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.
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].
