Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A WOMAN IS A WEATHERCOCK, by                    
First Line: Whereas you write, my fortune and my birth
Last Line: [exeunt.
Alternate Author Name(s): Field, Nat


DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

COUNT FREDERICK, engaged to BELLAFRONT.
SIR JOHN WORLDLY.
SCUDMORE, in love with BELLAFRONT.
NEVILL, his Friend.
MASTER STRANGE, a Merchant in love with KATHERINE.
PENDANT, a Sycophant of Count FREDERICK.
CAPTAIN POUTS.
SIR INNOCENT NINNY.
SIR ABRAHAM NINNY, his Son.
A Parson.
A Page.
A Tailor.
Servants.

BELLAFRONT, Daughter of Sir JOHN WORLDLY.
KATHERINE, Daughter of Sir JOHN WORLDLY.
LUCIDA, Daughter of Sir JOHN WORLDLY.
LADY NINNY, Wife of Sir INNOCENT.
MISTRESS WAGTAIL, her Gentlewoman.

SCENE—The Neighbourhood of LONDON.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.—SCUDMORE'S Bed-chamber.

Enter SCUDMORE, half-ready, reading a letter.

SCUD. [Reads] "Whereas you write, my fortune and my birth,
Made above yours, may be a real cause
That I must leave you, know, thou worthiest man,
Thou hast a soul whose plenteous wealth supplies
All the lean wants blind chance hath dealt to thee.
Yet could I think the gods from all their store,
Who ne'er knew indigence unto their will,
Would out of all their stock of virtue left,
Or out of all new graces they can make,
Make such another piece as Scudmore is,
Then might he justly fear; but otherwise
Sooner the masculine element of fire
Shall flame his pyramids down to the earth;
Sooner her mountains shall swell up to Heaven,
Or softest April showers quench fires in hell:
Sooner shall stars from this circumference
Drop like false fiery exhalation,
Than I be false to vows made unto thee,
In whom aught near a fault I ne'er could see,
But that you doubted once my constancy.
Yours through the world, and to the end of time.
Bellafront."
Scud. [Speaks as though in ecstasy.] If what I feel I could
express
in words,
Methinks I could speak joy enough to men
To banish sadness from all love for ever!
O thou, that reconcil'st the faults of all
That frothy sex, and in thy single self
Confin'st—nay, hast engrossed, virtue enough
To frame a spacious world of virtuous women,
Hadst thou been the beginning of thy sex,
I think the devil in the serpent's skin
Had wanted cunning to o'ercome thy goodness,
And all had lived and died in innocency—
The white original creation! [Knocking within.
Who's there? come in.

Enter NEVILL.

Nev. What, up already, Scudmore! Ne'er a wench
With thee? Not e'en thy laundress?
Scud. Good morrow, my dear Nevill.
Nev. What's this? A letter? Sure, it is not so—
A letter written to Hieronimo.
Scud. By Heaven! you must excuse me. Come, I know,
You will not wrong my friendship and your manners
To tempt me so.
Nev. Not for the world, my friend.
Farewell, good morrow. [He is about to go out.
Scud. Nay, sir, neither must you
Depart in anger from this friendly hand.
I swear I love you better than all men,
Equally with all virtue in the world;
Yet this would be a key to lead you to
A prize of that importance—
Nev. Worthy friend,
I leave you not in anger: what d'ye mean?
Nor am I of that inquisitive nature framed
To thirst to know your private businesses.
Why, they concern not me: if they be ill
And dangerous, 'twould grieve me much to know 'em;
If good, they be so, though I know 'em not.
Nor would I do your love so gross a wrong
To covet to participate affairs
Of that near touch, which your assurèd love
Doth think not fit, or dares not trust me with.
Scud. How sweetly does your friendship play with mine,
And with a simple subtlety steals my heart
Out of my bosom. By the holiest love
That ever made a story, you're a man
With all good so replete, that I durst trust you
Ev'n with this secret, were it singly mine.
Nev. I do believe you. Farewell, worthy friend.
Scud. Nay, look you; this same fashion does not please me:
You were not wont to make your visitation
So short and careless.
Nev. 'Tis your jealousy
That makes you think so; for, by my soul,
You have given me no distaste by keeping from me
All things that might be burthenous, and oppress me.
In troth, I am invited to a wedding,
And the morn faster goes away from me,
Than I go toward it; and so, good morrow.
Scud. Good morrow, sir: think I durst show it you.
Nev. Now, by my life, I not desire it, sir,
Nor ever loved these prying, listening men,
That ask of others' states and passages:
Not one among a hundred but proves false,
Envious, and slanderous, and will cut that throat
He twines his arms about. I love that poet,
That gave us reading not to seek ourselves
Beyond ourselves. Farewell.
Scud. You shall not go:
I cannot now redeem the fault I have made
To such a friend, but in disclosing all.
Nev. Now, if you love me, do not wrong me so.
I see you labour with some serious thing,
And think (like fairy's treasure) to reveal it,
Will cause it vanish; and yet to conceal it,
Will burst your breast: 'tis so delicious,
And so much greater than the continent.
Scud. O! you have pierced my entrails with your words,
And I must now explain all to your eyes.
Read, and he happy in my happiness.
Nev. Yet think on't: keep thy secret and thy friend
Sure and entire. O, give not me the means
To become false hereafter! or thyself
A probable reason to distrust thy friend,
Though he be ne'er so true. I will not see't.
Scud. I die, by Heaven, if you deny again.
I starve for counsel: take it: look upon it.
If you do not, it is an equal plague,
As if it had been known and publishèd.
For God's sake, read! but with this caution—
By this right hand, by this yet unstained sword,
Were you my father flowing in these waves,
Or a dear son exhausted out of them,
Should you betray this soul of all my hopes,
Like the two brethren (though love made 'em stars)
We must be never more seen both together.
Nev. I read it fearless of the forfeiture;
Yet warn you, be as cautelous not to wound
My integrity with doubting likelihoods,
From misreport; but first exquire the truth.
[NEVILL reads, SCUDMORE now and then looking back.
Scud. Read, whilst I tell the story of my love,
And sound the truth of her heroic spirit,
Whom eloquence could never flatter yet,
Nor the best tongue of praises reach unto.
The maid there named I met once on a green,
Near to her father's house: methought she showed—
For I did look on her, indeed no eye
That owed a sensible member, but must dwell
A while on such an object:
The passing horses and the feeding kine
Stood still, and left their journeys and their food:
The singing birds were in contention,
Which should light nearest her; for her clear eyes
Deceived even men, they were so like bright skies.
Near, in a rivulet, swam two beauteous swans,
Whiter than anything but her neck and hands,
Which they left straight to comfort her: a bull
Being baiting on the green for the swains' sport,
She walking toward it, the vexed savage beast
Ceased bellowing, the snarling dogs were mute,
And had enough to do to look on her,
Whose face brought concord and an end of jars,
Though nature made 'em ever to have wars;
Had there been bears and lions, when she spake,
They had been charmed too; for Grecian's lute
Was rustic music to her heavenly tongue,
Whose sweetness e'en cast slumbers on mine eyes,
Soft as content, yet would not let me sleep.
Nev. 'Yours through the world and to the end of time,
Bellafront."
Which Bellafront? rich Sir John Worldly's daughter?
Scud. She is the food, the sleep, the air I live by.
Nev. O Heaven' we speak like gods and do like dogs.
Scud. What means my—
Nev. This day this Bellafront, the rich heir,
Is married unto Count Frederick,
And that's the wedding I was going to.
Scud. I prythee, do not mock me. Married!
Nev. It is no matter to be played withal,
But even as true, as women all are false.
Scud. O, that this stroke, were thunder to my breast;
For, Nevill, thou hast spoke my heart in twain,
And with the sudden whirlwind of thy breath
Hast ravished me out of a temperate soil,
And set me under the red burning zone.
Nev. For shame! return thy blood into thy face.
Know'st not how slight a thing a woman is?
Scud. Yes, and how serious too. Come! I'll t' the Temple:
She shall not damn herself for want of counsel.
Nev. O, prythee, run not thus into the streets!
Come, dress you better: so. Ah! as thy clothes
Are, like thy mind, too much disorderèd.
How strangely is this tide turned! For a world,
I would not but have called here as I went.
Collect thy spirits: we will use all means
To check this black fate flying toward thee. Come!
If thou miscarriest, 'tis my day of doom.
Scud. Yes—now I'm fine. Married! It may be so;
But, women, look to't: if she prove untrue,
The devil take you all, that are his due! [Exeunt.

SCENE II.—A Room in Sir JOHN WORLDLY'S House.

Enter Count FREDERICK, a Tailor trussing him; attended by a Page.

Count F. Is Sir John Worldly up, boy?
Page. No, my lord.
Count F. Is my bride up yet?
Page. No.
Count F. No! and the morn so fair?

Enter PENDANT.

Pen. Good morrow, my thrice honoured and heroic lord.
Page. Good morrow, your lord and master, you might say, for brevity
sake. [Aside.
Count F. Thou'st a good tailor, and art very fine.
Pen. I thank your lordship.
Page. Ay, you may thank his lordship indeed. [Aside.
Pen. 'Fore God, this doublet sets in print, my lord;
And the hose excellent; the pickadel rare.
Page. He'll praise himself in trust with my lord's tailor.
For the next St. George's suit.
Count F. O, good morrow, tailor;
I abhor bills in a morning.
Pen. Your honour says true:
Their knavery will be discerned by daylight;
But thou may'st watch at night with bill in hand,
And no man dares find fault with it.
Tai. A good jest, i' faith. Good morrow to your lordship. A very good
jest. [Exit.
Count F. I wonder my invited guests are so tardy. What's o'clock?
Pen. Scarce seven, my lord.
Count F. And what news, Pendant?
What think'st thou of my present marriage?
How shows the beauty to thee I shall wed?
Pen. Why, to all women like Diana among her nymphs.
Page. There's all his reading. [Aside.
Pen. A beauty of that pureness and delight,
That none is worthy of her but my lord,
My honourable lord.
Count F. But then her fortune,
Matched with her beauty, makes her up a match.
Pen. By Heaven, unmatchable!—for none fit but lords,
And yet for no lord fit but my good lord.
Count F. And that her sister, then, should love me too, Is it not
strange?
Pen. Strange? no, not strange at all.
By Cupid, there's no woman in the world
But must needs love you, doat, go mad for you.
If you vouchsafe reflection, 'tis a thing
That does it home: thus much reflection
Catches 'em up by dozens like wild fowl.
Page. Now, ye shall taste the means, by which he eats
[Aside.
Pen. Nature herself, having made you, fell sick
In love with her own work, and can no more
Make man so lovely, being diseased with love.
You are the world's minion of a little man.
I'll say no more: I would not be a woman,
For all has been got by them.
Count F. Why, man, why?
Pen. Heart! I should follow you like a young rank whore,
That runs proud of her love; pluck you by the sleeve,
Whoe'er were with you, in the open street,
With the impudency of a drunken oyster-wife;
Put on my fighting waistcoat and the ruff
That fears no tearing; batter down the windows,
Where I suspected you might lie all night;
Scratch faces, like a wild-cat of Picked-hatch.
Count F. Pendant, thou'lt make me doat upon myself.
Pen. Narcissus, by this hand, had far less cause.
Count F. How know'st thou that?
Page. They were all one, my lord.
Pen. How do I know? I speak my conscience:
His beauties were but shadows to my lord.
Why, boy, his presence would enkindle sin
And longing thoughts in a devoted nun.
O foot! O leg! O hand! O body! face
By Jove, it is a little man of wax.
Count F. Thou'rt a rare rascal: 'tis not for nothing
That men call thee my Commendations.
Page. For nothing? no; he would be loth it should.

Enter Captain POUTS.

Count F. Good morrow, and good welcome, Captain Pouts.
Pouts. Good morning to your honour, and all joy
Spring from this match, and the first year a boy!
I commanded these two verses o' purpose to salute your honour.
Count F. But how haps it, captain, that your intended marriage with
my
father-in-law's third daughter is not solemnised to-day?
Pen. My lord tells you true, captain; it would have saved meat.
Pouts. Faith, I know not. Mistress Kate likes me not; she says I
speak
as if I had pudding in my mouth, and I answered her, if I had, it was a white
pudding, and then I was the better armed for a woman; for I had a case
about me.
So one laughed, and the other cried fie: the third said I was a bawdy captain;
and there was all I could get of them.
Count F. See, boy, if they be up yet: maids are long liers, I
perceive.
Page. How if they will not admit me, my lord.
Count F. Why, should they not admit you, my lord, you cannot commit
with 'em, my lord.
Page. Marry, therefore, my lord. [Exit Page.
Count F. But what should be the reason of her so sudden
alteration? she
listened to thee once, ha?
Pen. Have you not heard, my lord, or do ye not know?
Count F. Not I, I swear.
Pen. Then you know nothing that is worth the knowing.
Pouts. That's certain: he knows you.
Pen. There's a young merchant, a late suitor, that
deals by wholesale,
and heir to land, well-descended, of worthy education, beholding to nature.
Count F. O, 'tis young Strange.
Pouts. Is't he that looks like an Italian tailor out of the laced
wheel? that wears a bucket on his head?
Count F. That is the man: yet believe me, captain, it is a noble
sprightly citizen.
Pouts. Has he money?
Count F. Infinitely wealthy.
Pouts. Then, captain, thou art cast. Would I had gone to Cleveland!
Worldly loves money better than I love his daughter. I'll to some company in
garrison. Good bye.
Count F. Nay, ye shall dedicate this day to me.
We speak but by the way, man: ne'er despair;
I can assure you, she is yet as free as air.
Pen. And you may kill the merchant with a look:
I'd threaten him to death. My honored lord
Shall be your friend: go to, I say he shall:
You shall have his good word. Shall he, my lord?
Count F. 'Sfoot! he shall have my bond to do him good.
Pen. La! 'tis the worthiest lord in Christendom.
O captain, for some fourscore brave spirits, once
To follow such a lord in some attempt!
Pouts. A hundred, sir, were better.

Enter Sir INNOCENT NINNY, Lady NINNY, Sir ABRAHAM, and Mistress
WAGTAIL.

Count F. Here's more guests.
Pouts. Is that man and wife?
Pen. It is Sir Innocent Ninny: that's his lady,
And that Sir Abraham, their only son.
[Count FREDERICK discourses with Sir INNOCENT and Lady NINNY:
ABRAHAM looks about.
Pouts. But did that little old dried neat's tongue, that eel-skin, get
him?
Pen. So 'tis said, captain.
Pouts. Methinks he in his lady should show like a needle in a bottle
of
hay.
Pen. One may see by her nose what pottage she loves.
Pouts. Is your name Abraham? Pray, who dwells in your mother's back-
side, at the sign of the aqua-vitæ bottle?
Pen. God's precious! Save you, Mistress Wagtail.
[Pulls her by the sleeve.
Wag. Sweet Master Pendant.
Abra. Gentlemen, I desire your better acquaintance. You must pardon
my
father; he's somewhat rude, and my mother grossly brought up, as you may
perceive.
Count F. Young Master Abraham! cry ye mercy, sir.
Abra. Your lordship's poor friend, and Sir Abraham Ninny.
The dub-a-dub of honour, piping hot
Doth lie upon my worship's shoulder-blade.
Sir Inn. Indeed, my lord, with much cost and labour we have got him
knighted; and being knighted under favour, my lord, let me tell ye he'll
prove a
sore knight, as e'er run at ring. He is the one and only Ninny of our house.
Lady Nin. He has cost us something, ere he came to this.
Hold up your head, Sir Abraham.
Abra. Pish, pish, pish, pish!
Count F. D'ye hear how—
Pen. O my lord.
Pouts. I had well hoped she could not have spoke, she is so fat.
Count F. Long may'st thou wear thy knighthood; and thy spurs
Prick thee to honour on, and prick off curs.
Abra. Sir Abraham thanks your honour, and I hope your lordship will
consider the simplicity of parents a couple of old fools, my lord, and I pray
so
take 'em.
All. Ha! ha! ha!
Abra. I must be fain to excuse you here: you'll be needs coming
abroad
with me. If I had no more wit than you now, we should be finely laughed at.
Sir Inn. By'r lady, his worship says well: wife, we'll trouble him no
longer. With your honour's leave, I'll in and see my old friend Sir John, your
father that shall be.
Lady Nin. I'll in, too, and see if your bride need no dressing.
[Exeunt Sir INNOCENT and Lady NINNY.
Count F. 'Sfoot, as much as a tripe, I think:
Haste them, I pray. Captain, what thinkest thou
Of such a woman in a long sea-voyage,
Where there were a dearth of victuais?
Pouts. Venison, my lord, venison.
Pen. I' faith, my lord, such venison as a bear is.
Pouts. Heart! she looks like a black bombard with a pint pot waiting
upon it. [Exit Mistress WAGTAIL.
Count F. What countrymen were your ancestors, Sir Abraham?
Abra. Countrymen! they were no countrymen: I scorn it. They were
gentlemen all: my father is a Ninny, and my mother was a Hammer.
Pouts. You should be a knocker, then, by the mother's side.
Abra. I pray, my lord, what is yon gentleman? He looks so like a
Saracen that, as I am a Christian, I cannot endure him.
Count F. Take heed what you say, sir; he's a soldier.
Pen. If you cross him, he'll blow you up with gunpowder.
Abra. In good faith, he looks as if he had had a hand in the treason.
I'll take my leave.
Count F. Nay, good Sir Abraham, you shall not leave us.
Pen. My lord shall be your warrant.
Abra. My lord shall be my warrant? Troth, I do not see that a lord's
warrant is better than any other man's, unless it be to lay one by the heels.
I
shall stay here, and ha' my head broke, and then I ha' my mends in my own
hands:
and then my lord's warrant will help me to a plaister, that's all.
Count F. Come, come; captain, pray shake the hand of
acquaintance with
this gentleman: he is in bodily fear of you.
Pouts. Sir, I use not to bite any man.
Abra. Indeed, sir, that would show you are no gentleman. I would you
would bid me be covered. I am a knight. I was knighted o' purpose to come a-
wooing to Mistress Lucida, the middle sister, Sir John Worldly's second
daughter, and she said she would have me, if I could make her a lady, and I can

do't now. O, here she comes.

Enter Sir JOHN WORLDLY, STRANGE, KATE, and LUCIDA with a willow
garland.

Count F. My bride will never be ready, I think.
Here are the other sisters.
Pen. Look you, my lord: there's Lucida wears the willow garland for
you, and will so go to church, I hear. And look you, captain, that's the
merchant.
Abra. Now doth the pot of love boil in my bosom: Cupid doth blow the
fire; and—
I cannot rhyme to bosom; but I'll go reason with her.
Sir J. Wor. You'll make her jointure of that five-hundred, you say,
that is your inheritance, Master Strange?
Strange. Sir, I will.
Sir J. Wor. Kate, do you love him?
Kate. Yes, faith, father, with all my heart.
Sir J. Wor. Take hands: kiss him. Her portion is four thousand.
Good morrow, my son count: you stay long for your bride;
But this is the day that sells her, and she
Must come forth like my daughter and your wife.
I pray, salute this gentleman as your brother;
This morn shall make him so, and though his habit
But speak him citizen, I know his worth
To be gentle in all parts. Captain!
Pouts. Sir.
Sir J. Wor. Captain, I could have been contented well,
You should have married Kate.
Kate. So could not Kate. [Aside.
Sir J. Wor. You have an honourable title.
A soldier is a very honourable title:
A captain is a commander of soldiers;
But look you, captain; captains have no money;
Therefore the Worldlys must not match with captains.
Pouts. So, sir, so.
Sir J. Wor. There are brave wars.
Pouts. Where?
Sir J. Wor. Find them out, brave captain.
Win honour and get money; by that time
I'll get a daughter for my noble captain.
Pouts. Good, sir, good.
Sir J. Wor. Honour is honour, but it is no money.
This is the tumbler, then, must catch the coney.
[Looking at STRANGE.
Pouts. Thou art an old fellow. Are you a merchant, sir?
Strange. I shame not to say yes. Are you a soldier, sir?
Abra. A soldier, sir? O God! Ay, he is a captain.
Strange. He may be so, and yet no soldier, sir;
For as many are soldiers, that are no captains,
So many are captains, that are no soldiers.
Pouts. Right, sir: and as many are citizens that are no
cuckolds—
Strange. So many are cuckolds that are no citizens.
What ail you, sir, with your robustious looks?
Pouts. I would be glad to see for my money: I have paid for my
standing.
Strange. You are the nobler captain, sir;
For I know many that usurp that name,
Whose standings pay for them.
Pouts. You are a peddler.
Strange. You are a pot-gun.
Pouts. Merchant, I would thou hadst an iron tail, Like me.
Count F. Fie, captain! You are to blame.
Pen. Nay, God's will! You are to blame indeed, if my lord say so.
Pouts. My lord's an ass, and you are another.
Abra. Sweet Mistress Luce, let you and I withdraw: This is his
humour.
Send for the constable!
Pouts. Sirrah, I'll beat you with a pudding on the 'Change.
Strange. Thou dar'st as well kiss the wide-mouthed cannon
At his discharging, as perform as much
As thou dar'st speak; for, soldier, you shall know,
Some can use swords, that wear 'em not for show.
Kate. Why, captain, though ye be a man of war, you cannot subdue
affection. You have no alacrity in your eye, and you speak as if you were in a
dream. You are of so melancholy and dull a disposition, that on my conscience
you would never get children; nay, nor on my body neither; and what a sin were
it in me, and a most pregnant sign of concupiscence, to marry a man that wants
the mettle of generation, since that is the blessing ordained for marriage,
procreation the only end of it. Besides, if I could love you, I shall be here
at
home, and you in Cleveland abroad. I among the bold Britons, and you among the
hot-shots.
Sir J. Wor. No more puffing, captain;
Leave batteries with your breath: the short is this.
This worthy count this morning makes my son,
And with that happy marriage this proceeds.
Worldly's my name, worldly must be my deeds.
Pouts. I will pray for civil wars, to cut thy throat
Without danger, merchant. I will turn pirate,
But I'll be revenged on thee.
Strange. Do, captain, do:
A halter will take up our quarrel then.
Pouts. 'Swounds! I'll be revenged upon ye all!
The strange adventure thou art now to make
In that small pinnace, is more perilous
Than any hazard thou could'st undergo.
Remember, a scorned soldier told thee so. [Exit.
Strange. Go, walk the captain, good Sir Abraham.
Abra. Good faith, sir, I had rather walk your horse.
I will not meddle with him. I would not keep
Him company in his drink for a world.
Sir J. Wor. But
What good do you, Sir Abraham, on my daughter?
I could be e'en content, my Lucida
Would skip your wit and look upon your wealth,
And this one day let Hymen crown ye all.
Abra. O no, she laughs at me and scorns my suit:
For she is wilder and more hard withal,
Than beast or bird, or tree, or stony wall.
Kate. Ha! God-a-mercy, old Hieronimo.
Abra. Yet she might love me for my lovely eyes.
Count F. Ay, but perhaps your nose she doth despise.
Abra. Yet might she love me for my dimpled chin.
Pen. Ay, but she sees your beard is very thin.
Abra. Yet might she love me for my proper body.
Strange. Ay, but she thinks you are an errant noddy.
Abra. Yet might she love me, 'cause I am an heir.
Sir J. Wor. Ay, but perhaps she doth not like your ware.
Abra. Yet might she love me in despite of all.
Luc. Ay, but indeed I cannot love at all.
Sir J. Wor. Well, Luce, respect Sir Abraham, I charge you.
Luc. Father, my vow is passed: whilst the earl lives,
I ne'er will marry, nor will pine for him.
It is not him I love now, but my humour;
But since my sister he hath made his choice,
This wreath of willow, that begirds my brows,
Shall never cease to be my ornament,
'Till he be dead, or I be married to him.
Pen. Life! my lord; you had best marry 'em all three.
They'll never be content else.
Count F. I think so too.
Sir J. Wor. These are impossibilities. Come, Sir Abraham.
A little time will wear out this rash vow.
Abra. Shall I but hope?
Luc. O, by no means, I cannot endure these round breeches: I am ready
to swoon at them.
Kate. The hose are comely.
Luc. And then his left leg: I never see it, but I think on a
plum-tree.
Abra. Indeed, there's reason there should be some difference in my
legs, for one cost me twenty pounds more than the other.
Luc. In troth, both are not worth half the money.
Count F. I hold my life, one of them was broke, and cost so much the
healing.
Abra. Right hath your lordship said; 'twas broke indeed
At foot-ball in the university.
Pen. I know he is in love by his verse-vein.
Strange. He cannot hold out on't: you shall hear.
Abra. Well since I am disdained, off garters blue!
Which signify Sir Abram's love was true;
Off, cypress black! for thou befits not me;
Thou art not cypress of the cypress-tree,
Befitting lovers. Out, green shoe-strings, out!
Wither in pocket, since my Luce doth pout.
Gush, eyes; thump, hand; swell, heart; buttons, fly open!
Thanks, gentle doublet, else my heart had broken.
Now to thy father's country house at Babram
Ride post; there pine and die, poor, poor Sir Abram.
All. O doleful dump! [Music plays.
Sir J. Wor. Nay, you shall stay the wedding. Hark, the music!
Your bride is ready.
Count F. Put spirit in your fingers! louder still,
And the vast air with your enchantments fill. [Exeunt.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.—In front of a Church.

Enter NEVILL, dressed like a Parson.

NEV. Thus for my friend's sake have I taken orders,
And with my reason and some hire beside
Won the known priest, that was to celebrate
This marriage, to let me assume his place;
And here's the character of his face and beard.
By this means, when my friend confronts the maid
At the church-door (where I appointed him
To meet him like myself; for this strange shape
He altogether is unwitting of),
If she (as one vice in that sex alone
Were a great virtue) to inconstancy past
Join impudency, and slight him to his face,
Showing a resolution to this match,
By this attempt it will be frustrate,
And so we have more time, though but 'till night,
To work, to speak with her, or use violence;
For both my blood and means are at his service.
The reason, too, I do this past his knowledge
Is, that his joy may be the more complete;
When being resolved she's married and gone,
I can resolve him otherwise. Thus I know
Good deeds show double that are timely done,
And joy that comes past expectation.

Enter SCUDMORE, in tawny.

Yonder he comes, dead in his melancholy.
I'll question him, and see if I can raise
His spirit from that it restless rests upon:
He cannot know me. Ho! good morrow, sir.
Scud. Good morrow to no living thing but one,
And that is Nevill. O, the vows, the vows,
The protestations and becoming oaths,
Which she has uttered to me!—so sweet, so many,—
As if she had been covetous not to leave
One word for other lovers, which I pitied:
She said indeed I did deserve 'em all.
Her lips made swearings sound of piety,
So sweet and prettily they came from her;
And yet this morn she's married to a lord.
Lord! lord! how often has she kissed this hand,
Lost herself in my eyes, played with my hair,
And made me (a sin I am not subject to)
Go away proud, improved by her favours;
And yet this morn she's married to a lord—
The bells were ringing as I came along.
Nev. Yes, sir; 'tis for the great marriage 'twixt—
Scud. Pray, hold there; I know it too-too well.
The tokens and the letters I have still.
The dangers I have passed for her dear sake
By day and night, to satisfy her wishes!
That letter I so lately did receive,
And yet this morn she's married to a lord!
O memory, thou blessing to all men,
Thou art my curse and cause of misery,
That tell'st me what I have been in her eyes,
And what I am! As it is impossible
To find one good in the whole world of women—
But how I lose myself and the remembrance
Of my dear friend, who said he would meet me here.
What is this priest, that walks before the church?
Why walk you here so early, sir?
Nev. I am appointed
Here to attend the coming of the brides,
Old Sir John Worldly's daughters.
Scud. Are there two?
Nev. Yes, sir: the eldest marries Count Frederick.
Scud. O!
Nev. The middlemost wears willow for his sake;
The youngest marries the rich merchant Strange.
Scud. He is right worthy, and my well-known friend.
But, parson, if you marry Bellafront,
The horror of thy conscience shall exceed
A murderer's. Thou shalt not walk alone,
Nor eat nor sleep, but a sad lover's groans
And curses shall appear and fright thy soul.
I tell thee, priest, they're sights more terrible
Than ghosts or sprites, of which old wives tell tales.
Thou shalt run mad! thou shalt be damned indeed!
Nev. Now God forfend! the reason, sir, I pray?
Scud. She is contracted, sir—nay, married
Unto another man, though it want form:
And such strange passages and mutual vows,
'Twould make your short hair start through your black cap
Should you but hear it!
Nev. Sir, I'll take no notice
Of things I do not know: the injured gentleman
May bring 'em after into the spiritual court,
And have a fair pull on't—a poor gentleman
(For so I take him by his being deceived)
'Gainst a great count and an old wealthy knight.
Scud. Thou Pancridge parson! O, for my friend Nevill!
Some wile or other might remove this priest,
And give us breathing to cross their intent. [Aside.
Nev. Alas! my dear friend. [Aside.
Scud. Sir, do but you refuse to join them.
Nev. Upon what acquaintance, sir?
They are great persons, and I mean to rise:
I hope in time to have three livings, man;
And this were not the way, I take it, sir.
Scud. Why, look thee; there is gold.
Nev. O, by no means.
Scud. I seldom knew't refused yet by thy coat, But where it
would have
been a cause of good.
Nev. But look ye; you shall see I'm a divine
Of conscience quite opposite to a lawyer:
I'll give you counsel, sir, without a fee.
This way they are to come; if you dare do't,
Challenge her as your own at the church-door:
I will not hinder you. [Music plays.
Scud. O, hark! they come.
Nevill, my friend! well, I must something do.
O, why should music, which joys every part,
Strike such sharp killing discords to my heart!

Music. Enter. Sir JOHN WORLDLY, who meets the Parson, and entertains
him; Count FREDERICK, BELLAFRONT, STRANGE, KATHERINE, LUCIDA with
willow;
PENDANT, Sir INNOCENT NINNY, Lady NINNY, Mistress WAGTAIL, Sir ABRAHAM
melancholy. The Wedding Party walk gravely before all.
SCUDMORE stands
before them, and a Boy sings to the tuned music.

SONG.

They that for worldly wealth do wed,
That buy and sell the marriage-bed,
That come not warmed with the true fire,
Resolved to keep this vow entire,
Too soon find discontent:
Too soon shall they repent.
But, Hymen, these are no such lovers,
Which thy burning torch discovers.

Though they live, then, many a year,
Let each day as new appear
As this first; and delights
Make of all bridal nights.
Iö, Hymen! give consent
Blessed are the marriages that ne'er repent.

Count F. How now! who's this?
Pen. Young Scudmore.
All. 'Tis young Scudmore!
Scud. Canst thou this holy church enter a bride,
And not a corse, meeting these eyes of mine?
Bel. Yes, by my troth: what are your eyes to me,
But grey ones, as they are to everybody.
[To the rest.] The gentleman I do a little know:
He's frantic, sure! Forward, a' God's name, there!
Luc. Sister, this is not well, and will be worse.
Scud. O, hold thy thunder fast!
Count F. What is the matter?
Pen. I'll ask my lord. What is the matter, sir?
Sir J. Wor. Some idle words, my lord, 't may be, have passed
'Twixt Scudmore and my daughter heretofore;
But he has dreamt 'em things of consequence.
Pen. Pish! nothing else? set forward.
Nev. By your leave.
Scud. Can there be such a soul in such a shape?
My love is subject of such misery,
Such strange impossibilities and misfortune,
That men will laugh at me, when I relate
The story of it, and conceive I lie.
Why, madam that shall be—lady in posse—do titles,
Honours, and fortunes make you so forgetful?
Bel. You are insolent—nay, strangely saucy, sir,
To wrong me in this public fashion.
Sir J. Wor. Sirrah, go to: there's law.
Scud. There is, indeed,
And conscience too: old Worldly, thou hast one;
But for the other, wild Virginia,
Black Afric, or the shaggy Scythia,
Must send it over as a merchandise,
Ere thou show any here.
Pen. My honoured lord.
Say but the word, I'll force him from the door.
Count F. I say the word: do it.
Scud. You, my lord's fine fool!
Abra. Ay, he, sir?
Scud. No! nor you, my lord's fool's fool.
Sir Inn. 'Ware, boy: come back.
L. Nin. Come back, I say, Sir Abraham.
Strange. 'Tis such a forward child.
[They go into the Church.
Scud. My passion and my cause of grief's so great,
That it hath drowned all worthy parts in me;
As drink makes virtue useless in a man,
And with too much kills natural heat in him,
Or else I could not stand thus coldly tame,
And see them enter, but with my drawn sword
Should hale her by the hair unto the altar,
And sacrifice her heart to wrongèd love. [Aside.
Kath. On my life, it is so.
Strange. Worthy friend,
I am exceeding sorry to see this,
But cannot help it.
Scud. I'll follow, and unfold all in the church.
Alas! to what end, since her mind is changed?
Had she been loyal, all the earthly lords
Could not have borne her so! what heinous sin
Hath she committed, God should leave her then?
I never dreamt of lying with my mother,
Nor wished my father's death, nor hated brothers;
Nor did betray trust, nor loved money better
Than an accepted friend—no such base thought
Nor act unnatural possessed this breast.
Why am I thus rewarded?—women! women!
He's mad, by heaven, that thinks you anything
But sensual monsters, and is never wise
Nor good, but when he hates you, as I now.
I'll not come near one—none of your base sex
Shall know me from this time; for all your virtues
Are like the buzzes growing in the fields,
So weakly fastened t' ye by Nature's hand
That thus much wind blows all away at once.
Ye fillers of the world with bastardy,
Worse than diseases ye are subject to,
Know, I do hate you all: will write against you,
And fight against you: I will eat no meat
Dressed by a woman, old or young, nor sleep
Upon a bed made by their stealthy hands.
Yet once more I will see this feminine devil,
When I will look her dead, speak her to hell!
I'll watch my time this day to do't, and then
I'll be in love with death, and readier still
His mortal stroke to take, than he to kill. [Cornets. Exit.

Loud music. Re-enter, as from the Church, Sir JOHN WORLDLY, NEVILL, as
the
Parson; Count FREDERICK, BELLAFRONT, STRANGE, KATHERINE; Sir INNOCENT NINNY,
Lady NINNY, Sir ABRAHAM; LUCIDA, Mistress WAGTAIL, and PENDANT.

Count F. Sweet is the love purchased with difficulty.
Bel. Then, this cross accident doth relish ours.
Strange. I rather think ours happier, my fair Kate, Where all is
smooth, and no rub checks our course.

Enter Captain POUTS.

Pouts. Are ye married?
Count F. Yes.
Pouts. The devil dance at your wedding! But for you, (To
STRANGE) I
have something else to say. Let me see: here are reasonable good store of
people. Know, all my beloved brethren (I speak it in the face of the
congregation), this woman I have lain with oftener—
All. How!
L. Nin. Before God, you are a wicked fellow to speak on't in this
manner, if you have.
Strange. Lain with her?
Pouts. Yes. Good morrow. God give ye joy. [Exit.
Sir J. Wor. I am speechless with my anger. Follow him!
If it be true, let her be proved a whore:
If false, he shall abide the slander dearly.
Abra. Follow that list: I will not meddle with him.
Sir J. Wor. Why speak'st not thou to reconcile those looks,
That fight stern battles in thy husband's face?
Kath. Thou art not so unworthy to believe him.
If I did think thou didst, I would not open
My lips to satisfy so base a thought,
Sprung from the slander of so base a slave.
Strange. It cannot be! I'll tell you by to-morrow.
I am no fool, Kate. I will find some time
To talk with this same captain. Pouts d'ye call him?
I'll be wi' ye to-night.
Kath. Sir, you shall not.
What stain my honour hath received by this
Base villain, all the world takes notice of.
Mark what I vow, and if I keep it not,
May I be so given o'er, to let this rogue
Perform his slander. Thou that wert ordained,
And in thy cradle marked to call me wife,
And in that title made as my defence,
Yet sufferedst him to go away with life,
Wounding my honour dead before thy face;
Redeem it on his head, and his own way,
Ev'n by the sword, his long profession,
And bring it on thy neck out of the field,
And set it clear amongst the tongues of men,
That all eyes may discern it slanderèd,
Or thou shalt ne'er enjoy me as a wife.
By this bright sun, thou shalt not! Nay, I'll think
As abjectly of thee as any mongrel
Bred in the city: such a citizen
As the plays flout still, and is made the subject
Of all the stages. Be this true or no,
'Tis thy best course to fight.
Sir J. Wor. Why, Kate, I say—
Kath. Pray, pardon me: none feels the smart but I.
'Tis thy best course to fight: if thou be'st still,
And like an honest tradesman eat'st this wrong,
O, may thy spirit and thy state so fall,
Thy first-born child may come to the hospital.
Strange. Heaven, I desire thee, hear her last request,
And grant it too, if I do slack the first!
By thy assured innocency I swear,
Thou hast lost me half the honour I shall win
In speaking my intent. Come, let's to dinner.
Kath. I must not eat nor sleep, but weep,
Till it be done.
Bel. Sister, this resolution is not good:
Ill thrives that marriage that begins in blood.
Kath. Sister, inform yourself I have no ladyship
To gild my infamy, or keep tongues in awe.
If God love innocency, I am sure
He shall not lose in this action.
Strange. Nor is't the other's life.
Can give her to the world my perfect wife,
But what I do conceive. It is not blood, then,
Which she requires, but her good name again;
And I will purchase it; for, by Heaven, thou art
The excellent'st new-fashioned maid in this,
That ever ear shall hear a tale told of.
All. But hear ye.
Strange. Good people, save your labours, for by Heaven
I'll do it: if I do't not, I shall be pointed at,
Proclaimed the grand rich cuckold of the town;
Nay, wittol, even by them are known for both.
Sir J. Wor. Take your revenge by law.
Strange. It will be thought
Your greatness and our money carries it:
For some say some men on the back of law
May ride and rule it like a patient ass,
And with a golden bridle in the mouth
Direct it unto anything they please.
Others report it is a spider's web,
Made to entangle the poor helpless flies,
Whilst the great spiders that did make it first,
And rule it, sit i' th' midst secure, and laugh.
My law in this shall only be my sword;
But, peradventure, not this month or two.
Kath. This month or two?
Count F. I'll be your second, then.
Strange. You proffer too much honour, my good lord.
Pen. And I will be your third.
Abra. I'll not be fourth or fifth,
For the old proverb's good, which long hath been,
Says safest 'tis sleeping in a whole skin.
Luc. God-a-mercy, Nab, I'll ha' thee, an't be but for thy manhood.
Sir Inn. Wife, my Lady Ninny, do you hear your son?
He speaks seldom, but when he speaks—
Luc. He speaks proverbs, i' faith.
L. Nin. O, 'tis a pestilence knight, Mistress Lucida.
Luc. Ay, and a pocky.
Kath. This month or two! D'ye love me? not before?
It may be I will live so long fame's whore! [Exit.
Sir J. Wor. What lowering star ruled my nativity!
You'll come to dinner?
Strange. Yes.
Count F. Good morrow, brother.
Come, let's be merry in despite of all,
And make this day (as't should be) festival.
Sir J. Wor. This sour thwart beginning may portend
Good, and be crowned with a delicious end.
[Exeunt all but STRANGE.
Strange. So; I'll not see you, till my task be done:
So much false time I set to my intent,
Which instantly I mean to execute,
To cut off all means of prevention,
Which if they knew my day, they would essay,
Now for the merchant's honour. Hit all right:
Kate, your young Strange will lie with you to-night.
[Exit.

Enter Mistress WAGTAIL; the Page, stealing after her, conceals
himself.

Wag. What a stir is here made about lying with a gentlewoman! I have bee
n
lain with a hundred and a hundred times, and nothing has come on't!
but—hawk, hum! hawk, hum! O, O! Thus have I done for this month or
two—hawk, hum! [Coughs and spits.
Page. Ah! God's will, are you at it? You have acted your name too much,
sweet Mistress Wagtail. This was wittily, though somewhat knavishly followed
on
me.
Wag. Umph! O' my conscience, I am peppered. Well, thou tumblest not fo
r
nothing, for he dances as well that got thee, and plays as well on the viol,
and
yet he must not father thee. I have better men. Let me remember them, and
here,
in my melancholy, choose out one rich enough to reward this my stale
virginity,
or fit enough to marry my little honesty. Hawk, hawk!
[Coughs and spits.
Page. She has a shrewd reach, I see that. What a casting she keeps.
Marry, my comfort is, we shall hear by and by who has given her the casting-
bottle.
Wag. Hawk, hawk, hawk! bitter, bitter! Pray God, I hurt not the babe.
Well, let me see, I'll begin with knights: imprimis, Sir John Do't-well
and
Sir William Burn-it.
Page. A hot knight, by my faith; Do't-well and Burn-it too.
Wag. For old Sir Innocent Ninny, my master, if I speak my conscience,
look ye, I cannot directly accuse him. Much has he been about, but done
nothing.
Marry, for Sir Abraham, I will not altogether 'quit him. Let me see, there's
four knights: now for gentlemen—
Page. And so she'll come down to the footmen.
Wag. Master Love-all, Master Liveby't, and Master Pendant.
Hawk, hi'up,
hi'up!
Page. By this light, I have heard enough. Shall I hold
your belly too,
fair maid of the fashion?
[Comes forward.
Wag, What say ye, Jack Sauce?
Page. O fie, ill-mutton! you are too angry. Why, look
ye; I am my lord's page, and you are my lady's gentlewoman: we should agree
better; and I pray, whither are you riding with this burthen in your dosser.
Wag. Why, sir, out of town. I hope 'tis not the first time you have
seen a child carried out of town in a dosser for fear of the plague.
Page. You have answered me, I promise you: but who put it in, I pray?
Wag. Not you, sir, I know, by your asking.
Page. I, alas! I know that by my talent; for I remember thus much
philosophy of my schoolmasters, ex nihilo nihil fit. But come, setting
this
duello of wit aside, I have overheard your confession and your casting
about for
a father, and in troth, in mere charity, came in to relieve you. In the scroll
of beasts, horses and asses, that have fed upon this common of yours, you
named
one Pendant: faith, wench, let him be the father. He is a very handsome
gentleman, I can tell you, in my lord's favour. I'll be both secret and your
friend to my lord. Let it be him; he shall either reward thee bountifully, or
marry thee.
Wag. Sir, you speak like an understanding young gentleman, and I
acknowledge myself much bound to you for you counsel.
Pen. [Within]. Will, Will!
Page. My lord hath sent him to call me. Now I hold a wager on't, if
thou be'st not a fool, as most waiting women are, thou'lt use him in his kind.

Enter PENDANT.

Pen. Why, Will, I say! Go; my lord calls extremely.
Page. Did not I say so? Come, this is but a trick to send me off,
sir.
[Exit.
Pen. A notable little rascal.
Pretty Mistress Wagtail, why do you walk so melancholy? I sent him hence o'
purpose. Come, shall's do?
Wag. Do! what would you do? You have done too much already.
Pen. What's the matter?
Wag. I am with child by you.
Pen. By me? Why, by me? A good jest, i' faith.
Wag. You'll find it, sir, in earnest.
Fen. Why, do you think I am such an ass to believe nobody has meddled
with you but I?
Wag. Do you wrong me so much to think otherwise?
Thus 'tis for a poor damsel like myself
To yield her honour and her youth to any,
Who straight conceives she doth so unto many:
And as I have a soul to save, 'tis true.
Pen. Pray, do not swear. I do not urge you to't. 'Swounds, now I am
undone!
You walk somewhat round. Sweetheart, has nobody been tampering with you else?
Think on't, for by this light, I am not worth the estate of an
apple-wife. I do
live upon commending my lord, the Lord of Hosts knows it, and all the world
besides.
For me to marry thee will undo thee more,
And that thou may'st keep me, keep thee in fashion,
Sell thee to English, French, to Scot, and all,
Till I have brought thee to an hospital;
And there I leave you. Ha' you not heard nor read
Of some base slave that, wagging his fair head,
Does whistling at one end of his shop-walk,
Whilst some gay man doth vomit bawdy talk
In his wife's ears at the other? Such a rogue
Or worse shall I be; for, look ye, Mistress Wagtail, I do live like a chameleon

upon the air, and not like a mole upon the earth. Land I have none. I pray God
send me a grave, when I am dead.
Wag. It's all one. I'll have you for your qualities.
Pen. For my good ones, they are altogether unknown,
because they have not yet been seen, nor ever will be, for they have no being.
In plain terms, as God help me, I have none.
Wag. How came you by your good clothes?
Pen. By undoing tailors; and then my lord (like a snake) casts a suit
every quarter, which I slip into: therefore thou art worse than mad if thou
wilt
cast away thyself upon me.
Wag. Why, what 'mends will you make me? can you give me some sum of
money to marry me to some tradesman, as the play says?
Pen. No, by my troth. But tell me this, has not Sir Abraham been
familiar with you?
Wag. Faith, not enough to make up a child.
Pen. Couldst be content to marry him?
Wag. Ay, by my troth, and thank ye, too.
Pen. Has he but kissed thee?
Wag. Yes; and something more beside that.
Pen. Nay, an there ha' been any jot of the thing, beside that, I'll
warrant thee, lay the child to him-
Stand stiffly to it, leave the rest to me;
By that fool thou shalt save thy honesty. [Exeunt.

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.—Before Captain POUTS' House.

Enter STRANGE, and knocks at a door.

STRANGE. Lies Captain Pouts here, pray?

Enter a Servingman.

Ser. Sir, he does.
Strange. I prythee, tell him here's a gentleman would speak with him.
Ser. What may I call your name, sir?
Strange. No matter for my name.
Ser. Troth, sir, the captain is somewhat doubtful of strangers; and
being, as most captains are, a little in debt, I know he will not speak with
you, unless you send your name.
Strange. Tell him my name is Strange; that I am come
About that business he spake of to-day. [Exit Servant.
To have sent a formal challenge by a gentleman,
He being to choose his time, might peradventure
Have made him shift himself the sooner over.

Enter Captain POUTS above.

Pouts. Sir, I know your business. You are come to serve a warrant or a
citation; I will not speak with you;
and get you gone quickly too, or I may happen send a bullet through your
mazzard. [Exit.
Strange. Strange cross! past expectation! well, I'll try;
My other course may speed more happily. [Exit.

SCENE II.—A Room in Sir JOHN WORLDLY'S House.

Music. Enter with table-napkins, Count FREDERICK, Sir JOHN WORLDLY, NEVILL,
PENDANT, Sir INNOCENT NINNY, Lady NINNY, Sir ABRAHAM. Servants with wine,
plate, tobacco, and pipes.

Sir, J. Wor. Sir, had you borne us company to church, You had been the
better welcome.
Count F. Faith, you had; I must needs say so too.
Pen. And I must needs say as my lord says.
Nev. Sir John, I thank you and my honoured lord:
But I am sorry for this other news
Concerning Mistress Kate and my good friend.
Sir J. Wor. 'Tis certain true: he keeps his word well too!
He said he would come to dinner.
Lady Nin. All we cannot get Mistress Katherine out of her chamber.
Sir J. Wor. O good old woman, she is top-shackled.
Lady Nin. 'Tis pestilence sack and cruel claret: knight, stand to me,
knight, I say: up, a cold stomach! give me my aqua-vitæ bottle.
Sir Inn. O Guiniver! as I am a justice of peace and quorum, 'twere a
good deed to commit thee. Fie, fie, fie!
Abra. Why, alas! I cannot help this, an I should be hanged: she'll be
as drunk as a porter. I'll tell you, my lord, I have seen her so be-piss the
rushes, as she has
danced at a wedding. Her belly and that aqua-vitæ bottle have almost
undone
my father. Well, I think in conscience she is not my natural-begotten mother.
All. Ha, ha, ha!
Nev. Well said, my wise Sir Abraham.
C. Fred. O, this music
And good wine is the soul of all the world.
Sir J. Wor. Come, will your lordship make one at primero,
Until your bride come forth?
Nev. You can play well, my lord.
Count F. Who, I?
Pen. Who? my lord? the only player at primero i' the court.
Abra. I'd rather play at bowls.
Pen. My lord's for you for that, too: the only bowler in London that
is
not a churchwarden.
Nev. Can he fence well, too, Master Pendant?
Pen. Who? my lord? the only fencer in Christendom.
He'll hit you.
Abra. He shall not hit me, I assure you, now.
Nev. Is he good at the exercise of drinking, sir?
Pen. Who? my lord? the only drunkard i' th' world—drinker, I
would
say.
Abra. God-a-mercy for that.
Nev. I would he heard him.
Abra. I know a better whoremaster than he.
Nev. O fie! no: none so good as my lord.
Pen. Hardly, by'r Lady, hardly.
Count F. How now! who's this?

Enter SCUDMORE, like a Servingman, with a letter.

Sir J. Wor. What would you?
Scud. I would speak with the Lady Bellafront from the young Lady
Lucy.
Sir J. Wor. You had best send in your letter; she is withdrawn.
Scud. My lady gave me charge of the delivery,
And I must do't myself, or carry it back.
Sir J. Wor. A trusty servant. That way leads you to her.
Count F. This trust in servants is a jewel. Come,
Let us to bowls i' th' garden. [Exeunt.
Scud. Blessed fate!
[SCUDMORE passes one door, and enters at the other, where
BELLAFRONT sits asleep in a chair, under a taffata canopy.
Scud. O thou, whose words and actions seemed to me
As innocent as this smooth sleep which hath
Locked up thy powers! Would thou had'st slept, when first
Thou sent'st and profferedst me beauty and love!
I had been ignorant, then, of such a loss.
Happy's that wretch, in my opinion,
That never owned scarce jewels or bright sums:
He can lose nothing but his constant wants;
But speakless is his plague, that once had store,
And from superfluous state falls to be poor.
Such is my hell-bred hap! could Nature make
So fair a superficies to enclose
So false a heart? This is like gilded tombs,
Compacted of jet pillars, marble stones,
Which hide from's stinking flesh and rotten bones.
Pallas so sat (methinks) in Hector's tent.
But time, so precious and so dangerous,
Why do I lose thee? Madam, my lady, madam!
Bel. Believe me, my dear friend, I was enforced.
Ha! I had a dream as strange as thou art, fellow.
How cam'st thou hither? what's thy business?
Scud. That letter, madam, tells you.
Bel. Letter? ha!
What, dost thou mock me? here is nothing writ.
Scud. Can you read anything, then, in this face?
Bel. O basilisk! remove thee from my sight,
Or thy heart's blood shall pay thy rash attempt!
Ho! who attends us there?
Scud. Stir not a foot,
And stop your clamorous acclamations,
Or, by the bitterness of my fresh wrongs,
I'll send your ladyship to the devil quick!
I know the hazard I do undergo,
And whatsoever after becomes of me,
I'll make you sure first. I am come to speak—
And speak I will freely—and to bring back
Your letters and such things you sent; and then
I'll ne'er see those deceiving eyes again.
Bel. O, I am sick of my corruption!
For God's sake, do not speak a word more to me.
Scud. Not speak! yes, woman, I will roar aloud:
Call thee the falsest fair that ever breathed;
Tell thee, that in this marriage thou hast drowned
All virtue left to credit thy weak sex,
Which being (as 'twere) committed to thy trust,
Thou traitorously hast betrayed it thus!
Did I entice, or ever send thee gifts,
To allure thee to reflect a beam on me?
Nay, didst not thou thyself send and invent,
Past human wit, our means of intercourse?
Why dost thou then prove base unto thyself,
Perjured and impious? know, the good thou hast lost
In my opinion, doth outvalue far
The airy honours thou art married to.
Bel. O, peace! for you speak sharpness to my soul,
More torturous than hell's plagues to the damned.
For love's sake, hear me speak!
Scud. For love's sake? no:
Love is my surfeit, and is turned in me
To a disease.
Bel. Tyrant! my knees shall beg,
Till they get liberty for my tongue to speak,
Drowned, almost, in the rivers of mine eyes.
Scud. What canst thou say? art thou not married?
Bel. Alas! I was enforced; first by the threats
Of a severe father, that in his hand
Did gripe my fortunes: next to that, the fame
Of your neglect and liberal-talking tongue,
Which bred my honour an eternal wrong.
Scud. Pish! these are painted causes. Till this morn
He lived not in this land, that durst accuse
My integrity of such an ignorance.
But take your letters here, your paper vows,
Your picture and your bracelets; and if ever
I build again upon a woman's faith,
May sense forsake me! I will sooner trust
Dice or a reconciled enemy: O God!
What an internal joy my heart has felt,
Sitting at one of these same idle plays,
When I have seen a maid's inconstancy
Presented to the life! how my glad eyes
Have stole about me, fearing lest my looks
Should tell the company convented there
The mistress that I had free of such faults.
Bel. O, still retain her so! dear Scudmore, hear me.
Scud. Retain thee so? it is impossible!
Art thou not married? 'tis impossible!
O no! I do despise thee, and will fly
As far on earth as to the Antipodes,
And by some learned magician, whose deep art
Can know thy residence on this hemisphere,
There I'll be placed, my feet just against thine,
To express the opposite nature which our hearts
Must henceforth hold.
Bel. O, rather shoot me, friend,
Than let me hear thee speak such bitterness!
O, pity me! redeem me from the hell,
That in this marriage I am like to feel!
I'll rather fly to barren wildernesses,
And suffer all wants with thee, Scudmore, than
Live with all plenty in this husband's arms.
Thou shalt perceive I am not such a woman,
That is transported with vain dignities.
O, thy dear words have knocked at my heart's gates,
And entered. They have plucked the devil's vizard
(That did deform this face, and blind my soul)
Off, and thy Bellafront presents herself,
Laved in a bath of contrite virginal tears:
Clothed in the original beauty that was thine!
Now, for thy love to God, count this not done:
Let time go back, and be as when before it,
Or from thy memory rase it for ever!
Scud. Ha, ha! heart! was there ever such strange creatures framed?
Why dost thou speak such foolish, senseless things?
Can thy forsaking him redeem thy fault?
No, I will never mend an ill with worse.
Why, thy example will make women false,
When they shall hear it, that before were true;
For after ill examples we do fly,
But must be vowed to deeds of piety.
O woman, woman, woman, woman, woman!
The cause of future and original sin,
How happy, (had you not) should we have been!
False, where you kiss, but murdering in your ire;
Love all can woo, know all men you desire:
Ungrateful, yet most impudent to crave,
Torturous as hell, insatiate as the grave:
Lustful as monkeys, grinning in your ease,
Whom if we make not idols, we ne'er please:
More vainly proud than fools, as ignorant;
Baser than parasites: witches that enchant
And make us senseless, to think death or life
Is yours to give, when only our belief
Doth make you able to deceive us so:
Begot by drunkards to breed sin and woe;
As many foul diseases hide your veins,
As there are mischiefs coined in your quick brains:
Not quick in wit, fit to perform least good,
But to subvert whole states, shed seas of blood:
Twice as deceitful as are crocodiles,
For you portray both ways, with tears and smiles.
Yet questionless there are as good, as bad.
Hence! let me go.
Bel. Hear me, and thou shalt go.
I do confess I do deserve all this,
Have wounded all the faith my sex doth owe,
But will recover it or pay my life.
Strive not to go, for you shall hear me first.
I charge thee, Scudmore, thou hard-hearted man,
Upon my knees— [Kneels.
Thou most implacable man, since penitence
And satisfaction too gets not thy pardon,
I charge thee use some means to set me free,
[Rises again.
Before the revels of this night have end.
Prevent my entering to this marriage-bed;
Or by the memory of Lucretia's knife,
Ere morn I'll die a virgin, though a wife. [Exit.
Scud. Pish! do: the world will have one mischief less.
[Exit.

SCENE III.—A Garden adjoining a Bowling Alley.

Enter Sir ABRAHAM NINNY, throwing down his bowl.

Abra. Bowl they that list, for I will bowl no more.
Cupid, that little bowler, in my breast
Rubs at my heart, and will not let me rest.
[Within: Rub, rub, fly, fly.
Ay, ay, you may cry "Rub, fly," to your bowls,
For you are free: love troubles not your jowls,
But from my head to heel, from heel to heart:
Behind, before, and roundabout I smart.
Then in this arbour, sitting all alone,
In doleful ditty let me howl my moan.
O boy! leave pricking, for I vail my bonnet:
Give me but breath, while I do write a sonnet.

Enter PENDANT.

Pen. I have lost my money, and Sir Abraham too. Yonder he sits at his
muse, by Heaven, drowned in the ocean of his live. Lord! how he labours, like
a
hardbound poet whose brains had a frost in 'em. Now it comes.
Abra. "I die, I sigh."
Pen. What, after you are dead? very good.
Abra. "I die, I sigh, thou precious stony jewel."
Pen. Good; because she is hard-hearted.
Abra. "I die." [Writes.
Pen. He has died three times, and come again.
Abra.—"I sigh, thou precious stony jewel.
Wearing of silk, why art thou still so cruel." [Writes.
Pen. O Newington conceit!
And quieting eke.
Abra. "Thy servant Abraham, sends this foolish ditty."
Pen. You say true, in troth, sir.
Abra. "Thy servant, Abraham, sends this foolish dit-Ty unto thee,
pity
both him and it." [Writes.
Pen. "Ty unto thee:" well, if she do not pity both 'tis pity she should
live.
Abra. "But if thou still wilt poor Sir Abraham frump, Come, grim
death,
come! here give thy mortal thump."
[Reads.
So; now I'll read it together.
"I die, I sigh, thou precious stony jewel,
O, wherefore wear'st thou silk, yet art so cruel?
To thee thy Ninny sends this foolish dit-
Ty, and. ... pity both him and it.
If thou deny, and still Sir Abraham frump,
Come, grim death, come! here give thy mortal thump."
Let me see, who shall I get now to set it to a dumpish note.
Pen. In good faith, I do not know; but nobody that is wise, I am sure
of that. It will be an excellent matter sung to the knacking of the tongs. But
to my business. God save thee, worthy and right worshipful Sir Abraham! what,
musing and writing? O, this love will undo us all, and that made me prevent
love, and undo myself. But what news of Mistress Lucida? ha! will she not come
off, nor cannot you come on, little Abraham?
Abra. Faith, I have courted her, and courted her; and she does, as
everybody else does, laughs at all I can do or say.
Pen. Laughs, why that's a sign she is pleased. Do you not know, when
a
woman laughs, she's pleased?
Abra. Ay, but she laughs most shamefully and most scornfully.
Pen. Scornfully! hang her, she's but a bauble.
Abra. She's the fitter for my turn, sir; for they will not stick to
say, I am a fool, for all I am a knight.
Pen. Love has made you witty, little Nab; but what a mad villain art
thou, a striker, a fiftieth part of Hercules, to get one wench with child, and
go a wooing to another.
Abra. With child! a good jest, i' faith: whom have I got with child?
Pen. Why, Mistress Wagtail is with child, and will be deposed 'tis
yours. She is my kinswoman, and I would be loth our house should suffer any
disgrace in her; if there be law in England, which there should be, if we may
judge by their consciences, or if I have any friends, the wench shall take no
wrong. I cannot tell: I think my lord will stick to me.
Abra. D'ye hear? talk not to me of friends, law, or conscience: if
your
kinswoman say she is with child by me, your kinswoman is an errant whore. Od's
will, have you nobody to put your gulls upon but knights? That Wagtail is a
where, and I'll stand to it.
Pen. Nay, you have stood to it already. But to call my cousin whore!
you have not a mind to have your throat cut, ha' you?
Abra. Troth, no great mind, sir.
Pen. Recant your words, or die. [Draws his sword.
Abra. Recant? O, base! out, sword, mine honour keep: Love, thou hast
made
a lion of a sheep.
Pen. But will you fight in this quarrel?
Abra. I am resolved.
Pen. Heart! I have pulled an old house over my head: here's like
to be
a tall fray. I perceive a fool's valianter than a knave at all times. Would I
were well rid of him: I had as lief meet Hector, God knows, if he dare
fight at
all: they are all one to me; or, to speak more modernly, with one of
the roaring
boys. [Aside.
Abra. Have you done your prayers?
Pen. Pray give me leave, sir: put up, an't please you. Are
you sure my
cousin Wagtail is a whore?
Abra. With sword in hand I do it not recant.
Pen. Well, it shall never be said Jack Pendant would
venture his blood
in a whore's quarrel. But, whore or no whore, she is most desperately in love
with you: praises your head, your face, your nose, your eyes, your mouth: the
fire of her commendations makes the pot of your good parts run over; and to
conclude, if the whore have you not, I think the pond at Islington will be her
bathing-tub, and give an end to mortal misery. But if she belie you_____pray,
put up, sir; she is an errant whore, and so let her go.
Abra. Does she so love me, say you?
Pen. Yes, yes: out of all question, the whore does love you
abominable.
Abra. No more of these foul terms: if she do love me, That goes by
fate, I know it by myself.
I'll not deny but I have dallied with her.
Pen. Ay, but hang her, whore; dallying will get no children.
Abra. Another "whore," and draw! Where is the girl?
Pen. Condoling her misfortune in the gallery;
Upon the rushes sitting all alone,
And for Sir Abraham's love venting her moan.
Abra. I know not what to say: fate's above all.
Come, let's go overhear her. Be this true,
Welcome, my Wagtail: scornful Luce, adieu. [Exit.
Pen. One way it takes yet. 'Tis a fool's condition,
Whom none can love, out of his penury
To catch most greedily at any wench
That gives way to his love, or feigns her own
First unto him: and so Sir Abraham now,
I hope, will buy the pool where I will fish.
Thus a quick knave makes a fat fool his dish. [Exit.

Enter Captain POUTS.

Pouts. I have played the melancholy ass, and partly the
knave, in this
last business, but as the parson said that got the wench with
child, "'Tis done
now, sir; it cannot be undone, and my purse or I must smart for it."

Enter Servant.

Ser. Your trunks are shipped, and the tide falls out about twelve to-
night.
Pouts. I'll away. This law is like the basilisk, to see it first is
the
death on't. This night and, noble London, farewell; I will never see thee
more,
till I be knighted for my virtues. Let me see, when shall I return? and
yet I do
not think, but there are a great many dubbed for their virtues; otherwise, how
could there be so many poor knights?

Enter STRANGE, like a Soldier, amazedly.

What art thou? what's thy news?
Strange. 'Zoons; a man is fain to break open doors,
ere he can get in to you. I would speak with a general sooner.
Pouts. Sir, you may: he owes less, peradventure; or if more, he is
more
able to pay't. What art?
Strange. A soldier; one that lives upon this buff jerkin: 'twas
made of
Fortunatus's pouch; and these are the points I stand upon. I am a soldier.
Pouts. A counterfeit rogue you are.
Strange. As true a rogue as thyself. Thou wrong'st me. Send your man
away: go to, I have strange and welcome business to impart. The merchant is
dead
for shame: let's walk into the fields: send away your man.
Pouts. How?
Strange. Here is a letter from the lusty Kate,
That tells you all: I must not give it you,
But upon some conditions. Let us walk,
And send away your man.
Pouts. Go, sirrah, and bespeak supper at the Bear, and provide oars:
I'll see Gravesend to-night.
[Exit Servant.
Strange. The gentlewoman will run mad after you then. I'll tell you
more: let's walk. [Exeunt.

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE I.—A Room in NEVILL'S House.

Enter SCUDMORE and NEVILL.

NEV. I see great'st spirits can serve to their own ends.
Were you the seeming servingman that passed by?
Scud. By my sad heart, I was; and not a tittle
Of my relation to thee wrong or feigned.
Nev. In troth you were to blame to venture so.
Mischiefs find us: we need not mischiefs seek.
Scud. I am not tied to that opinion,
They are like women, which do always shun
Their lovers and pursuers, and do follow
With most rank appetites them that do fly:
All mischief that I had is but one woman,
And that one woman all mischance to me:
Who speaks worst of them, then's the best of men.
They are like shadows: mischiefs are like them.
Death fears me, for in troth I seek him out.
The sun is stale to me; to-morrow morn,
As this, 'twill rise: I see no difference,
The night doth visit me but in one robe,
She brings as many thoughts as she wears stars,
When she is pleasant, but no rest at all.
For what new strange thing should I covet life, then?
Is not she false, whom only I thought true?
Shall time to show his strength make Scudmore live,
Till (perish the vicious thought!) I love not thee,
Or thou, dear friend, remove thy heart from me?
Nev. Time is as weak for that, as he is old.
Take comfort, and attend this counsel, friend
This match is neither sacred nor is sure;
Close fate annihilates what opinion makes,
And since she is resolved this night to die,
If you do not redeem her, give the means,
Or her blood (credit me) will spring heavier griefs,
Sorer and stranger, in thy oppressed heart,
Than her false love before. Besides, 'tis you,
My Scudmore, that are false, if you will not
Consent to let her make vows good, which were
But in a possibility to be broke.
This her repentance casts her vice quite off,
And if you leave her now, you take it on.
Nay, you incur a bloody mortal sin:
You do become an actual murderer.
If you neglect her, she will kill herself
This night by poison, knife, or other means.
God gives you power to cross her desperate will.
And if you save not, where you may, you kill.
Scud. Why, can my noble and wise friend think still
That what a woman says her heart doth mean?
Can you believe that she will kill herself?
'Tis a full hour since she spake the word,
And God forbid, that any woman's mind
Should not be changed and changed in a long hour.
She is by this time in her lordly arms,
And, like pleased Juno clasped by Jupiter,
Forgets the plaints of poor mortality:
Such state, such pride, as poets show her in,
Incensed with Jove's loose 'scapes upon the earth,
She cast on me at our encountering.
As cold and heavy as a rock of ice,
In her love to me, which while I there stayed,
My bitter and hot words resolved a little:
Just as the sun doth ice I softened her,
And made her drown her fault in her own tears.
But think you she holds this flexible vein?
No, I'm removed, and she's congealed again.
Nev. How well does Scudmore speak ill for himself!
Wit's a disease that fit employment wants;
Therefore we see those happiest in best parts,
"But under-born in fortune to their merits,"
Grow to a sullen envy, hate, and scorn
Of their superiors; and at last, like winds,
Break forth into rebellious civil wars
Or private treasons; none so apt for these
As melancholy wits, fettered with need.
How free's the rustic swain from these assaults!
He never feels a passion all his life,
But when he cannot sleep, or hunger gripes;
And though he want reason, wit, art,—nay, sense,
Is not so senseless to capitulate,
And ask God why he made not him as great
As that same foolish lord or that rich knave.
His brain with nothing does negotiate,
But his hard husbandry, which makes him live.
But have we worthy gifts, as judgment, learning,
Ingenious sharpness (which wise God indeed
Doth seldom give out of His equal hand,
But joined with poverty, to make it even
With riches, which he clogs with ignorance),
We vent our blessing in profane conceits,
Foul bawdry, or strong arguments against
Ourselves, and stark blindly hold it best
Rather to lose a soul than lose a jest.
Scud. Ill terms my friend this wit in any man;
For that, but seasoned with discretion,
Holds him in awe of all these blemishes,
Frees him of envy, doth philosophise
His spirit, that he makes no difference
'Twixt man and man, 'twixt fortunes high and low,
But as the thicker they with virtues grow.
Freedom and bondage wit can make all one;
So 'twould by being left and being loved,
If I had any of it tempered so.
But you have spoke all this, condemning me
For having wit to speak against myself,
But I'll be ruled by you in all.
Nev. Then thus.
To-night by promise I do give a masque,
As to congratulate the bridal day,
In which the count, Pendant, and the wise knight
Will be most worthy dancers: sir, you shall
Learn but my part, which I will teach you too,
As nimbly as the usher did teach me,
And follow my further directions.
Though I, i' th' morn, were a prodigious wight,
I'll give thee Bellafront in thine arms to-night.
Scud. I am your property, my engineer.
Prosper your purposes! shine, thou eye of Heaven,
And make thy lowering morn a smiling even! [Exeunt.

SCENE II.—Lambeth Fields.

Enter Captain POUTS, with a letter, and STRANGE, like a Soldier.

Strange. O, these are Lambeth fields.
Pouts. Strange murdered on the wedding-day by you,
At his own bride's appointment, for my sake?
Strange. As dead as charity.
Pouts. This sounds not well.
Strange. 'Zoons! you may say as well I am the man,
As doubt he lives. A plague of your belief!
D'ye know this bloody ruff, which she has sent,
Lest you should be incredulous, and this ring
Which you have seen her wear?
Pouts. I know the ring,
And I have seen the ruff about his neck.
This comes of enforced marriages. Where was't done?
And how escaped you?
Strange. Sir, receive it briefly.
I am her kinsman, and being newly come
Over, and not intending to stay long,
Took this day to go see my cousin Worldly
(For so my name is), where I found all of them
So deeply drenchèd in the bridal cup,
That sleep had ta'en possession of their eyes.
Bacchus had given them such an overthrow,
Their bodies lay like slaughtered carcases;
One here, one there, making such antic faces
As drunkenness had mocked at drunkenness.
In troth, their postures and their sleep, like death
(For theirs was liker death than sober sleep),
Remembered me of body-scattered fields,
After the bloody battles I have seen.
'Twas such a season, to make short my tale,
As Fate had said, "Now murders may be done
And ne'er revealed." Approaching further, I
Lighted upon a chamber, where your love
Sat by this merchant, cast drunk on the bed—
She weeping and lamenting her mishap,
Assured both of my daring and my trust,
Fell flat upon the ground, then raised herself,
Hung on my neck, then sunk down to my legs,
Told all things passed to-day, and never ceased,
Till I had ta'en life from that half-dead man
Before, whom straight I strangled with this rope.
Pouts. You have showed some kindness to me:
I must love you, sir. What did you with his body?
Strange. Having first,
By her direction, put on these his clothes,
That like the murdered man the safelier
I might pass with her, being her husband's shape,
If any of the servants had been waked,
She showed me to a necessary vault,
Within a closet in the chamber too,
And there I threw the body.
Pouts. Whence this blood?
Strange. That she herself first let out of his veins;
Wherein she dipped the ruff about his neck,
And said, "Go, bear this ensign of my love,
To assure him what I dared for his dear sake."
Pouts. Where is the maid?
Strange. Captain, a maid for you!
(But well you know, I hope, she is no maid)
But maid or no maid, she is at my mother's,
Whence I will bring her whither you'll appoint
To-night; and let this tide convey all hence,
For staying will be something perilous.
Pouts. I will kill two men for you; till then
I owe my life to you, and if ever racks,
Strappadoes, wheel, or any torturous engine,
Even from the Roman yoke to the Scotch boot,
Force me discover you or her to law,
Pray God the merchant may respire again.
But what a villain have I been to wrong her!
Did she not tell you how I injured her?
Strange. She said you challenged her, and publicly
Told you had lain with her; but truth's no wrong.
Pouts. Truth! 'twas more false than hell, and you shall see me
(As well as I can repent of any sin)
Ask her forgiveness for wounding of her name,
And 'gainst the world recover her lost fame.
Kind soul! would I could weep to make amends!
Why, I did slander her at the church-door.
Strange. The more base villain thou. [Strikes him.
Pouts. Ha! what's the news?
Strange. Thou unspeakable rascal! thou, a soldier!
A captain of the suburbs, a poor foist,
That with thy slops and cat-a-mountain face,
Thy bladder-chops and thy robustious words,
Fright'st the poor whore, and terribly dost exact
A weekly subsidy, twelvepence apiece,
Whereon thou liv'st; and on my conscience,
Thou snapp'st besides with cheats and cutpurses.
Pouts. Heart! this is some railing poet. Why, you rogue!
Strange. Thou rogue—far worse than rogues—thou slanderer!
Pouts. Thou worse than slanderous rogues; thou murderer!
Strange. 'Tis well-remembered: I will cut thy throat,
To appease that merchant's soul, which ne'er will rest
Till some revenge be taken on thy tongue.
Pouts. I'll kill thee first, and in thy vital flood
Wash my hands clean of that young merchant's blood.
[They fight.
Strange. You fight, as if you had fought afore.
I can still hold my sword: come on, sir.
Pouts. 'Zoons! can you ward so well? I think you are
One of the noble science of defence.
Strange. True, o' th' science of noble defence I am,
That fight in safeguard of a virtuous name.
[POUTS falls.
Pouts. O, now I understand you, and you stand over me. My hurts are not
mortal, but you have the better. If your name be Worldly, be thankful for your
fortune.
Strange. Give me thy sword, or I will kill thee.
Pouts. Some wiser than some! I love my reputation well, yet I am not
so
valiant an ass but I love my life better. There's my sword.
Strange. Then get upon my back: come, all shall be well.
I'll carry thee unto a surgeon first,
And then unto thy wench. Come, we are friends.
Pouts. God-a-mercy. 'Zoons! methinks I see myself in Moorfields,
upon a
wooden leg, begging threepence.
Strange. I thank thee, Heaven, for my success in this.
To what perfection is my business grown!
Seldom or never is right overthrown.
[Exit with Captain POUTS on his back.

Enter PENDANT, and Mistress WAGTAIL, sewing a purse.

Pen. They say every woman has a springe to catch a woodcock;
remember my
instructions, and let me see what a paradise thou canst bring this fool into.
Fifteen hundred a year, wench, will make us all merry; but a fool
to boot! why,
we shall throw the house out at window. Let me see, there are two things in thi
s
foolish, transitory world which should be altogether regarded: profit and
pleasure, or pleasure and profit—I know not which to place first, for
indeed they are twins, and were born together. For profit, this marriage (God
speed it!) marries you to it; and for pleasure, if I help you not to that as
cheap as any man in England, call me cut. And so remember my instructions, for
I'll go fetch Sir Abraham.
[Exit.
Wag. Your instructions! Nay, faith, you shall see I have as fruitful a
brain as a belly: you shall hear some additions of my own. My fantasy even
kicks
like my bastard: well, boy, for I know thou art masculine, neither thy father
nor thy mother had any feminine quality but one, and that was to take a good
thing when it was proffered. When thou inherit'st land, strange both to thy
father and grandfather, and rid'st in a coach, it may be thy father, an old
footman, will be running by thy side. But yonder comes the gentle knight
and my
squire.

Enter Sir ABRAHAM and PENDANT stealthily.

Wag. Unfortunate damsel! why dost thou love
Where thou hast sworn it never to reveal?
Maybe he would vouchsafe to look on thee.
Because he is a knight, is it thy terror?
Why, peradventure, he is Knighthood's Mirror.
Pen. D'ye hear, Sir Abraham?
Abra. Yes, with standing tears.
Wag. Bevis on Arundel, with Morglay in hand,
Near to my knight in prowess doth not stand.
They say Sir Bevis slew both boar and dragon,
My knight for that can drink up a whole flagon,
A thing as famous now amongst our men,
As killing monsters was accounted then.
'Tis not the leg, no, were it twice as good,
Throws me into this melancholy mood;
Yet let me say and swear, in a cross-garter
Paul's never showed to eyes a lovelier quarter.
Abra. Ay, but all this while she does not name me she may mean
somebody
else.
Pen. Mean somebody else! you shall hear her name you by and by.
Wag. Courteous Sir Abraham.
Pen. La ye there!
Wag. O, thy very name,
Like to a hatchet, cleaves my heart in twain.
When first I saw thee in those little breeches,
I laughed for joy, but when I heard thy speeches,
I smiled downright, for I was almost frantic,
A modern knight should be so like an antic
In words and deeds. Those pinken-eyes of thine,
For I shall ne'er be blest to call them mine—
Abra. Say not so, sweetheart.
Wag. How they did run, not rheumaticly run,
But round about the room, one over one!
That wide mouth? no, small: no, but middle-size,
That nose dominical, that head, like—wise.
Pen. Very good: d'ye mark that head likewise?
Abra She has an excellent wit.
Pen. I'll now in to her, sir: observe what follows. Now, turtle,
mourning still for the party? for whom are you working that purse?
Abra. For me, I warrant her. [Aside.
Wag. What news, good cousin? I hope you have not revealed my love.
Pen. Yea, faith, I have acquainted the knight with all; and thou may'st
be ashamed to abuse a gentleman so slanderously. He swears he ne'er lay with
you.
Wag. Lie with me? alas! no, I say not so, nor no man living; but
there
was one night above the rest, that I
dreamt he lay with me; and did you ne'er hear of a child begot in a dream?
Abra. By this light, that very night I dreamt she lay with me.
[Aside.
Pen. Ay, but Sir Abraham is no dreaming knight: in short, he contemns
you, he scorns you at his heels.
Abra. By God, so he lies. I have the most ado to forbear, but that I
would hear a little more.
Pen. And has sent this halter. You may hang yourself, or you may cut
your throat: here's a knife, too.
Wag. Well, I will love him in despite of all,
Howe'er he uses me! 'tis not the shame
Of being examined or the fear of whipping—
Pen. Make as if thou wouldst kill thyself. [Aside.
Wag. —Should move me, would but he vouchsafe his love.
Bear him this purse, filled with my latest breath.
[Blows in it.
I loved thee, Abraham Ninny, even in death.
[Offers to stab herself.
Abra. Hold! hold! thy knight commands thee for to
I sent no halter. Poor soul, how it pants! [hold.
Take courage, look up.
Pen. Look, Sir Abraham in person comes to see you.
Wag. O, let me die, then, in his worship's arms!
Abra. Live long and happy to produce thy baby:
I am thy knight, and thou shalt be my lady.
Frown, dad, fret, mother, so my love look cheerly:
Thou hast my heart, and thou hast bought it dearly;
And for your pains, if Abraham live t' inherit,
He will not be unmindful of your merit.
Wear thou this ring, whilst I thy labours task:
This purse wear in my cap, anon i' th' masque.
Wag. O happy woman!
Abra. To supper let's, and merry be as may be.
Pen. Now, God send every wise knight such a lady.
[Exeunt.

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I.—A Room in Sir JOHN WORLDLY'S House.

Enter BELLAFRONT.

BEL. Titles and state, d'ye call it? O content!
Thou art both beauty, means, and all in marriage.
Joy dwells not in the princes' palaces:
They that envy 'em do not know their cares.
Were I the queen of gold, it could not buy
An hour's ease for my oppressèd heart.
O, were this wedlock knot to tie again,
Not all the state and glory it contains,
Joined with my father's fury, should enforce
My rash consent! but, Scudmore, thou shalt see
This false heart (in my death) most true to thee.
[Shows a knife hanging by her side.
My lord, my father, all the company,
Did note my sudden sadness now at supper;
Yet came I out, and put on feignèd mirth,
And mean to sit out this night's revels, too,
To avoid all suspect may grow in 'em,
Lest my behaviour should my intent reveal:
Our griefs, like love, we hardly can conceal.
Yon come my sisters. Are the masquers ready?

Enter LUCIDA, with her willow garland on, and KATHERINE.

Luc. They are gone to dress themselves. Master Nevill's come.
I would I had not vowed to live a maid!
I am a little taken with that gentleman,
And yet if marriage be so full of ill,
Let me be married to my garland still.
Kath. In troth, thy state is happier much than ours.
Were never two like us unfortunate!
Luc. Thy case indeed I needs must pity much,
Because I think thy virtue slanderèd;
But for my lady sister, if she reap
Sad discontent, 'tis none's but her own fault:
I knew the passages 'twixt her and Scudmore.
Bel. Sister, I wonder you will name a man
I think not on: he was no match for me.
Why d'ye blame me, that should rather blame
Your wandering eye, to love a man loved me?
Luc. Well, 'tis too late now to expostulate.
But, my poor little Kate, where is thy man?
Kath. Lost, lost, in troth: to-morrow I shall hear,
I make account, he's gone some five-years' voyage,
Till this disgrace of ours be overblown;
And for my Captain Pouts, by this time he
Is ten mile on the river toward Gravesend.

Enter Sir JOHN WORLDLY with Servants, with torches and cudgels.

Sir J. Wor. Stand you two there. Sirrah, go with me. Why, how now,
girls!
here still? what, and your ladyship?
Away! away, I say: go take your places.
Some torches for my lady! You sirrah,
[Exeunt BELLAFRONT, LUCIDA, and KATE.
Is my Lady Ninny awake yet?
Ser. Yes, sir, she is awake, but she is scant sober; the first thing
she called for was her aquavitæ bottle.
Sir J. Wor. Who is with her?
Ser. The good Sir Innocent and her gentlewoman.
Sir J. Wor. Go, tell 'em I desire their company,
The masque stays on 'em, say; and d'ye hear,
The sides of one o' th' chairs must be let out
For her great ladyship.
Ser. Marry, shall it, sir. [Exit.

Enter NEVILL, Count FREDERICK, PENDANT, and Sir ABRAHAM, in their
masquing robes: Sir ABRAHAM gnawing a capon's leg.

Nev. Soul! man, leave eating now: look, look! you have all dropped o'
your suit.
Abra. O sir, I was in love to-day, and could not eat; but here's one
knows the case is altered. Lend me but a handkerchief to wipe my mouth, and I
ha' done.
Nev. Soul! how this rascal stays with the rest of our things.
Sir J. Wor. How now, son count? what, ready, Master Nevill?
Nev. All ready, ready; only we tarry for our vizards and our caps: I
put 'em to a knave to do, because I would have 'em the better done.
Abra. If you put 'em to a knave, you are like to have 'em the worse
done.
Nev. Your wit is most active: I called him knave in regard of
his long
stay, sir, not his work.
Abra. But, d'ye hear, Master Nevill? did you bespeak a vizard with a
most terrible countenance for me?
Nev. A very devil's face: I fear nothing, but that it will fright the
women.
Abra. I would it would. And a huge moustachios?
Nev. A very Turk's.
Abra. Excellent!
Count F. But do you think he will come at all?
All. O, there he is.
Scud. [Within]. By your leave! stand back, by your leave!

Enter SCUDMORE, like a Vizard-Maker.

Nothing can be done to-night, if I enter not.
2nd Ser. Stand back there, or I'll burn you.
Scud. 'Twere but a whorish trick, sir.
3rd Ser. O sir, is't you? Heart! you will be killed.
Scud. Marry, God forbid, sir.
Nev. Pray, forbear; let me speak to him.
O, you use us very well.
Scud. In good faith, I have been so troubled about this gentleman's
scurvy face (I take it), 'tis wonderful.
Abra. Well, are you fitted now?
Nev. Fitted at all points.
Count F. Where are the caps?
Scud. Here, sir.
Pen. Let me see mine.
Count F. Come, help me on with mine.
Abra. This is a rare face to fright the maids i' th' country! Here
now
I'll pin my purse. Come, help me on.
Nev. So, so, away! mine being on, I'll follow you.
All. Pray, make haste.
[Exeunt Sir JOHN WORLDLY, Sir ABRAHAM, Count FREDERICK
and
PENDANT.
Nev. So, that door's fast, and they are busied
About their charge. On with this robe of mine,
This vizard and this cap: help me a little.
[They change habits.
Scud. At first change I must tell her who I am.
Nev. Right; 'tis agreed, I (leading of the masque) Should dance with
Bellafront.
Scud. And at the second
I come away with her, and leave them dancing,
And shall find you at the back door.
Nev. The rest,
That follows, is digested in my breast.
Ser. What would you do? stand back,
Unless you can eat torches!

Re-enter Count FREDERICK, PENDANT, Sir ABRAHAM, in their masquing robes.

Count F. Come, come! away for shame!
Scud. 'Tis such a tedious rascal. So ha' wi' ye.
[Exeunt Masquers.
Sir J. Wor. Thou hast well fitted 'em, though thou mad'st 'em stay.
Nev. I forbid any man to mend 'em, sir. Good night unto your worship.
Sir J. Wor. Wilt not stay?
Nev. Alas, sir! I have another to set forth
This very night. By your leave, my masters. [Exit.
2nd Ser. By your leave! by your leave! you'll let a man go out?
Sir J. Wor. Now, go with me, and let all in that will.
[Exit with them, and run in three or four.

SCENE II.

Enter Servants setting chairs and stools. Loud music, at which enter
Sir
JOHN WORLDLY, Sir INNOCENT, NINNY, BELLAFRONT, LUCIDA, KATHERINE, Lady NINNY
and Mistress WAGTAIL. They seat themselves. Lady NINNY offers at two
or three chairs, and at last finds the great one; they point at her and laugh.
As soon as she is seated, she drinks from her bottle. The music plays, and
the
Masquers enter. After one strain SCUDMORE takes BELLAFRONT, who
seems
unwilling to dance. Count FREDERICK takes LUCIDA; PENDANT, KATE; Sir
ABRAHAM, Mistress WAGTAIL: SCUDMORE, as they stand (the others courting too),

whispers as follows:—

Scud. I am your Scudmore. [Soft music.

Bel. Ha!
Scud. By Heaven, I am.
Be ruled by me in all things.
Bel. Even to death.
Abra. 'Sfoot! Did you not know me by my purse?
Wag. I should ne'er have known you by that, for you wear it on your
head, and other folks in their pockets.
Lady Nin. Which is my lord, I pray?
Sir J. Wor. The second man:
Young Nevill leads.
Sir Inn. And where's Sir Abraham?
Sir J. Wor. He with the terrible visage.
Lady Nin. Now, out upon him to disfigure himself so:
And 'twere not for my bottle, I should swoon.
[Music; they dance the second strain, during which SCUDMORE
goes
away with BELLAFRONT.
All the Spectators. Good, very good!
[The other four dance another strain, nonour and end.
Count F. But where's the bride and Nevill?
All. Ha!
Abra. 'Ware tricks!
Sir J. Wor. O, there they come: it was their parts to do so.

Re-enter SCUDMORE unvizarded, BELLAFRONT, with pistols and the right@
1
Parson.

Count F. This Nevill? This is Scudmore.
All. How?
Count F. But here's my lady
Scud. No, my gentlewoman.
Abra. 'Zoons! treason! I smell powder.
Bel. In short, know
That I am married to this gentleman,
To whom I was contracted long ago.
This priest the inviolable knot hath tied.
What ease I find being unladified! [Aside.
Count F. What riddle's this?
Sir Inn. 'Ware the last statute of two husbands.
Scud. and Bel. Pish!
Count F. This is the very priest that married me: Is it not, sister?

Enter NEVILL, also dressed like a Parson.

Nev. No.
Abra. Lord bless us! here is conjuring!
Lend me your aqua-vitæ bottle, good mother.
Sir J. Wor. Heyday!
The world's turned upside down. I have heard and seen
Two or three benefices to one priest, or more,
But two priests to one benefice ne'er before.
Pen. Married not you the earl?
Par. Bona fide, no.
Sir J. Wor. You did, then?
Nev. Yes.
Count F. I have the privilege, then?
Sir J. Wor. Right, you were married first.
Scud. Sir John, you doat,
This is a devil in a parson's coat.
[NEVILL puts off his Parson's weeds; and shows a Devil's
robe under.
All. A pretty emblem!
New. Who married her, or would have caused her marry,
To any man but this, no better was;
Let circumstances be examinèd.
Yet here's one more: and now I hope you all
Perceive my marrying not canonical.
[Slips off his Devil's weeds.
All. Nevill, whoop!
Count F. Heart! what a deal of knavery a priest's cloak can hide. If
it
be not one of the honestest, friendliest cozenages that e'er I saw, I am no
lord.
Kath. Life! I am not married, then, in earnest.
Nev. So, Mistress Kate, I kept you for myself.
Sir J. Wor. It boots not to be angry.
Sir Inn. and Lady Nin. No, faith, Sir John.

Enter STRANGE like a Soldier, with Captain POUTS on his back.

2nd Ser. Whither will you go with your calf on your back, sir?
Sir J. Wor. Now, more knavery yet?
Strange. Prythee, forbear, or I shall do thee mischief. By your
leave,
here is some sad to your merriment. Know you this captain?
All. Yes, very well.
Kath. O sister, here's the villain slandered me.
Strange. You see he cannot stand to't.
Abra. Is he hurt in the arm, too?
Strange. Yes.
Abra. Why, then, by God's-lid, thou art a base rogue. I knew I should
live to tell thee so.
Lady Nin. Sir Abraham, I say!
All. Heaven is just.
Pouts. What a rogue are you!
Is this the surgeon you would carry me to?
Strange. Confess your slander, and I will, I swear.
Pouts. Nay, 'tis no matter, I'll cry quittance with you.
Forgive me, Mistress Kate, and know, all people,
I lied not with her, but belied her once:
And to my recantation that same soldier
Enforced my hand.
Strange. Yes, here 'tis, Mistress Kate.
[They all look on the paper.
Pouts. I see now how I am cheated. Love him well. He has redeemed your
honour with his sword.
Sir J. Wor. But where is Strange, my son? O, was he here,
He should be married new to make all sure.
Kath. O my divining spirit, he's gone to sea!
Pouts. This cunning in her is exceeding good.
Your son—your husband Strange is murdered.
All. How?
Strange. Peace, peace! For Heaven's sake, peace!
Come, sir, I'll carry you to a surgeon.
Here's gold to stop thy throat. For God's sake, peace!
Pouts. Sirrah, you have brought me to a surgeon already:
I'll be even with you.
Kath. Of all men living I could marry thee,
Were not my heart given to another man.
Sir, you do speak of Strange?
Pouts. These women are as crafty as the devil
Yes, I did speak of him: Sir John, my lord,
Know Strange is murdered by that villain's hand,
And by his wife's consent.
All. How?
Sir J. Wor. God forbid!
Pouts. Search presently the closet and the vault,
There you shall find his body: 'tis too true.
The reason all may guess: her husband, wanting
Spirit to do on me what he hath done,
In hope to marry her, he hath murdered him.
Kath. To marry me! No, villain: I do hate him
On this report worse than I do thyself;
And may the plagues and tortures of a land
Seize me if this be not an innocent hand.
Sir J. Wor. 'Fore God, 'tis most like truth. Son Scudmore, pray
Look to this fellow: gentlemen, assist.
Torches! some torches! I'll go search myself.
Sir Inn. I will assist you.
Count F. But I pray, sir, how came you unto this knowledge?
Pouts. From his mouth.
Strange. I'll save your labour, and discover all.
Thou perjured villain, didst not swear thou wouldst not Discover me?
Pouts. I but swore in jest.
Strange. Nay, but remember, thou didst wish Strange living,
If ever thou didst tell.
Pouts. Sir, all is true,
And would my punishment would ease my conscience.
Sir J. Wor. To Newgate with him! hence! take her along.
Out, murderers! whore, thou art no child of mine!
Fetch constable and officers. Away!
Strange. Sir, do but hear me speak.
Sir J. Wor. Fetch officers!
Pouts. Go fetch a surgeon.
Strange. Sir, you are then too violent. I will bail her.
[Discovers himself.
Kath. O my dear Strange!
Sir J. Wor. My son!
Scud., Luc., Bel. Brother!
All. Young Strange!
Pouts. Heart! I was never sick before: help me now to a surgeon, or I
shall swoon instantly.
[Two of them lead him.
Thou wert born a woman-citizen; fare thee well.
And farewell, love and women, ye diseases:
My horse and sword shall be my mistresses,
My horse I'll court, my sword shall lie with me. [Exit.
Strange. The way to cure lust is to bleed, I see.
Count F. Tell him all, Scudmore, whilst I go a-wooing again. Sir
John,
will you go along, and my two worshipful elders, I pray, be your witnesses.
Priest, go not you away. Heart! I have so ruminated on a wife that I must have
one this night, or I shall run proud.
[NEVILL, SCUDMORE, BELLAFRONT, STRANGE, and KATHERINE, whisper
on
one side. PENDANT, Sir ABRAHAM, and WAGTAIL on the other.
Mistress Lucida, you did once love me; if you do still, no more words, but
give
me your hand. Why are ye doubtful?
Abra. Ne'er look upon me, Mistress Lucida; time was, time is, and
time's passed. I'll none of you now; I am otherwise provided.
Pen. Well spoken, Brazen-head! now or never, Sir Abraham.
Abra. Then first, as duty binds, I crave consent
Of my two parents dear: if ay, say so;
If not, I'll ha' her whether you will or no.
Sir Inn. How? how?
Lady Nin. I hope you will not.
Abra. Ma'am, I am resolved: you have a humour of your aqua-vitæ
bottle, why should not I have a humour in a wife?
Sir J. Wor. An old man were a fitter match for her: He would make much

of her.
Abra. Much on her? I know not what ye call much making on her, I am
sure I have made two on her.
Pen. And that an old man cannot do, I hope.
Nev. O thou beyond Lawrence of Lancashire.
Sir Inn. Come, come, you shall not.
Abra. Speak not in vain; I am too sure to change,
For hand and heart are sure: Ecce signum.
And this have I done, and never lay with her.
Sir J. Wor. Nay, then, 'tis too late;
Tis sure: 'tis vain to cross the will of fate.
Sir Inn. and Lady Nin. Well, well, God bless you.
[ABRAHAM and WAGTAIL kneel.
Abra. Thanks, reverend couple, and God bless withal
The little Ninny that herein doth sprawl.
Parson, you shall despatch us presently:
Lord, how soberly you stand!
Parson. Now truly I could ne'er stand drunk in my life.
Strange. Strange and most fortunate, we must have a new Tuck then.
Count F. Is it a match?
Luc. 'Tis done.
Count F. Then Bacchus squeeze grapes with a plenteous hand.
Parson, you'll take some pains with us to-night.
Come, brothers, come: fly, willow, to the woods,
And, like the sea, for healths let's drink whole floods.
Strange. I consecrate my deed unto the city,
And hope to live myself to see the day
It shall be shown to people in a play.
Scud. And may all true love have like happy end. Women, forgive me;
men, admire my friend.
Sir J. Wor. On, parson, on; and, boy, outvoice the music.
Ne'er was so much (what cannot heavenly powers?)
Done and undone and done in twelve short hours.
[Exeunt.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net