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 doublet^{8 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.

Enter Skirmish.

Skir.

How now, creatures? what's o'clock?

Frail.

Why, do you take us to be Jacks o'the clock house^{9 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 street^{1 note}?

Oath.

Ay, and in the market-place.

Sim.

Clubs, clubs, clubs^{2 note}
.

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.

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 welkin^{3 note}, 'twas out of my part, George, to be hurt on the leg.

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.

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.

Skir.

To prison? Where's George?

Offi.

Away with him.

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 chance^{4 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 superior^{5 note}

but if he had no money when he came there, I warrant he's dead by this time.

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.

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's^{6 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 gaskins^{7 note}, and my jerkin set with pearl? No more!

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.

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 links^{8 note};
I have oft told it over at my prayers^{9 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.

Sir God.

Why? why?

Frail.

Why, if your chain had so many links, it cannot choose but come to light^{1 note}.

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 sesarara^{2 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 provinces^{3 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

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, Ravenshaw^{4 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 scholars^{5 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.

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, whist^{6 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 once^{7 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 hands^{8 note}

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.

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 blood^{9 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.

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?

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.

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 once^{1 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 puttocks^{2 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.

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 me^{3 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.

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.

Pye. [Within.]

A few friends here. Pray is the gentleman your master within?

Ser.

Yes; is your business to him?

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.

Pye.

We will attend his worship. Worship, I think; for so much the posts at his door should signify^{4 note}

Rav.

'Troth, prisoner, an exceeding fine house.

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 master^{6 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.

Pye.

Look what maps, and pictures, and devices, and things, neatly, delicately^{7 note}

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

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 me^{8 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.

Put.

O, there's no talk on't^{9 note}; he's an excellent scholar, and especially for a mask^{1 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.

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.

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 Poultry^{2 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 now9Q1368^{3 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

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.

Rav.

O, here comes the gentleman. By your leave, sir.

Gent.

God you good den, sirs^{4 note}

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 ago^{5 note}.

Rav.

How, sir?

Gent.

I paid him his money, and my man told me he went out at back-door.

Put.

Back-door?

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 coining^{6 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, now^{7 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 him^{8 note}

Dog.

Amen.

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 bear^{9 note}

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 girdle^{1 note}

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.

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 money^{3 note} in one night, than your false-tail'd gelding^{4 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

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 heels^{5 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.

Pye.

Puh! that's but the babe of a man^{6 note}

Idle.

'Sfoot, that would be the more to drive me into such an ecstasy, that I should ne'er lin laughing^{7 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.

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.

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 God.

Now my friend.

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 witches^{8 note}

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 earth^{9 note};—

Idle.

Ay, nigher the earth than thou wot'st on.

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-houses^{1 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?

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.

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 here^{2 note}, I was he that lost it.

Pye.

Was it you, sir?

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.

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 fair^{3 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.

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?

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.

Nich.

Kinsman—scholar.

Pye.

Why now thou art a good knave; worth a hundred Brownists^{4 note}

Nich.

Am I indeed, la? I thank you heartily, la.