SCENE XVII.
Enter Ford.
Ford.
Bless you, Sir.
Fal.
Now, master Brook, you come to know what hath
pass'd between me and Ford's wife.
Ford.
That indeed, Sir John, is my business.
-- 288 --
Fal.
Master Brook, I will not lie to you; I was at her house
the hour she appointed me.
Ford.
And you sped, Sir?
Fal.
Very ill-favour'dly, master Brook.
Ford.
How Sir, did she change her determination?
Fal.
No, master Brook; but the peaking cornuto her husband,
master Brook, dwelling in a continual larum of jealousie, comes
in the instant of our encounter, after we had embrac'd, kiss'd,
protested, and as it were spoke the prologue of our comedy; and
at his heels a rabble of his companions, thither provok'd and
instigated by his distemper, and forsooth to search his house
for his wife's love.
Ford.
What, while you were there?
Fal.
While I was there.
Ford.
And did he search for you, and could not find you?
Fal.
You shall hear. As good luck would have it, comes in
one mistress Page, gives intelligence of Ford's approach, and by
her invention, and Ford's wife's distraction, they convey'd me
into a buck-basket.
Ford.
A buck-basket?
Fal.
Yea, a buck-basket; ramm'd me in with foul shirts and
smocks, socks, foul stockings, and greasie napkins, that, master
Brook, there was the rankest compound of villanous smell that
ever offended nostril.
Ford.
And how long lay you there?
Fal.
Nay, you shall hear, master Brook, what I have suffer'd,
to bring this woman to evil for your good. Being thus
cramm'd in the basket, a couple of Ford's knaves, his hinds,
were call'd forth by their mistress, to carry me in the name of
foul cloaths to Datchet-lane; they took me on their shoulders,
met the jealous knave their master in the door, who ask'd them
once or twice what they had in their basket; I quak'd for fear,
lest the lunatick knave woud have search'd it; but fate, ordaining
-- 289 --
he should be a cuckold, held his hand. Well, on went he for a
search, and away went I for foul cloaths; but mark the sequel,
master Brook, I suffered the pangs of three a noteegregious deaths:
first, an intolerable fright, to be detected by a jealous rotten
bell-weather; next to be compass'd like a good bilbo, in the
circumference of a peck, hilt to point, heel to head; and then
to be stopt in, like a strong distillation, with stinking cloaths
that fretted in their own grease: think of that, a man of my
kidney; think of that, that am as subject to heat as butter; a
man of continual dissolution and thaw; it was a miracle to 'scape
suffocation. And in the height of this bath, when I was more
than half stew'd in grease, like a Dutch dish, to be thrown into
the Thames, and cool'd glowing hot, in that surge, like a horseshoe;
think of that; hissing hot, think of that, master Brook.
Ford.
In good sadness, Sir, I am sorry that for my sake you
suffer'd all this. My suit is then desperate; you'll undertake her
no more?
Fal.
Master Brook, I will be thrown into Etna, as I have
been into Thames, ere I will leave her thus. Her husband is this
morning gone a birding; I have receiv'd from her another ambassie
of meeting; 'twixt eight and nine is the hour, master Brook.
Ford.
'Tis past eight already, Sir.
Fal.
Is it? I will then address me to my appointment. Come
to me at your convenient leisure, and you shall know how I
speed; and the conclusion shall be crown'd with your enjoying
her; adieu, you shall have her, master Brook, master Brook, you
shall cuckold Ford.
[Exit.
Ford.
Hum! ha! is this a vision? is this a dream? do I
sleep? master Ford awake, awake master Ford; there's a hole made
in your best coat, master Ford; this 'tis to be married! this 'tis
to have linnen and buck-baskets! well, I will proclaim my self
what I am; I will now take the leacher; he is at my house;
he cannot 'scape me; 'tis impossible he should; he cannot creep
-- 290 --
into a half penny purse, nor into a pepper box. But lest the
devil that guides him should aid him, I will search impossible
places; tho' what I am I cannot avoid, yet to be what I would
not, shall not make me tame: if I have horns to make one mad,
let the proverb go with me, I'll be horn-mad.
[Exit.
George Sewell [1723–5], The works of Shakespear in six [seven] volumes. Collated and Corrected by the former Editions, By Mr. Pope ([Vol. 7] Printed by J. Darby, for A. Bettesworth [and] F. Fayram [etc.], London) [word count] [S11101].