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 --
Edmond Malone [1780], Supplement to the edition of Shakspeare's plays published in 1778 By Samuel Johnson and George Steevens. In two volumes. Containing additional observations by several of the former commentators: to which are subjoined the genuine poems of the same author, and seven plays that have been ascribed to him; with notes By the editor and others (Printed for C. Bathurst [and] W. Strahan [etc.], London) [word count] [S10911].
