SCENE I.
A Garden behind the widow's house.
Enter the widow Plus, Frances, Mary, Sir Godfrey, and
Edmond, all in mourning; the latter in a cyprus hat* note
:
the widow wringing her hands, and bursting out into
passion, as newly come from the burial of her husband.
Wid.
O, that ever I was born2 note, that ever I was
born!
-- 534 --
Sir God.
Nay, good sister, dear sister, sweet sister,
be of good comfort; show yourself a woman now or
never.
-- 435 --
Wid.
O, I have lost the dearest man, I have buried
the sweetest husband, that ever lay by woman.
Sir God.
Nay, give him his due, he was indeed an
honest, virtuous, discreet, wise man. He was my
brother, as right as right3 note.
Wid.
O, I shall never forget him, never forget
him; he was a man so well given to a woman. Oh!
Sir God.
Nay, but kind sister, I could weep as
much as any woman; but alas, our tears cannot call
him again. Methinks you are well read, sister, and
know that death is as common as homo, a common
name to all men. A man shall be taken when he's
making water. Nay, did not the learned parson,
master Pigman, tell us even now,—that all flesh is
frail—We are born to die—Man has but a time—
with such-like deep and profound persuasions? as he
is a rare fellow, you know, and an excellent reader.
And for example, (as there are examples abundance,)
did not sir Humphrey Bubble die t'other day?
There's a lusty widow! why she cry'd not above half
an hour. For shame, for shame!—Then followed
him old master Fulsome, the usurer: there's a wise
widow; why she cry'd ne'er a whit at all.
Wid.
O rank not me with those wicked women; I
had a husband out-shin'd'em all.
-- 536 --
Sir God.
Ay that he did, i'faith; he out-shin'd em note
all4 note.
Wid.
Dost thou stand there, and see us all weep,
and not once shed a tear for thy father's death5 note? oh
thou ungracious son and heir thou!
Edm.
Troth, mother, I should not weep I'm sure.
I am past a child, I hope, to make all my old school-fellows
laugh at me; I should be mock'd, so I
should. Pray let one of my sisters weep for me; I'll
laugh as much for her another time.
Wid.
O thou past-grace, thou! Out of my sight,
thou graceless imp! thou grievest me more than the
death of thy father. O thou stubborn only son!
Hadst thou such an honest man to thy father—that
would deceive all the world to get riches for thee,
and canst thou not afford a little salt water? He that
so wisely did quite overthrow the right heir of those
lands, which now you respect not: up every morning
betwixt four and five; so duly at Westminster-hall
every term-time, with all his cards and writings6 note,
for thee, thou wicked Absalon: O dear husband!
Edm.
Weep, quoth-a? I protest I am glad he's
church'd; for now he's gone, I shall spend in quiet.
Fran.
Dear mother, pray cease; half your tears suffice;
'Tis time for you to take truce with your eyes:
Let me weep now.
Wid.
O such a dear knight, such a sweet husband
have I lost, have I lost! If blessed be the
-- 537 --
corse7 note the rain rains upon, he had it pouring
down.
Sir God.
Sister, be of good cheer. We are all
mortal ourselves; I come upon you freshly, I ne'er
speak without comfort. Hear me what I shall
say:—My brother has left you wealthy; you're
rich.
Wid.
Oh!
Sir God.
I say you're rich: you are also fair.
Wid.
Oh!
Sir God.
Go to, you're fair; you cannot smother
it; beauty will come to light. Nor are your years
so far enter'd with you, but that you will be sought
after, and may very well answer another husband.
The world is full of fine gallants; choice enough,
sister; for what should we do with all our knights, I
pray8 note
, but to marry rich widows, wealthy citizens'
widows, lusty fair-brow'd ladies? Go to, be of good
comfort, I say; leave snobbing and weeping9 note.—Yet
my brother was a kind-hearted man. I would not
have the elf see me now1 note.—Come, pluck up a woman's
heart. Here stand your daughters, who be
well estated, and at maturity will also be enquir'd
after with good husbands; so all these tears shall be
soon dry'd up, and a better world than ever.
What, woman! you must not weep still; he's
-- 538 --
dead, he's buried:—yet I cannot choose but weep
for him2 note.
Wid.
Marry again! no, let me be buried quick then!
And that same part o' the choir whereon I tread
To such intent, O, may it be my grave!
And that the priest may turn his wedding prayers,
Even with a breath, to funeral dust and ashes!
O, out of a million of millions, I should ne'er find
such a husband; he was unmatchable, unmatchable.
Nothing was too hot, nor too dear for me3 note
. I could
not speak of that one thing that I had not. Beside,
I had keys of all, kept all, receiv'd all, had money
in my purse, spent what I would, went abroad when
I would, came home when I would, and did all
what I would4 note. O, my sweet husband! I shall
never have the like.
-- 539 --
Sir God.
Sister, ne'er say so. He was an honest
brother of mine, and so; and you may light upon
one as honest again, or one as honest again may light
upon you: that's the properer phrase indeed.
Wid.
Never: O, if you love me, urge it not.
O may I be the by-word of the world,
[Kneels.
The common talk at table in the mouth
Of every groom and waiter, if e'er more
I entertain the carnal suit of man.
Mary.
I must kneel down for fashion too.
Fran.
And I, whom never man as yet hath scal'd,
Even in this depth of general sorrow, vow
Never to marry, to sustain such loss
As a dear husband seems to be, once dead.
Mary.
I lov'd my father well too; but to say,
Nay, vow, I would not marry for his death,
Sure I should speak false Latin, should I not?
I'd as soon vow never to come in bed.
Tut! women must live by the quick, and not by the dead.
Wid.
Dear copy of my husband, O let me kiss thee!
[Kisses her husband's picture.
How like him is this model! This brief picture
Quickens my tears: my sorrows are renew'd
At this fresh sight5 note
.
Sir God.
Sister—
Wid.
Away!
All honesty with him is turn'd to clay.
O my sweet husband! Oh.
-- 540 --
Fran.
My dear father!
[Exeunt Widow and Frances.
Mary.
Here's a puling indeed! I think my mother
weeps for all the women that ever buried husbands;
for if from time to time all the widowers' tears6 note
in
England had been bottled up, I do not think all
would have fill'd a three-halfpenny bottle. Alas, a
small matter bucks a handkerchief7 note
! and sometimes
the 'spital stands too nigh Saint Thomas a' Waterings8 note
.
Well, I can mourn in good sober sort as
well as another; but where I spend one tear for a
dead father, I could give twenty kisses for a quick
husband9 note.
[Exit.
Sir God.
Well, go thy ways, old sir Godfrey, and
thou may'st be proud on't; thou hast a kind loving
-- 541 --
sister-in-law. How constant! how passionate! how
full of April the poor soul's eyes are! Well, I would
my brother knew on't; he should then know what a
kind wife he had left behind him. 'Truth, an 'twere
not for shame that the neighbours at the next garden
should hear me, between joy and grief I should e'en
cry outright.
[Exit.
Edm.
So; a fair riddance! My father's laid in
dust; his coffin and he is like a whole meat-pye,
and the worms will cut him up shortly. Farewel,
old dad, farewel! I'll be curb'd in no more. I perceive
a son and heir may be quickly made a fool,
an he will be one; but I'll take another order1 note.
Now she would have me weep for him forsooth; and
why? because he cozen'd the right heir being a
fool, and bestow'd those lands on me his eldest son;
and therefore I must weep for him; ha, ha! Why,
all the world knows, as long as 'twas his pleasure
to get me, 'twas his duty to get for me: I know
the law in that point; no attorney can gull me.
Well, my uncle is an old ass, and an admirable
coxcomb. I'll rule the roast myself; I'll be kept
under no more; I know what I may do well enough
by my father's copy: the law's in mine own hands
now. Nay, now I know my strength, I'll be
strong enough for my mother, I warrant you.
[Exit.
-- 542 --
SCENE II.
A street.
Enter Pyeboard2 note
, and Skirmish.
Pye.
What's to be done now, old lad of war?
Thou that were wont to be as hot as a turnspit, as
nimble as a fencer, and as lousy as a school-master,
now thou art put to silence like a sectary. War
sits now like a justice of peace, and does nothing.
Where be your muskets, calivers3 note and hot-shots? in
Long-lane, at pawn, at pawn? Now keys are your
only guns; key-guns, key-guns,—and bawds the gunners;
who are your sentinels in peace, and stand
ready charg'd to give warning with hems, hums, and
pocky coughs4 note
: only your chambers are licens'd to
play upon you5 note
, and drabs enow to give fire to 'em.
Skir.
Well, I cannot tell, but I am sure it goes
wrong with me; for since the ceasure of the wars
I have spent above a hundred crowns out of purse.
I have been a soldier any time this forty years; and
-- 543 --
and now I perceive an old soldier and an old courtier
have both one destiny, and in the end turn both
into hob-nails.
Pye.
Pretty mystery for a beggar; for indeed a
hob-nail is the true emblem of a beggar's shoesoal.
Skir.
I will not say but that war is a blood-sucker,
and so; but in my conscience, (as there is no soldier
but has a piece of one, though it be full of holes,
like a shot ancient6 note; no matter,—'twill serve to
swear by,) in my conscience, I think some kind of
peace has more hidden oppressions, and violent heady
sins, (though looking of a gentle nature,) than a profess'd
war7 note
.
Pye.
'Troth, and for mine own part, I am a poor
gentleman, and a scholar; I have been matriculated
in the university, wore out six gowns there, seen
some fools, and some scholars, some of the city, and
some of the country, kept order, went bare-headed
over the quadrangle, eat my commons with a good
stomach, and battled with discretion8 note
; at last, having
-- 544 --
done many sleights and tricks to maintain my
wit in use, (as my brain would never endure me to
be idle,) I was expell'd the university, only for stealing
a cheese out of Jesus college.
Skir.
Is't possible?
Pye.
O! there was one Welshman (God forgive
him!) pursued it hard, and never left, till I turn'd
my staff toward London; where when I came, all
my friends were pit-hol'd, gone to graves; as indeed
there was but a few left before. Then was I
turn'd to my wits, to shift in the world, to tower* note
among sons and heirs, and fools, and gulls, and ladies'
eldest sons; to work upon nothing, to feed out
of flint: and ever since has my belly been much
beholden to my brain. But now to return to you,
old Skirmish:—I say as you say, and for my part
wish a turbulency in the world; for I have nothing
to lose but my wits, and I think they are as
mad as they will be: and to strengthen your argument
the more, I say an honest war is better than a
bawdy peace. As touching my profession; the multiplicity
of scholars, hatch'd and nourish'd in the
idle calms of peace9 note, makes them, like fishes, one
devour another; and the community of learning has
so play'd upon affections, that thereby almost religion
is come about to phantasy, and discredited by being
too much spoken of, in so many and mean
mouths. I myself being a scholar and a graduate,
have no other comfort by my learning, but the affection
-- 545 --
of my words1 note
, to know how, scholar-like,
to name what I want; and can call myself a beggar
both in Greek and Latin. And therefore not to
cog with peace, I'll not be afraid to say, 'tis a great
breeder, but a barren nourisher; a great getter of
children, which must either be thieves or rich men,
knaves or beggars.
Skir.
Well, would I had been born a knave then,
when I was born a beggar! for if the truth was
known, I think I was begot when my father had never
a penny in his purse.
Pye.
Puh! faint not, old Skirmish; let this warrant
thee—facilis descensus Averni—'tis an easy journey
to a knave; thou may'st be a knave when thou wilt:
and Peace is a good madam to all other professions,
and an errant drab to us. Let us handle her accordingly,
and by our wits thrive in despite of her:
For since the law lives by quarrels, the courtier by
smooth good-morrows, and every profession makes
itself greater by imperfections, why not we then by
shifts, wiles, and forgeries? And seeing our brains
are our only patrimonies, let's spend with judgment;
not like a desperate son and heir, but like a sober
and discreet Templar: one that will never march beyond
the bounds of his allowance. And for our
thriving means, thus:—I myself will put on the deceit
of a fortune teller.
Skir.
A fortune-teller? Very proper.
Pye.
And you a figure-caster, or a conjurer.
Skir.
A conjurer?
Pye.
Let me alone; I'll instruct you, and teach you
to deceive all eyes, but the devil's.
Skir.
O ay, for I would not deceive him, an I
could choose, of all others.
-- 546 --
Pye.
Fear not, I warrant you. And so by those
means we shall help one another to patients; as the
condition of the age affords creatures enough for cunning
to work upon.
Skir.
O wondrous! new fools and fresh asses.
Pye.
O, fit, fit; excellent.
Skir.
What, in the name of conjuring?
Pye.
My memory greets me happily with an admirable
subject to graze upon. The lady widow,
whom of late I saw weeping in her garden for the death
of her husband, sure she has but a waterish soul, and
half of't by this time is dropp'd out of her eyes: device
well manag'd may do good upon her: it stands
firm; my first practice shall be there.
Skir.
You have my voice, George.
Pye.
She has a grey gull to her brother, a fool
to her only son, and an ape to her youngest daughter.
I overheard them severally, and from their words
I'll derive my device; and thou, old Peter Skirmish,
shalt be my second in all sleights.
Skir.
Ne'er doubt me, George Pyeboard;—only
you must teach me to conjure.
Pye.
Puh! I'll perfect thee, Peter: How now!
what's he?
[Idle pinioned, and attended by a guard of sheriff's officers, passes over the stage.
Skir.
O George! this sight kills me. 'Tis my
sworn brother, captain Idle.
Pye.
Captain Idle!
Skir.
Apprehended for some felonious act or
other. He has started out,—has made a night on't,—
lack'd silver. I cannot but commend his resolution;
he would not pawn his buff-jerkin. I would either
some of us were employed, or might pitch our tents
at usurers' doors, to kill the slaves as they peep out
at the wicket.
Pye.
Indeed, those are our ancient enemies; they
keep our money in their hands, and make us to be
-- 547 --
hang'd for robbing of them. But come, let's follow
after to the prison, and know the nature of his offence;
and what we can stead him in, he shall be sure
of it: and I'll uphold it still, that a charitable knave
is better than a soothing Puritan.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A street.
Enter Nicholas St. Antlings2 note, Simon St. Mary-Overies,
and Frailty, in black scurvy mourning coats, with books
at their girdles, as coming from church. To them Corporal Oath.
Nich.
What, corporal Oath! I am sorry we have
met with you, next our hearts: you are the man that
we are forbidden to keep company withal. We must
not swear I can tell you, and you have the name for
swearing.
Sim.
Ay, corporal Oath, I would you would do so
much as forsake us, sir: we cannot abide you; we
must not be seen in your company.
Frail.
There is none of us, I can tell you, but
shall be soundly whip'd for swearing.
Oath.
Why how now, we three3 note
? Puritanical scrape-shoes,
flesh o' Good-Fridays, a hand.
[Shakes them by the hand.
All.
Oh!
-- 548 --
Oath.
Why Nicholas St. Antlings, Simon St.
Mary-Overies, has the devil possess'd you, that you
swear no better? you half-christen'd catamites, you
un-godmother'd varlets4 note. Does the first lesson teach
you to be proud, and the second to be coxcombs,
proud coxcombs, not once to do duty to a man of
mark5 note
?
Frail.
A man of mark, quoth-a! I do not think he
can show a beggar's noble6 note
.
Oath.
A corporal, a commander, one of spirit,
that is able to blow you up all three with your books
at your girdles7 note
.
Sim.
We are not taught to believe that, sir; for
we know the breath of man is weak.
[Oath breathes on Frailty.
Frail.
Foh! you lie, Nicholas; for here's one
strong enough. Blow us up, quoth-a! he may well
-- 549 --
blow me above twelve-score off on him8 note: I warrant,
if the wind stood right, a man might smell him from
the top of Newgate to the leads of Ludgate9 note
.
Oath.
Sirrah, thou hollow book of wax-candle1 note—
Nich.
Ay, you may say what you will, so you swear
not.
Oath.
I swear by the—
Nich.
Hold, hold, good corporal Oath; for if
you swear once, we shall all fall down in a swoon
presently.
Oath.
I must and will swear, you quivering coxcombs:
my captain is imprison'd; and by Vulcan's
leather codpiece-point—
Nich.
O Simon, what an oath was there!
Frail.
If he should chance to break it, the poor
man's breeches would fall down about his heels2 note
;
for Venus allows him but one point to his hose.
Oath.
With these my bully feet3 note I will thump
-- 550 --
ope the prison doors, and brain the keeper with the
begging-box, but I'll set my honest sweet captain Idle
at liberty.
Nich.
How, captain Idle? my old aunt's son, my
dear kinsman, in cappadochio4 note?
Oath.
Ay, thou church-peeling, thou holy paring,
religious outside, thou. If thou hadst any grace in
thee, thou wouldst visit him, relieve him, swear to
get him out.
Nich.
Assure you, corporal, indeed-la, 'tis the first
time I heard on't.
Oath.
Why do't now then, marmozet5 note. Bring
forth thy yearly wages; let not a commander
perish.
Sim.
But if he be one of the wicked, he shall
perish.
Nich.
Well, corporal, I'll e'en along with you,
to visit my kinsman; if I can do him any good, I
will: but I have nothing for him. Simon St. Mary-Overies
and Frailty, pray make a lie for me to the
knight my master, old sir Godfrey.
Oath.
A lie! may you lie then?
Frail.
O ay, we may lie, but we must not swear.
Sim.
True, we may lie with our neighbour's wife;
but we must not swear we did so.
Oath.
O, an excellent tag of religion!
Nich.
O, Simon, I have thought upon a sound
excuse; it will go current: say that I am gone to
a fast.
Sim.
To a fast? very good.
Nich.
Ay, to a fast, say, with master Full-belly
the minister.
-- 551 --
Sim.
Master Full-belly? an honest man: he feeds
the flock well, for he's an excellent feeder.
[Exeunt Oath and Nicholas.
Frail.
O ay; I have seen him eat a whole pig,
and afterward fall to the pettitoes.
[Exeunt Simon and Frailty.
SCENE IV.
A room in the Marshalsea prison.
Enter Idle; to him afterwards Pyeboard and Skirmish.
Pye. [within.]
Pray turn the key.
Skir. [within.]
Turn the key, I pray.
Idle.
Who should those be? I almost know their
voices. [Pyeboard and Skirmish enter.] O my friends!
you are welcome to a smelling room here. You
newly took leave of the air; has it not a strange
savour?
Pye.
As all prisons have, smells of sundry wretches,
who, though departed, leave their scents behind them.
By gold, captain, I am sincerely sorry for thee.
Idle.
By my troth, George, I thank thee; but,
pish—what must be, must be.
Skir.
Captain, what do you lie in for? is't great?
what's your offence?
Idle.
Faith, my offence is ordinary, common; a
high-way: and I fear me my penalty will be ordinary
and common too;—a halter.
Pye.
Nay, prophecy not so ill; it shall go hard
but I'll shift for thy life.
Idle.
Whether I live or die, thou'rt an honest
George. I'll tell you. Silver flow'd not with me,
as it had done; for now the tide runs to bawds and
flatterers. I had a start out, and by chance set upon
a fat steward, thinking his purse had been as pursy
as his body; and the slave had about him but the
-- 552 --
poor purchase of ten groats6 note. Notwithstanding being
descried, pursued, and taken, I know the law is
so grim, in respect of many desperate, unsettled soldiers* note,
that I fear me I shall dance after their pipe for't7 note.
Skir.
I am twice sorry for you, captain; first, that
your purchase was so small, and now that your danger
is so great.
Idle.
Pish; the worst is but death. Have you a pipe
of tobacco about you?
Skir.
I think I have thereabouts about me.
Idle.
Here's a clean gentleman too, to receive8 note
.
[Idle smokes a pipe.
Pye.
Well, I must cast about some happy sleight:
Work brain, that ever didst thy master right.
[Oath and Nicholas knock within.
Oath. [within.]
Keeper, let the key be turn'd.
Nich. [within.]
Ay, I pray, master keeper, give
us a cast of your office.
Enter Oath and Nicholas.
Idle.
How now? More visitants? What, corporal
Oath?
Pye. Skir.
Corporal!
Oath.
In prison, honest captain? this must not be.
Nich.
How do you, captain kinsman?
-- 553 --
Idle.
Good coxcomb, what makes that pure,
starch'd fool here?
Nich.
You see, kinsman, I am somewhat bold to
call in, and see how you do. I heard you were safe
enough; and I was very glad on't, that it was no worse.
Idle.
This is a double torture now. This fool, by
the book, doth vex me more than my imprisonment.
What meant you, corporal, to hook him hither?
Oath.
Who, he? he shall relieve thee, and supply
thee; I'll make him do't.
Idle.
Fie, what vain breath you spend? He supply!
I'll sooner expect mercy from an usurer when
my bond's forfeited, sooner kindness from a lawyer
when my money's spent, nay, sooner charity from
the devil, than good from a Puritan. I'll look for
relief from him when Lucifer is restor'd to his blood* note
,
and in heaven again.
Nich.
I warrant my kinsman's talking of me, for
my left ear burns most tyrannically9 note.
Pye.
Captain Idle, what's he there? he looks like
a monkey upward, and a crane downward.
Idle.
Psha! a foolish cousin of mine, I must thank
God for him.
Pye.
Why, the better subject to work a scape
upon; thou shalt e'en change clothes with him, and
leave him here, and so—
Idle.
Pish! I publish'd him e'en now to my corporal:
he will be damn'd ere he do me so much
good. Why, I know a more proper, a more handsome
device than that, if the slave would be sociable.
Now, goodman Fleerface?
Nich.
O, my cousin begins to speak to me now;
I shall be acquainted with him again, I hope.
-- 554 --
Skir.
Look, what ridiculous raptures take hold of
his wrinkles.
Pye.
Then what say you to this device? a happy
one, captain?
Idle.
Speak low, George; prison rats have wider
ears than those in malt-lofts.
Nich.
Cousin, if it lay in my power, as they say,
to do—
Idle.
'Twould do me an exceeding pleasure indeed,
that: but ne'er talk further on't; the fool will be
hang'd e'er he do't.
[To the Corporal.
Oath.
Pox, I'll thump him to't.
Pye.
Why, do but try the fopster, and break it to
him bluntly.
Idle.
And so my disgrace will dwell in his jaws,
and the slave slaver out our purpose to his master;
for would I were but as sure on't, as I am sure he
will deny to do't.
Nich.
I would be heartily glad, cousin, if any of
my friendships, as they say, might—stand, ha—
Pye.
Why, you see he offers his friendship foolishly
to you already.
Idle.
Ay, that's the hell on't; I would he would
offer it wisely.
Nich.
Verily and indeed la, cousin—
Idle.
I have took note of thy fleers a good while.
If thou art minded to do me good, (as thou gap'st
upon me comfortably, and giv'st me charitable
faces,—which indeed is but a fashion in you all that
are Puritans,) wilt soon at night steal me thy master's
chain?
Nich.
Oh, I shall swoon.
Pye.
Corporal, he starts already.
Idle.
I know it to be worth three hundred crowns;
and with the half of that I can buy my life at a
broker's, at second-hand, which now lies in pawn to
the law. If this thou refuse to do, being easy and
nothing dangerous, in that thou art held in good
-- 555 --
opinion of thy master, why 'tis a palpable argument
thou hold'st my life at no price; and these thy
broken and unjointed offers are but only created in
thy lip; now born, and now buried; foolish breath
only. What, wilt do't? shall I look for happiness
in thy answer?
Nich.
Steal my master's chain, quoth-a? No, it
shall ne'er be said, that Nicholas St. Antlings committed
birdlime.
Idle.
Nay, I told you as much, did I not? Though
he be a Puritan, yet he will be a true man1 note
.
Nich.
Why cousin, you know 'tis written, Thou
shalt not steal.
Idle.
Why, and fool, Thou shalt love thy neighbour,
and help him in extremities.
Nich.
Mass I think it be indeed: in what chapter's
that, cousin?
Idle.
Why in the first of Charity, the second verse.
Nich.
The first of Charity, quoth-a? That's a good
jest; there's no such chapter in my book.
Idle.
No, I knew 'twas torn out of thy book, and
that makes it so little in thy heart.
Pye. [Takes Nicholas aside.]
Come, let me tell you,
you're too unkind a kinsman i'faith; the captain loving
you so dearly, ay, like the pomewater of his
eye2 note
, and you to be so uncomfortable: fie, fie.
Nich.
Pray do not wish me to be hang'd. Any
thing else that I can do, had it been to rob, I would
-- 556 --
have done't; but I must not steal: That's the word, the
literal, Thou shalt not steal; and would you wish me to
steal then?
Pye.
No faith, that were too much, to speak
truth: why, wilt thou nym it from him3 note
?
Nich.
That I will.
Pye.
Why enough, bully; he will be content with
that, or he shall have none: let me alone with him
now.—Captain, I have dealt with your kinsman in a
corner; a good, kind-natur'd fellow, methinks: go
to; you shall not have all your own asking, you shall
bate somewhat on't: he is not contented absolutely,
as you would say, to steal the chain from him, but to
do you a pleasure, he will nym it from him.
Nich.
Ay, that I will, cousin.
Idle.
Well, seeing he will do no more, as far as I
see, I must be contented with that.
Oath.
Here's no notable gullery4 note
!
Pye.
Nay, I'll come nearer to you, gentleman.
Because we'll have only but a help and a mirth on't,
the knight shall not lose his chain neither, but it shall
be only laid out of the way some one or two days.
Nich.
Ay, that would be good indeed, kinsman.
Pye.
For I have a farther reach, to profit us better
by the missing of't only, than if we had it outright;
as my discourse shall make it known to you.
When thou hast the chain, do but convey it out at a
back-door into the garden, and there hang it close in
-- 557 --
the rosemary bank, but for a small season; and by
that harmless device I know how to wind captain
Idle out of prison: the knight thy master shall get
his pardon, and release him, and he satisfy thy master
with his own chain, and wondrous thanks on
both hands.
Nich.
That were rare indeed la. Pray let me know
how.
Pye.
Nay, 'tis very necessary thou should'st know,
because thou must be employ'd as an actor.
Nich.
An actor? O no; that's a player; and our
parson rails against players mightily, I can tell you,
because they brought him drunk upon the stage once;
—as he will be horribly drunk.
Oath.
Mass I cannot blame him then, poor church-spout.
Pye.
Why, as an intermedler then.
Nich.
Ay, that, that.
Pye.
Give me audience then. When the old
knight, thy master, has raged his fill for the loss of
the chain, tell him thou hast a kinsman in prison,
of such exquisite art that the devil himself is French
lackey to him, and runs bare-headed by his horsebelly,
when he has one; whom he will cause, with
most Irish dexterity5 note, to fetch his chain, though
'twere hid under a mine of sea-coal, and ne'er make
spade or pick-axe his instruments: tell him but this,
with farther instructions thou shalt receive from me,
and thou showest thyself a kinsman indeed.
Oath.
A dainty bully.
Skir.
An honest book-keeper.
Idle.
And my three-times-thrice-honey cousin.
Nich.
Nay, grace of God, I'll rob him on't suddenly,
and hang it in the rosemary bank; but I bear
-- 558 --
that mind, cousin, I would not steal any thing, methinks,
for mine own father.
Skir.
He bears a good mind in that, captain.
Pye.
Why, well said; he begins to be an honest
fellow, 'faith.
Oath.
In troth he does.
Nich.
You see, cousin, I am willing to do you any
kindness; always saving myself harmless.
Idle.
Why I thank thee. Fare thee well; I shall
requite it.
[Exit Nicholas.
Oath.
'Twill be good for thee, captain, that thou
hast such an egregious ass to thy cousin.
Idle.
Ay, is he not a fine fool, corporal?
But, George, thou talk'st of art and conjuring;
How shall that be?
Pye.
Puh! be't not in your care:
Leave that to me and my directions.
Well, captain, doubt not thy delivery now,
Even with the vantage, man, to gain by prison,
As my thoughts prompt me. Hold on brain and plot!
I aim at many cunning far events,
All which I doubt not but to hit at length.
I'll to the widow with a quaint assault:
Captain, be merry.
Idle.
Who I? Kerry merry buff-jerkin.
Pye.
Oh, I am happy in more sleights; and one
will knit strong in another. Corporal Oath.
Oath.
Ho! bully!
Pye.
And thou, old Peter Skirmish, I have a necessary
task for you both.
Skir.
Lay it upon us, George Pyeboard.
Oath.
Whate'er it be, we'll manage it.
Pye.
I would have you two maintain a quarrel
before the lady widow's door, and draw your swords
i' the edge of the evening: clash a little, clash, clash.
Oath.
Fuh!
Let us alone to make our blades ring noon,
Though it be after supper.
-- 559 --
Pye.
I know you can: and out of that false fire,
I doubt not but to raise strange belief. And, captain,
to countenance my device the better, and grace
my words to the widow, I have a good plain sattin
suit, that I had of a young reveller t'other night;
for words pass not regarded now a-days, unless they
come from a good suit of cloaths; which the Fates
and my wits have bestowed upon me. Well, captain
Idle, if I did not highly love thee, I would ne'er be
seen within twelve score of a prison;6 note
for I protest,
at this instant I walk in great danger of small
debts. I owe money to several hostesses, and you
know such jills will quickly be upon a man's jack7 note
.
Idle.
True, George.
Pye.
Fare thee well, captain. Come corporal and
ancient. Thou shalt hear more news next time we
greet thee.
Oath.
More news?—Ay, by yon Bear at Bridge-foot
in heaven, shalt thou9Q1366* note.
[Exeunt Pyeboard, Skirmish, and Oath.
Idle.
Enough: my friends, farewel!
This prison shows as ghosts did part in hell.
[Exit.
-- 560 --
ACT II.
SCENE I.
A room in the widow's house.
Enter Mary.
Mary.
Not marry! forswear marriage! Why all
women know 'tis as honourable a thing as to lie with
a man; and I, to spight my sister's vow the more,
have entertain'd a suitor already, a fine gallant knight
of the last feather8 note
. He says he will coach me too,
and well appoint me; allow me money to dice
withal; and many such pleasing protestations he
sticks upon my lips. Indeed his short-winded father
i' the country is wondrous wealthy, a most abominable
farmer; and therefore he may do it in time9 note. '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 ox;—there comes in my relief again.
Enter Frailty.
Frail.
O, mistress Mary, mistress Mary!
Mary.
How now? what's the news?
Frail.
The knight your suitor, sir John Pennydub.
-- 561 --
Mary.
Sir John Pennydub? where? where?
Frail.
He's walking in the gallery.
Mary.
Has my mother seen him yet?
Frail.
O no; she's spitting in the kitchen1 note.
Mary.
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.
[Exit.
Enter Sir John Pennydub.
Mary.
'Tis happiness my mother saw him not.
O welcome, good sir John.
Sir John.
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 even now.
Mary.
Nay, the Fates forefend that I should anger
the fashion!
Sir John.
Then, not forgetting the sweet of new
ceremonies2 note
, I first fall back; then recovering myself,
make my honour to your lip thus; and then accost
it.
[Kisses her.
Mary.
Trust me, very pretty and moving; you're
-- 562 --
worthy of it, sir.—O my mother, my mother! now
she's here, we'll steal into the gallery.
[Exeunt Sir John and Mary.
Enter Widow and Sir Godfrey.
Sir God.
Nay, sister, let reason rule you; do not
play the fool; stand not in your own light. You
have wealthy offers, large tenderings; do not withstand
your good fortune. Who comes a wooing to
you, I pray? No small fool; a rich knight o' the
city, sir Oliver Muckhill; 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 them,) both your daughters are not
without suitors, ay, and worthy ones too; one a
brisk courtier, sir Andrew Tipstaff, suitor 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 Pennydub: a good name marry;—he may
have it coin'd when he lacks money. 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 suitor to me. O, I cannot abide it;
I take in poison when I hear one nam'd.
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? O, 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
-- 563 --
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 of 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 warrant3 note.
Wid.
O,
Let them come near, they bring home things of his;
Troth I should have forgot them. How now villain!
Which be those archers?
Enter Sir Andrew Tipstaff, Sir Oliver Muckhill, and Sir John Pennydub.
Frail.
Why, do you not see them before you? Are
not these archers?—what do you call 'em—shooters?
Shooters and archers are all one, I hope4 note.
Wid.
Out, ignorant slave!
Sir Oliv.
Nay, pray be patient, lady;
We come in way of honourable love—
Sir And. Sir John.
We do.
Sir Oliv.
To you.
Sir And. Sir John.
And to your daughters.
-- 564 --
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 have another ere morning.
Pray away; pray take your answers, good
knights. An you be sweet knights, I have vow'd
never to marry; and so have my daughters too.
Sir John.
Ay, two of you have, but the third's a
good wench.
Sir Oliv.
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.
Sir And.
Where be your daughters, lady? I hope
they'll give us better encouragement.
Wid.
Indeed they'll answer you so; take it on my
word, they'll give you the very same answer verbatim,
truly la.
Sir John.
Mum: Mary's a good wench still; I
know what she'll do.
Sir Oliv.
Well, lady, for this time we'll take our
leaves; hoping for better comfort.
Wid.
O never, never, an I live these thousand
years. An you be good knights, do not hope; 'twill
be all vain, vain. Look you put off all your suits,
an you come to me again.
[Exeunt Sir John and Sir Andrew.
Frail.
Put off all their suits, quoth-a? ay, that's
the best wooing of a widow indeed, when a man's
non-suited; that is, when he's a-bed with her.
Sir Oliv.
Sir Godfrey, here's twenty angels more.
Work hard for me; there's life in't yet* note
.
Sir God.
Fear not Sir Oliver Muckhill; I'll stick
close for you: leave all with me.
[Exit Sir Oliver.
-- 565 --
Enter Pyeboard.
Pye.
By your leave, lady widow.
Wid.
What another suitor now?
Pye.
A suitor! No, I protest, lady, if you'd give
me yourself, I'd not be troubled with you.
Wid.
Say you so, sir? then you're the better welcome, sir.
Pye.
Nay, heaven 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.
[Exit Sir Godfrey.
Frail.
I should laugh now, if this blunt fellow
should put them all beside the stirrop, and vault into
the saddle himself. I have seen as mad a trick.
[Exit Frailty.
Wid.
Now, sir; here's none but we.
Enter Mary and Frances.
Daughters, forbear.
Pye.
O no, pray let them stay; for what I have to
speak importeth equally to them as to 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 it pass unregarded, and uneffected;
else peace and joy: I pray attention. Widow, I
have been a mere stranger from these parts 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
-- 566 --
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 bonfire5 note; 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 yourself
and your eldest daughter, and the speedy determination
of marriage in your youngest.
Mary.
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, for 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 metaphysically6 note
,
and by a supernatural intelligence.
Wid.
This puts amazement on me.
Fran.
Know our secrets?
Mary.
I had thought to steal a marriage. Would
his tongue had drop'd out when he blab'd it!
Wid.
But, sir, my husband was too honest a dealing
man to be now in any purgatories—
-- 567 --
Pye.
O do not load your conscience with untruths;
'Tis but mere folly now to gild him 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:
O, 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.
O, I groan to speak on't; the thought makes me
Shudder, shudder!
Wid.
It quakes me too7 note
, now I think on't. [Aside.]
Sir, I am much griev'd, that you a stranger should
so deeply wrong my dead husband!
Pye.
O!
Wid.
A man that would keep church so duly;
rise early, before his servants, and even for religious
haste, go ungartered, unbuttoned, nay (sir reverence)
untrussed8 note, to morning prayer?
Pye.
O, uff.
Wid.
Dine quickly upon high days; and when I
had great guests, would even shame me, and rise
-- 568 --
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 it had been done in a pew; or undone his
neighbour, so it had been near enough to the preacher.
O, 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?
Pye.
No, lady, 'tis but the induction to it9 note.
You may believe my strains; I strike all true1 note;
And if your conscience would leap up to your tongue,
yourself 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 human creature
dies, two of you (the elder* note) shall run mad;—
Wid and Fran.
Oh!
Mary.
That's not I yet.
Pye.
And, with most impudent prostitution, show
your naked bodies to the view of all beholders.
-- 569 --
Wid.
Our naked bodies? fie for shame.
Pye.
Attend me—and your younger daughter be
strucken dumb.
Mary.
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: Ere the evening fall upon hill,
bog, and meadow, this my speech shall have past
probation2 note
, and then shall I be believ'd accordingly.
Wid.
If this be true, we are all sham'd, all undone.
Mary.
Dumb! I'll speak as much as ever I can
possibly 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.
Mary.
A double torment3 note.
Pye.
The breach of this keeps your father in purgatory;
and the punishments that shall follow you
in this world, would with horror kill the ear should
hear them related4 note
.
-- 570 --
Wid.
Marry! Why I vow'd never to marry.
Fran.
And so did I.
Mary.
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 them 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 yourselves, and leave
them.
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.
Pye.
'Tis enough, lady; I wish no higher.
[Exeunt Widow and Frances.
Mary.
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
hostess's garden, which neighbours the orchard of
the widow, I laid the hole of mine ear to a hole in
the wall, and heard them 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 them 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 soldier5 note, to
-- 571 --
hurt corporal Oath upon the leg; and in that hurry
I'll rush amongst them, and instead of giving the corporal
some cordial to comfort him, I'll pour into his
mouth a potion of a sleepy nature, to make him
seem as dead; for the which the old soldier being
apprehended, and ready to be borne to execution,
I'll step in, and take upon me the cure of the dead
man, upon pain of dying the condemned's death.
The corporal will wake at his minute, when the
sleepy force hath wrought itself6 note; and so shall I get
myself 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.
SCENE. II.
A Garden.
Enter Nicholas.
Nich.
O, I have found an excellent advantage to
take away the chain. My master put it off e'en now,
-- 572 --
to 'say on a new doublet7 note; and I sneak'd 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.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
The street before the Widow's house.
Enter Simon and Frailty.
Frail.
Sirrah, Simon St. Mary-Overies, my mistress
sends away all her suitors, and puts fleas in their
ears.
Sim.
Frailty, she does like an honest, chaste, and
virtuous woman; for widows ought not to wallow in
the puddle of iniquity.
Frail.
Yet, Simon, many widows will do't, whatso
comes on't.
Sim.
True, Frailty; their filthy flesh desires a
conjunction copulative. What strangers are within,
Frailty?
Frail.
There's none, Simon, but master Pilfer the
Taylor: he's above with sir Godfrey, 'praising of a
doublet8 note: and I must trudge anon to fetch master
Suds the barber.
Sim.
Master Suds:—a good man; he washes the
sins of the beard clean.
-- 573 --
Enter Skirmish.
Skir.
How now, creatures? what's o'clock?
Frail.
Why, do you take us to be Jacks o'the clock
house9 note
?
Skir.
I say again to you, what is't o'clock?
Sim.
Truly la, we go by the clock of our conscience.
All worldly clocks we know go false, and
are set by drunken sextons.
Skir.
Then what is't o'clock in your conscience?
—O, I must break off; here comes the corporal.
Enter Oath.
Hum, hum: what is't o'clock?
Oath.
O'clock? why past seventeen.
Frail.
Past seventeen! Nay, he has met with his
match now; corporal Oath will fit him.
Skir.
Thou dost not balk or baffle me, dost thou?
I am a soldier. Past seventeen!
Oath.
Ay, thou art not angry with the figures,
art thou? I will prove it unto thee: twelve and one
is thirteen, I hope; two fourteen, three fifteen, four
sixteen, and five seventeen; then past seventeen: I
will take the dial's part in a just cause.
Skir.
I say 'tis but past five then.
Oath.
I'll swear 'tis past seventeen then. Dost thou
not know numbers? Can'st thou not cast?
Skir.
Cast? dost thou speak of my casting i'the
street1 note?
[They draw and fight.
-- 574 --
Oath.
Ay, and in the market-place.
Sim.
Clubs, clubs, clubs2 note
.
[Simon runs away.
Frail.
Ay, I knew by their shuffling, clubs would
be trump. Mass here's the knave, an he can do any
good upon them: Clubs, clubs, clubs.
[Exit.
Enter Pyeboard.
Oath.
O villain, thou hast open'd a vein in my
leg.
Pye.
How now? for shame, for shame, put up,
put up.
Oath.
By yon blue welkin3 note, 'twas out of my part,
George, to be hurt on the leg.
Enter Officers.
Pye.
O, peace now: I have a cordial here to
comfort thee.
Offi.
Down with 'em, down with 'em; lay hands
upon the villain.
Skir.
Lay hands on me?
Pye.
I'll not be seen among them now.
[Exit Pyeboard.
Oath.
I'm hurt, and had more need have surgeons
lay hands upon me, than rough officers.
Offi.
Go, carry him to be dress'd then: this mutinous
soldier shall along with me to prison.
[Exeunt some of the Sheriffs Officers with Corporal Oath.
Skir.
To prison? Where's George?
Offi.
Away with him.
[Exeunt Officers with Skirmish.
-- 575 --
SCENE II.
The same.
Re-enter Pyeboard.
Pye.
So,
All lights as I would wish. The amaz'd widow
Will plant me strongly now in her belief,
And wonder at the virtue of my words:
For the event turns those presages from them
Of being mad and dumb, and begets joy
Mingled with admiration. These empty creatures,
Soldier and corporal, were but ordain'd
As instruments for me to work upon.
Now to my patient; here's his potion.
[Exit.
SCENE III.
An apartment in the Widow's house.
Enter Widow, Frances, and Mary.
Wid.
O wondrous happiness, beyond our thoughts!
O lucky fair event! I think our fortunes
Were blest even in our cradles. We are quitted
Of all those shameful violent presages
By this rash bleeding chance4 note
. Go, Frailty, run, and know
Whether he be yet living, or yet dead,
That here before my door receiv'd his hurt.
Frail.
Madam, he was carried to the superior5 note
;
-- 576 --
but if he had no money when he came there, I warrant
he's dead by this time.
[Exit Frailty.
Fran.
Sure that man is a rare fortune-teller; never
look'd upon our hands, nor upon any mark about us:
a wondrous fellow surely!
Mary.
I am glad I have the use of my tongue yet,
though of nothing else. I shall find the way to marry
too, I hope, shortly.
Wid.
O where's my brother sir Godfrey? I would
he were here, that I might relate to him how prophetically
the cunning gentleman spoke in all things.
Enter Sir Godfrey.
Sir God.
O my chain, my chain! I have lost my
chain. Where be these villains, varlets?
Wid.
O, he has lost his chain.
Sir God.
My chain, my chain!
Wid.
Brother, be patient; hear me speak. You
know I told you that a cunning-man told me that
you should have a loss, and he has prophecy'd so
true—
Sir God.
Out! he's a villain to prophecy of the
loss of my chain. 'Twas worth above three hundred
crowns. Besides 'twas my father's, my father's father's,
my grandfather's huge grandfather's6 note: I had
as lief have lost my neck, as the chain that hung
about it. O my chain, my chain!
Wid.
O, brother, who can be guarded against a
misfortune? 'Tis happy 'twas no more.
Sir God.
No more! O goodly godly sister, would
you had me lost more? my best gown too, with the
cloth of gold-lace? my holiday gaskins7 note, and my
jerkin set with pearl? No more!
-- 577 --
Wid.
O brother, you can read—
Sir God.
But I cannot read where my chain is.
What strangers have been here? You let in strangers,
thieves, and catch-poles. How comes it gone?
There was none above with me but my taylor; and
my taylor will not steal, I hope.
Mary.
No; he's afraid of a chain.
Enter Frailty.
Wid.
How now, sirrah? the news?
Frail.
O, mistress, he may well he call'd a corporal
now, for his corpse is as dead as a cold capon's.
Wid.
More happiness.
Sir God.
Sirrah, what's this to my chain? Where's
my chain, knave?
Frail
Your chain, sir?
Sir God.
My chain is lost, villain.
Frail.
I would he were hang'd in chains that has it
then for me. Alas, sir, I saw none of your chain,
since you were hung with it yourself.
Sir God.
Out varlet! it had full three thousand links8 note;
I have oft told it over at my prayers9 note;
Over and over: full three thousand links.
Frail.
Had it so, sir! Sure it cannot be lost then;
I'll put you in that comfort.
-- 578 --
Sir God.
Why? why?
Frail.
Why, if your chain had so many links, it
cannot choose but come to light1 note.
Enter Nicholas.
Sir God.
Delusion! Now, long Nicholas, where
is my chain?
Nich.
Why about your neck, is't not, sir?
Sir God.
About my neck, varlet? My chain is
lost; 'tis stolen away; I'm robb'd.
Wid.
Nay, brother, show yourself a man.
Nich.
Ay, if it be lost or stole, if he would be
patient, mistress, I could bring him to a cunning
kinsman of mine that would fetch it again with a
sesarara2 note.
Sir God.
Canst thou? I will be patient: say, where
dwells he?
Nich.
Marry he dwells now, sir, where he would
not dwell an he could choose; in the Marshalsea,
sir. But he's an excellent fellow if he were out; has
travell'd all the world over he, and been in the seven
and twenty provinces3 note: why, he would make it
be fetch'd, sir, if it were rid a thousand mile out of
town.
Sir God.
An admirable fellow! What lies he for?
Nich.
Why, he did but rob a steward of ten groats
-- 579 --
t'other night, as any man would ha' done, and there
he lies for't.
Sir God.
I'll make his peace. A trifle! I'll get his pardon,
Besides a bountiful reward. I'll about it.
But fee the clerks, the Justice will do much.
I will about it straight. Good sister pardon me;
All will be well I hope, and turn to good:
The name of conjurer has laid my blood.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
A street.
Enter Puttock, Ravenshaw4 note, and Dogson.
Put.
His hostess where he lies will trust him no
longer. She hath feed me to arrest him; and if
you will accompany me, because I know not of what
nature the scholar is, whether desperate or swift, you
shall share with me, serjeant Ravenshaw. I have the
good angel to arrest him* note.
Rav.
'Troth I'll take part with thee then, serjeant;
not for the sake of the money so much, as for the
hate I bear to a scholar. Why, serjeant, 'tis natural
in us you know to hate scholars5 note,—natural; besides,
they will publish† note our imperfections, knaveries, and
conveyances, upon scaffolds and stages.
Put.
Ay, and spitefully too, 'Troth I have wonder'd
how the slaves could see into our breasts so
much, when our doublets are button'd with pewter.
-- 580 --
Rav.
Ay, and so close without yielding. O,
they're parlous fellows; they will search more with
their wits, than a constable with his officers.
Put.
Whist, whist, whist6 note. Yeoman Dogson,
yeoman Dogson.
Dog.
Ha! what says serjeant?
Put.
Is he in the 'pothecary's shop still?
Dog.
Ay, ay.
Put.
Have an eye, have an eye.
Rav.
The best is, serjeant, if he be a true scholar,
he wears no weapon, I think.
Put.
No, no, he wears no weapon.
Rav.
'Mass, I am glad of that: it has put me
in better heart. Nay, if I clutch him once7 note, let
me alone to drag him, if he be stiff-necked. I have
been one of the six myself, that has dragg'd as tall
men of their hands8 note
, when their weapons have been
gone, as ever bastinado'd a serjeant. I have done I
can tell you.
Dog.
Serjeant Puttock, serjeant Puttock.
Put.
Ho.
Dog.
He's coming out single.
Put.
Peace, peace, be not too greedy; let him
play a little, let him play a little; we'll jerk him up
of a sudden: I ha' fish'd in my time.
Rav.
Ay, and caught many a fool, serjeant.
-- 581 --
Enter Pyeboard.
Pye.
I parted now from Nicholas: the chain's couch'd,
And the old knight has spent his rage upon't.
The widow holds me in great admiration
For cunning art: 'mongst joys, I'm even lost,
For my device can no way now be cross'd:
And now I must to prison to the captain,
And there—
Put.
I arrest you, sir.
Pye.
Oh—I spoke truer than I was aware; I must
to prison indeed.
Put.
They say you're a scholar.—Nay sir—yeoman
Dogson, have care to his arms.—You'll rail against
serjeants, and stage 'em? You'll tickle their vices?
Pye.
Nay, use me like a gentleman; I'm little
less.
Put.
You a gentleman! that's a good jest i'faith.
Can a scholar be a gentleman, when a gentleman
will not be a scholar? Look upon your wealthy citizens'
sons, whether they be scholars or no, that are
gentlemen by their fathers' trades. A scholar a gentleman!
Pye.
Nay, let fortune drive all her stings into me,
she cannot hurt that in me. A gentleman is accidens
inseparabile to my blood9 note.
Rav.
A rablement! nay, you shall have a bloody
rablement upon you, I warrant you.
Put.
Go, yeoman Dogson, before, and enter the
action i'the Counter.
[Exit Dogson.
Pye.
Pray do not handle me cruelly; I'll go whither
you please to have me.
Put.
Oh, he's tame; let him loose, serjeant.
Pye.
Pray, at whose suit is this?
-- 582 --
Put.
Why, at your hostess's suit where you lye,
mistress Conyburrow, for bed and board; the sum
four pound five shillings and five pence.
Pye.
I know the sum too true; yet I presum'd
Upon a farther day. Well, 'tis my stars,
And I must bear it now, though never harder.
I swear now my device is cross'd indeed* note:
Captain must lye by't: this is deceit's seed.
Put.
Come, come away.
Pye.
Pray give me so much time as to knit my garter,
and I'll away with you.
Put.
Well, we must be paid for this waiting upon
you; this is no pains to attend thus.
[Pyeboard pretends to tie his garter.
Pye.
I am now wretched and miserable; I shall
ne'er recover of this disease. Hot iron gnaw their
fists! They have struck a fever into my shoulder,
which I shall ne'er shake out again, I fear me, 'till
with a true habeas corpus the sexton remove me. O,
if I take prison once1 note, I shall be press'd to death
with actions; but not so happy as speedily: perhaps
I may be forty years a pressing, till I be a thin old
man; that looking through the grates, men may look
through me. All my means is confounded. What
shall I do? Have my wits served me so long, and now
give me the slip (like a train'd servant) when I
have most need of them? No device to keep my
poor carcase from these puttocks2 note?—Yes, happiness:
have I a paper about me now? Yes, two: I'll
try it, it may hit; Extremity is the touchstone unto wit.
Ay, ay.
Put.
'Sfoot, how many yards are in thy garters, that
thou art so long a tying of them? Come away, sir.
-- 583 --
Pye.
'Troth serjeant, I protest, you could never have
took me at a worse time; for now at this instant I
have no lawful picture about me3 note.
Put.
'Slid, how shall we come by our fees then?
Rav.
We must have fees, sirrah.
Pye.
I could have wish'd, i'faith, that you had took
me half an hour hence for your own sake; for I protest,
if you had not cross'd me, I was going in great
joy to receive five pound of a gentleman, for the
device of a mask here, drawn in this paper. But
now, come, I must be contented; 'tis but so much
lost, and answerable to the rest of my fortunes.
Put.
Why, how far hence dwells that gentleman?
Rav.
Ay, well said, serjeant; 'tis good to cast about
for money.
Put.
Speak; if it be not far—
Pye.
We are but a little past it; the next street behind
us.
Put.
'Slid, we have waited upon you grievously already.
If you'll say you'll be liberal when you have
it, give us double fees, and spend upon us, why we'll
show you that kindness, and go along with you to the
gentleman.
Rav.
Ay, well said; still, serjeant, urge that.
Pye.
'Troth if it will suffice, it shall be all among
you; for my part I'll not pocket a penny: my hostess
shall have her four pound five shillings, and bate
me the five pence; and the other fifteen shillings I'll
spend upon you.
Rav.
Why, now thou art a good scholar.
Put.
An excellent scholar i'faith; has proceeded
very well a-late.9Q1367 Come, we'll along with you.
[Exeunt Puttock, Ravenshaw, and Pyeboard, who knocks
at the door of a gentleman's house at the inside of the stage.
-- 584 --
SCENE V.
A gallery in a gentleman's house.
Enter a Servant.
Ser.
Who knocks? Who's at door? We had need
of a porter.
[Opens the door.
Pye. [Within.]
A few friends here. Pray is the
gentleman your master within?
Ser.
Yes; is your business to him?
[Servant opens the door.
Enter Pyeboard, Puttock, Ravenshaw, and Dogson.
Pye.
Ay, he knows it, when he sees me: I pray
you, have you forgot me?
Ser.
Ay by my troth, sir; pray come near; I'll
in and tell him of you. Please you to walk here in
the gallery till he comes.
[Exit Servant.
Pye.
We will attend his worship. Worship, I
think; for so much the posts at his door should signify4 note
,
and the fair coming-in, and the wicket; else
I neither knew him nor his worship: but 'tis happiness
he is within doors, whatsoe'er he be. If he be
not too much a formal citizen, he may do me good.
[Aside.]—Serjeant and yeoman, how do you like this
house? Is't not most wholsomely plotted5 note?
Rav.
'Troth, prisoner, an exceeding fine house.
-- 585 --
Pye.
Yet I wonder how he should forget me,—for
he never knew me. [Aside.] No matter; what is forgot
in you, will be remember'd in your master6 note. A
pretty comfortable room this, methinks: you have no
such rooms in prison now?
Put.
O, dog-holes to't.
Pye.
Dog-holes, indeed. I can tell you, I have
great hope to have my chamber here shortly, nay,
and diet too; for he's the most free-heartedst gentleman,
where he takes: you would little think it. And
what a fine gallery were here for me to walk and study
and make verses?
Put.
O, it stands very pleasantly for a scholar.
Enter Gentleman.
Pye.
Look what maps, and pictures, and devices,
and things, neatly, delicately7 note
—Mass here he comes;
he should be a gentleman; I like his beard well.—
All happiness to your worship.
Gent.
You're kindly welcome, sir.
Put.
A simple salutation.
Rav.
Mass, it seems the gentleman makes great
account of him.
Pye.
I have the thing here for you, sir—[Takes
the gentleman apart.] I beseech you, conceal me, sir;
I'm undone else. [Aside.] I have the mask here for
you, sir; look you, sir. I beseech your worship,
first pardon my rudeness, for my extremes make me
bolder than I would be. I am a poor gentleman, and
-- 586 --
a scholar, and now most unfortunately fallen into the
fangs of unmerciful officers; arrested for debt, which
though small, I am not able to compass, by reason
I am destitute of lands, money, and friends; so that
if I fall into the hungry swallow of the prison, I am
like utterly to perish, and with fees and extortions
be pinch'd clean to the bone. Now, if ever pity had
interest in the blood of a gentleman, I beseech you
vouchsafe but to favour that means of my escape,
which I have already thought upon.
Gent.
Go forward.
Put.
I warrant he likes it rarely.
Pye.
In the plunge of my extremities, being giddy,
and doubtful what to do, at last it was put into my
labouring thoughts, to make a happy use of this paper;
and to blear their unletter'd eyes, I told them
there was a device for a mask drawn in't, and that
(but for their interception) I was going to a gentleman
to receive my reward for't. They, greedy at
this word, and hoping to make purchase of me8 note,
offer'd their attendance to go along with me. My
hap was to make bold with your door, sir, which
my thoughts show'd me the most fairest and comfortablest
entrance; and I hope I have happened
right upon understanding and pity. May it please
your good worship then, but to uphold my device,
which is to let one of your men put me out at a
back-door, and I shall be bound to your worship for
ever.
Gent.
By my troth, an excellent device.
Put.
An excellent device, he says; he likes it
wonderfully.
Gent.
O' my faith, I never heard a better.
Rav.
Hark, he swears he never heard a better,
serjeant.
-- 587 --
Put.
O, there's no talk on't9 note; he's an excellent
scholar, and especially for a mask1 note
.
Gent.
Give me your paper, your device; I was
never better pleas'd in all my life: good wit, brave
wit, finely wrought! Come in, sir, and receive your
money, sir.
[Exit.
Pye.
I'll follow your good worship.—You heard
how he lik'd it now?
Put.
Puh, we know he could not choose but like
it. Go thy ways; thou art a witty fine fellow i'faith:
thou shalt discourse it to us at the tavern anon; wilt
thou?
Pye.
Ay, ay, that I will. Look, serjeant, here
are maps, and pretty toys: be doing in the mean
time; I shall quickly have told out the money, you
know.
Put.
Go, go, little villain; fetch thy chink; I
begin to love thee: I'll be drunk to night in thy
company.
-- 588 --
Pye.
This gentleman I well may call a part
Of my salvation in these earthly evils,
For he has sav'd me from three hungry devils.
[Exit Pyeboard.
Put.
Sirrah serjeant, these maps are pretty painted
things, but I could ne'er fancy them yet: methinks
they're too busy, and full of circles and conjurations.
They say all the world's in one of them; but I could
ne'er find the Counter in the Poultry2 note.
Rav.
I think so: how could you find it? for you
know it stands behind the houses.
Dog.
Mass, that's true; then we must look o'the
back-side for't. 'Sfoot here's nothing; all's bare.
Rav.
I warrant thee, that stands for the Counter;
for you know there's a company of bare fellows
there.
Put.
'Faith like enough, serjeant; I never mark'd
so much before. Sirrah serjeant, and yeoman, I
should love these maps out o' cry now9Q13683 note, if we could
see men peep out of door in 'em. O, we might have
'em in a morning to our breakfast so finely, and ne'er
knock our heels to the ground a whole day for 'em.
Rav.
Ay marry sir, I'd buy one then myself. But
this talk is by the way.—Where shall us sup to-night?
Five pound receiv'd—let's talk of that. I have a
trick worth all. You two shall bear him to the tavern,
whilst I go close with his hostess, and work out
of her. I know she would be glad of the sum, to
finger money, because she knows 'tis but a desperate
debt, and full of hazard. What will you say, if I
bring it to pass that the hostess shall be contented
with one half for all, and we to share t'other fifty shillings,
bullies?
Put.
Why, I would call thee king of serjeants, and
-- 589 --
thou should'st be chronicled in the Counter-book for
ever.
Rav.
Well, put it to me; we'll make a night on't,
i'faith.
Dog.
'Sfoot, I think he receives more money, he
stays so long.
Put.
He tarries long indeed. May be I can tell
you, upon the good liking on't, the gentleman may
prove more bountiful.
Rav.
That would be rare; we'll search him.
Put.
Nay, be sure of it, we'll search him, and
make him light enough.
Enter Gentleman.
Rav.
O, here comes the gentleman. By your
leave, sir.
Gent.
God you good den, sirs4 note
. Would you speak
with me?
Put.
No, not with your worship, sir; only we are
bold to stay for a friend of our's that went in with your
worship.
Gent.
Who? not the scholar?
Put.
Yes, e'en he, an it please your worship.
Gent.
Did he make you stay for him? He did you
wrong then: why, I can assure you he's gone above
an hour ago5 note.
Rav.
How, sir?
Gent.
I paid him his money, and my man told me
he went out at back-door.
Put.
Back-door?
-- 590 --
Gent.
Why, what's the matter?
Put.
He was our prisoner, sir; we did arrest
him.
Gent.
What! he was not?—You the sheriff's officers!
You were to blame then. Why did not you
make known to me as much? I could have kept him
for you. I protest, he receiv'd all of me in Britain
gold of the last coining6 note.
Rav.
Vengeance dog him with't!
Put.
'Sfoot, has he gull'd us so?
Dog.
Where shall we sup now, serjeants?
Put.
Sup, Simon, now7 note! eat porridge for a
month.—Well, we cannot impute it to any lack of
good will in your worship. You did but as another
would have done. 'Twas our hard fortunes to miss
the purchase;—but if e'er we clutch him again, the
Counter shall charm him.
Rav.
The Hole shall rot him8 note
.
Dog.
Amen.
[Exeunt Serjeants.
-- 591 --
Gent.
So;
Vex out your lungs without doors. I am proud
It was my hap to help him. It fell fit;
He went not empty neither for his wit.
Alas, poor wretch, I could not blame his brain,
To labour his delivery, to be free
From their unpitying fangs. I'm glad it stood
Within my power to do a scholar good.
[Exit.
SCENE VI.
A room in the Marshalsea prison.
Enter Idle; to him Pyeboard.
Idle.
How now! Who's that? What are you?
Pye.
The same that I should be, captain.
Idle.
George Pyeboard? Honest George? Why
cam'st thou in half-fac'd, muffled so?
Pye.
O captain, I thought we should ne'er have
laugh'd again, never spent frolick hour again.
Idle.
Why? Why?
Pye.
I coming to prepare thee, and with news
As happy as thy quick delivery,
Was trac'd out by the scent; arrested, captain.
Idle.
Arrested, George?
Pye.
Arrested. Guess, guess,—how many dogs
do you think I had upon me?
Idle.
Dogs? I say, I know not.
Pye.
Almost as many as George Stone, the bear9 note
;
three at once, three at once.
-- 592 --
Idle.
How didst thou shake them off then?
Pye.
The time is busy, and calls upon our wits.
Let it suffice,
Here I stand safe, and scap'd by miracle:
Some other hour shall tell thee, when we'll steep
Our eyes in laughter. Captain, my device
Leans to thy happiness; for ere the day
Be spent to the girdle1 note
, thou shalt be free.
The corporal's in's first sleep; the chain is miss'd;
Thy kinsman has express'd thee2 note
; and the old knight
With palsy hams, now labours thy release.
What rests, is all in thee;—to conjure, captain.
Idle.
Conjure? 'Sfoot, George, you know, the devil
a conjuring I can conjure.
Pye.
The devil a conjuring? Nay, by my fay, I'd
not have thee do so much, captain, as the devil a
conjuring. Look here; I have brought thee a circle
ready character'd and all.
Idle.
'Sfoot, George, art in thy right wits? Dost
know what thou say'st? Why dost talk to a captain of
conjuring? Didst thou ever hear of a Captain Conjure
in thy life? Dost call't a circle? 'Tis too wide a thing,
methinks; had it been a lesser circle, then I knew
what to have done.
Pye.
Why every fool knows that, captain. Nay
then I'll not cog with you, captain: if you'll stay and
hang the next sessions, you may.
-- 593 --
Idle.
No, by my faith, George. Come, come;
let's to conjuring.
Pye.
But if you look to be released, (as my wits
have took pain to work it, and all means wrought
to further it,) besides, to put crowns in your purse, to
make you a man of better hopes; and whereas before
you were a captain or poor soldier* note, to make you
now a commander of rich fools, which is truly the
only best purchase peace can allow you, safer than
highways, heath, or cony-groves, and yet a far better
booty; for your greatest thieves are never hang'd,
never hang'd: for why? they're wise, and cheat
within doors; and we geld fools of more money3 note in
one night, than your false-tail'd gelding4 note will purchase
in twelvemonths' running; which confirms the
old beldam's saying, He's wisest, that keeps himself
warmest; that is, he that robs by a good fire.
Idle.
Well opened i'faith, George; thou hast pull'd
that saying out of the husk.
Pye.
Captain Idle, 'tis no time now to delude or
delay. The old knight will be here suddenly; I'll
perfect you, direct you, tell you the trick on't: 'tis
nothing.
Idle.
'Sfoot, George, I know not what to say to't.
Conjure? I shall be hang'd ere I conjure.
Pye.
Nay, tell not me of that, captain; you'll ne'er
conjure after you're hang'd, I warrant you. Look
you, sir; a parlous matter, sure! First to spread
-- 594 --
your circle upon the ground, with a little conjuring
ceremony, (as I'll have an hackney-man's wand
silver'd o'er o'purpose for you;) then arriving in the
circle, with a huge word, and a great trample—as
for instance—have you never seen a stalking, stamping
player, that will raise a tempest with his tongue, and
thunder with his heels5 note
?
Idle.
O yes, yes, yes; often, often.
Pye.
Why be like such a one. For any thing will
blear the old knight's eyes; for you must note, that
he'll ne'er dare to venture into the room; only perhaps
peep fearfully through the key-hole, to see how
the play goes forward.
Idle.
Well, I may go about it when I will; but
mark the end on't; I shall but shame myself i'faith,
George. Speak big words, and stamp and stare, and
he look in at key-hole! why the very thought of
that would make me laugh outright, and spoil all.
Nay I'll tell thee, George; when I apprehend a
thing once, I am of such a laxative laughter, that
if the devil himself stood by, I should laugh in his
face.
-- 595 --
Pye.
Puh! that's but the babe of a man6 note
, and
may easily be hush'd;—as to think upon some disaster,
some sad misfortune;—as the death of thy father
i'the country.
Idle.
'Sfoot, that would be the more to drive me
into such an ecstasy, that I should ne'er lin laughing7 note
.
Pye.
Why then think upon going to hanging.
Idle.
Mass that's well remembered: Now I'll do
well, I warrant thee; ne'er fear me now. But how
shall I do, George, for boisterous words and horrible
names?
Pye.
Puh! any fustian invocations, captain, will
serve as well as the best, so you rant them out well:
or you may go to a 'pothecary's shop, and take all
the words from the boxes.
Idle.
Troth, and you say true, George; there's
strange words enough to raise a hundred quack-salvers,
though they be ne'er so poor when they begin.
But here lies the fear on't: how, if in this false conjuration
a true devil should pop up indeed?
Pye.
A true devil, captain? why there was ne'er
such a one. Nay 'faith he that has this place, is as
false a knave as our last church-warden.
Idle.
Then he's false enough o' conscience, i'faith,
George.
-- 596 --
Prisoners cry within.]
Good gentlemen over the
way, send your relief: Good gentlemen over the
way,—good, sir Godfrey!
Pye.
He's come, he's come.
Enter Sir Godfrey, Edmond, and Nicholas.
Nich.
Master, that's my kinsman yonder in the
buff-jerkin. Kinsman, that's my master yonder i'the
taffaty hat. Pray salute him entirely.
[Sir Godfrey and Idle salute, and Pyeboard salutes Edmond.
Sir God.
Now my friend.
[Sir Godfrey and Idle talk aside.
Pye.
May I partake your name, sir?
Edm.
My name is master Edmond.
Pye.
Master Edmond? Are you not a Welshman,
sir?
Edm.
A Welshman? why?
Pye.
Because master is your Christian name, and
Edmond your sir-name.
Edm.
O no: I have more names at home: master
Edmond Plus is my full name at length.
Pye.
O, cry you mercy, sir.
Idle. [Aside to Sir Godfrey.]
I understand that you
are my kinsman's good master; and in regard of that,
the best of my skill is at your service. But had you
fortun'd a mere stranger, and made no means to me
by acquaintance, I should have utterly denied to have
been the man; both by reason of the act of parliament
against conjurers and witches8 note
, as also, because
-- 597 --
I would not have my art vulgar, trite, and common.
Sir God.
I much commend your care there, good
captain conjurer; and that I will be sure to have it
private enough, you shall do't in my sister's house;
mine own house I may call it, for both our charges
therein are proportion'd.
Idle.
Very good, sir. What may I call your loss, sir?
Sir God.
O you may call it a great loss, a grievous
loss, sir; as goodly a chain of gold, though I say it,
that wore it—How say'st thou, Nicholas?
Nich.
O 'twas as delicious a chain of gold, kinsman,
you know—
Sir God.
You know? Did you know't, captain?
Idle.
Trust a fool with secrets!—Sir, he may say, I
know. His meaning is, because my art is such,
that by it I may gather a knowledge of all things.
Sir God.
Ay, very true.
Idle.
A pox of all fools! The excuse stuck upon
my tongue like ship-pitch upon a mariner's gown,
not to come off in haste [Aside]. By'r lady, knight,
to lose such a fair chain of gold, were a foul loss.
Well, I can put you in this good comfort on't: if
it be between heaven and earth, knight, I'll have it for
you.
Sir God.
A wonderful conjurer! O ay, 'tis between
heaven and earth, I warrant you; it cannot go
out of the realm: I know 'tis somewhere above the
earth9 note;—
Idle.
Ay, nigher the earth than thou wot'st on.
[Aside.
-- 598 --
Sir God.
For first, my chain was rich, and no rich
thing shall enter into heaven, you know.
Nich.
And as for the devil, master, he has no
need on't; for you know he has a great chain of his
own.
Sir God.
Thou say'st true, Nicholas, but he has
put off that now; that lies by him.
Idle.
'Faith, knight, in few words, I presume so
much upon the power of my art, that I could warrant
your chain again.
Sir God.
O dainty captain!
Idle.
Marry, it will cost me much sweat; I were
better go to sixteen hot-houses1 note.
Sir God.
Ay, good man, I warrant thee.
Idle.
Beside great vexation of kidney and liver.
Nich.
O, 'twill tickle you hereabouts, cousin;
because you have not been us'd to't.
Sir God.
No? have you not been us'd to't, captain?
Idle.
Plague of all fools still! [Aside] Indeed,
knight, I have not us'd it a good while, and therefore
'twill strain me so much the more, you know.
Sir God.
O, it will, it will.
Idle.
What plunges he puts me to? Were not this
knight a fool, I had been twice spoil'd now. That
captain's worse than accurs'd that has an ass to his
kinsman. 'Sfoot, I fear he will drivel it out, before
I come to't.—Now, sir, to come to the point indeed:
You see I stick here in the jaw of the Marshalsea, and
cannot do't.
Sir God.
Tut, tut, I know thy meaning: thou
would'st say thou'rt a prisoner: I tell thee thou'rt
none.
Idle.
How, none? why is not this the Marshalsea?
-- 599 --
Sir God.
Wilt hear me speak? I heard of thy rare conjuring;
My chain was lost; I sweat for thy release,
As thou shalt do the like at home for me:—
Keeper.
Enter Keeper.
Keep.
Sir.
Sir God.
Speak, is not this man free?
Keep.
Yes, at his pleasure, sir, the fees discharg'd.
Sir God.
Go, go; I'll discharge them, I.
Keep.
I thank your worship.
[Exit Keeper.
Idle.
Now, trust me, you're a dear knight. Kindness
unexpected! O, there's nothing to a free gentleman.
I will conjure for you, sir, till froth come
through my buff-jerkin.
Sir God.
Nay, then thou shalt not pass with so
little a bounty; for at the first sight of my chain
again, forty fine angels shall appear unto thee.
Idle.
'Twill be a glorious show, i'faith, knight; a
very fine show. But are all these of your own house?
Are you sure of that, sir?
Sir God.
Ay, ay;—no, no. What's he yonder
talking with my wild nephew? Pray heaven he give
him good counsel.
Idle.
Who, he? He's a rare friend of mine, an
admirable fellow, knight; the finest fortune-teller.
Sir God.
O! 'tis he indeed, that came to my lady
sister, and foretold the loss of my chain: I am not
angry with him now, for I see 'twas my fortune to
lose it. By your leave, master fortune-teller, I had
a glimpse of you at home, at my sister's the widow's;
there you prophecy'd of the loss of a chain:
simply, though I stand here2 note, I was he that lost it.
Pye.
Was it you, sir?
-- 600 --
Edm.
O' my troth, nuncle, he's the rarest fellow;
has told me my fortune so right! I find it so right to
my nature.
Sir God.
What is't! God send it a good one.
Edm.
O, 'tis a passing good one, nuncle; for he
says I shall prove such an excellent gamester in my
time, that I shall spend all faster than my father
got it.
Sir God.
There's a fortune indeed.
Edm.
Nay, it hits my humour so pat.
Sir God.
Ay, that will be the end on't. Will the
curse of the beggar prevail so much, that the son
shall consume that foolishly which the father got
craftily? Ay, ay, ay; 'twill, 'twill, 'twill.
Pye.
Stay, stay, stay.
[Opens an Almanack, and takes Idle aside.
Idle.
Turn over, George.
Pye.
June—July—Here, July; that's this month;
Sunday thirteen, yesterday fourteen, to-day fifteen.
Idle.
Look quickly for the fifteenth day. If
within the compass of these two days there would be
some boisterous storm or other, it would be the best;
I'd defer him off 'till then. Some tempest, an it be
thy will.
Pye.
Here's the fifteenth day. [reads] Hot and fair3 note.
Idle.
Puh! would it had been hot and foul.
Pye.
The sixteenth day; that's to morrow: [reads]
The morning for the most part fair and pleasant &lblank;
Idle.
No luck.
Pye.
But about high-noon, lightning and thunder.
Idle.
Lightning and thunder? admirable! best of
all! I'll conjure to-morrow just at high-noon, George.
Pye.
Happen but true to-morrow, almanack, and
I'll give thee leave to lie all the year after.
-- 601 --
Idle.
Sir, I must crave your patience, to bestow
this day upon me, that I may furnish myself strongly.
I sent a spirit into Lancashire t'other day, to fetch
back a knave drover, and I look for his return this
evening. To-morrow morning my friend here and
I will come and breakfast with you.
Sir God.
O, you shall be most welcome.
Idle.
And about noon, without fail, I purpose to
conjure.
Sir God.
Mid-noon will be a fine time for you.
Edm.
Conjuring? Do you mean to conjure at our
house to-morrow, sir?
Idle.
Marry do I, sir; 'tis my intent, young gentleman.
Edm.
By my troth, I'll love you while I live for't.
O rare! Nicholas, we shall have conjuring to-morrow.
Nich.
Puh! ay, I could ha' told you of that.
Idle.
La, he could have told him of that! fool, coxcomb,
could you?
[Aside.
Edm.
Do you hear me, sir? I desire more acquaintance
on you. You shall earn some money of
me, now I know you can conjure:—but can you
fetch any that is lost?
Idle.
O, any thing that's lost.
Edm.
Why look you, sir, I tell it you as a friend
and a conjurer. I should marry a'pothecary's daughter,
and 'twas told me, she lost her maiden-head at
Stony-Stratford: now if you'll do but so much as
conjure for't, and make all whole again—
Idle.
That I will, sir.
Edm.
By my troth I thank you, la.
Idle.
A little merry with your sister's son, sir.
Sir God.
O, a simple young man, very simple.
Come captain, and you, sir; we'll e'en part with a
gallon of wine till to-morrow breakfast.
Pye. Idle.
Troth, agreed, sir.
-- 602 --
Nich.
Kinsman—scholar.
Pye.
Why now thou art a good knave; worth a
hundred Brownists4 note
.
Nich.
Am I indeed, la? I thank you heartily, la.
[Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
An apartment in the Widow's house.
Enter Mary and Sir John Pennydub.
Sir John.
But I hope you will not serve a knight
so, gentlewoman, will you? to cashier him, and cast
him off at your pleasure! What do you think I was
dubb'd for nothing? No, by my faith, lady's daughter.
Mary.
Pray sir John Pennydub, let it be deferr'd
awhile. I have as big a heart to marry as you can
have; but as the fortune-teller told me—
Sir John.
Pox o' the fortune-teller! Would Derrick
had been his fortune seven years ago5 note
, to cross
-- 603 --
my love thus! Did he know what case I was in?
Why this is able to make a man drown himself in his
father's fish-pond.
Mary.
And then he told me moreover, sir John,
that the breach of it kept my father in purgatory.
Sir John.
In purgatory? why let him purge out
his heart there; what have we to do with that?
There's physicians enough there to cast his water6 note
: is
that any matter to us? How can he hinder our love?
Why let him be hang'd, now he's dead.—Well, have
I rid post day and night, to bring you merry news of
my father's death, and now—
Mary.
Thy father's death? Is the old farmer
dead?
Sir John.
As dead as his barn-door, Moll.
Mary.
And you'll keep your word with me now,
sir John; that I shall have my coach and my coachman?
Sir John.
Ay 'faith.
Mary.
And two white horses with black feathers
to draw it?
Sir John.
Two.
Mary.
A guarded lacky to run before it7 note
, and
py'd liveries to come trashing after't8 note.
Sir John.
Thou shalt, Moll.
-- 604 --
Mary.
And to let me have money in my purse, to
go whither I will.
Sir John.
All this.
Mary.
Then come; whatsoe'er comes on't, we'll
be made sure together before the maids i'the kitchen.
[Exeunt
SCENE. II.
A room in the Widow's house, with a door at the side, leading to another apartment.
Enter Widow, Frances, and Frailty.
Wid.
How now? Where's my brother sir Godfrey?
Went he forth this morning?
Frail.
O no madam; he's above at breakfast, with
(sir reverence) a conjurer.
Wid.
A conjurer! What manner of fellow is he?
Frail.
O, a wondrous rare fellow, mistress; very
strongly made upward, for he goes in a buff-jerkin.
He says he will fetch sir Godfrey's chain again, if it
hang between heaven and earth.
Wid.
What! he will not? Then he's an excellent
fellow, I warrant. How happy were that woman to
be blest with such a husband! A cunning man!
How does he look, Frailty? Very swartly, I warrant;
with black beard, scorch'd cheeks, and smoky eyebrows.
Frail.
Fo! He's neither smoke-dried, nor scorch'd,
nor black, nor nothing. I tell you, madam, he
looks as fair to see to as one of us. I do not think
but if you saw him once, you'd take him to be a
Christian.
Fran.
So fair, and yet so cunning! that's to be
wonder'd at, mother.
-- 605 --
Enter Sir Oliver Muckhill, and Sir Andrew Tipstaff.
Sir Oliv.
Bless you, sweet lady.
Sir And.
And you, fair mistress.
[Exit Frailty.
Wid.
Coades9 note, what do you mean, gentlemen?
Fie, did I not give you your answers?
Sir Oliv.
Sweet lady.
Wid.
Well, I will not stick with you for a kiss:
daughter, kiss the gentleman for once.
Fran.
Yes, forsooth.
Sir And.
I'm proud of such a favour.
Wid.
Truly la, sir Oliver, you're much too blame,
to come again when you know my mind so well
delivered as a widow could deliver a thing.
Sir Oliv.
But I expect a further comfort, lady.
Wid.
Why la you now! did I not desire you to
put off your suit quite and clean when you came to
me again? How say you? Did I not?
Sir Oliv.
But the sincere love which my heart bears
you—
Wid.
Go to, I'll cut you off:—And sir Oliver to
put you in comfort afar off, my fortune is read me;
I must marry again.
Sir Oliv.
O blest fortune!
Wid.
But not as long as I can choose:—nay, I'll
hold out well.
Sir Oliv.
Yet are my hopes now fairer.
Enter Frailty.
Frail.
O madam, madam.
Wid.
How now? what's the haste?
[Frailty whispers her.
Sir And.
'Faith, mistress Frances, I'll maintain you
-- 606 --
gallantly. I'll bring you to court; wean you among
the fair society of ladies, poor kinswomen of mine,
in cloth of silver: beside, you shall have your monkey,
your parrot, your musk-cat, and your piss, piss, piss1 note.
Fran.
It will do very well.
Wid.
What, does he mean to conjure here then?
How shall I do to be rid of these knights?—Please
you, gentlemen, to walk a while in the garden, to
gather a pink, or a gilly-flower?
Both.
With all our hearts, lady, and 'count us
favour'd.
[Exeunt Sir Andrew, Sir Oliver, and Frailty. The Widow and Frances go in to the adjoining room.
Sir God. [within.]
Step in, Nicholas; look, is the
coast clear.
Nich. [within.]
O, as clear as a cat's eye, sir2 note.
Sir God. [within]
Then enter Captain Conjurer.
Enter Sir Godfrey, Idle, Pyeboard, Edmond, and Nicholas.
Now, how like you your room, sir?
Idle.
O, wonderful convenient.
Edm.
I can tell you, captain, simply though it
lies here3 note, 'tis the fairest room in my mother's
house: as dainty a room to conjure in, methinks—
Why you may bid, I cannot tell how many devils
welcome in't; my father has had twenty in't at
once.
Pye.
What! devils?
Edm.
Devils! no; deputies,—and the wealthiest
men he could get.
-- 607 --
Sir God.
Nay, put by your chats now; fall to
your business roundly: the fescue of the dial is upon
the christ-cross of noon4 note
. But O, hear me, captain;
a qualm comes o'er my stomach.
Idle.
Why, what's the matter, sir?
Sir God.
O, how if the devil should prove a knave,
and tear the hangings!
Idle.
Foh! I warrant you, sir Godfrey.
Edm.
Ay, nuncle, or spit fire upon the cieling?
Sir God.
Very true too, for 'tis but thin plaister'd,
and 'twill quickly take hold o' the laths; and if he
chance to spit downward too, he will burn all the
boards.
Idle.
My life for yours, sir Godfrey.
Sir God.
My sister is very curious and dainty of
this room, I can tell you; and therefore if he must
needs spit, I pray desire him to spit in the chimney.
Pye.
Why, assure you, sir Godfrey, he shall not
be brought up with so little manners, to spit and
spawl o'the floor.
Sir God.
Why I thank you, good captain; pray
have a care. [Idle and Pyeboard retire to the upper end of
the room.] Ay, fall to your circle; we'll not trouble
you I warrant you. Come, we'll into the next room;
and because we'll be sure to keep him out there, we'll
bar up the door with some of the godly's zealous works.
Edm.
That will be a fine device, nuncle; and because
-- 608 --
the ground shall be as holy as the door, I'll tear
two or three rosaries5 note in pieces, and strew the pieces
about the chamber. [Lightning and thunder] Oh! the
devil already.
[Sir Godfrey and Edmond run into the adjoining room.
Pye.
'Sfoot, captain, speak somewhat for shame:
it lightens and thunders before thou wilt begin. Why
when—
Idle.
Pray peace, George; thou'lt make me laugh
anon, and spoil all.
[Lightning and thunder.
Pye.
O, now it begins again; now, now, now,
captain.
Idle.
Rhumbos ragdayon pur pur colucundrion hois plois6 note
.
Sir God. [at the door.]
O admirable conjurer! he
has fetch'd thunder already.
Pye.
Hark, hark!—again captain.
Idle.
Benjamino gaspois kay gosgothoteron umbrois.
Sir God. [at the door.]
O, I would the devil would
come away quickly; he has no conscience to put a
man to such pain.
Pye.
Again.
Idle.
Flowste kakopumpos dragone leloomenos hodge podge.
Pye.
Well said, captain.
Sir God. [at the door.]
So long a coming? O, would
I had ne'er begun it now! for I fear me these roaring
-- 609 --
tempests will destroy all the fruits of the earth,
and tread upon my corn—[thunder] oh—in the country.
Idle.
Gogdegog hobgoblin hunks hounslow hockleyte coomb-park.
Wid. [at the door.]
O brother, brother, what a
tempest's in the garden! Sure there's some conjuration
abroad.
Sir God. [at the door.]
'Tis at home, sister.
Pye.
By and by I'll step in, captain.
Idle.
Nunc nunc rip-gaskins ips drip—dropite—* note
Sir God. [at the door.]
He drips and drops, poor
man: alas, alas!
Pye.
Now, I come.
Idle.
O—sulphure sootface.
Pye.
Arch-conjurer, what wouldest thou with me?
Sir God. [at the door.]
O, the devil, sister, in the
dining-chamber! Sing, sister; I warrant you that
will keep him out:—quickly, quickly, quickly.
Pye.
So, so, so; I'll release thee. Enough captain,
enough; allow us some time to laugh a little:
They're shuddering and shaking by this time, as if an
earthquake were in their kidneys.
Idle.
Sirrah George, how was't, how was't? Did I
do't well enough?
Pye.
Woult believe me, captain? better than any
conjurer; for here was no harm in this, and yet their
horrible expectation satisfied well. You were much
beholden to thunder and lightning at this time; it
grac'd you well, I can tell you.
Idle.
I must needs say so, George. Sirrah, if we
could have convey'd hither cleanly a cracker or a fire-wheel,
it had been admirable.
-- 610 --
Pye.
Blurt, blurt! there's nothing remains to put
thee to pain now, captain.
Idle.
Pain? I protest, George, my heels are sorer
than a Whitsun morris-dancer's.
Pye.
All's past now; only to reveal that the chain's
in the garden, where thou know'st it has lain these
two days.
Idle.
But I fear that fox Nicholas has reveal'd it
already.
Pye.
Fear not, captain; you must put it to the
venture now. Nay 'tis time; call upon them, take
pity on them; for I believe some of them are in a pitiful
case by this time.
Idle.
Sir Godfrey, Nicholas, kinsman. 'Sfoot
they're fast at it still, George.—Sir Godfrey.
Sir God. [at the door.]
O, is that the devil's voice?
How comes he to know my name?
Idle.
Fear not, sir Godfrey; all's quieted.
Enter Sir Godfrey, the Widow, Frances, and Nicholas.
Sir God.
What, is he laid?
Idle.
Laid; and has newly dropp'd your chain in the
garden.
Sir God.
In the garden? in our garden?
Idle.
Your garden.
Sir God.
O sweet conjurer! whereabouts there?
Idle.
Look well about a bank of rosemary.
Sir God.
Sister, the rosemary bank. Come, come;
there's my chain, he says.
Wid.
Oh, happiness! run, run.
[Exeunt Widow, Sir Godfrey, Frances, and Nicholas.
Edm. [at the door.]
Captain Conjurer?
Idle.
Who? Master Edmond?
Edm.
Ay, master Edmond. May I come in safely
without danger, think you?
Idle.
Puh, long ago; it is all as 'twas at first.
Fear nothing; pray come near: how now, man?
-- 611 --
Enter Edmond.
Edm.
O! this room's mightily hot i'faith. 'Slid,
my shirt sticks to my belly already. What a steam
the rogue has left behind him7 note
! Foh! this room
must be air'd, gentlemen; it smells horribly of brimstone:
let's open the windows.
Pye.
'Faith, master Edmond, 'tis but your conceit.
Edm.
I would you could make me believe that,
i'faith. Why do you think I cannot smell his savour,
from another? Yet I take it kindly from you,
because you would not put me in a fear, i'faith. On
my troth I shall love you for this the longest day of
my life.
Idle.
Puh, 'tis nothing, sir; love me when you see
more.
Edm.
Mass, now I remember, I'll look whether
he has sing'd the hangings, or no.
Pye.
Captain, to entertain a little sport till they
come, make him believe, you'll charm him invisible.
He's apt to admire any thing, you see. Let me alone
to give force to it.
Idle.
Go; retire to yonder end then.
Edm.
I protest you are a rare fellow; are you not?
Idle.
O master Edmond, you know but the least
part of me yet. Why now at this instant I could but
flourish my wand thrice o'er your head, and charm
you invisible.
Edm.
What! you could not? make me walk invisible,
man! I should laugh at that i'faith. Troth, I'll
requite your kindness, an you'll do't, good Captain
Conjurer.
-- 612 --
Idle.
Nay, I should hardly deny you such a small
kindness, master Edmond Plus. Why, look you,
sir, 'tis no more but this, and thus, and again, and
now you're invisible.
Edm.
Am I i'faith? Who would think it?
Idle.
You see the fortune-teller yonder at farther
end o'the chamber. Go toward him; do what you
will with him, he shall ne'er find you.
Edm.
Say you so? I'll try that i'faith.
[Justles him.
Pye.
How now, captain? Who's that justled me?
Idle.
Justled you? I saw nobody.
Edm.
Ha, ha, ha! Say 'twas a spirit.
Idle.
Shall I?—May be some spirit that haunts
the circle.
[Edmond pulls Pyeboard by the nose.
Pye.
O my nose, again! Pray conjure then, captain.
Edm.
Troth, this is excellent; I may do any
knavery now, and never be seen. And now I remember,
sir Godfrey, my uncle, abus'd me t'other day, and
told tales of me to my mother. Troth now I'm invisible,
I'll hit him a sound wherret on the ear, when
he comes out o'the garden. I may be reveng'd on
him now finely.
Enter Sir Godfrey, the Widow, and Frances.
Sir God.
I have my chain again; my chain's found
again. O sweet captain! O admirable conjurer!
[Edmond strikes him.] Oh! what mean you by that,
nephew?
Edm.
Nephew? I hope you do not know me,
uncle?
Wid.
Why did you strike your uncle, sir?
Edm.
Why, captain, am I not invisible?
Idle.
A good jest, George.—Not now you are not,
sir. Why did not you see me, when I did uncharm
you?
-- 613 --
Edm.
Not I, by my troth, captain.—Then pray
you pardon me, uncle; I thought I'd been invisible
when I struck you.
Sir God.
So, you would do't? Go, you're a foolish boy;
And were I not o'ercome with greater joy,
I'd make you taste correction.
Edm.
Correction! pish. No, neither you nor my
mother shall think to whip me as you have done.
Sir God.
Captain, my joy is such, I know not how
to thank you: let me embrace you. O my sweet
chain! gladness e'en makes me giddy. Rare man!
'twas just i'the rosemary-bank, as if one should have
laid it there. O cunning, cunning!
Wid.
Well, seeing my fortune tells me I must
marry, let me marry a man of wit, a man of parts.
Here's a worthy captain, and 'tis a fine title truly la
to be a captain's wife. A captain's wife! it goes
very finely: beside, all the world knows that a worthy
captain is a fit companion to any lord; then why
not a sweet bed-fellow for any lady? I'll have it so.
Enter Frailty.
Frail.
O mistress—gentlemen—there's the bravest
sight coming along this way.
Wid.
What brave sight?
Frail.
O, one going to burying, and another going
to hanging.
Wid.
A rueful sight.
Pye.
'Sfoot, captain, I'll pawn my life the corporal's
coffin'd, and old Skirmish the soldier going
to execution; and 'tis now full about the time of his
waking. Hold out a little longer, sleepy potion,
and we shall have excellent admiration; for I'll take
upon me the cure of him.
[Exeunt.
-- 614 --
SCENE III.
The street before the Widow's house.
Enter, from the house, Sir Godfrey, the Widow, Idle,
Pyeboard, Edmond, Frailty, and Nicholas. A coffin
with Corporal Oath in it, brought in. Then enter
Skirmish bound, and led in by Officers; the Sheriff, &c.
attending.
Frail.
O here they come, here they come!
Pye.
Now must I close secretly with the soldier;
prevent his impatience, or else all's discovered.
Wid.
O lamentable seeing! These were those brothers,
that fought and bled before our door.
Sir God.
What! they were not, sister?
Skir.
George, look to't; I'll peach at Tyburn else.
Pye.
Mum.—Gentles all, vouchsafe me audience,
And you especially, good master sheriff:
Yon man is bound to execution,
Because he wounded this that now lies coffin'd.
Sher.
True, true; he shall have the law,—and I
know the law.
Pye.
But under favour, master sheriff, if this man
had been cur'd and safe again, he should have been
releas'd then?
Sher.
Why make you question of that, sir?
Pye.
Then I release him freely; and will take
upon me the death that he should die, if within a
little season I do not cure him to his proper health
again8 note
.
Sher.
How, sir! recover a dead man? That were
most strange of all.
-- 615 --
Fran.
Sweet sir, I love you dearly, and could wish
my best part yours. O do not undertake such an impossible
venture!
Pye.
Love you me? Then for your sweet sake I'll
do't. Let me entreat the corpse to be set down.
Sher.
Bearers, set down the coffin. This were
wonderful, and worthy Stowe's Chronicle.
Pye.
I pray bestow the freedom of the air upon our
wholsome art. Mass his cheeks begin to receive natural
warmth. Nay, good corporal, wake betime, or
I shall have a longer sleep than you. 'Sfoot, if he
should prove dead indeed now, he were fully reveng'd
upon me for making a property of him: yet
I had rather run upon the ropes* note
, than have a rope
like a tetter run upon me9 note. O, he stirs! he stirs
again! look, gentlemen! he recovers! he starts, he
rises!
Sher.
O, O, defend us! Out, alas!
Pye.
Nay, pray be still; you'll make him more
giddy else. He knows nobody yet.
Oath.
'Zounds, where am I? Cover'd with snow!
I marvel.
Pye.
Nay, I knew he would swear the first thing
he did as soon as ever he came to his life again.
Oath.
'Sfoot, hostess, some hot porridge. O,
O!—lay on a dozen of faggots in the Moon parlour,
there.
Pye.
Lady, you must needs take a little pity of
him i'faith, and send him in to your kitchen fire.
-- 616 --
Wid.
O, with all my heart, sir: Nicholas and
Frailty, help to bear him in.
Nich.
Bear him in, quoth-a! Pray call out the
maids; I shall ne'er have the heart to do't, indeed la.
Frail.
Nor I neither; I cannot abide to handle a
ghost, of all men.
Oath.
'Sblood, let me see—where was I drunk last
night? heh?
Wid.
O, shall I bid you once again take him
away?
Frail.
Why we are as fearful as you, I warrant
you. Oh.
Wid.
Away, villains! bid the maids make him a
caudle presently, to settle his brain,—or a posset of
sack; quickly, quickly.
[Exeunt Frailty and Nicholas, pushing in the Corporal.
Sher.
Sir, whatsoe'er you are, I do more than admire
you.
Wid.
O ay, if you knew all, master sheriff, as
you shall do, you would say then, that here were
two of the rarest men within the walls of Christendom.
Sher.
Two of them? O wonderful! Officers, I discharge
you; set him free; all's in tune.
Sir God.
Ay, and a banquet ready by this time,
master sheriff; to which I most cheerfully invite you,
and your late prisoner there. See you this goodly
chain, sir? Mum! no more words; 'twas lost and
is found again. Come, my inestimable bullies, we'll
talk of your noble acts in sparkling charnico1 note; and
instead of a jester, we'll have the ghost in the white
sheet sit at the upper end of the table2 note
.
-- 617 --
Sher.
Excellent, merry man, i'faith!
[Exeunt all but Frances.
Fran.
Well, seeing I am enjoin'd to love, and marry,
My foolish vow thus I cashier to air,
Which first begot it. Now, Love, play thy part;
The scholar reads his lecture in my heart.
[Exit.
-- 618 --
ACT V.
SCENE I.
The street before the Widow's house.
Enter Edmond and Frailty.
Edm.
This is the marriage-morning for my mother
and my sister.
Frail.
O me, master Edmond! we shall have rare
doings.
Edm.
Nay go, Frailty, run to the sexton; you
know my mother will be married at Saint Antling's.
Hie thee; 'tis past five; bid them open the church-door:
my sister is almost ready.
Frail.
What already, master Edmond?
Edm.
Nay, go; hie thee. First run to the sexton,
and run to the clerk; and then run to master Pigman
the parson; and then run to the milliner, and
then run home again.
Frail.
Here's run, run, run.
Edm.
But hark, Frailty.
Frail.
What, more yet?
Edm.
Have the maids remember'd to strew the way
to the church?
Frail.
Foh! an hour ago; I help'd them myself.
Edm.
Away, away, away, away then.
Frail.
Away, away, away, away then.
[Exit Frailty.
Edm.
I shall have a simple father-in-law, a brave
captain, able to beat all our street; captain Idle.
Now my lady mother will be fitted for a delicate
name: my lady Idle, my lady Idle! the finest name
that can be for a woman: and then the scholar, master
Pyeboard, for my sister Frances, that will be
mistress Frances Pyeboard; mistress Frances Pyeboard!
they'll keep a good table, I warrant you.
-- 619 --
Now all the knights' noses are put out of joint; they
may go to a bone-setter's now.
Enter Idle and Pyeboard, with attendants.
Hark, hark! O, who come here with two torches
before them? My sweet captain, and my fine scholar.
O, how bravely they are shot up in one night! They
look like fine Britons* note now methinks. Here's a gallant
change i'faith! 'Slid, they have hir'd men and
all, by the clock3 note.
Idle.
Master Edmond; kind, honest, dainty master
Edmond.
Edm.
Foh, sweet captain father-in-law! A rare
perfume i'faith!
Pye.
What, are the brides stirring? May we steal
upon them, think'st thou, master Edmond?
Edm.
Foh, they're e'en upon readiness, I can assure
you; for they were at their torch e'en now: by
the same token I tumbled down the stairs.
Pye.
Alas, poor master Edmond.
Enter Musicians.
Idle.
O, the musicians! I pr'ythee, master Edmond,
call them, and liquor them a little.
Edm.
That I will, sweet captain father-in-law;
and make each of them as drunk as a common fidler.
[Exeunt.
-- 620 --
SCENE II.
The same.
Enter Mary in a balcony4 note. To her below, Sir John Pennydub.
Sir John.
Whew! mistress Moll, mistress Moll.
Mary.
Who's there?
Sir John.
'Tis I.
Mary.
Who? sir John Pennydub? O you're an
early cock i'faith. Who would have thought you to
be so rare a stirrer?
Sir John.
Pr'ythee, Moll, let me come up.
Mary.
No by my faith, sir John; I'll keep you
down; for you knights are very dangerous, if once
you get above.
Sir John.
I'll not stay i'faith.
Mary.
I'faith you shall stay; for, sir John, you
must note the nature of the climates: your northern
wench in her own country may well hold out till she
be fifteen; but if she touch the south once, and come
up to London, here the chimes go presently after
twelve.
Sir John.
O thou'rt a mad wench, Moll: but I
pr'ythee make haste, for the priest is gone before.
Mary.
Do you follow him; I'll not be long after.
[Exeunt.
-- 621 --
SCENE III.
A room in Sir Oliver Muckhill's house.
Enter Sir Oliver Muckhill, Sir Andrew Tipstaff, and Skirmish.
Sir Oliv.
O monstrous, unheardof forgery!
Sir And.
Knight, I never heard of such villainy in
our own country, in my life.
Sir Oliv.
Why, 'tis impossible. Dare you maintain
your words?
Skir.
Dare we? even to their weazon pipes. We
know all their plots; they cannot squander with us.
They have knavishly abus'd us, made only properties
of us, to advance theirselves upon our shoulders; but
they shall rue their abuses. This morning they are
to be married.
Sir Oliv.
'Tis too true. Yet if the widow be not
too much besotted on sleights and forgeries, the revelation
of their villainies will make them loathsome.
And to that end, be it in private to you, I sent late
last night to an honourable personage, to whom I am
much indebted in kindness, as he is to me; and therefore
presume upon the payment of his tongue, and
that he will lay out good words for me: and to speak
truth, for such needful occasions I only preserve him
in bond: and sometimes he may do me more good
here in the city by a free word of his mouth, than if
he had paid one half in hand, and took doomsday
for t'other.
Sir And.
In troth, sir, without soothing be it spoken,
you have publish'd much judgment in these few
words.
Sir Oliv.
For you know, what such a man utters
-- 622 --
will be thought effectual5 note
, and to weighty purpose;
and therefore into his mouth we'll put the approved
theme of their forgeries.
Skir.
And I'll maintain it, knight, if she'll be
true* note.
Enter a Servant.
Sir Oliv.
How now, fellow?
Ser.
May it please you, sir, my lord is newly
lighted from his coach.
Sir Oliv.
Is my lord come already? His honour's early6 note.
You see he loves me well. Up before seven!
Trust me, I have found him night-capp'd at eleven.
There's good hope yet: come, I'll relate all to him.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
A street; a church appearing.
Enter Idle, Pyeboard, Sir Godfrey, and Edmond; the
Widow in a bridal dress; Sir John Pennydub, Mary
and Frances; Nicholas, Frailty, and other attendants.
To them a Nobleman, Sir Oliver Muckhill, and Sir Andrew Tipstaff.
Nob.
By your leave, lady.
Wid.
My lord, your honour is most chastly welcome.
-- 623 --
Nob.
Madam, though I came now from court, I
come not to flatter you. Upon whom can I justly
cast this blot, but upon your own forehead, that know
not ink from milk? such is the blind besotting in the
state of an unheaded woman that's a widow. For it
is the property of all you that are widows (a handful
excepted) to hate those that honestly and carefully
love you, to the maintenance of credit, state, and
posterity; and strongly to dote on those that only love
you to undo you. Who regard you least, are best regarded;
who hate you most, are best beloved. And
if there be but one man amongst ten thousand millions
of men, that is accurst, disastrous, and evilly
planeted; whom Fortune beats most, whom God
hates most, and all societies esteem least, that man is
sure to be a husband. Such is the peevish moon that
rules your bloods7 note
. An impudent fellow best wooes
you, a flattering lip best wins you; or in a mirth,
who talks roughliest, is most sweetest: nor can you
distinguish truth from forgeries, mists from simplicity;
witness those two deceitful monsters, that you
have entertain'd for bridegrooms.
Wid.
Deceitful!
Pye.
All will out.
Idle.
'Sfoot, who has blab'd, George? that foolish
Nicholas.
Nob.
For what they have besotted your easy blood
withal, were nought but forgeries: the fortune-telling
for husbands, the conjuring for the chain sir
Godfrey heard the falshood of, all, nothing but mere
knavery, deceit, and cozenage.
Wid.
O wonderful! indeed I wonder'd that my
husband, with all his craft, could not keep himself
out of purgatory.
-- 624 --
Sir God.
And I more wonder'd, that my chain should
be gone, and my taylor had none of it.
Mary.
And I wonder'd most of all, that I should
be tied from marriage, having such a mind to it.
Come, sir John Pennydub, fair weather on our side:
The moon has chang'd since yesternight.
Pye.
The sting of every evil is within me.
Nob.
And that you may perceive I feign not with
you, behold their fellow-actor in those forgeries;
who full of spleen and envy at their so sudden advancements,
reveal'd all their plot in anger.
Pye.
Base soldier, to reveal us!
Wid.
Is't possible we should be blinded so, and our
eyes open?
Nob.
Widow, will you now believe that false
which too soon you believ'd true?
Wid.
O, to my shame, I do.
Sir God.
But under favour, my lord, my chain was
truly lost, and strangely found again.
Nob.
Resolve him of that, soldier.
Skir.
In few words, knight, then thou wert the
arch-gull of all.
Sir God.
How, sir?
Skir.
Nay I'll prove it: for the chain was but
hid in the rosemary-bank all this while; and thou
got'st him out of prison to conjure for it, who did it
admirably, fustianly; for indeed what needed any
other, when he knew where it was?
Sir God.
O villainy of villainies! But how came
my chain there?
Skir.
Where's Truly la, Indeed la, he that will not
swear, but lie; he that will not steal, but rob; pure
Nicholas Saint-Antlings?
Sir God.
O villain! one of our society,
Deem'd always holy, pure, religious,
A puritan a thief! When was't ever heard?
Sooner we'll kill a man, than steal, thou know'st.
-- 625 --
Out slave! I'll rend my lion from thy back8 note
,
With mine own hands.
Nich.
Dear master! O!
Nob.
Nay knight, dwell in patience. And now,
-- 626 --
widow, being so near the church, 'twere great pity,
nay uncharity, to send you home again without a
husband. Draw nearer, you of true worship, state,
and credit; that should not stand so far off from a
widow, and suffer forged shapes to come between you.
Not that in these I blemish the true title of a captain,
or blot the fair margent of a scholar; for I honour
worthy and deserving parts in the one, and cherish
fruitful virtues in the other. Come lady, and
you virgin, bestow your eyes and your purest affections
upon men of estimation both in court and
city, that have long wooed you, and both with their
hearts and wealth sincerely love you.
Sir God.
Good sister, do. Sweet little Franke, these
are men of reputation: you shall be welcome at court;
a great credit for a citizen.—Sweet sister.
Nob.
Come, her silence does consent to't.
Wid.
I know not with what face—
Nob.
Poh, poh, with your own face; they desire
no other.
Wid.
Pardon me, worthy sirs: I and my daughter
Have wrong'd your loves.
Sir Oliv.
'Tis easily pardon'd, lady, if you vouchsafe
it now.
Wid.
With all my soul.
Fran.
And I, with all my heart.
Mary.
And I, sir John, with soul, heart, lights
and all.
Sir John.
They are all mine, Moll.
Nob.
Now lady:
What honest spirit, but will applaud your choice,
And gladly furnish you with hand and voice?
A happy change, which makes even heaven rejoice.
Come, enter into your joys; you shall not want9 note
-- 627 --
For fathers, now; I doubt it not, believe me,
But that you shall have hands enough to give ye1.
[Exeunt omnes.
