ACT II.
Enter Moll, youngest Daughter to the Widow, alone.
Moll.
Not marry? forswear Marriage? why all Women
know 'tis as honourable a thing as to lye
with a Man; and I, to spight my Sister's Vow the more,
have entertain'd a Suiter already, a fine Gallant Knight of
the last Feather, he says he will Coach me too, and well
appoint me, allow me Mony to Dice withal, and many such
pleasing Protestations he sticks upon my Lips: Indeed his
short-winded Father i'th' Country is wondrous wealthy, a
most abominable Farmer, and therefore he may dote in time;
troth I'll venture upon him; Women are not without ways
enough to help themselves: If he prove wise and good as his
word, why I shall love him, and use him kindly; and if
he prove an Ass, why in a quarter of an Hour's warning I
can transform him into an Oxe;—there comes in my relief
again.
Enter Frailty.
Frail.
O, Mistress Moll, Mistress Moll.
Moll.
How now? what's the News?
Frail.
The Knight your Suiter, Sir John Penny Dub.
Moll.
Sir John Penny-Dub? where? where?
Frail.
He's walking in the Gallery.
Moll.
Has my Mother seen him yet?
-- 3202 --
Frail.
O no, she's—spitting in the Kitchin.
Moll.
Direct him hither softly, good Frailty,
I'll meet him half way.
Frail.
That's just like running a Tilt; but I hope he'll
break nothing this time.
Enter Sir John Penny-Dub.
Moll.
'Tis happiness my Mother saw him not.
O welcome, good Sir John.
Dub.
I thank you faith—Nay you must stand me 'till
I kiss you: 'Tis the Fashion every where i'faith, and I came
from Court e'now.
Moll.
Nay, the Fates forefend that I should anger the
Fashion?
Dub.
Then not forgetting the sweet of new Ceremonies,
I first fall back, then recovering my self, make my Honour
to your Lip thus; and then accost it.
Moll.
Trust me, very pretty and moving, you're worthy
on't, Sir.
O my Mother, my Mother, now she's here,
Kissing. Enter Widow and Sir Godfrey.
We'll steal into the Gallery.
[Exeunt.
Sir God.
Nay, Sister, let Reason rule you, do not play
the Fool, stand not in your own Light, you have wealthy
Offers, large Tendrings, do not withstand your good Fortune;
who comes a wooing to you I pray? no small Fool,
a rich Knight o'th' City, Sir Oliver Muck-hill, no small
fool I can tell you; and furthermore, as I heard late by
your Maid-servants, as your Maid-servants will say to me
any thing, I thank 'em, both your Daughters are not without
Suitors, ay, and worthy ones too; one a brisk Courtier,
Sir Andrew Tipstaffe, suiter afar off to your eldest Daughter,
and the third a huge wealthy Farmer's Son, a fine young
Country Knight, they call him Sir John Penny-Dub, a good
Name marry, he may have it coin'd when he lacks Mony;
what Blessings are these, Sister?
Wid.
Tempt me not, Satan.
Sir God.
Satan? do I look like Satan? I hope the Devil's
not so old as I, I trow.
Wid.
You wound my Senses, Brother, when you name
A Suiter to me,—oh I cannot abide it,
I take in Poison when I hear one nam'd.
-- 3203 --
Enter Simon.
How now, Simon? where's my Son Edmond?
Sim.
Verily, Madam, he is at vain Exercise, dripping in
the Tennis-Court.
Wid.
At Tennis-Court? oh, now his Father's gone, I
shall have no rule with him; oh wicked Edmond, I might
well compare this with the Prophecy in the Chronicle,
though far inferior, as Harry of Monmouth won all, and
Harry of Windsor lost all; so Edmond of Bristow that was the
Father, got all, and Edmond of London that's his Son now,
will spend all.
Sir God.
Peace, Sister, we'll have him reform'd, there's
hope on him yet, though it be but a little.
Enter Frailty.
Frail.
Forsooth, Madam; there are two or three Archers
at Door would very gladly speak with your Ladyship.
Wid.
Archers?
Sir God.
Your Husband's Fletcher I warrant.
Wid.
Oh,
Let them come near, they bring home things of his,
Troth I should ha' forgot 'em, how now?
Villain, which be those Archers?
Enter the Suiters, Sir Andrew Tipstaffe, Sir Oliver Muck-hill, and Penny-Dub.
Frail.
Why, do you not see 'em before you? are not
these Archers, what do you call 'em Shooters? Shooters
and Archers are all one, I hope.
Wid.
Out ignorant Slave.
Muck.
Nay, pray be patient Lady,
We come in way of honourable Love.
Tipst. Dub.
We do.
Muck.
To you.
Tipst. Dub.
And to your Daughters.
Wid.
O why will you offer me this, Gentlemen? indeed
I will not look upon you; when the Tears are scarce out of
mine Eyes, not yet wash'd off from my Cheeks, and my dear
Husband's Body scarce so cold as the Coffin, what reason
have you to offer it? I am not like some of your Widows
that will bury one in the Evening, and be sure to another
e'er Morning; pray away, pray take your Answers, good
-- 3204 --
Knights, and you be sweet Knights, I have vow'd never to
marry;—and so have my Daughters too!
Dub.
Ay, two of you have, but the third's a good Wench!
Muck.
Lady, a shrewd Answer marry; the best is, 'tis
but the first, and he's a blunt Wooer, that will leave for one
sharp Answer.
Tipst.
Where be your Daughters, Lady, I hope they'll
give us better Encouragements?
Wid.
Indeed they'll answer you so, take't a my word
they'll give you the very same answer Verbatim, truly la.
Dub.
Mum: Moll's a good Wench still, I know what
she'll do?
Muck.
Well, Lady, for this time we'll take our leaves
hoping for better comfort.
Wid.
O never, never; and I live these thousand Years;
and you be good Knights, do not hope; 'twill be all Vain,
Vain,—look you put off all your Suits, and you come
to me again.
Frail.
Put off all their Suits, quotha? ay, that's the best
wooing of a Widow indeed, when a Man's Nonsuted, that
is, when he's a-bed with her.
[Going out Muckhil and Sir Godfrey.
Muck.
Sir Godfrey, here's twenty Angels more, work
hard for me; there's life in't yet.
[Exit Muckhil.
Sir God.
Fear not Sir Oliver Muckhil, I'll stick close for
you, leave all with me.
Enter George Pye-boord the Scholar.
Pye.
By your leave, Lady Widow.
Wid.
What another Suiter now?
Pye.
A Suiter, no, I protest; Lady, if you'd give me
your self, I'd not be troubled with you.
Wid.
Say you so, Sir, then you're the better welcome, Sir.
Pye.
Nay, Heav'n bless me from a Widow, unless I were
sure to bury her speedily!
Wid.
Good bluntness; well, your Business, Sir?
Pye.
Very needful; if you were in private once.
Wid.
Needful? Brother, pray leave us; and you, Sir.
Frail.
I should laugh now, if this blunt Fellow should put
'em all beside the Stirrop, and vault into the Saddle himself,
I have seen as mad a Trick.
[Exit Frailty.
-- 3205 --
Enter Daughters.
Wid.
Now, Sir?—here's none but we—Daughters
forbear.
Pye.
O no, pray let 'em stay, for what I have to speak
importeth equally to them as you.
Wid.
Then you may stay.
Pye.
I pray bestow on me a serious Ear,
For what I speak is full of weight and fear.
Wid.
Fear?
Pye.
Ay, if't pass unregarded, and uneffected,
Else peace and joy;—I pray Attention.
Widow, I have been a meer Stranger for these Parrs that
you live in, nor did I ever know the Husband of you, and
Father of them, but I truly know by certain spiritual Intelligence,
that he is in Purgatory.
Wid.
Purgatory? tuh; that word deserves to be spit
upon; I wonder that a Man of sober Tongue, as you seem
to be, should have the Folly to believe there's such a
place.
Pye.
Well, Lady, in cold Blood I speak it, I assure you
that there is a Purgatory, in which place I know your Husband
to reside, and wherein he is like to remain, 'till the
dissolution of the World, 'till the last general Bonfire; when
all the Earth shall melt into nothing, and the Seas scald
their finny Labourers; so long is his abidance, unless you
alter the property of your purpose, together with each of
your Daughters theirs, that is, the purpose of single Life in
your self and your eldest Daughter, and the speedy determination
of Marriage in your youngest.
Moll.
How knows he that? what, has some Devil told
him?
Wid.
Strange he should know our Thoughts:—
Why but Daughter, have you purpos'd speedy Marriage?
Pye.
You see she tells you ay, she says nothing.
Nay, give me credit as you please, I am a stranger to you,
and yet you see I know your Determinations, which must
come to me metaphysically, and by a super-natural Intelligence.
Wid.
This puts amazement on me.
Fran.
Know our Secrets?
-- 3206 --
Moll.
I'd thought to steal a Marriage, would his Tongue
Had dropt out when he blab'd it.
Wid.
But, Sir, my Husband was too honest a dealing Man,
to be now in any Purgatories—
Pye.
O do not load your Conscience with untruths,
'Tis but meer folly now to gild 'em o'er;
That has past but for Copper; Praises here,
Cannot unbind him there: confess but truth,
I know he got his Wealth with a hard gripe:
Oh hardly, hardly.
Wid.
This is most strange of all, how knows he that?
Pye.
He would eat Fools and ignorant Heirs clean up;
And had his drink from many a poor Man's brow,
Even as their labour brew'd it.
He would scrape Riches to him most unjustly;
The very dirt between his Nails was ill got,
And not his own,—oh
I groan to speak on't, the thought makes me shudder!—
Shudder!
Wid.
It quakes me too, now I think on't—Sir, I am
much griev'd, that you a Stranger, should so deeply wrong
my dead Husband!
Pye.
Oh!
Wid.
A Man that would keep Church so duly; rise early
before his Servants, and e'en for Religious haste, go ungarter'd,
unbutton'd, nay Sir Reverence untrust, to Morning
Prayer?
Pye.
Oh uff.
Wid.
Dine quickly upon High-days, and when I had great
Guests, would e'en shame me, and rise from the Table, to
get a good Seat at an Afternoon-Sermon.
Pye.
There's the Devil, there's the Devil, true, he thought
it Sanctity enough, if he had kill'd a Man, so 't'ad been done
in a Pue, or undone his Neighbour, so 't'ad been near enough
to the Preacher. Oh!—a Sermon's a fine short Cloak of
an Hour long, and will hide the upper part of a Dissembler.—
Church, ay, he seem'd all Church, and his Conscience was
as hard as the Pulpit.
Wid.
I can no more endure this.
Pye.
Nor I, Widow, endure to flatter.
Wid.
Is this all your business with me?
-- 3207 --
Pye.
No, Lady, 'tis but the induction to't,
You may believe my strains, I strike all true.
And if your Conscience would leap up to your Tongue, your
self would affirm it, and that you shall perceive I know of
things to come, as well as I do of what is present; a Brother
of your Husband's shall shortly have a loss.
Wid.
A loss? marry Heaven forefend, Sir Godfrey, my Brother!
Pye.
Nay, keep in your wonders, 'till I have told you
the Fortunes of you all; which are more fearful, if not happily
prevented,—for your part and your Daughters, if
there be not once this Day some Blood-shed before your
Door, whereof the humane Creature dyes, of you two the
eldest shall run Mad.
Wid. and Fran.
Oh!
Moll.
That's not I yet.
Pye.
And with most impudent prostitution, show your
naked Bodies to the view of all beholders.
Wid.
Our naked Bodies? fie for shame.
Pye.
Attend me,
And your younger Daughter be strucken Dumb.
Moll.
Dumb? out, alas; 'tis the worst pain of all for a
Woman, I'd rather be Mad, or run Naked, or any thing.
Dumb?
Pye.
Give Ear: E'er the Evening fall upon Hill, Bog,
and Meadow, this my Speech shall have past Probation, and
then shall I be believ'd accordingly.
Wid.
If this be true, we are all sham'd, all undone.
Moll.
Dumb? I'll speak as much as ever I can possible before
Evening.
Pye.
But if it so come to pass (as for your fair sakes I
wish it may) that this presage of your strange Fortunes be
prevented by that accident of Death and Blood-shedding,
which I before told you of; take heed upon your Lives,
that two of you which have vow'd never to marry, seek
out Husbands with all present speed, and you the third, that
have such a desire to out-strip Chastity, look you meddle
not with a Husband.
Moll.
A double Torment.
Pye.
The breach of this keeps your Father in Purgatory,
and the punishments that shall follow you in this
-- 3208 --
World, would with horror kill the Ear should hear 'em related.
Wid.
Marry? Why I vow'd never to marry.
Fran.
And so did I.
Moll.
And I vow'd never to be such an Ass, but to marry.
What a cross Fortune's this?
Pye.
Ladies, though I be a Fortune-teller, I cannot
better Fortunes, you have 'em from me as they are reveal'd
to me: I would they were to your Tempers, and
Fellows with your Bloods; that's all the bitterness I would
you.
Wid.
O! 'tis a just vengeance, for my Husband's hard
purchases.
Pye.
I wish you to bethink your selves, and leave 'em.
Wid.
I'll to Sir Godfrey, my Brother, and acquaint him
with these fearful presages.
Fran.
For, Mother, they portend losses to him.
Wid.
O ay, they do, they do;
If any happy issue crown thy words,
I will reward thy cunning.
[Exit Wid. and Fran.
Pye.
'Tis enough, Lady, I wish no higher.
Moll.
Dumb? and not marry? worse;
Neither to speak, nor kiss, a double curse.
[Exit.
Pye.
So, all this comes well about yet, I play the Fortune-teller,
as well as if I had had a Witch to my Grannam:
for by good happiness, being in my Hostesses Garden,
which neighbours the Orchard of the Widow, I laid
the hole of mine Ear to a hole in the Wall, and heard 'em
make these vows, and speak those words, upon which I
wrought these advantages; and to encourage my Forgery
the more, I may now perceive in 'em a natural simplicity
which will easily swallow an abuse, if any covering be
over it: and to confirm my former presage to the Widow,
I have advis'd old Peter Skirmish the Soldier, to
hurt Corporal Oath upon the Leg, and in that hurry I'll
rush amongst 'em, and instead of giving the Corporal
some Cordial to comfort him, I'll pour into his Mouth a
Potion of a sleepy Nature, and make him seem as dead;
for the which the old Soldier being apprehended, and
ready to be born to Execution, I'll step in, and take upon
me the Cure of the dead Man, upon pain of dying the
-- 3209 --
condemned's death: the Corporal will wake at his Minute,
when the sleepy force hath wrought it self, and so shall I
get my self into a most admir'd Opinion, and under the pretext
of that cunning, beguile as I see occasion: and if that
foolish Nicholas St. Antlings keep true time with the Chain,
my Plot will be sound, the Captain deliver'd, and my Wits
applauded amongst Scholars and Soldiers for ever.
[Exit Pye-boord.
Enter Nicholas St. Antlings, with the Chain.
Nich.
O, I have found an excellent advantage to take away
the Chain, my Master put it off e'en now, to say on a new
Doublet, and I sneakt it away by little and little, most Puritanically!
we shall have good sport anon when he has miss'd
it, about my Cousin the Conjurer; the World shall see I'm
an honest Man of my word, for now I'm going to hang it
between Heaven and Earth among the Rosemary-branches.
[Exit Nich.
Charles Gildon [1709–1710], The works of Mr. William Shakespear; in six [seven] volumes. Adorn'd with Cuts. Revis'd and Corrected, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By N. Rowe ([Vol. 7] Printed for E. Curll... and E. Sanger [etc.], London) [word count] [S11401].
