle._ I would he had.

_Mer._ Seek means, and see what I'le do, however let the Money be paid in, I never sought a Gentlemans undoing, nor eat the bread of other mens vexations, you told me of another Brother.

_Uncle._ Yes Sir, more miserable than he, for he has eat him, and drunk him up, a handsome Gentleman, and fine Scholar.

_Enter three_ Tenants.

_Mer._ What are these?

_Unc._ The Tenants, they'll do what they can.

_Mer._ It is well prepared, be earnest, honest friends, and loud upon him, he is deaf to his own good.

_Lance._ We mean to tell him part of our minds an't please you.

_Mer._ Do, and do it home, and in what my care may help, or my perswasions when we meet next.

_Unc._ Do but perswade him fairly; and for your money, mine, and these mens thanks too, and what we can be able.

_Mer._ Y'are most honest, you shall find me no less, and so I leave you, prosper your business my friends. [_Ex._ Mer.

_Unc._ Pray Heaven it may, Sir.

_Lance._ Nay if he will be mad, I'le be mad with him, and tell him that I'le not spare him, his Father kept good Meat, good Drink, good Fellows, good Hawks, good Hounds, and bid his Neighbours welcome; kept him too, and supplied his prodigality, yet kept his state still; must we turn Tenants now, after we have lived under the race of Gentry, and maintained good Yeomantry, to some of the City, to a great shoulder of Mutton and a Custard, and have our state turned into Cabbidge Gardens, must it be so?

_Unc._ You must be milder to him.

_Lance._ That's as he makes his game.

_Unc._ Intreat him lovingly, and make him feel.

_Lance._ I'le pinch him to the bones else.

[_Valen._ _Within_.] And tell the Gentleman, I'le be with him presently, say I want money too, I must not fail boy.

_Lance._ You'l want Cloaths, I hope.

_Enter_ Valentine.

_Val._ Bid the young Courtier repair to me anon, I'le read to him.

_Unc._ He comes, [b]e diligent, but not too rugged, start him, but affright him not.

_Val._ Phew, are you there?

_Unc._ We come to see you Nephew, be not angry.

_Val._ Why do you dog me thus, with these strange people? why, all the world shall never make me rich more, nor master of these troubles.

_Tenants._ We beseech you for our poor Childrens sake.

_Val._ Who bid you get 'em? have you not threshing work enough, but Children must be bang'd out o'th' sheaf too? other men with all their delicates, and healthful diets, can get but wind eggs: you with a clove of Garlick, a piece of Cheese would break a Saw, and sowre Milk, can mount like Stallions, and I must maintain these tumblers.

_Lance._ You ought to maintain us, we have maintained you, and when you slept provided for you; who bought the Silk you wear? I think our labours; reckon, you'll find it so: who found your Horses perpetual pots of Ale, maintain'd your Taverns, and who extol'd you in the Half-crown-boxes, where you might sit and muster all the Beauties? we had no hand in these; no, we are all puppies? Your Tenants base vexations.

_Val._ Very well, Sir.

_Lance._ Had you Land, Sir, and honest men to serve your purposes, honest and faithful, and will you run away from 'em, betray your self, and your poor Tribe to misery; mortgage all us, like old Cloaks; where will you hunt next? you had a thousand Acres, fair and open: The Kings-Bench is enclos'd, there's no good riding, the Counter is full of thorns and brakes, take heed Sir, and boggs, you'l quickly find what broth they're made of.

_Val._ Y'are short and pithy.

_Lance._ They say y'are a fine Gentleman, and of excellent judgement, they report you have a wit; keep your self out o'th' Rain, and take your Cloak with you, which by interpretation is your State, Sir, or I shall think your fame belied you, you have money, and may have means.

_Val._ I prethee leave prating, does my good lye within thy brain to further, or my undoing in thy pity? go, go, get you home, there whistle to your Horses, and let them edifie; away, sow Hemp to hang your selves withal: what am I to you, or you to me; am I your Landlord, puppies?

_Unc._ This is uncivil.

_Val._ More unmerciful you, to vex me with these Bacon Broth and Puddings, they are the walking shapes of all my sorrows.

_3 Tenants._ Your Fathers Worship would have used us better.

_Val._ My Fathers Worship was a Fool.

_Lance._ Hey, hey boys, old _Valentine_ i'faith, the old boy still.

_Unc._ Fie Cousin.

_Val._ I mean besotted to his state, he had never left me the misery of so much means else, which till I sold, was a meer meagrim to me: If you will talk, turn out these Tenants, they are as killing to my nature Uncle, as water to a Feaver.

_Lance._ We will go, but it is like Rams, to come again the stronger, and you shall keep your state.

_Val._ Thou lyest, I will not.

_Lance._ Sweet Sir, thou lyest, thou shalt, and so good morrow. [_Exeunt_ Tenants.

_Val._ This was my man, and of a noble breeding: now to your business Uncle.

_Unc._ To your state then.

_Val._ 'Tis gone, and I am glad on't, name it no more, 'tis that I pray against, and Heaven has heard me, I tell you, Sir, I am more fearful of it, I mean, of thinking of more lands, or livings, than sickly men are travelling o' Sundays, for being quell'd with Carriers; out upon't, _caveat emptor_, let the fool out-sweat it, that thinks he has got a catch on't.

_Unc._ This is madness to be a wilful begger.

_Val._ I am mad then, and so I mean to be, will that content you? How bravely now I live, how jocund, how near the first inheritance, without fears, how free from title-troubles!

_Unc._ And from means too.

_Val._ Means? why all good men's my means; my wit's my Plow, the Town's my stock, Tavern's my standing-house, and all the world knows there's no want; all Gentlemen that love Society, love me; all Purses that wit and pleasure opens, are my Tenants; every mans Cloaths fit me, the next fair lodging is but my next remove, and when I please to be more eminent, and take the Air, a piece is levied, and a Coach prepared, and I go I care not whither, what need state here?

_Unc._ But say these means were honest, will they last, Sir?

_Val._ Far longer than your jerkin, and wear fairer, should I take ought of you, 'tis true, I beg'd now, or which is worse than that, I stole a kindness, and which is worst of all, I lost my way in't; your mind's enclosed, nothing lies open nobly, your very thoughts are Hinds that work on nothing but daily sweat and trouble: were my way so full of dirt as this, 'tis true I'd shift it; are my acquaintance Grasiers? but Sir, know, no man that I am allied to, in my living, but makes it equal, whether his own use, or my necessity pull first, nor is this forc'd, but the meer quality and poisure of goodness, and do you think I venture nothing equal?

_Unc._ You pose me Cousin.

_Val._ What's my knowledge Uncle, is't not worth mony? what's my understanding, travel, reading, wit, all these digested, my daily making men, some to speak, that too much flegm had frozen up, some that spoke too much, to hold their peace, and put their tongues to pensions, some to wear their cloaths, and some to keep 'em, these are nothing Uncle; besides these wayes, to teach the way of nature, a manly love, community to all that are deservers, not examining how much, or what's done for them, 'tis wicked, and such a one like you, chews his thoughts [double], making 'em only food for his repentance.

_Enter two_ Servants.

_1 Ser._ This cloak and hat Sir, and my Masters love.

_Val._ Commend's to thy Master, and take that, and leave 'em at my lodging.

_1 Ser._ I shall do it Sir.

_Val._ I do not think of these things.

_2 Ser._ Please you Sir, I have gold here for you.

_Val._ Give it me, drink that and commend me to thy Master; look you Uncle, do I beg these?

_Unc._ No sure, 'tis your worth, Sir.

_Val._ 'Tis like enough, but pray satisfie me, are not these ways as honest as persecuting the starved inheritance, with musty Corn, the very rats were fain to run away from, or felling rotten wood by the pound, like spices, which Gentlemen do after burn by th' ounces? do not I know your way of feeding beasts with grains, and windy stuff, to blow up Butchers? your racking Pastures, that have eaten up as many singing Shepherds, and their issues, as _Andeluzia_ breeds? these are authentique, I tell you Sir, I would not change ways with you, unless it were to sell your state that hour, and if it were possible to spend it then too, for all your Beans in _Rumnillo_, now you know me.

_Unc._ I would you knew your self, but since you are grown such a strange enemy to all that fits you, give me leave to make your Brothers fortune.

_Val._ How?

_Unc._ From your mortgage, which yet you may recover, I'le find the means.

_Val._ Pray save your labour Sir, my Brother and my self will run one fortune, and I think what I hold a meer vexation, cannot be safe for him, I love him better, he has wit at will, the world has means, he shall live without this trick of state, we are heirs both, and all the world before us.

_Unc._ My last offer, and then I am gone.

_Val._ What is't, and then I'le answer.

_Unc._ What think you of a wife yet to restore you, and tell me seriously without these trifles.

_Val._ And you can find one, that can please my fancy, you shall not find me stubborn.

_Unc._ Speak your Woman.

_Val._ One without eyes, that is, self commendations, for when they find they are handsom, they are unwholsome; one without ears, not giving time to flatterers, for she that hears her self commended, wavers, and points men out a way to make 'em wicked; one without substance of her self; that woman without the pleasure of her life, that's wanton; though she be young, forgetting it, though fair, making her glass the eyes of honest men, not her own admiration, all her ends obedience, all her hours new blessings, if there may be such a woman.

_Unc._ Yes there may be.

_Val._ And without state too.

_Unc._ You are disposed to trifle, well, fare you well Sir, when you want me next, you'l seek me out a better sence.

_Val._ Farewell Uncle, and as you love your estate, let not me hear on't. [_Exit._

_Unc._ It shall not trouble you, I'le watch him still, And when his friends fall off then bend his will. [_Exit._

_Enter_ Isabella, _and_ Luce.

_Luce._ I know the cause of all this sadness now, your sister has ingrost all the brave Lovers.

_Isab._ She has wherewithall, much good may't do her, prethee speak softly, we are open to mens ears.

_Luce._ Fear not, we are safe, we may see all that pass, hear all, and make our selves merry with their language, and yet stand undiscovered, be not melancholy, you are as fair as she.

_Isab._ Who I? I thank you, I am as haste ordain'd me, a thing slubber'd, my sister is a goodly portly Lady, a woman of a presence, she spreads sattens, as the Kings ships do canvas every where, she may spare me her misen, and her bonnets, strike her main Petticoat, and yet outsail me, I am a Carvel to her.

_Luce._ But a tight one.

_Isab._ She is excellent, well built too.

_Luce._ And yet she's old.

_Isab._ She never saw above one voyage _Luce_, and credit me after another, her Hull will serve again, a right good Merchant: she plaies, and sings too, dances and discourses, comes very near Essays, a pretty Poet, begins to piddle with Philosophic, a subtil Chymick Wench, and can extract the Spirit of mens Estates, she has the light before her, and cannot miss her choice for me, 'tis reason I wait my mean fortune.

_Luce._ You are so bashfull.

_Isab._ It is not at first word up and ride, thou art cozen'd, that would shew mad i' faith: besides, we lose the main part of our politick government: if we become provokers, then we are fair, and fit for mens imbraces, when like towns, they lie before us ages, yet not carried, hold out their strongest batteries, then compound too without the loss of honour, and march off with our fair wedding, Colours flying. Who are these?

_Enter_ Franc, _and_ Lance.

_Luce._ I know not, nor I care not.

_Isab._ Prethee peace then, a well built Gentleman.

_Luce._ But poorly thatcht.

_Lance._ Has he devour'd you too?

_Fran._ H'as gulp'd me down _Lance_.

_Lance._ Left you no means to study?

_Fran._ Not a farthing: dispatcht my poor annuity I thank him, here's all the hope I have left, one bare ten shillings.

_Lan._ You are fit for great mens services.

_Fran._ I am fit, but who'le take me thus? mens miseries are now accounted stains in their natures. I have travelled, and I have studied long, observed all Kingdoms, know all the promises of Art and manners, yet that I am not bold, nor cannot flatter, I shall not thrive, all these are but vain Studies, art thou so rich as to get me a lodging _Lance_?

_Lan._ I'le sell the titles of my house else, my Horse, my Hawk, nay's death I'le pawn my wife: Oh Mr. _Francis_, that I should see your Fathers house fall thus!

_Isab._ An honest fellow.

_Lan._ Your Fathers house, that fed me, that bred up all my name!

_Isab._ A gratefull fellow.

_Lan._ And fall by--

_Fran._ Peace, I know you are angry _Lance_, but I must not hear with whom, he is my Brother, and though you hold him slight, my most dear Brother: A Gentleman, excepting some few rubs, he were too excellent to live here else, fraughted as deep with noble and brave parts, the issues of a noble and manly Spirit, as any he alive. I must not hear you; though I am miserable, and he made me so, yet still he is my Brother, still I love him, and to that tye of blood link my affections.

_Isab._ A noble nature! dost thou know him _Luce_?

_Luce._ No, Mistress.

_Isab._ Thou shouldest ever know such good men, what a fair body and mind are married! did he not say he wanted?

_Luce._ What's that to you?

_Isab._ 'Tis true, but 'tis great pity.

_Luce._ How she changes! ten thousand more than he, as handsom men too.

_Isab._ 'Tis like enough, but as I live, this Gentleman among ten thousand thousand! is there no knowing him? why should he want? fellows of no merit, slight and puft souls, that walk like shadows, by leaving no print of what they are, or poise, let them complain.

_Luce._ Her colour changes strangely.

_Isab._ This man was made, to mark his wants to waken us; alas poor Gentleman, but will that keep him from cold and hunger, believe me he is well bred, and cannot be but of a noble linage, mark him, mark him well.

_Luce._ 'Is a handsom man.

_Isab._ The sweetness of his sufferance sets him off, O _Luce_, but whither go I?

_Luce._ You cannot hide it.

_Isab._ I would he had what I can spare.

_Luce._ 'Tis charitable.

_Lance._ Come Sir, I'le see you lodg'd, you have tied my tongue fast, I'le steal before you want, 'tis but a hanging.

_Isab._ That's a good fellow too, an honest fellow, why, this would move a stone, I must needs know; but that some other time. [_Exit_ Lance, _and_ Franc.

_Luce._ Is the wind there? that makes for me.

_Isab._ Come, I forgot a business.

_Actus [Secundus]. Scena Prima._

_Enter_ Widow, _and_ Luce.

_Wid._ My sister, and a woman of so base a pity! what was the fellow?

_Luce,_ Why, an ordinary man, Madam.

_Wid._ Poor?

_Luce._ Poor enough, and no man knows from whence neither.

_Wid._ What could she see?

_Luce._ Only his misery, for else she might behold a hundred handsomer.

_Wid._ Did she change much?

_Luce._ Extreamly, when he spoke, and then her pity, like an Orator, I fear her love framed such a commendation, and followed it so far, as made me wonder.

_Wid._ Is she so hot, or such a want of lovers, that she must doat upon afflictions? why does she not go romage all the prisons, and there bestow her youth, bewray her wantonness, and flie her honour, common both to beggery: did she speak to him?

_Luce._ No, he saw us not, but ever since, she hath been mainly troubled.

_Wid._ Was he young?

_Luce._ Yes, young enough.

_Wid._ And looked he like a Gentleman?

_Luce._ Like such a Gentleman, that would pawn ten oaths for twelve pence.

_Wid._ My sister, and sink basely! this must not be, does she use means to know him?

_Luce._ Yes Madam, and has employed a Squire called _Shorthose_.

_Wid._ O that's a precious Knave: keep all this private, but still be near her lodging: _Luce_, what you can gather by any means, let me understand: I'le stop her heat, and turn her charity another way, to bless her self first; be still close to her counsels; a begger and a stranger! there's a bless'dness! I'le none of that; I have a toy yet, sister, shall tell you this is foul, and make you find it, and for your pains take you the last gown I wore; this makes me mad, but I shall force a remedy.

_Enter_ Fountain, Bellamore, Harebrain, Valentine.

_Fount._ Sirra, we have so lookt for thee, and long'd for thee; this widow is the strangest thing, the stateliest, and stands so much upon her excellencies.

_Bel._ She hath put us off, this month now, for an answer.

_Hare._ No man must visit her, nor look upon her, no, not say, good morrow, nor good even, till that's past.

_Val._ She has found what dough you are made of, and so kneads you: are you good at nothing, but these after-games? I have told you often enough what things they are, what precious things, these widows--

_Hare._ If we had 'em.

_Val._ Why the Devil has not craft enough to wooe 'em, there be three kinds of fools, mark this note Gentlemen, mark it, and understand it.

_Fount._ Well, go forward.

_Val_ An Innocent, a knave fool, a fool politick: the last of which are lovers, widow lovers.

_Bell._ Will you allow no fortune?

_Val._ No such blind one.

_Fount._ We gave you reasons, why 'twas needful for us.

_Val._ As you are those fools, I did allow those reasons, but as my Scholars and companions damn'd 'em: do you know what it is to wooe a widow? answer me coolely now, and understandingly.

_Hare._ Why to lie with her, and to enjoy her wealth.

_Val._ Why there you are fools still, crafty to catch your selves, pure politick fools, I lookt for such an answer; once more hear me, it is, to wed a widow, to be doubted mainly, whether the state you have be yours or no, or those old boots you ride in. Mark me, widows are long extents in Law upon news, livings upon their bodies winding-sheets, they that enjoy 'em, lie but with dead mens monuments, and beget only their own ill Epitaphs: Is not this plain now?

_Bell._ Plain spoken.

_Val._ And plain truth; but if you'le needs do things of danger, do but lose your selves, not any part concerns your understandings, for then you are Meacocks, fools, and miserable march off amain, within an inch of a Fircug, turn me o'th' toe like a Weather-cock, kill every day a Sergeant for a twelve month, rob the Exchequer, and burn all the Rolls, and these will make a shew.

_Hare._ And these are trifles.

_Val._ Considered to a Widow, empty nothings, for here you venture but your persons, there the varnish of your persons, your discretions; why 'tis a monstrous thing to marry at all, especially as now 'tis made; me thinks a man, an understanding man, is more wise to me, and of a nobler tie, than all these trinkets; what do we get by women, but our senses, which is the rankest part about us, satisfied, and when that's done, what are we? Crest-fallen Cowards. What benefit can children be, but charges and disobedience? What's the love they render at one and twenty years? I pray die Father: when they are young, they are like bells rung backwards, nothing but noise and giddiness; and come to years once, there drops a son by th' sword in his Mistresses quarrel, a great joy to his parents: A Daughter ripe too, grows high and lusty in her blood, must have a heating, runs away with a supple ham'd Servingman: his twenty Nobles spent, takes to a trade, and learns to spin mens hair off; there's another, and most are of this nature, will you marry?

_Fount._ For my part yes, for any doubt I feel yet.

_Val._ And this same widow?

_Fount._ If I may, and me thinks, however you are pleased to dispute these dangers, such a warm match, and for you, Sir, were not hurtfull.

_Val._ Not half so killing as for you, for me she cannot with all the Art she has, make me more miserable, or much more fortunate, I have no state left, a benefit that none of you can brag of, and there's the Antidote against a Widow, nothing to lose, but that my soul inherits, which she can neither law nor claw away; to that, but little flesh, it were too much else; and that unwholsom too, it were too rich else; and to all this contempt of what she do's I can laugh at her tears, neglect her angers, hear her without a faith, so pity her as if she were a Traytour, moan her person, but deadly hate her pride; if you could do these, and had but this discretion, and like fortune, it were but an equal venture.

_Fount._ This is malice.

_Val._ When she lies with your land, and not with you, grows great with joyntures, and is brought to bed with all the state you have, you'le find this certain; but is it come to pass you must marry, is there no buff will hold you?

_Bel._ Grant it be so.

_Val._ Then chuse the tamer evil, take a maid, a maid not worth a penny; make her yours, knead her, and mould her yours, a maid worth nothing, there's a vertuous spell in that word nothing; a maid makes conscience of half a Crown a week for pins and puppits, a maid will be content with one Coach and two Horses, not falling out because they are not matches; with one man satisfied, with one rein guided, with one faith, one content, one bed, aged she makes the wise, preserves the fame and issue; a widow is a Christmas-box that sweeps all.

_Fount._ Yet all this cannot sink us.

_Val._ You are my friends, and all my loving friends, I spend your mony, yet I deserve it too, you are my friends still, I ride your horses, when I want I sell 'em; I eat your meat, help to wear her linnen, sometimes I make you drunk, and then you seal, for which I'le do you this commodity, be ruled, and let me try her, I will discover her, the truth is, I will never leave to trouble her, till I see through her, then if I find her worthy.

_Hare._ This was our meaning _Valentine_.

_Val._ 'Tis done then, I must want nothing.

_Hare._ Nothing but the woman.

_Val._ No jealousie; for when I marry, the Devil must be wiser than I take him; and the flesh foolisher: come let's to dinner, and when I am well whetted with wine, have at her. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ Isabella, _and_ Luce.

_Isab._ But art thou sure?

_Luce._ No surer than I heard.

_Hare._ That it was that flouting fellows Brother?

_Luce._ Yes, _Shorthose_ told me so.

_Hare._ He did searc[h] out the truth?

_Luce._ It seems he did.

_Har._ Prethee _Luce_ call him hither, if he be no worse, I never repent my pity, now sirra, what was he we sent you after, the Gentleman i'th' black?

_Enter_ Shorthose.

_Short._ I'th' torn black?

_Isab._ Yes, the same Sir.

_Short._ What would your Worship with him?

_Isab._ Why, my Worship would know his name, and what he is.

_Short._ 'Is nothing, he is a man, and yet he is no man.

_Isab._ You must needs play the fool.

_Short._ 'Tis my profession.

_Isab._ How is he a man, and no man?

_Short._ He's a begger, only the sign of a man, the bush pull'd down, which shows the house stands emptie.

_Isab._ What's his calling?

_Short._ They call him begger.

_Isab._ What's his kindred?

_Short._ Beggers.

_Isab._ His worth?

_Short._ A learned begger, a poor Scholar.

_Isab._ How does he live?

_Short._ Like worms, he eats old Books.

_Isab._ Is _Valentine_ his Brother.

_Short._ His begging Brother.

_Isab._ What may his name be?

_Short._ _Orson_.

_Isab._ Leave your fooling.

_Short._ You had as good say, leave your living.

_Isab._ Once more tell me his name directly.

_Short._ I'le be hang'd first, unless I heard him Christned, but I can tell what foolish people call him.

_Isab._ What?

_Short._ _Francisco_.

_Isab._ Where lies this learning, Sir?

_Short._ In _Pauls_ Church yard forsooth.

_Isab._ I mean the Gentleman, fool.

_Short._ O that fool, he lies in loose sheets every where, that's no where.

_Luce._ You have glean'd since you came to _London_: in the Country, _Shorthose_, you were an arrant fool, a dull cold coxcombe, here every Tavern teaches you, the pint pot has so belaboured you with wit, your brave acquaintance that gives you Ale, so fortified your mazard, that now there's no talking to you.

_Isab._ 'Is much improved, a fellow, a fine discourser.

_Short._ I hope so, I have not waited at the tail of wit so long to be an Ass.

_Luce._ But say now, _Shorthose_, my Lady should remove into the Country.

_Short._ I had as lieve she should remove to Heaven, and as soon I would undertake to follow her.

_Luce._ Where no old Charnico is, nor no Anchoves, nor Master such-a-one, to meet at the Rose, and bring my Lady, such-a-ones chief Chamber-maid.

_Isab._ No bouncing healths to this brave Lad, dear _Shorthose_, nor down o'th' knees to that illustrious Lady.

_Luce._ No fiddles, nor no lusty noise of drawer, carry this pottle to my Father _Shorthose_.

_Isab._ No plays, nor gaily foists, no strange Embassadors to run and wonder at, till thou beest oyl, and then come home again, and lye byth' Legend.

_Luc._ Say she should go.

_Short._ If I say, I'le be hang'd, or if I thought she would go.

_Luce._ What?

_Short._ I would go with her.

_Luce._ But _Shorthose_, where thy heart is?

_Isab._ Do not fright him.

_Luce._ By this hand Mistris 'tis a noise, a loud one too, and from her own mouth, presently to be gone too, but why, or to what end?

_Short._ May not a man die first? she'l give him so much time.

_Isab._ Gone o'th' sudden? thou dost but jest, she must not mock the Gentlemen.

_Luce._ She has put them off a month, th[e]y dare not see her, believe me Mistris, what I hear I tell you.

_Isab._ Is this true, wench? gone on so short a warning! what trick is this? she never told me of it, it must not be, sirra, attend me presently, you know I have been a carefull friend unto you, attend me in the Hall, and next be faithful, cry not, we shall not go.

_Short._ Her Coach may crack.

_Enter_ Valentine, Francisco, _and_ Lance.

_Val._ Which way to live! how darest thou come to town, to ask such an idle question?

_Fran._ Me thinks 'tis necessary, unless you could restore that Annuitie you have tipled up in Taverns.

_Val._ Where hast thou been, and how brought up _Francisco_, that thou talkest thus out of _France_? thou wert a pretty fellow, and of a handsom knowledge; who has spoiled thee?

_Lan._ He that has spoil'd himself, to make him sport, and by Copie, will spoil all comes near him: buy but a Glass, if you be yet so wealthy, and look there who?

_Val._ Well said, old Copihold.

_Lan._ My heart's good Freehold Sir, and so you'l find it, this Gentleman's your Brother, your hopeful Brother, for there is no hope of you, use him thereafter.

_Val._ E'ne as well as I use my self, what would'st thou have _Frank_?

_Fran._ Can you procure me a hundred pound?

_Lan._ Hark what he saies to you, O try your wits, they say you are excellent at it, for your Land has lain long bedrid, and unsensible.

_Fran._ And I'le forget all wrongs, you see my state, and to what wretchedness your will has brought me; but what it may be, by this benefit, if timely done, and like a noble Brother, both you and I may feel, and to our comforts.

_Val._ (A hundred pound!) dost thou know what thou hast said Boy?

_Fran._ I said a hundred pound.

_Val._ Thou hast said more than any man can justifie, believe it: procure a hundred pounds! I say to thee there's no such sum in nature, forty shillings there may be now i'th' Mint and that's a Treasure, I have seen five pound, but let me tell it, and 'tis as wonderful as Calves with five Legs; here's five shillings, _Frank_, the harvest of five weeks, and a good crop too, take it, and pay thy first fruits, I'le come down and eat it out.

_Fran._ 'Tis patience must meet with you Sir, not love.

_Lanc._ Deal roundly, and leave these fiddle faddles.

_Val._ Leave thy prating, thou thinkest thou art a notable wise fellow, thou and thy rotten Sparrow Hawk; two of the reverent.

_Lanc._ I think you are mad, or if you be not, will be, with the next moon, what would you have him do?

_Val._ How?

_Lanc._ To get money first, that's to live, you have shewed him how to want.

_Val._ 'Slife how do I live? why, what dull fool would ask that question? three hundred three pilds more, I and live bravely: the better half o'th' Town live most gloriously, and ask them what states they have, or what Annuities, or when they pray for seasonable Harvests: thou hast a handsome Wit, stir into the world, _Frank_, stir, stir for shame, thou art a pretty Scholar: ask how to live? write, write, write any thing, the World's a fine believing World, write News.

_Lan._ Dragons in _Sussex_, Sir, or fiery Battels seen in the Air at _Aspurge_.

_Val._ There's the way _Frank_, and in the tail of these, fright me the Kingdom with a sharp Prognostication, that shall scowr them, Dearth upon Dearth, like leven Taffaties, predictions of Sea-breaches, Wars, and want of Herrings on our Coast, with bloudy Noses.

_Lan._ Whirl-winds, that shall take off the top of _Grantham_ Steeple, and clap it on _Pauls_, and after these, a Lenvoy to the City for their sins.

_Val._ _Probatum est_, thou canst not want a pension, go switch me up a Covey of young Scholars, there's twenty nobles, and two loads of Coals, are not these ready wayes? Cosmography thou art deeply read in, draw me a Map from the Mermaid, I mean a midnight Map to scape the Watches, and such long sensless examinations, and Gentlemen shall feed thee, right good Gentlemen, I cannot stay long.

_Lan._ You have read learnedly, and would you have him follow these Megera's, did you begin with Ballads?

_Fran._ Well, I will leave you, I see my wants are grown ridiculous, yours may be so, I will not curse you neither; you may think, when these wanton fits are over, who bred me, and who ruined me, look to your self, Sir, a providence I wait on.

_Val._ Thou art passionate, hast thou been brought up with Girls?

_Enter_ Shorthose _with a bag_.

_Short._ Rest you merry, Gentlemen.

_Val._ Not so merry as you suppose, Sir.

_Short._ Pray stay a while, and let me take a view of you, I may put my Spoon into the wrong Pottage-pot else.

_Val._ Why, wilt thou muster us?

_Short._ No, you are not he, you are a thought too handsome.

_Lan._ Who wouldst thou speak withal, why dost thou peep so?

_Short._ I am looking birds nests, I can find none in your bush beard, I would speak with you, black Gentleman.

_Fran._ With me, my friend?

_Short._ Yes sure, and the best friend, Sir, it seems you spake withal this twelve-month, Gentleman, there's money for you.

_Val._ How?

_Short._ There's none for you, Sir, be not so brief, not a penny; law how he itches at it, stand off, you stir my colour.

_Lan._ Take it, 'tis money.

_Short._ You are too quick too, first be sure you have it, you seem to be a Faulkoner, but a foolish one.

_Lan._ Take it, and say nothing.

_Short._ You are cozen'd too, 'tis take it, and spend it.

_Fran._ From whom came it, Sir?

_Short._ Such another word, and you shall have none on't.

_Fran._ I thank you, Sir, I doubly thank you.

_Short._ Well, Sir, then buy you better Cloaths, and get your Hat drest, and your Laundress to wash your Boots white.

_Fran._ Pray stay Sir, may you not be mistaken.

_Short._ I think I am, give me the money again, come quick, quick, quick.

_Fran._ I would be loth to render, till I am sure it be so.

_Short._ Hark in your ear, is not your name _Francisco_?

_Fran._ Yes.

_Short._ Be quiet then, it may Thunder a hundred times, before such stones fall: do you not need it?

_Fran._ Yes.

_Short._ And 'tis thought you have it.

_Fran._ I think I have.

_Short._ Then hold it fast, 'tis not fly-blown, you may pay for the poundage, you forget your self, I have not seen a Gentleman so backward, a wanting Gentleman.

_Fran._ Your mercy, Sir.

_Short._ Friend, you have mercy, a whole bag full of mercy, be merry with it, and be wise.

_Fran._ I would fain, if it please you, but know--

_Short._ It does not please me, tell over your money, and be not mad, Boy.

_Val._ You have no more such bags?

_Short._ More such there are, Sir, but few I fear for you, I have cast your water, you have wit, you need no money. [_Exit._

_Lan._ Be not amazed, Sir, 'tis good gold, good old gold, this is restorative, and in good time, it comes to do you good, keep it and use it, let honest fingers feel it, yours be too quick Sir.

_Fran._ He named me, and he gave it me, but from whom.

_Lan._ Let 'em send more, and then examine it, this can be but a Preface.

_Fran._ Being a stranger, of whom can I deserve this?

_Lan._ Sir, of any man that has but eyes, and manly understanding to find mens wants, good men are bound to do so.

_Val._ Now you see, _Frank_, there are more wayes than certainties, now you believe: What Plough brought you this Harvest, what sale of Timber, Coals, or what Annuities? These feed no Hinds, nor wait the expectation of Quarterdaies, you see it showers in to you, you are an Ass, lie plodding, and lie fooling, about this Blazing Star, and that bo-peep, whining, and fasting, to find the natural reason why a Dog turns twice about before he lie down, what use of these, or what joy in Annuities, where every man's thy study, and thy Tenant, I am ashamed on thee.

_Lan._ Yes, I have seen this fellow, there's a wealthy Widow hard by.

_Val._ Yes marry is there.

_Lan._ I think he's her servant, or I am couzen'd else, I am sure on't.

_Fran._ I am glad on't.

_Lan._ She's a good Woman.

_Fran._ I am gladder.

_Lan._ And young enough believe.

_Fran._ I am gladder of all, Sir.

_Val_. _Frank_, you shall lye with me soon.

_Fran._ I thank my money.

_Lan._ His money shall lie with me, three in a Bed, Sir, will be too much this weather.

_Val._ Meet me at the Mermaid, and thou shalt see what things--

_Lan._ Trust to your self Sir. [_Exeunt_ Fran. _and_ Val.

_Enter_ Fount. Bella. _and_ Valentine.

_Fount._ O _Valentine_!

_Val._ How now, why do you look so?

_Bella._ The Widow's going, man.

_Val._ Why let her go, man.

_Hare._ She's going out o'th' Town.

_Val._ The Town's the happier, I would they were all gone.

_Fount._ We cannot come to speak with her.

_Val._ Not to speak to her?

_Bel._ She will be gone within this hour, either now _Val._

_Fount._ _Hare._ Now, now, now, good _Val._

_Val._ I had rather march i'th' mouth o'th' Cannon, but adiew, if she be above ground, go, away to your prayers, away I say, away, she shall be spoken withall. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ Shorthose _with one boot on_, Roger,_and_ Humphrey.

_Rog._ She will go, _Shorthose_.

_Short._ Who can help it _Roger_?

_Raph._ [_within._] Help down with the hangings.

_Rog._ By and by _Raph._ I am making up o'th' trunks here.

_Raph._ _Shorthose_.

_Short._ Well.

_Raph._ Who looks to my Ladys wardrobe? _Humphrey_.

_Hum._ Here.

_Raph._ Down with the boxes in the gallery, and bring away the Coach cushions.

_Short._ Will it not rain, no conjuring abroad, nor no devices to stop this journey?

_Rog._ Why go now, why now, why o'th' sudden now? what preparation, what horses have we ready, what provision laid in i'th' Country?

_Hum._ Not an egge I hope.

_Rog._ No nor one drop of good drink boyes, there's the devil.

_Short._ I heartily pray the malt be musty, and then we must come up again.

_Hum._ What sayes the Steward?

_Rog._ He's at's wits end, for some four hours since, out of his haste and providence, he mistook the Millars mangie mare, for his own nagge.

_Short._ And she may break his neck, and save the journy. Oh _London_ how I love thee!

_Hum._ I have no boots nor none I'le buy: or if I had, refuse me if I would venture my ability, before a Cloak-Bag, men are men.

_Short._ For my part, if I be brought, as I know it will be aimed at, to carry any durty dairy Cream-pot, or any gentle Lady of the Laundry, Chambring, or wantonness behind my Gelding, with all her Streamers, Knapsacks, Glasses, Gugawes, as if I were a running flippery, I'le give 'em leave to cut my girts, and slay me. I'le not be troubled with their Distibations, at every half miles end, I understand my self, and am resolved.

_Hum._ To morrow night at _Olivers_! who shall be there boys, who shall meet the wenches?

_Rog._ The well brew'd stand of Ale, we should have met at!

_Short._ These griefs like to another Tale of _Troy_, would mollifie the hearts of barbarous people, and Tom Butcher weep, _Aeneas_ enters, and now the town's lost.

_Raph._ Well whither run you, my Lady is mad.

_Short._ I would she were in Bedlam.

_Raph._ The carts are come, no hands to help to load 'em? the stuff lies in the hall, the plate. [_Within Widow._] Why knaves there, where be these idle fellows?

_Short._ Shall I ride with one Boot?

_Wid._ Why where I say?

_Raph._ Away, away, it must be so.

_Short._ O for a tickling storm, to last but ten days. [_Exeunt._

_Actus Tertius. Scena Prima._

_Enter_ Isabella, _and_ Luce.

_Luc._ By my troth Mistris I did it for the best.

_Isab._ It may be so, but _Luce_, you have a tongue, a dish of meat in your mouth, which if it were minced _Luce_, would do a great deal better.

_Luce._ I protest Mistress.

_Isab._ It will be your own one time or other: _Walter_.

_Walter_ [_within._] Anon forsooth.

_Isab._ Lay my hat ready, my fan and cloak, you are so full of providence; and _Walter_, tuck up my little box behind the Coach, and bid my maid make ready, my sweet service to your good Lady Mistress; and my dog, good let the Coachman carry him.

_Luce._ But hear me.

_Isab._ I am in love sweet _Luce_, and you are so skilfull, that I must needs undo my self; and hear me, let _Oliver_ pack up my Glass discreetly, and see my Curles well carried. O sweet _Luce_, you have a tongue, and open tongues have open you know what, _Luce._

_Luce._ Pray you be satisfied.

_Isab._ Yes and contented too, before I leave you: there's a _Roger_, which some call a Butcher, I speak of certainties, I do not fish _Luce_, nay do not stare, I have a tongue can talk too: and a Green Chamber _Luce_, a back door opens to a long Gallerie; there was a night _Luce_, do you perceive, do you perceive me yet? O do you blush _Luce_? a Friday night I saw your Saint, _Luce_: for t'other box of Marmalade, all's thine sweet _Roger_, this I heard and kept too.

_Luce._ E'ne as you are a woman Mistress.

_Isab._ This I allow as good and Physical sometime, these meetings, and for the cheering of the heart; but _Luce_, to have your own turn served, and to your friend to be a dog-bolt.

_Luce._ I confess it Mistress.

_Isab._ As you have made my sister jealous of me, and foolishly, and childishly pursued it, I have found out your haunt, and traced your purposes; for which mine honour suffers; your best waies must be applied to bring her back again, and seriously and suddenly, that so I may have a means to clear my self, and she a fair opinion of me, else you peevish--

_Luce._ My power and prayers Mistress.

_Isab._ What's the matter?

_Enter_ Shorthose, _and_ Widow.

_Short._ I have been with the Gentleman, he has it, much good may do him with it.

_Wid._ Come, are you ready? you love so to delay time, the day grows on.

_Isab._ I have sent for a few trifles, when those are come; And now I know your reason.

_Wid._ Know your own honour then, about your business, see the Coach ready presently, I'le tell you more then.

[_Ex._ Luce, _and_ Shorthose.

And understand it well, you must not think your sister so tender eyed as not to see your follies, alas I know your heart, and must imagine, and truly too; 'tis not your charitie can coin such sums to give away as you have done, in that you have no wisdom _Isabel_, no nor modesty, where nobler uses are at home; I tell you, I am ashamed to find this in your years, far more in your discretion, none to chuse but things for pity, none to seal your thoughts on, but one of no abiding, of no name; nothing to bring you to but this, cold and hunger: A jolly Joynture sister, you are happy, no mony, no not ten shillings.

_Isab._ You search nearly.

_Wid._ I know it as I know your folly, one that knows not where he shall eat his next meal, take his rest, unless it be i'th' stocks; what kindred has he, but a more wanting Brother, or what vertues.

_Isab._ You have had rare intelligence, I see, sister.

_Wid._ Or say the man had vertue, is vertue in this age a full inheritance? what Joynture can he make you, _Plutarchs Morals_, or so much penny rent in the small Poets? this is not well, 'tis weak, and I grieve to know it.

_Isab._ And this you quit the town for?

_Wid._ Is't not time?

_Isab._ You are better read in my affairs than I am, that's all I have to answer, I'le go with you, and willingly, and what you think most dangerous, I'le sit laugh at. For sister 'tis not folly but good discretion governs our main fortunes.

_Wid._ I am glad to hear you say so.

_Isa._ I am for you.

_Enter_ Shorthose, _and_ Humphrey, _with riding rods._

_Hum._ The Devil cannot stay her, she'l on't, eat an egg now, and then we must away.

_Short._ I am gaul'd already, yet I will pray, may _London_ wayes from henceforth be full of holes, and Coaches crack their wheels, may zealous Smiths so housel all our Hackneys, that they may feel compunction in their feet, and tire at _High-gate_, may it rain above all Almanacks till Carriers sail, and the Kings Fish-monger ride like _Bike Arion_ upon a Trout to _London_.

_Hum._ At S. _Albanes_, let all the Inns be drunk, not an Host sober to bid her worship welcom.

_Short._ Not a Fiddle, but all preach't down with Puritans; no meat but Legs of Beef.

_Hum._ No beds but Wool-Packs.

_Short._ And those so crammed with Warrens of starved Fleas that bite like Bandogs; let _Mims_ be angry at their S. _Bel-Swagger_, and we pass in the heat on't and be beaten, beaten abominably, beaten horse and man, and all my Ladies linnen sprinkled with suds and dish-water.

_Short._ Not a wheel but out of joynt.

_Enter_ Roger _laugh-ing._

_Hum._ Why dost thou laugh?

_Rog._ There's a Gentleman, and the rarest Gentleman, and makes the rarest sport.

_Short._ Where, where?

_Rog._ Within here, h'as made the gayest sport with _Tom_ the Coachman, so tewed him up with Sack that he lies lashing a But of Malmsie for his Mares.

_Short._ 'Tis very good.

_Rog._ And talks and laughs, and sings the rarest songs, and _Shorthose_, he has so maul'd the Red Deer pies, made such an alms i'th' butterie.

_Short._ Better still.

_Enter_ Val. Widow.

_Hum._ My Lady in a rage with the Gentleman?

_Short._ May he anger her into a feather. [_Exeunt._

_Wid._ I pray tell me, who sent you hither? for I imagine it is not your condition, you look so temperately, and like a Gentleman, to ask me these milde questions.

_Val._ Do you think I use to walk of errands, gentle Lady, or deal with women out of dreams from others?

_Wid._ You have not know[n] me sure?

_Val._ Not much.

_Wid._ What reason have you then to be so tender of my credit, you are no kinsman?

_Val._ If you take it so, the honest office that I came to do you, is not so heavy but I can return it: now I perceive you are too proud, not worth my visit.

_Wid._ Pray stay, a little proud.

_Val._ Monstrous proud, I griev'd to hear a woman of your value, and your abundant parts stung by the people, but now I see 'tis true, you look upon me as if I were a rude and saucie fellow that borrowed all my breeding from a dunghil, or such a one, as should now fall and worship you in hope of pardon: you are cozen'd Lady, I came to prove opinion a loud liar, to see a woman only great in goodness, and Mistress of a greater fame than fortune, but--

_Wid._ You are a strange Gentleman, if I were proud now, I should be monstrous angry, which I am not, and shew the effects of pride; I should despise you, but you are welcom Sir: To think well of our selves, if we deserve it, it is a lustre in us, and every good we have, strives to shew gracious, what use is it else? old age like Seer-trees, is seldom seen affected, stirs sometimes at rehearsal of such acts as his daring youth endeavour'd.

_Val._ This is well, and now you speak to the purpose, you please me, but to be place proud?

_Wid._ If it be our own, why are we set here with distinction else, degrees, and orders given us? In you men, 'tis held a coolness, if you lose your right, affronts and loss of honour: streets, and walls, and upper ends of tables, had they tongues could tell what blood has followed, and what feud about your ranks; are we so much below you, that till you have us, are the tops of nature, to be accounted drones without a difference? you will make us beasts indeed.

_Val._ Nay worse than this too, proud of your cloaths, they swear a Mercers Lucifer, a tumour tackt together by a Taylour, nay yet worse, proud of red and white, a varnish that butter-milk can better.

_Wid._ Lord, how little will vex these poor blind people! if my cloaths be sometimes gay and glorious, does it follow, my mind must be my Mercers too? or say my beauty please some weak eyes, must it please them to think, that blows me up, that every hour blows off? this is an Infants anger.

_Val._ Thus they say too, what though you have a Coach lined through with velvet, and four fair _Flanders_ mares, why should the streets be troubled continually with you, till Carmen curse you? can there be ought in this but pride of shew Lady, and pride of bum-beating, till the learned lawyers with their fat bags, are thrust against the bulks till all their causes crack? why should this Lady, and t'other Lady, and the third sweet Lady, and Madam at _Mile-end_, be daily visited, and your poorer neighbours, with course napfes neglected, fashions conferr'd about, pouncings, and paintings, and young mens bodies read on like Anatomies.