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 feather^{8 note}

Frail.

O, mistress Mary, mistress Mary!

Mary.

How now? what's the news?

Frail.

The knight your suitor, sir John Pennydub.

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 kitchen^{1 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.

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 ceremonies^{2 note}

Mary.

Trust me, very pretty and moving; you're

worthy of it, sir.—O my mother, my mother! now she's here, we'll steal into the gallery.

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

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.

Frail.

Forsooth, madam, there are two or three archers at door would very gladly speak with your ladyship.

Wid.

Archers?

Sir God.

Your husband's fletcher I warrant^{3 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 hope^{4 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Wid.

Now, sir; here's none but we.

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

you seem to be, should have the folly to believe there's such a place.

Pye.

Well, lady, in cold blood I speak it; I assure you that there is a purgatory, in which place I know your husband to reside, and wherein he is like to remain, till the dissolution of the world, till the last general bonfire^{5 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 metaphysically^{6 note}

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—

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 too^{7 note}

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) untrussed^{8 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

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 it^{9 note}.
You may believe my strains; I strike all true^{1 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.

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 probation^{2 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 torment^{3 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 related^{4 note}

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 soldier^{5 note}, to

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 itself^{6 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.