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 NO. 23233 
 
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 THE mE\mAIV SE\IES. 
 
 Edited by Havelock Ellis. 
 
 THE BEST PLAYS OF THE OLD DRAMATISTS. 
 
 Thomas Middleton. 
 
In Half-Crown Monthly Volumes uniform y/iih the present Work. 
 
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 TJI£ best PL a YS of THE OLD DRAMATLSTS. 
 
 The following will lie among the earlier Volumes of the Series : — 
 
 MARLOWE. Edited by Havelock Ellis. With a General 
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 MASSINGER. Edited by Arthur Svmons. 
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^'^cdbyE.Eoco'l^'- 
 
 THOMAS JilWDLETON 
 From, thejrontippiece to his Plays 
 
The Best Pla ys of the Old Dramatists. 
 
 THOMAS MIDDLETON 
 
 Edited by Havelock Ellis. 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 By Algernon Charles Swinburne. 
 
 ' I lie and dream of your full Mermaid v'me.."— Beaumont. 
 
 UNEXPURGATED EDITION. 
 
 oXK- 
 
 LONDON • 
 VIZETELLY&- CO., 42, CA THE JUNE STREET, STRAND. 
 
 1887. 
 
" What things have we seen 
 Done at the Mermaid ! heard words that have been 
 So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, 
 As if that every one from whence they came 
 Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 
 And had resolved to live a fool the rest 
 OfhisduUUfe." 
 
 Master Francis Beaumont to Ben Jonson. 
 
 "otOioo 
 
 " Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
 What Elysium have ye known, 
 Happy field or mossy cavern. 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? " 
 
 Keats. 
 
 0- 
 
 LONDON : 
 J. S. VIRTUK AND CO., LIMITED, PRINTERS, CITY ROAD. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Thomas Middleton .... 
 A Trick to catch the Old One 
 The Changeling .... 
 A Chaste Maid in Cheapside 
 Women beware Women . 
 The Spanish Gipsy . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 vii 
 I 
 
 83 
 169 
 
 259 
 367 
 
THOmcAS mWVLETOUX: 
 
 F it be true, as we are told on 
 high authority, that the great- 
 est glory of England is her 
 literature, and the greatest 
 glory of English literature is 
 its poetry, it is not less true 
 that the greatest glory of 
 English poetry lies rather in its dramatic than 
 its epic or its lyric triumphs. The name of 
 Shakespeare is above the names even of Milton 
 and Coleridge and Shelley : and the names of 
 his comrades in art and their immediate suc- 
 cessors are above all but the highest names in 
 any other province of our song. There is such 
 an overflowing life, such a superb exuberance 
 of abounding and exulting strength, in the dra- 
 matic poetry of the half-century extending from 
 1590 to 1640, that all other epochs of English 
 literature seem as it were but half awake and 
 half alive by comparison with this generation of 
 giants and of gods. There is more sap in this 
 
viii THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 than in any other branch of the national bay- 
 tree : it has an energy in fertility which reminds 
 us rather of the forest than the garden or the 
 park. It is true that the weeds and briars of 
 the underwood are but too likely to embarrass 
 and offend the feet of the rangers and the gar- 
 deners who trim the level flower-pots or pre- 
 serve the domestic game of enclosed and ordered 
 lowlands in the tamer demesnes of literature. 
 The sun is strong and the wind sharp in the cli- 
 mate which reared the fellows and the followers 
 of Shakespeare. The extreme inequality and 
 roughness of the ground must also be taken into 
 account when we are disposed, as I for one have 
 often been disposed, to wonder beyond measure 
 at the apathetic ignorance of average students 
 in regard of the abundant treasure to be gathered 
 from this widest and most fruitful province in 
 the poetic empire of England. And yet, since 
 Charles Lamb threw open its gates to all comers 
 in the ninth year of the present century, it can- 
 not but seem strange that comparatively so few 
 should have availed themselves of the entry to 
 so rich and royal an estate. 
 
 The first word of modern tribute to the 
 tragic genius of Thomas Middleton was not 
 spoken by Charles Lamb. Four years before 
 the appearance of the priceless volume which 
 established his fame for ever among all true 
 lovers of English poetry by copious excerpts 
 from five of his most characteristic works, 
 
THOMAS MIDDLETON. ix 
 
 Walter Scott, in a note on the fifty-sixth stanza 
 of the second fytte of the metrical romance of 
 Sir Tristrem, had given a passing word of recog- 
 nition to the " horribly striking " power of " some 
 passages" in Middleton's masterpiece: which 
 was first reprinted eleven years later in the fourth 
 volume of Dilke's Old Plays. Lamb, surpris- 
 ingly enough, has given not a single extract 
 from that noble tragedy: it was reserved for 
 Leigh Hunt, when speaking of its author, to 
 remark that " there is one character of his (De 
 Flores in The Changeling) which, for efi'ect at 
 once tragical, probable, and poetical, surpasses 
 anything I know of in the drama of domestic 
 life." The praise is not a whit too high : the 
 truth could not have been better said. 
 
 Blurt, Master Constable, the play with which 
 Mr. BuUen, altering the arrangement adopted 
 by Mr. Dyce, opened his edition of Middleton, is 
 a notable example of the best and the worst 
 qualities which distinguish or disfigure the ro- 
 mantic comedy of the Shakespearean age. The 
 rude and reckless composition, the rough intru- 
 sion of savourless farce, the bewildering combi- 
 nations of incident and the far more bewildering 
 fluctuations of character — all the inconsistences, 
 incongruities, incoherences of the piece are for- 
 gotten when the reader remembers and reverts 
 to the passages of exquisite and fascinating 
 beauty which relieve and redeem the utmost 
 errors of negligence and haste. To find any- 
 
X THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 thing more delightful, more satisfying in its pure 
 and simple perfection of loveliness, we must 
 turn to the very best examples of Shakespeare's 
 youthful work. Nay, it must be allowed that in 
 one or two of the master's earliest plays — in the 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona, for instance — we shall 
 find nothing comparable for charm and sincerity 
 of sweet and passionate fancy with such enchant- 
 ing verses as these 
 
 " O happy persecution, I embrace thee 
 With an unfettered soul ! so sweet a thing 
 It is to sigh upon the rack of love, 
 Where each calamity is groaning witness 
 Of the poor martyr's faith. I never heard 
 Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt 
 With cave, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
 The leaves oif the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 
 Love, bred on earth, is often nursed in hell : 
 By rote it reads woe, ere it learn to spell." 
 
 Again ; the " secure tyrant, but unhappy lover," 
 whose prisoner and rival has thus expressed his 
 triumphant resignation, is counselled by his 
 friend to " go laugh and lie down," as not having 
 slept for three nights ; but answers, in words 
 even more delicious than his supplanter's : 
 
 " Alas, how can I .? he that truly loves 
 Bums out the day in idle fantasies ; 
 And when the lamb bleating doth bid good night 
 Unto the closing day, then tears begin 
 To keep quick time unto the owl, whose voice 
 Shrieks like the bellman in the lover's ears : 
 Love's eye the jewel of sleep, O, seldom wears ! 
 The early lark is wakened from her bed. 
 Being only by love's plaints disquieted ; 
 And, singing in the morning's ear, she weeps, 
 Being deep in love, at lovers' broken sleeps : 
 
THOMAS MIDDLETON. xi 
 
 But say a goldgn slumber chance to tie 
 With silken strings the cover of love's eye, 
 Then dreams, magician-like, mocking present 
 Pleasures, whose fading leaves more discontent." 
 
 Perfect in music, faultless in feeling, exquisite in 
 refined simplicity of expression, this passage is 
 hardly more beautiful and noble than one or two 
 in the play which follows. The Phcemx is a 
 quaint and homely compound of satirical realism 
 in social studies with Utopian invention in the 
 figure of an ideal prince, himself a compound of 
 H'arun al-Rashid and " Albert the Good," who 
 wanders through the play as a detective in dis- 
 guise, and appears in his own person at the 
 close to discharge in full the general and parti- 
 cular claims of justice and philanthropy. The 
 whole work is slight and sketchy, primitive if 
 not puerile in parts, but easy and amusing to 
 read; the confidence reposed by the worthy 
 monarch in noblemen of such unequivocal no- 
 menclature as Lord Proditor, Lussurioso, and 
 Infesto, is one of the signs that we are here still 
 on the debatable - borderland between the old 
 Morality and the new Comedy — a province where 
 incarnate vices and virtues are seen figuring 
 and posturing in what can scarcely be called 
 masquerade. But the two fine soliloquies of 
 Phoenix on the corruption of the purity of law 
 (Act i. scene iv.) and the profanation of the sanc- 
 tity of marriage (Act ii. scene ii.) are somewhat 
 riper and graver in style, with less admixture of 
 rhyme and more variety of cadence, than the 
 
xii THOMAS MIDDLE TON. 
 
 lovely verses above quoted. Milton's obligation 
 to the latter passage is less direct than his earlier 
 obligation to a later play of Middleton's, from 
 which he transferred one of the most beautiful 
 as well as most famous images in Lycidas : but 
 his early and intimate acquaintance with Mid- 
 dleton had apparently (as Mr. Dyce seems to 
 think) left in the ear of the blind old poet a more 
 or less distinct echo from the noble opening 
 verses of the dramatist's address to "reverend 
 and honourable matrimony." ' , 
 
 In Michaelmas Term the realism of Middleton's 
 comic style is no longer alloyed or flavoured 
 with poetry or fancy. It is an excellent Ho- 
 garthian comedy, full of rapid and vivid incident, 
 of pleasant or indignant humour. Its successor, 
 A Trick to Catch the Old One, is by far the best 
 
 ^ " Reverend and honourable matrimony, 
 
 Mother of lawful sweets, unshamSd mornings, 
 
 Dangerless pleasures ! thou that mak'st the bed 
 
 Both pleasant and legitimately fruitful ! 
 
 Without thee, 
 
 All the whole world were soil&d bastardy. 
 
 Thou art the only and the greatest form 
 
 That putt'st a difference between our desires 
 
 And the disordered appetites of beasts, 
 
 Making their mates those that stand next their lusts. 
 
 Then,— 
 
 "With what base injary is thy goodness paid ! 
 
 First, rare to have a bride commence a maid, 
 
 But does beguile joy of the purity, 
 
 And is made strict by power of drags and art. 
 
 An artificial maid, a doctored virgin. 
 
 And so deceives the glory of his bed ; 
 
 A foul contempt against the spotless power 
 
 Of sacred wedlock ! But if chaste and honest, 
 
THOMAS MIDDLE TON. xiii 
 
 play Middleton had yet written, and one of the 
 best he ever wrote. The merit of this and his 
 other good comedies does not indeed consist in 
 any new or subtle study of character, any 
 Shakespearean creation or Jonsonian invention 
 of humours or of men : the spendthrifts and the 
 misersy the courtesans and the dotards, are 
 figures borrowed from the common stock of 
 stage tradition : it is the vivid variety of incident 
 and intrigue, the freshness and ease and vigour 
 of the style, the clear straightforward energy 
 and vivacity of the action, that the reader finds 
 most praiseworthy in the best comic work of 
 such ready writers as Middleton and Dekker. 
 The dialogue has sometimes touches of real 
 humour and flashes of genuine wit : but its read- 
 able and enjoyable quality is generally inde- 
 pendent of these. Very witty writing may be 
 very dreary reading, for want of natural anima- 
 tion and true dramatic movement : and in these 
 qualities at least the rough and ready work of 
 our old dramatists is seldom if ever deficient. 
 It is, however, but too probable that the 
 
 There is another devil haunts marriage — 
 None fondly loves but knows it — jealousy, 
 That wedlock's yellow sickness, 
 That whispering separation every minute, 
 And thus the curse takes his effect or progress. 
 The most of men in their sudden furies 
 Rail at the narrow bounds of marriage. 
 And call 't a prison ; then it is most just, 
 That the disease a' th' prison, jealousy, 
 Should still affect 'em." 
 
xiv 2H0MAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 reader's enjoyment may be crossed with a dash 
 of exasperation when he finds a writer of real 
 genius so reckless of fame and self-respect as 
 the pressure of want or the weariness of over- 
 work seems but too often and too naturally to 
 have made too many of the great dramatic jour- 
 neymen whose powers were half wasted or half 
 worn out in the struggle for bare bread. No 
 other excuse than this can be advanced for the 
 demerit of Middleton's next comedy. Had the 
 author wished to show how well and how ill 
 he could write at his worst and at his best, 
 he could have given no fairer proof than by 
 the publication of the two plays issued under 
 his name in the same year, 1608. The Family 
 of Love is in my judgment unquestionably and 
 incomparably the worst of Middleton's plays : 
 very coarse, very dull, altogether distasteful 
 and ineffectual. As a religious satire it is so 
 utterly pointless as to leave no impression of 
 any definite folly or distinctive knavery in the 
 doctrine or the practice of the particular sect 
 held up by name to ridicule : an jobscure body of 
 feather-headed fanatics, concerning whom we 
 can only be certain that they were decent and 
 inoffensive in comparison with the yelling 
 Yahoos whom the scandalous and senseless 
 license of our own day allows to run and roar 
 about the country unmuzzled and unwhipped. 
 
 There is much more merit in the broad comedy 
 of Your Five Gallants, a curious burlesque study 
 
THOMAS MIDDLETON. xv 
 
 of manners and morals not generally commend- 
 able for imitation. The ingenious and humorous 
 invention which supplies a centre for the picture 
 and a pivot for the action is most singularly 
 identical with the device of a modern detective 
 as recorded by the greatest English writer of his 
 ■day. " The ^Butcher's Story," told to Dickens 
 by the policeman who had played the part of 
 the innocent young butcher, may be profitably 
 compared by lovers of detective humour with the 
 story of Fitsgrave — a "thrice worthy" gentle- 
 man who under the disguise of a young gull 
 fresh from college succeeds in circumventing 
 and unmasking the five associated swindlers of 
 variously villainous professions by whom a fair 
 and amiable heiress is beleaguered and befooled. 
 The play is somewhat crude and hasty in con- 
 structioHj but full of life and fun and grotesque 
 variety of humorous event. 
 
 The first of Middleton's plays to attract notice 
 from students of a later generation, A Mad World, 
 my Masters, if not quite so thoroughly good a 
 comedy as A Trick to Catch the Old One, must be 
 allowed to contain the very best comic character 
 ever drawn or sketched by the fertile and flow- 
 ing pen of its author. The prodigal grand- 
 father, Sir Bounteous Progress, is perhaps the 
 most lifelike figure of a good-humoured and 
 liberal old libertine that ever amused or scan- 
 dalised a tolerant or intolerant reader. The 
 chief incidents of the action are admirably 
 
xvi THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 humorous and ingenious ; but the matrimonial 
 part of the catastrophe is something more than 
 repulsive, and the singular intervention of a 
 real live succubus, less terrible in her seductions 
 than her sister of the Contes Drolatiques, can 
 hardly seem happy or seasonable to a gene- 
 ration which knows not King James and his 
 Demonology. 
 
 Of the two poets occasionally associated with 
 Middleton in the composition of a play, Dekker 
 seems usually to have taken in hand the greater 
 part, and Rowley the lesser part, of the compo- 
 site poem engendered by their joint efforts. The 
 style of The Roaring Girl is full of Dekker's 
 peculiar mannerisms : slipshod and straggling 
 metre, incongruous touches or flashes of fanciful 
 or lyrical expression, reckless and awkward in- 
 versions, irrational and irrepressible outbreaks 
 of irregular and fitful rhyme. And with all 
 these faults it is more unmistakably -the style of 
 a born poet than is the usual style of Middleton. 
 Dekker would have taken a high place among the 
 finest if not among the greatest of English poets 
 if he had but had the sense of form — the instinct 
 of composition. Whether it was modesty, indo- 
 lence, indifference or incompetence,' some draw- 
 back or shortcoming there was which so far 
 impaired the quality of his strong and delicate 
 genius that it is impossible for his most ardent 
 and cordial admirer to say or think of his very 
 best work that it really does him justice — that it 
 
THOMAS MIDDLETON. xvii 
 
 adequately represents the fullness of his unques- 
 tionable powers. And yet it is certain that 
 Lamb was not less right than usual when he 
 said that Dekker " had poetry enough for any- 
 thing." ■ But he had not constructive power 
 enough for the trade of a playwright — the trade 
 in which he spent so many weary years of ill- 
 requited labour. This comedy, in which we first 
 find him associated with Middleton, is well 
 written and well contrived, and fairly diverting 
 •—especially to an idle or an uncritical reader : 
 though even such an one may suspect that the 
 heroine here represented as a virginal virago 
 must have been in fact rather like Dr. Johnson's 
 fair friend Bet Flint of whom the Great Lexico- 
 grapher "used to say that she was generally 
 slut and drunkard; occasionally whore and 
 thief" (Boswell, May 8, 1781). The parallel 
 would have been more nearly complete if Moll 
 Cutpurse "had written her own life in verse," 
 and brought it to Selden or Bishop Hall with a 
 request that he would furnish her with a preface 
 to it. But the seventeenth century was inade- 
 quate to so perfect a production of the kind ; and 
 we doubt not through the ages one increasing 
 purpose runs, and the thoughts of girls are 
 widened with the process of the suns. 
 
 The plays of Middleton are not so projSerly 
 divisible into tragic and comic as into realistic 
 and romantic — into plays of which the main- 
 spring is essentially prosaic or photographic, 
 
xviii THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 and plays of which the mainspring is princi- 
 pally fanciful or poetical. Two only of the 
 former class remain to be mentioned ; Anything 
 for a Quiet Life, and A Chaste Maid in Cheapside. 
 There is very good stuff in the plot or ground- 
 work of the former, but the workmanship is 
 hardly worthy of the material. Mr. Bullen 
 ingeniously and plausibly suggests the partner- 
 ship of Shirley in this play ; but the conception 
 of the character in which he discerns a likeness 
 to the touch of the lesser dramatist is happier 
 and more original than such a comparison would 
 indicate. The young stepmother whose affecta- 
 tion of selfish levity and grasping craft is really 
 designed to cure her husband of his infatuation, 
 and to reconcile him with the son who regards 
 her as his worst enemy, is a figure equally 
 novel, effective and attractive. The honest 
 shopkeeper and his shrewish wife may remind 
 us again of Dickens by their points of likeness 
 to Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby ; though the reforma- 
 tion of the mercer's jealous vixen is brought 
 about by more humorous and less tragical means 
 than the repentance of the law-stationer's " little 
 woman." George the apprentice, through whose 
 wit and energy this happy consummation be- 
 comes possible, is a very original and amusing 
 example of the young Londoner of the period. 
 But there is more humour, though very little 
 chastity, in the Chaste Maid; a play of quite ex- 
 ceptional freedom and audacity, and certainly 
 
THOMAS MIDDLETON. xix 
 
 one of the drollest and liveliest that ever broke 
 the bounds of propriety or shook the sides of 
 merriment. 
 
 The opening oi More Dissemblers besides Women 
 is as full at once of comic and of romantic pro- 
 mise as the upshot of the whole is unsatisfactory , 
 — a most lame and impotent conclusion. But 
 some of the dialogue is exquisite ; full of flowing 
 music and gentle grace, of ease and softness and 
 fancy and spirit; and the part of a poetic or 
 romantic Joseph Surface, as perfect in the praise 
 of virtue as in the practice of vice, is one of 
 Middleton's really fine and happy inventions. 
 In the style of The Widow there is no less fluency 
 and facility : it is throughout identical with that 
 of Middleton's other comedies in metre; a 
 style which has so many points in common 
 with Fletcher's as to make the apocryphal attri- 
 bution of a share in this comedy to the hand of 
 the greater poet more plausible than many 
 , other ascriptions of the kind. I am inclined 
 nevertheless to agree with Mr. BuUen's appa- 
 rent opinion that the whole credit of this brilliant 
 play may be reasonably assigned to Middleton ; 
 and especially with his remark that the only 
 scene in which any resemblance to any manner 
 of Ben Jonson can be traced by the most deter- 
 mined ingenuity of critical research is more like 
 the work of a pupil than like a hasty sketch of 
 the master's. There is no lack of energetic 
 invention and beautiful versification in another 
 
 Alid. 
 
XX THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 comedy of adventure and intrigue, No Wit, no 
 Help like a Woman's: the unpleasant or extra- 
 vagant quality of certain incidents in the story 
 is partly neutralised or modified by the unfail- 
 ing charm of a style worthy of Fletcher him- 
 self in his ripest and sweetest stage of poetic 
 comedy. 
 
 But high above all the works yet mentioned 
 there stands and will stand conspicuous while 
 noble emotion and noble verse have honour 
 among English readers, the pathetic and heroic 
 play so memorably appreciated by Charles 
 Lamb, A Fair Quarrel. It would be the vainest 
 and emptiest impertinence to offer a word in 
 echo of his priceless and imperishable praise. 
 The delicate nobility of the central conception 
 on which the hero's character depends for its 
 full relief and development should be enough to 
 efface all remembrance of any defect or default 
 in moral faste, any shortcoming on the aesthetic 
 side of ethics, which may be detected in any 
 slighter or hastier example of the poet's inven- 
 tion. A man must be dull and slow of sympa- 
 thies indeed who cannot respond in spirit to 
 that bitter cry of chivalrous and manful agony at 
 sense of the shadow of a mother's shame : — 
 
 " Quench my spirit, 
 And out with lionour's flaming lights within thee ! 
 Be dark and dead to all respects of manhood ! 
 I never shall have use of valour more." 
 
 Middleton has no second hero like Captain Ager : 
 
THOMAS MIDDLETON. xxi 
 
 but where is there another so thoroughly noble 
 and lovable among all the characters of all the 
 dramatists of his time but Shakespeare ? 
 
 The part taken by Rowley in this play is easy 
 for any tyro in criticism to verify. The rough 
 and crude genius of that perverse and powerful 
 writer is not seen here by any means at its best. 
 I cannot as yet lay claim to an exhaustive ac- 
 quaintance with his works, but judging from 
 what I have read of them I should say that his 
 call was rather towards tragedy than towards 
 comedy; that his mastery of severe and serious 
 emotion was more genuine and more natural 
 than his command of satirical or grotesque 
 realism. The tragedy ' in which he has grappled 
 with the subject afterwards so differently handled 
 in the first and greatest of Landor's tragedies is 
 to me of far more interest and value than such 
 comedies as that^ which kindled the enthusiasm 
 of a loyal Londoner in the civic sympathies of 
 Lamb. Disfigured as it is towards the close by 
 indulgence in mere horror and brutality after 
 the fashion of Andronicus or Jeronimo, it has 
 more beauty and power and pathos in its best 
 'scenes than a reader of his comedies — as far as 
 I know them — would have expected. There are 
 noticeable points of likeness— apart from the co- 
 incidence of subject — between this and Mr. Cald- 
 well Roscoe's noble tragedy of Violenzia. But 
 
 1 All's Lost by Lust. 
 
 * A New Wonder, u. Woman Never Vext. 
 
xxii THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 in the underplot of A Fair Quarrel Rowley's 
 besetting faults of coarseness and quaintness, 
 stiffness and roughness, are so flagrant and 
 obtrusive that we cannot avoid a feeling of re- 
 gret and irritation at such untimely and inhar- 
 monious evidence of his partnership with a poet 
 of finer if not of sturdier genius. The same sense 
 of discord and inequality will be aroused on 
 comparison of the worse with the better parts of 
 The Old Laiv. The clumsiness and dulness of 
 the farcical interludes can hardly be paralleled 
 in the rudest and hastiest scenes of Middleton's 
 writing : while the sweet and noble dignity of the 
 finer passages have the stamp of his ripest and 
 tenderest genius on every line and in every 
 cadence. But for sheer bewildering incon- 
 gruity there is no play known to me which can 
 be compared with The Mayor of Queenborough. 
 Here again we find a note so dissonant and 
 discordant in the lighter parts of the dramatic 
 concert that we seem at once to recognise the 
 harsher and hoarser instrument of Rowley. The 
 farce is even more extravagantly and preposter- 
 ously mistimed and misplaced than that which 
 disfigures the play just mentioned : but I tho- 
 roughly agree with Mr. BuUen's high estimate 
 of the power displayed and maintaine'd through- 
 out the tragic and poetic part of this drama ; to 
 which no previous critic has ever vouchsafed a 
 word of due acknowledgment. The story is 
 ugly and unnatural, but its repulsive effect is 
 
THOMAS MIDDLETON. xxiii 
 
 transfigured or neutralised by the charm of 
 tender or passionate poetry; and it must be 
 admitted that the hideous villainy of Vortiger 
 and Horsus affords an opening for subsequent 
 scenic effects of striking and genuine tragical 
 interest. 
 
 The difference between the genius of Middle- 
 ton and the genius of Dekker could not be better 
 illustrated than by comparison of their attempts 
 at political and patriotic allegory. The lazy, 
 slovenly, impatient genius of Dekker flashes out 
 by fits and starts on the reader of the play in 
 which he has expressed his English hatred of 
 Spain and Popery, his English pride in the rout 
 of the Armada, and his English gratitude for the 
 part played by Queen Elizabeth in the crowning 
 struggle of the time : but his most cordial ad- 
 mirer can hardly consider The Whore of Babylon 
 a shining or satisfactory example of dramatic 
 art. A Game at Chess, the play which brought 
 Middleton into prison, and earned for the actors 
 a sum so far beyond parallel as to have seemed 
 incredible till the fullest evidence was procured, 
 is one of the most complete and exquisite works 
 of artistic ingenuity and dexterity that ever 
 excited or offended, enraptured or scandalised 
 an audience of friends or enemies— the only work 
 of English poetry which may properly be called 
 Aristophanic. It has the same depth of civic 
 seriousness, the same earnest ardour and devo- 
 tion to the old cause of the old country, the same 
 
xxiv THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 solid fervour of enthusiasm and indignation 
 which animated the third great poet of Athens 
 against the corruption of art by the sophistry of 
 Euripides and the corruption of manhood by 
 the sophistry of Socrates. The delicate skill of 
 the workmanship can only be appreciated by 
 careful and thorough study ; but that the infusion 
 of poetic fancy and feeling into the generally 
 comic and satiric style is hardly unworthy of 
 the comparison which I have ventured to chal- 
 lenge, I will take but one brief extract for evi- 
 dence. 
 
 "Upon those lips, the sweet fresh buds of youth, 
 The holy dew of prayer lies, like pearl 
 Dropt from the opening eyelids of the morn 
 Upon a bashful rose." 
 
 Here for once even " that celestial thief " John 
 Milton has impaired rather than improved the 
 effect of the beautiful phrase borrowed from an 
 earlier and inferior poet. His use of Middleton's 
 exquisite image is not quite so apt — so perfectly 
 picturesque and harmonious — as the use to which 
 it was put by the inventor. 
 
 Nothing in the age of Shakespeare is so diffi- 
 cult for an Englishman of our own age to realise 
 as the temper, the intelligence, the serious and 
 refined elevation of an audience which was at 
 once capable of enjoying and applauding the 
 roughest and coarsest kinds of pleasantry, the 
 rudest and crudest scenes of violence, and com- 
 petent to appreciate the finest and the highest 
 
THOMAS MIDDLE TON. xxv 
 
 reaches of poetry, the subtlest and the most sus- 
 tained allusions of ethical or political symbolism. 
 The large and long popularity of an exquisite 
 dramatic or academic allegory such as Lingua, 
 which would seem to appeal only to readers of 
 exceptional education, exceptional delicacy of 
 perception, and exceptional quickness of wit, is 
 hardly more remarkable than the popular suc- 
 cess of a play requiring such keen constancy of 
 attention, such vivid wakefulness and prompti- 
 tude of apprehension, as this even more serious 
 than fantastic work of Middleton's. The vulgarity 
 and puerility of all modern attempts at any com- 
 parable effect need not be cited to throw into 
 relief the essential finish, the impassioned intel- 
 ligence, the high spiritual and literary level, of 
 these crowded and brilliant and vehement five 
 acts. Their extreme cleverness, their indefatig- 
 able ingenuityj would in any case have been 
 remarkable : but their fullness of active and 
 poetic life gives them an interest far deeper and 
 higher and more permanent than the mere sense 
 of curiosity and wonder. 
 
 But if A Game at Chess is especially distin- 
 guished by its complete and thorough harmony 
 of execution and design, the lack of any such 
 artistic merit in another famous work of Middle- 
 ton's is such as once more to excite that irritat- 
 ing sense of inequality, irregularity, inconstancy 
 of genius and inconsequence of aim, which too 
 often besets and bewilders the student of our 
 
xxvi THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 early dramatists. There is poetry enough in 
 The Witch to furnish forth a whole generation 
 of poeticules : but the construction or compo- 
 sition of the play, the arrangement and evolution 
 of event, the distinction or development of 
 character, would do less than little credit to a 
 boy of twelve ; who at any" rate would hardly 
 have thought of patching up so ridiculous a 
 reconciliation between intending murderers and 
 intended victims as here exceeds in absurdity 
 the chaotic combination of accident and error 
 which disposes of inconvenient or superfluous 
 underlings. But though neither Mr. Dyce nor 
 Mr. BuUen has been at all excessive or unjust in 
 his animadversions on these flagrant faults and 
 follies, neither editor has given his author due 
 credit for the excellence of style, of language and 
 versification, which makes this play readable 
 throughout with pleasure, if not always without 
 impatience. Fletcher himself, the acknowledged 
 master of the style here adopted by Middleton, 
 has left no finer example of metrical fluency and 
 melodious ease. The fashion of dialogue and 
 composition is no doubt rather feminine than 
 masculine : Marlowe and Jonson, Webster and 
 Beaumont, Tourneur and Ford, — to cite none but 
 the greatest of authorities in this kind — wrote a 
 firmer if not a freer hand, struck a graver if not 
 a sweeter note of verse : this rapid effluence of 
 easy expression is liable to lapse into conven- 
 tional efifiux of facile improvisation : but such 
 
THOMAS MIDDLETON. xxvii 
 
 command of it as Middleton's is impossible to 
 ■ any but a genuine and a memorable poet. 
 
 As for the supposed obligations of Shake- 
 speare to Middleton or Middleton to Shake- 
 speare, the imaginary relations of The Witch to 
 Macbeth or Macbeth to The Witch, I can only say 
 that the investigation of this subject seems to me 
 as profitable as a research into the natural his- 
 tory of snakes in Iceland. That the editors to 
 whom we owe the miserably defaced and villain- 
 ously garbled text which is all that has reached 
 us of Macbeth, not content with the mutilation of 
 the greater poet, had recourse to the interpolation 
 of a few superfluous and incongruous lines or 
 fragments from the lyric portions of the lesser 
 poet's work — that the players who mangled 
 Shakespeare were . the pilferers who plundered 
 Middleton — must be obvious to all but -those (if 
 any such yet exist anywhere) who are capable of 
 believing the unspeakably impudent assertion 
 of those mendacious malefactors that they have 
 left us a pure and perfect edition of Shakespeare. 
 These passages are all thoroughly in keeping 
 with the general tone of the lesser work : it would 
 be tautology to add that they are no less utterly 
 out of keeping with the general tone of the other. 
 But in their own way nothing can be finer : they 
 have a tragic liveliness in ghastliness, a grotesque 
 animation of horror, which no other poet has 
 ever conceived or conveyed to us. The difference 
 between Michel Angelo and Goya, Tintoretto 
 
xxviii THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 and Gustave Dore, does not quite efface the 
 right of the minor artists to existence and re- 
 membrance. 
 
 The tragedy of Wome^t beware Women, whether 
 or not it be accepted as the masterpiece of 
 Middleton, is at least an excellent example of 
 the facility and fluency and equable promptitude 
 of style which all students will duly appreciate 
 and applaud in the riper and completer work of 
 this admirable poet. It is full to overflowing of 
 noble eloquence, of inventive resource and sug- 
 gestive effect, of rhetorical afiiuence and theatri- 
 cal ability. The opening or exposition of the 
 play is quite masterly : and the scene in which 
 the forsaken husband is seduced into consolation 
 by the temptress of his wife is worthy of all praise 
 for the straightforward ingenuity and the serious 
 delicacy by which the action is rendered credible 
 and the situation endurable. But I fear that 
 few or none will be found to disagree with my 
 opinion that no such approbation or tolerance 
 can be reasonably extended so as to cover or 
 condone the offences of either the underplot or 
 the upshot of the play. The one is repulsive 
 beyond redemption by elegance of style, the 
 other is preposterous beyond extenuation on the 
 score of logical or poetical justice. Those who 
 object on principle to solution by massacre must 
 object in consistency to the conclusions of 
 Hamlet and. King Lear : nor are the results of 
 Webster's tragic invention more questionable or 
 
THOMAS MIDDLETON. xxix 
 
 less inevitable than the results of Shakespeare's : 
 but the dragnet of murder which gathers in the 
 characters at the close of this play is as promis- 
 cuous in its sweep as that cast by Cyril Tour- 
 neur over the internecine shoal of sharks who 
 are hauled in and ripped open at the close of 
 The Revenger's Tragedy. Had Middleton been 
 content with the admirable subject of his main 
 action, he might have given us a simple and 
 unimpeachable masterpiece : and even as it is 
 he has left us a noble and a memorable work. 
 It is true that the irredeemable infamy of the 
 leading characters degrades and deforms the 
 nature of the interest excited : the good and 
 gentle old mother whose affectionate simplicity 
 is so gracefully and attractively painted passes 
 out of the story and drops out of the list of 
 actors just when some redeeming figure is most 
 needed to assuage the dreariness of disgust 
 with which we follow the fortunes of so meanly 
 criminal a crew : and the splendid eloquence of 
 the only other respectable person in the play is 
 not of itself sufiicient to make a living figure, 
 rather than a mere mouthpiece for indignant 
 emotion, of so subordinate and inactive a cha- 
 racter as the Cardinal. The lower comedy of the 
 play is identical in motive with that which de- 
 faces the master-work of Ford : more stupid and 
 offensive it hardly could be. But the high comedy 
 of the scene between Livia and the Widow is as 
 fine as the best work in that kind left us by the 
 
XXX THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 best poets and humourists of the Shakespearean 
 age ; it is not indeed unworthy of the comparison 
 with Chaucer's which it suggested to the all but 
 impeccable judgment of Charles Lamb. 
 
 The lack of moral interest and sympathetic 
 attraction in the characters and the story, which 
 has been noted as the principal defect in the 
 otherwise effective composition of Women beware 
 Women, is an objection which cannot be brought 
 against the graceful tragicomedy of The Spanish 
 Gipsy. Whatever is best in the tragic or in the 
 romantic part of this play bears the stamp of 
 Middleton's genius alike in the sentiment and 
 the style. "The code of modern morals," to 
 borrow a convenient phrase from Shelley, may 
 hardly incline us to accept as plausible or as 
 possible the repentance and the redemption of 
 so brutal a rufiian as Roderigo : but the vivid 
 beauty of the dialogue is equal to the vivid 
 interest of the situation which makes the first 
 act one of the most striking in any play of the 
 time. The double action has some leading 
 points in common with two of Fletcher's, which 
 have nothing in common with each other: 
 Merione in The Queen of Corinth is less interest- 
 ing than Clara, but the vagabonds of Beggar's 
 Bush are more amusing than Rowley's or Mid- 
 dleton's. The play is somewhat deficient in 
 firmness or solidity of construction : it is, if such 
 a phrase be permissible, one of those half-baked 
 or underdone dishes of various and confused 
 
7HOMAS MIDDLETON. xxxi 
 
 ingredients, in which the cook's or the baker's 
 hurry has impaired the excellent materials of 
 wholesome bread and savoury meat. The splen- 
 did slovens who served their audience with spirit- 
 ual work in which the gods had mixed " so 
 much of earth, so much of heaven, and such 
 impetuous blood " — the generous and headlong 
 purveyors who lavished on their daily provision 
 of dramatic fare such wealth of fine material and 
 such prodigality of superfluous grace— the fore- 
 most followers of Marlowe and of Shakespeare 
 were too prone to follow the reckless example of 
 the first rather than the severe example of the 
 second. There is perhaps not one of them — 
 and Middleton assuredly is not one — whom we 
 can reasonably imagine capable of the patience 
 and self-respect which induced Shakespeare to 
 rewrite the triumphantly popular parts of Romeo, 
 of Falstaff, and of Hamlet, with an eye to the 
 literary perfection and permanence of work which 
 in its first light outline had won the crowning 
 suffrage of immediate or spectacular applause. 
 
 The rough and ready hand of Rowley may be 
 traced, not indeed in the more high-toned pas- 
 sages, but in many of the most animated scenes 
 of The Spanish Gipsy. In the most remarkable ^ 
 of the ten masques or interludes which appear 
 among the collected works of Middleton the two 
 names are again associated. To the freshness, 
 liveliness, and spirited ingenuity of this little 
 
 ' The World Tost at Tennis. 
 
xxxii THOMAS MIDDLE TON. 
 
 allegorical comedy Mr. Bullen has done ample 
 justice in his excellent critical introduction. 
 The Inner-Temple Masque, less elaborate than 
 The World Tost at Tennis, shows no lack of 
 homely humour and invention : and in the others 
 there is as much waste of fine flowing verse and 
 facile fancy as ever excited the rational regret 
 of a modern reader at the reckless profusion of 
 literary power which the great poets of the time 
 were content to lavish on the decoration or 
 exposition of an ephemeral pageant. Of Mid- 
 dleton's other minor works, apocryphal or 
 genuine, I will only say that his authorship of 
 Microcynicon — a dull and crabbed imitation of 
 Marston's worst work as a satirist — seems to 
 me utterly incredible. A lucid and melodious 
 fluency of style is the mark of all his metrical 
 writing : and this stupid piece of obscure and 
 clumsy jargon could have been the work of no 
 man endowed with more faculty of expres- 
 sion than informs or modulates the whine of an 
 average pig. Nor is it rationally conceivable 
 that the Thomas Middleton who soiled some 
 reams of paper with what he was pleased to 
 consider or to call a paraphrase of the Wisdom 
 of Solomon can have had anything but a poet's 
 name in common with a poet. This name is 
 not like that of the great writer whose name is 
 attached to The Transformed Metamorphosis : there 
 can hardly have been two Cyril Tourneurs in the 
 field, but there may well have been half a dozen 
 
THOMAS MIDDLETON. xxxiii 
 
 Thomas Middletons. And Tourneur's aborljive 
 attempt at allegoric discourse is but a prepos- 
 terous freak of prolonged eccentricity : this para- 
 phrase is simply a tideless and interminable sea 
 of limitless and inexhaustible drivel. There are 
 three reasons — two of them considerable, but the 
 third conclusive — for assigning to Middleton 
 the two satirical tracts in the style of Nash, or 
 rather of Dekker, which appeared in the same 
 year with his initials subscribed to their prefa- 
 tory addresses. Mr. Dyce thought they were 
 written by the poet whose ready verse and 
 realistic humour are both well represented in 
 their text : Mr. Bullen agrees with Mr. Dyce 
 in thinking that they are the work of Middleton. 
 And Mr. Carew Hazlitt thinks that they are 
 not. 
 
 No such absolute and final evidence as this 
 can be adduced in favour or disfavour of the 
 theory which would saddle the reputation of 
 Middleton with the authorship of a dull and dis- 
 jointed comedy, the work (it has hitherto been 
 supposed) of the German substitute for Shake- 
 speare. Middleton has no doubt left us more 
 crude and shapeless plays than The Puritan; 
 none, in my opinion — excepting always his very 
 worst authentic example of farce or satire, The 
 Family of Love — so heavy and so empty and so 
 feeble. If it must be assigned to any author of 
 higher rank than the new Shakspeare, I would 
 suggest that it is much more like Rowley's than 
 
xxxiv THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 like Middleton's worst work. Of the best qua- 
 lities which distinguish either of these writers as 
 poet or as humourist, it has not the shadow or 
 the glimmer of a vestige. 
 
 In the last and the greatest work which bears 
 their united names ' — a work which should suf- 
 fice to make either name immortal, if immor- 
 tality were other than an accidental attribute of 
 genius — the very highest capacity of either poet 
 is seen at its very best. There is more of mere 
 poetry, more splendour of style and vehemence 
 of verbal inspiration in the work of other poets 
 then writing for the stage : the two masterpieces 
 of Webster are higher in tone at their highest, 
 mqre imaginative and more fascinating in their 
 expression of terrible or of piteous truth : there 
 are more superb harmonies, more glorious rap- 
 tures of ardent and eloquent music, in the some- 
 times unsurpassed and unsurpassable poetic 
 passion of Cyril Tourneur. But even Webster's 
 men seem but splendid sketches, as Tourneur's 
 seem but shadowy or fiery outlines, beside the 
 perfect and living figure of De Flores. The man 
 is so horribly human, so fearfully and wonder- 
 fully natural, in his single-hearted brutality of 
 devotion, ,his absolute absorption of soul and 
 body by. one consuming force of passionately 
 cynical desire, that we must go to Shakespeare 
 for an equally original and an equally unques- 
 tionable revelation of indubitable truth. And 
 
 ' The Changeling. 
 
THOMAS MIDDLEIVN. xxxv 
 
 in no play by Beaumont and Fletcher is the con- 
 cord between the two partners more singularly 
 complete in unity of spirit and of style than 
 throughout the tragic part of this play. The 
 underplot from which it most unluckily and ab- 
 surdly derives its title is very stupid, rather 
 coarse, and almost vulgar: but the two great 
 parts of Beatrice and De Flores are equally con- 
 sistent, coherent and sustained, in the scenes 
 obviously written by Middleton and in the 
 scenes obviously written by Rowley. The sub- 
 ordinate part taken by Middleton in Bekker's 
 play of The Honest Whore is difficult to discern 
 from the context or to verify by inner evidence : 
 though some likeness to his realistic or photo- 
 graphic method may be admitted as perceptible 
 in the admirable picture of Bellafront's morning 
 reception at the opening of the second act of the 
 first part. But here we may assert with fair 
 confidence that the first and the last scenes of 
 the play bear the indisputable sign-manual of 
 William Rowley. His vigorous and vivid genius, 
 his somewhat hard and curt directness of style 
 and manner, his clear and trenchant power of 
 straightforward presentation or exposition, may 
 be traced in every line as plainly as the hand of 
 Middleton must be recognised in the main part 
 of the tragic action intervening. To Rowley 
 therefore must be assigned the very high credit 
 of introducing and of dismissing with adequate 
 and even triumphant effect the strangely original 
 
xxxvi THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 tragic figure which owes its fullest and finest 
 development to -the genius of Middleton. To 
 both poets alike must unqualified and equal 
 praise be given for the subtle simplicity of skill 
 with which they make us appreciate the fatal 
 and foreordained affinity between the ill-fa- 
 voured, rough-mannered, broken-down gentle- 
 man, " and the headstrong unscrupulous unob- 
 servant girl whose very abhorrence of him serves 
 only to fling her down from her high station of 
 haughty beauty into the very clutch of his 
 ravenous and pitiless passion. Her cry of 
 horror and astonishment at first perception of 
 the price to be paid for a service she had 
 thought to purchase with mere money is so 
 wonderfully real in its artless and ingenuous 
 sincerity that Shakespeare himself could hardly 
 have bettered it : 
 
 "Why, 'tis impossible thou canst be so wicked, 
 And shelter such a cunning cruelty, 
 To make his death the murderer of my honour ! " 
 
 That note of incredulous amazement that the 
 man whom she has just instigated to the com- 
 mission of murder "can be so wicked" as to 
 have served her ends for any end of his own 
 beyond the pay of a professional assassin is a 
 touch worthy of the greatest dramatist that ever 
 lived. The perfect simplicity of expression is 
 as notable as the perfect innocence of her sur- 
 prise ; the candid astonishment of a nature 
 absolutely incapable of seeing more than one 
 
THOMAS MIDDLETON. xxxvii 
 
 thing or holding more than one thought at a 
 time. That she, the first criminal, should be 
 honestly shocked as well as physically horrified 
 by revelation of the real motive which impelled 
 her accomplice into crime, gives a lurid streak 
 of tragic humour to the lifelike interest of the 
 scene ; as the pure infusion of spontaneous 
 poetry throughout redeems the whole work from 
 the charge of vulgar subservience to a vulgar 
 taste for the presentation or the contemplation of 
 criminal horror. Instances of this happy and 
 natural nobility of instinct abound in the casual 
 expressions which give grace and animation 
 always, but never any touch of rhetorical trans - 
 gression or florid superfluity, to the brief and 
 trenchant sword-play of the tragic dialogue. 
 
 " That sigh would fain have utterance : take pity on 't, 
 And lend it a free word ; 'las, how it labours 
 For liberty ! I hear the murmur yet 
 Beat at your bosom." 
 
 The wording of this passage is sufficient to attest 
 the presence and approve the quality of a poet : 
 the manner and the moment of its introduction 
 would be enough to show the instinctive and 
 inborn insight of a natural dramatist. As much 
 may be said of the few words which give us a 
 ghostly glimpse of supernatural terror : — 
 
 " Ha ! what art thou that tak'st away the light 
 Betwixt that star and me ? I dread thee not : 
 'Twas but a mist of conscience." 
 
 But the real power and genius of the work 
 
xxxviii THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 cannot be shown by extracts — not even by such 
 extracts as these. His friend and. colleague, 
 Dekker, shows to better advantage by the pro- 
 cess of selection : hardly one of his plays leaves 
 so strong and sweet an impression of its general 
 and complete' excellence as of separate scenes 
 or passages of tender and. delicate imagination 
 or emotion beyond the reach of Middleton : but 
 the tragic unity and completeness of conception 
 which distinguish this masterpiece will be sought 
 in vain among the less firm and solid figures of 
 his less serious and profound invention. Had 
 The Changeling not been preserved, we should 
 not have known Middleton : as it is, we are 
 more than justified in asserting that a critic who , 
 denies him a high place' among the poets of 
 England must be not merely ignorant of the 
 qualities which involve a right or confer a claim 
 to this position, but incapable of curing his igno- 
 rance by any process of study. The rough and 
 rapid work which absorbed too much of this 
 poet's time and toil seems almost incongruous 
 with the impression made by the noble and 
 thoughtful face, so full of gentle dignity and 
 earnest composure, in which we recognise the 
 graver and loftier genius of a man worthy to 
 hold his own beside all but the greatest of his 
 age. And that age was the age of Shake- 
 speare. 
 
 Algernon Charles Swinburne. 
 
THOMAS MIDDLETON. xxxix 
 
 HOMAS MIDDLETON was born, pro- 
 bably in London, about 1570. He was 
 the only son^ of William Middleton, 
 gentleman, who settled in London and 
 there married Anne, daughter of William 
 Snow. We know nothing in regard to 
 his education. A Thomas Middleton was admitted 
 member of Gray's Inn in 1596, and this may have 
 been the dramatist. In 1597 was published The Wis- 
 dom of Solomon Paraphrased, by Thomas Middle- 
 ton, and in 1599 Microcynicon, Six Snarling Satyres, 
 in the manner of Marston and Hall, by " T. M. 
 Gent." It is doubtful whether these were written by the 
 dramatist. They are of little or no value ; if he wrote 
 them the young writer was here slowly feeling his way in 
 diverse paths. A recent critic has noted his " imperial 
 confidence in the use of words," and in all his genuine 
 productions we feel the force and facility of the style. 
 He appears to have learnt much from the swift incisive 
 energy of Nash's prose, and in Father Hubbard's Tale he 
 pays an admiring and affectionate tribute to Nash, cut 
 off in his " best blooming May." 
 
 We do not know when Middleton first discovered his 
 vocation, probably about 1600. In 1602 we find him, 
 with Webster, Drayton, and Munday, occupied in writing 
 a play called Ccesar's Fall, which has perished ; and in the 
 same ^ear he received five shillings for writing a prologue 
 and epilogue, which have also perished, for Greene's 
 Friar Bacon on its revival at court. 
 
 Middleton married in (it is supposed) 1603 a daughter 
 1 There was a daughter, who was younger, called Avicia. 
 
xl THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 of one of the six clerks of Chancery. A son was born the 
 following year; there were no other children. About 
 this time he published two curious pamphlets, written 
 in excellent prose, Father Hubbard's Tale and The Black 
 Book. In the former he told the history of a young 
 spendthrift ; in the latter he showed his familiarity with 
 the lives and haunts of London thieves and prostitutes. 
 Middleton had, however, now found his vocation. During 
 the succeeding years he produced plays, and plays only, 
 with an occasional masque, in fairly quick succession, 
 though it is now impossible to arrange them in their 
 order of production. In 1620 he was appointed City 
 Chronologer, to " set down all memorable acts of 
 this City and occurrences thereof, and for such other 
 employments as this Court shall have occasion to use 
 him in," at a salary of £,(> 13s. 4d., speedily raised 
 to ;£^io; and, unlike his successor, Ben Jonson, he faith- 
 fully executed the duties of this office. 
 
 In 1624 occurred the chief incident in Middleton's 
 career. The Spanish marriage had just been broken 
 off, and there was great satisfaction in England on 
 account of supposed Spanish intrigues. This satisfac- 
 tion found expression in Middleton's Game at Chess. 
 Its popularity was immense. " I doubt not but you 
 have heard of our famous play of Gondomar," we read 
 in a contemporary letter, " which hath been followed with 
 extraordinary curiosity, and frequented by "all sorts of 
 people, old and young, rich and poor, masters and ser- 
 vants, papists, wise men, etc., churchmen and Scots- 
 men." And the writer goes on to say that a certain 
 Lady Smith would persuade him to take her to see it, 
 but that he could not sit so long, since it was necessary 
 
THOMAS MIDDLETON. xli 
 
 to be til ere at one o'clock, two hours before the usual 
 hour at which plays began. It was acted for no less 
 than nine successive days, and it is said that during these 
 nine days the receipts amounted to the enormous sum of 
 fifteen hundred pounds.^ On the ninth performance Gon- 
 domar, the Spanish ambassador, protested; the play had 
 to be withdrawn, and author and actors were summoned 
 to appear before the Privy Council. Middleton, " shift- 
 ing out of the way,'' failed to attend with the players, 
 who received " a round and sharp reproof." A few days 
 later, however, his son Edward tendered his appearance 
 in place of his father. The players were bound in ^^300, 
 and for a short time forbidden altogether to play. Mid- 
 dleton was, according to one account, committed to 
 prison for some time. 
 
 In 1623 Middleton was living at Newington Butts. 
 Here he died, and, as Mr. Dyce discovered from the 
 register of the parish church, was buried on the 4th July, 
 1627. In the following year his widow, Magdalen Mid- 
 dleton, applied to the civic authorities for pecuniary 
 assistance, and received twenty nobles {jQb 13s. 4d.). 
 He was succeeded in his office of City Chronologer by 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 Middleton attracted little attention from his fellows. 
 Ben Jonson said to Drummond in his dogmatic fashion 
 that Middleton was " a base fellow." He said the same 
 of Day and others, and liad little good to say of any of 
 his contemporaries beyond Chapman, Shakespeare, and 
 Fletcher. It is impossible now to tell what value should 
 be assigned to this utterance. It seems clear that 
 
 1 Dyce regarded this statement as a gross exaggeration ; Mr. 
 Bullen seems inclined to accept it. 
 
xlii THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 Middleton, notwithstanding his broad humanity, his 
 sedate power, his industry and popularity as a writer, 
 attracted little of the love of his fellow-dramatists. It is 
 worth while to quote one of the few testimonies in his 
 
 favour. 
 
 " Facetious Middleton, thy witty Muse 
 Hath pleased air that books or men peruse. 
 If any thee despise, he doth but show 
 Antipathy to wit in daring so : 
 Thy fame's above his malice, and 'twill be 
 Dispraise enough for him to censure thee." 
 
 Posterity has confirmed the judgment of the obscure 
 contemporary who wrote these lines, and Middleton's 
 fame is now above even the "malice " of Ben Jonson. 
 
 There are two admirable editions of Middleton's works, 
 Mr. Dyce's and Mr. Bullen's. The text of the plays 
 here given is founded on a careful collation of the two. 
 The Essay which forms the Introduction has been 
 revised by Mr. Swinburne since it appeared in the 
 Nineteenth Century of Jan., 1886. 
 
 The only known portrait of Middleton is a wood-cut 
 prefixed to Two JVew Playes, published in 1657. An 
 etching' from this by a French artist forms the frontis- 
 piece to the present volume. 
 
 H. E. 
 
cA TT^CK TO CcATCH THE 
 OLV OV^E. 
 
Trick to Catch the Old One was 
 licensed for printing on the 7th 
 October, 1607, aiid published in 
 1608. There was a second edition 
 in 1616. The title was a proverbial 
 expression. Massinger was probably 
 indebted to this play for the central 
 
 situation of his New Way to Fay Old Debts. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONAL. 
 
 WiTGOOD. 
 
 Lucre, his uncle. 
 
 Hoard. 
 
 Onesiphorus Hoard, his brother. 
 
 Limber, \ 
 
 ?-'-^'* ( friends of Hoard, 
 
 Lamprey, { 
 
 Spichcock, ; 
 
 Dampit. 
 
 Gulf. 
 
 Freedom, son of Mistress Lucre. 
 
 MONEYLOVE. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Sir Launcelot. 
 
 Creditors. 
 
 Gentlemen. 
 
 George. 
 
 Drawer. 
 
 Boy. 
 
 Scrivener. 
 
 Servants, &c. 
 
 Courtesan. 
 Mistress Lucre. 
 Joyce, niece to Hoard. 
 Lady Foxstone. 
 Audrey, servant to Dampit. 
 
 Scene (except during the first two scenes of act i.)— 
 London. 
 
 ^ Kix, or Kex, as it is indiffeiently spelt, means a dry stalk, and 
 Dyce suggests that Ihe name is evidently intended to apply to an 
 elderly gentleman. It occurs again among the characters in A 
 Chaste Maid in Cheapside. 
 
qA tt^ck to Ccatch the 
 
 OLV O^E. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 SCENE I. 
 A Street in a Country Town. 
 
 Enter Witgood. 
 
 IT. All's gone ! still thou'rt a^ gentleman, 
 that's all; but a poor one, that's, nothing. 
 What milk brings thj' meadows forth 
 now? where are thy goodly uplands, 
 and thy down lands? all sunk into that 
 little pit, lechery. Why should a gallant 
 pay but two shillings for his ordinary that nourishes him, 
 and twenty times two for his brothel' that consumes 
 him ? But Where's Longacre ^ ? in my uncle's conscience, 
 which is three years' voyage about : he that sets out 
 upon his conscience ne'er finds the way home again; he 
 is either swallowed in the quicksands of law-quillets, 
 or splits upon the piles of a prmmtmire ; yet these old 
 fox-brained and ox-browed uncles have still defences for 
 their avarice, and apologies for their practices, and will 
 thus greet our follies : 
 
 1 Meaning here his harlot. ^ A term applied to any estate. 
 
6 A TRICK 70 CA TCH THE OLD ONE. [ACT I. 
 
 He that doth his youth expose 
 To brothel, drink, and danger, 
 
 Let him that is his nearest kin 
 Cheat him before a stranger : 
 and that's bis uncle ; 'tis a principle in usury. I dare 
 not visit the city : there I should be too soon visited by 
 that horrible plague, my debts ; and by that means I 
 lose a virgin's love, her portion, and her virtues. Well, 
 how should a man live now that has no living? hum, — 
 why, are there not a million of men in the world that 
 only sojourn upon their brain, and make their wits their 
 mercers; and am I but one amongst that million, and 
 cannot thrive upon't ? Any trick, out of the compass of 
 law, now would come happily to me. 
 
 Enter Courtesan. 
 
 Coiir. My love ! 
 
 Wit. My loathing ! has thou been the secret con- 
 sumption of my purse, and now comest to undo my last 
 means, my w,its ? wilt leave no virtue in me, and yet 
 thou ne'er the better ? 
 Hence, courtesan, round-webbed tarantula. 
 That dry'st the roses in the cheeks of youth ! 
 
 Cour. I've been true Unto your pleasure ; and all your 
 lands 
 Thrice racked was never worth the jewel which 
 I prodigally gave you, my virginity : 
 Lands mortgaged may return, and more esteemed, 
 But honesty once pawned, is ne'er redeemed. 
 
 Wit. Forgive : I do thee wrong 
 To make thee sin, and then to chide thee for't." 
 
 Cour. I know I am your loathing now ; farewell. 
 
 Wit. Stay, best invention, stay. 
 
 Cour. I that " have been the secret consumption of 
 your purse,'' shall I stay now " to undo your last means, 
 your wits ? hence, courtesan," away ! 
 
 Wit. I prithee, make me not mad at my own weapon : 
 
SCENE I.] A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. 7 
 
 slay (a thing few women caii do, I know that, and there- 
 fore they had need wear stays), be not contrary : dost 
 love me ? Fate has so cast it that all my means I must 
 derive from thee. 
 
 Cour. From me ? be happy then ; 
 What lies within the power of my performance 
 Shall be commanded of thee. 
 
 Wit. Spoke like 
 An holiest drab, i'faith : it may prove something ; 
 What trick is not an embryon at first, 
 Until a perfect shape come over it ? 
 
 Cour. Come, I must help you ; whereabouts left you ? 
 I'll proceed : 
 
 Though you beget, 'tis I must help to breed. 
 Speak, what is't ? I'd. fain conceive it. 
 
 Wit. So, so, so : thou shalt presently take the name 
 and form upon thee of a rich country widow, four hundred 
 a-year valiant,^ in woods, in bullocks, in barns, and in rye- 
 stacks ; we'll to London, and to my covetous uncle. 
 
 Cour. I begin to applaud thee ; our states being both 
 desperate, they are soon resolute ; but how for horses ? 
 
 Wit. Mass, that's true ; the jest will be of some con- 
 tinuance. Let me see j horses now, a botson'em ! Stay, 
 I have acquaintance with a mad host, never yet bawd to 
 thee ; I have rinsed the whoreson's gums in mull-sack 
 many a time and often : put but a good tale into his ear 
 now, so it come off cleanly, and there's horse and man 
 for us, I dare warrant thee. 
 
 Cour. Arm your wits then 
 Speedily ; there shall want nothing in me, 
 Either in behaviour, discourse, or fashion, 
 That shall discredit your intended purpose. 
 I will so artfully disguise my wants, 
 And set so good a courage on ray stale, 
 That I will be believed. 
 
 Wit. Why, then, all's furnished. I shall go nigh to 
 1 Worth. 
 
8 A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. [act i. 
 
 i 
 catch that old fox mine uhcle : though he make but some 
 amends for my undoing, yet there's some comfort in't, 
 he cannot otherwise choose (though it be but in hope to 
 cozen me again) .but supply any hasty want that I bring 
 to town with me. The device well and cunningly carried, 
 the name of a rich widow, and four hundred a-year in 
 good earth, will so conjure up a kind of usurer's love in 
 him to me, that he will not only desire my presence, — 
 which at first shall scarce be granted him, I'll keep off a' 
 purpose, — but I shall find him so officious to deserve, so 
 ready to supply ! I know the state of an old man's affec- 
 tion so well : if his nephew be poor indeed, why, he let's 
 God alone with him ; but if he be once rich, then he'll 
 be the first man that helps him. 
 
 Cour. 'Tis right the world ; for, in these days, an old 
 man's love to his kindred is like his kindness to his wife, 
 'tis always done before he comes at it. 
 
 Wit. I owe thee for that jest. Begone: here's all my 
 wealth; prepare thyself, away. I'll to mine host with all 
 possible haste; and with the best art, and most profitable 
 form, pour the sweet circumstance into his ear, which 
 shall have the gift to turn all the wax to honey. SjExit 
 Courtesan?\ — How now? O, the right worshipful seniors 
 of our country ! 
 
 Enter Onesiphorus Hoard, Limber, and Kix. 
 O. Hoa. Who's that ? 
 
 Lini. O, the common rioter; take no note of him. 
 Wit. You will not see me now ; the comfort is, 
 Ere it be long you will scarce see yourselves. 
 
 \Aside, and exit. 
 O. Hoa. I wonder how he breathes ; has consumed all 
 Upon that courtesan. 
 Lim. We have heard so much. 
 
 O. Hoa. You've heard all truth. His uncle and my 
 brother « 
 
 Have been these three years mortal adversaries : 
 
SCENE I.] A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. 9 
 
 Two old tough spirits, they seldom meet but fight, 
 
 Or quarrel when 'tis calmest : 
 
 I think their anger be the very fire 
 
 That keeps their age alive. 
 
 Lim. What was the quarrel, sir ? 
 
 O. Hoa. Faith, about a purchase, fetching over a 
 young heir. Master Hoard, my brother, having wasted 
 much time in beating the bargain, what did me old Lucre, 
 but as his conscience moved him, knowing the poor gen- 
 tleman, stept in between 'em and cozened him himself. 
 
 Lim. And was this all, sir? 
 
 O. Hoa. This was e'en it, sir ; yet for all this, I know 
 no reason but the match might go forward betwixt his 
 wife's son and my niece; what though there be a dissen- 
 sion between the two old men, I see no reason it should 
 put a difference between the two younger; 'tis as natural 
 for old folks to fall out, as for young to fall in. A scholar 
 comes a-wooing to my niece ; well, he's wise, but he's 
 poor : her son comes a wooing to my niece; well, he's 
 a fool, but he's rich. 
 
 Lim. Ay, marry, sir. 
 
 O. Hoa. Pray, now, is not a rich fool better than a 
 poor philosopher ? 
 
 Lim. One would think so, i'faith. 
 
 O. Hoa. She now remains at London with my brother, 
 her second uncle, to learn fashions, practise music ; the 
 voice between her lips, and the viol between her legs, 
 she'll be fit for a consort' very speedily: a thousand 
 good pound is her portion ; if she marry, we'll ride up 
 and be merry. 
 
 Kix. A match, if it be a match, \Exeunt. 
 
 ' A play upon the word which signifies one of a band of musici-ns 
 as well as a wife. 
 
10 A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. [act i. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Another Street in the same Town. 
 
 Enter Witgood, meeting Host. 
 
 Wit. Mine host ! 
 
 Host. Young Master Witgood. 
 
 Wit. I have been laying' all the town for thee. 
 
 Host. Why, what's the news, bully Had-land ? 
 
 Wit. What geldings are in the house, of thine own ? 
 Answer me to that first. 
 
 Host. Why, man, why? 
 
 Wit. Mark me what I say : I'll tell thee such a tale in 
 thine ear, that thou shalt trust me spite of thy teeth, 
 furnish me with some money willy nilly, and ride up 
 with me 'Cay'itM contra voluntatem et professionem. 
 
 Host. How? let me see this trick, and I'll say thou 
 hast more art than a conjuror. 
 
 Wit. Dost thou joy in my advancement? 
 
 Host. Do I love sack and ginger ? 
 
 Wit. Comes my prosperity desiredly to thee ? 
 
 Host. Come forfeitures to a usurer, fees to an officer, 
 punks to an host, and pigs to a parson desiredly ? why, 
 then, la. 
 
 Wit. Will the report of a widow of four hundred a-year, 
 boy, make thee leap, and sing, and dance, and come to 
 thy place again ? 
 
 Host. Wilt thou command me now? I am thy spirit j 
 conjure me into any shape. 
 
 Wit. I ha' brought her from her friends, turned back 
 the horses by a slight ; not so much as one among her 
 six men, goodly large yeomanly fellows, will she trust 
 with this her pu-spose ; by this light, all unmanned, 
 regardless of her state, neglectful of vain-glorious cere- 
 mony, all for my love. O, 'tis a fine little voluble tongue, 
 mine host, that wins a widow ! ' 
 
 1 Searching. 
 
SCENE ir.] A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. 1 1 
 
 Host. No, 'tis a tongue with a great T, my boy, that 
 wins a widow. 
 
 Wit. Now, sir, the case stands thus : good mine host, 
 if thou lovest my happiness, assist me. 
 
 Host. Command all my beasts i' th' house. 
 
 Wit. Nay, that's not all neither : prithee take truce 
 with thy joy, and listen to me. Thou knowest I have a 
 wealthy uncle i' th' city, somewhat the wealthier by my 
 foUies : the report of this fortune, well and cunningly 
 carried, naight be a means to draw some goodness from 
 the usuring rascal ; for I have put her in hope already of 
 some estate that I have either in land or money ; now, 
 if I be found true in neither, what may I expect but a 
 sudden breach of our love, utter dissolution of the match, 
 and confusion of my fortunes for ever ? 
 
 Host. Wilt thou but trust the managing of thy business 
 with me? 
 
 Wit. With thee ? why, will I desire to thrive in my 
 purpose ? will I hug four hundred a-year, I that know the 
 misery of nothing? Will that man wish a rich widow 
 that has ne'er a hole to put his head in ? With thee, 
 . mine host? why, believe it, sooner with thee than with 
 a covey of counsellors. 
 
 Host. Thank you for your good report, i'faith, sir; 
 and if I stand yoiinot in stead, why then let an host come 
 off hie et hac hostis, a deadly enemy to dice, drink, and 
 venery. Come, where's this widow ? 
 
 Wit. Hard at Park-end. 
 
 Host. I'll be her serving-njan for once. 
 
 Wit. Why, there we let off together : keep full time ; 
 my thoughts were striking then just the same number? 
 
 Host. I knew't : shall we then see our merry days 
 again ? 
 
 Witi Our m?rry nights — which ne'er shall be more 
 seen. [Aside.] [Exeunt. 
 
12 A TRICK TQ CATCH THE OLD ONE, [act I 
 
 SCENE III. 
 A Street in London. 
 
 Enter Lucre and Hoard quarrelling ; Lamprev, Spich- 
 cocK, Freedom, and Moneylove, coming between to 
 pacify them. 
 
 Lam. Nay, good Master Lucre, and you. Master Hoard, 
 anger is the wind which you're both too much troubled 
 withal. 
 
 Hoa. Shall my adversary thus daily affront me, ripping 
 up the old wound of our malice, which three summers 
 could not close up ? into which wound the very sight of 
 him drops scalding lead instead of balsamum. 
 
 Luc. Why, Hoard, Hoard, Hoard, Hoard, Hoard ! 
 may I not pass in the state of quietness to mine own 
 house? answer me to that, before witness, and why? 
 I'll refer the cause to honest, even-minded gentlemen or 
 require the mere indifferences of the law to decide this 
 matter. I got the purchase,' true : was't not any man's 
 case ? yes : will a wise man stand as a bawd, whilst 
 another wipes his nose^ of the bargain? no; I answer no 
 in that case. 
 
 Lam. Nay, sweet Master Lucre. 
 
 Hoa. Was it the part of a friend — ^^no, rather of a Jew ; 
 — mark what I say — when I had beaten the bush to the 
 last bird, or, as I may term it, the price to a pound, then, 
 like a cunning usurer, to come in the evening of the 
 bargain, and glean all my hopes in a minute ? to enter, 
 as it were, at'the back door of the purchase ? for thou 
 ne'er earnest the right way by it. 
 
 Luc. Hast thou the conscience to tell me so without 
 any impeachment to thyself? 
 
 Hoa. Thou that canst defeat thy own nephew, Lucre, 
 lap his lands into bonds, and take the extremity of thy 
 
 ' The booty. ■^_Cheats hun. 
 
SCENE in.] A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. 13 
 
 kindred's forfeitures, because he's a rioter, a wastethrift, 
 a brothel-master, and so forth ; what may a stranger 
 expect from thee but vulnera dilacerata, as the poet says 
 dilacerate dealing? 
 
 Lttc. Upbraidest thou me with nephew ? is all imputa- 
 tion laid upon me ? what acquaintance have I with his 
 follies ? if he riot, 'tis he must want it ; if he surfeit, 'tis 
 he must feel it ; if he drab it, 'tis he must lie by't : what's 
 this to me? 
 
 Hoa. What's all to thee ? nothing, nothing ; such is 
 the gulf of thy desire and the wolf of thy conscience : but 
 be assured, old Pecunius Lucre, if ever fortune so bless 
 me, that I may be at leisure to vex thee, or any means 
 so favour me, that I may have opportunity to mad thee, 
 I will pursue it with that flame of hate, that spirit of 
 malice, unrepressed wrath, that I will blast thy comforts. 
 
 Luc. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Lam. Nay, Master Hoard, you're a wise gentleman 
 
 Hoa. I will so cross thee ^ 
 
 Luc. And I thee. 
 
 Hoa. So without mercy fret thee 
 
 Luc. So monstrously oppose thee 
 
 Hoa. Dost scoff at my just anger ? O, that I had as 
 much power as usury has over thee ! 
 
 Luc. Then thou wouldst have as much power as the 
 devil has over thee. 
 
 Hoa. Toad ! 
 
 Luc. Aspic! 
 
 Hoa. Serpent ! 
 
 Luc. Viper I 
 
 Sj>i. Nay, gentlemen, then we must divide you per- 
 force. 
 
 Lam. When the fire grows too unreasonable hot, there's 
 no better way than to take oif the wood. 
 
 \Exeunt Lamprey and Spichcock, drawing off 
 Lucre and Hoard different ways. 
 
 Free. A word, good signior. 
 
14 A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. [act i. 
 
 Mon. How now, what's the news ? 
 
 Free. 'Tis given me to understand that you are a rival 
 of mine in the love of Mistress Joyce, Master Hoard's 
 niece : say me ay, say me no ? 
 
 Mon. Yes, 'tis so. 
 
 Free. Then look to yourself, you cannot live long : 
 I'm practising every morning ; a month hence I'll 
 challenge you. 
 
 Mon. Give me your hand upon't; there's my pledge 
 I'll meet you. \Strikes him, and exit. 
 
 Free. O, O ! what reason had you for that, sir, to strike 
 before the month ? you knew I was not ready for you, 
 and that made you so crank : ' I am not such a coward 
 to strike again, I warrant you. My ear has the law of her 
 side, for it burns horribly. I will teach him to strike a 
 naked face, the longest day of his life : 'slid, it shall cost 
 me some money but I'll bring this box into the chancery. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Another Street. 
 
 Enter Witgood and Host. 
 
 Host. Fear you nothing, sir ; I have lodged her in a 
 house of credit, I warrant you. 
 
 Wit. Hast thou the writing.s ? 
 
 Host. Firm, sir. 
 
 Wit. Prithee, stay, and behold two the most pro- 
 digious rascals that ever slipt into the shape of men ; 
 Dampit, sirrah, and young Gulf his fellow-caterpillar. 
 
 Host. Dampit ? sure I have heard of that Dampit ? 
 
 Wit. Heard of him ? why, man, he that has lost both 
 
 his ears may hear of him ; a famous infamous trampler' 
 
 of time ; his own phrase. Note him well : that Dampit, 
 
 ' Lively. '' A term frequently applied at the time to lawyers. 
 
SCENE IV.] A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. 1 5 
 
 sirrah, he in the uneven beard and the serge cloaks is the 
 most notorious, usuring, blasphemous, atheistical, brothel- 
 vomiting rascal, that we have in these latter times now 
 extant ; whose first beginning was the stealing of a masty ' 
 dog from a farmer's house. 
 
 Host. He looked as if he would obey the command- 
 ments well, when "he began first with stealing. 
 
 Wit. True : the next town he came at, he set the dogs 
 together by th' ears. 
 
 Host. A sign he should follow the law, by my faith. 
 
 Wit. So it followed, indeed ; and being destitute of 
 all fortunes, staked his masty against a noble,^ and by 
 great fortune his dog had the day; how he made it up ten 
 ■ shillings, I know not, but his own boast is, that he came 
 to town with but ten shillings in his purse, and now is 
 credibly worth ten thousand pound. 
 
 Host. How the devil came he by it ? 
 
 Enter Dampit and Gulf. 
 
 Wit. How the devil came he not by it ? If you put 
 in the devil once, riches come with a vengeance : has 
 been a trampler of the law, sir ; and the devil has a care 
 of his footmen. The rogue has spied me now ; he nibbled 
 me finely once, too :-^a pox search you ! \Aside.\ — O, 
 Master Dampit ! — the very loins of thee ! [Aside.] — Cry 
 you mercy, Master Gulf ; you walk so low, I promise you 
 I saw you not, sir. 
 
 Gu^. He that walks low walks safe, the poets tell us. 
 
 Wit. And nigher hell by a foot and a half than the 
 rest of his fellows. [Aside.]— Bnt, my old Harry ! 
 
 Dam. My sw,eet Theodoras ! 
 
 Wit. 'Twas a merry world when thou camest to town 
 with ten shillings in thy purse. 
 
 Dam. And now worth ten thousand pound, my boy. 
 Report it ; Harry Dampit, a trampler of time, say, he 
 
 1 Mastiif. ' A gold coin worth 6j-, 8d. 
 
i6 A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD O^JS. [Act 1. 
 
 would be up in a morning, and be here with his serge 
 gown, dashed up to the hams in a cause ; have his feet 
 stink about Westminster Hall, and come home again; 
 see the galleons, the galleasses,' the great armadas of the 
 law; then there be hoys and petty vessels, oars and 
 scullers of the time ; there be picklocks of the time too : 
 then would I be here ; I would trample up and down 
 like a mule: now to the judges, "May it please your 
 reverend honourable fatherhoods;" then to my counsellor, 
 " May it please your worshipful patience ; " then to the 
 examiner's office, " May it please your mastership's gen- 
 tleness ; " then to one of the clerks, " May it please your 
 worshipful lousiness," — for I find him scrubbing in his 
 codpiece ; then to the hall again, then to the chamber 
 again 
 
 Wit. And when to the cellar again ? 
 Da7n. E'en when thou wilt again : tramplers of time, 
 motions ''■ of Fleet Street, and visions of Holborn ; here 
 I have fees of one,, there I have fees of another ; my 
 clients come about me, the fooliaminy and coxcombry of 
 the country : I still trashed and trotted for other men's 
 causes ; thus was poor Harry Dampit made rich by others' 
 laziness, who though they would not follow their own 
 suits, I made 'em follow me with their purses. 
 
 Wit. Didst thou so, old Harry ? 
 
 Dam. Ay, and I soused 'em with bills of charges, 
 i'faith ; twenty pound a-year have I brought in for boat- 
 hire, and I ne'er stept into boat in my life. 
 
 Wit. Tramplers of time ! 
 
 Dam. Ay, tramplers of time, rascals of time, bull- 
 ■ beggars ! ^ 
 
 Wit. Ah, thou'rt a mad old Harry !— Kind Master 
 Gulf, I am bold to renew my acquaintance. 
 
 Gulf. I embrace it, sir. {Exeunt. 
 
 ' Huge heavy-built galleys. 
 
 * Puppet-shows. 3 Hobgoblins. 
 
ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Room in Lucre's House. 
 
 Enter Lucre. 
 
 il UC. My adversary evermore twits me with 
 my nephew, forsooth, my nephew : why 
 may not a virtuous uncle have a dis- 
 solute nephew ? What though he be a 
 brotheller, a wastethrift, a common sur- 
 feiter, and, to conclude, a beggar, must 
 sin in him call up shame in me ? Since we have no part 
 in their follies, why should we have part in their infamies ? 
 For my strict hand toward his mortgage, that I deny not : 
 I confess I had an uncle's pen'worth ; let me see, half in 
 half, true : I saw neither hope of his reclaiming, nor com- 
 fort in his being ; and was it not then better bestowed 
 upon his uncle than upon one of his aunts ? — I need not 
 say bawd, for every one knows what aunt stands for in 
 the last translation. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 Now, Sir ? 
 
 Ser. There's a country serving-man, sir, attends to 
 speak with your worship. 
 
 Lttc. I'm at best leisure now ; send him in to me. 
 
 \Exit Servant. 
 
 Enter Host disguised as a serving-man. 
 Host. Bless your venerable worship. 
 X.VC. Welcome, good fellow. 
 
 lUid. C 
 
iS A imCK TO CA TCH TIfE OLD ONE. [act ii. 
 
 Host. He calls me thief • at first sight, yet he little 
 thinks I am an host. \Aside. 
 
 Luc. What's thy business with me ? 
 
 Host. Faith, sir, I am sent from my mistress, to any 
 sufficient gentleman indeed, to ask advice upon a doubt- 
 ful point : 'tis indifferent, sir, to whom I come, for I know 
 none, nor did my mistress direct me to any particular 
 man, for she's as mere a stranger here as myself; only I 
 found your worship within, and 'tis a thing I ever loved, 
 sir, to be despatched as soon as I can. 
 
 Luc. A good, blunt honesty ; I like him well. \Aside.\ 
 — What is thy mistress ? 
 
 Host. Faith, a country gentlewoman, and a widow, sir. 
 Yesterday was the first flight of us ; but now she intends 
 to stay till a little term business be ended. 
 
 Luc. Her name, I prithee ? 
 
 Host. It runs there in the writings, sir, among her 
 lands ; Widow Medler. 
 
 Luc. Medler? mass, have I ne'er heard of that 
 widow ? 
 
 Host. Yes, I warrant you, have you, sir; not the rich 
 widow in Staffordshire ? 
 
 Luc. Cuds me, there 'tis indeed ; thou hast put me 
 into memory : there's a widow indeed; ah, that I were a 
 bachelor again ! 
 
 Host. No doubt your worship might do much then; but 
 she's fairly promised to a bachelor already. 
 
 Luc. Ah, what is he, I prithee ? 
 
 Host. A country gentleman too ; one of whom your 
 worship knows not, I'm sure ; has spent some few follies 
 in his youth, but marriage, by my faith, begins to call him 
 home : my mistress loves him, sir, and love covers faults, 
 you know : one Master Witgood, if ever you have heard 
 of the gentleman. 
 
 Luc. Ha ! Witgood, sayst thou ? 
 
 1 " Good fellow " was then the cant terms for a thief. 
 
SCENE 1.] A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. 19 
 
 Host. That's his name indeed, sir ;' my mistress is like 
 to bring him to a goodly seat yonder ; four hundred 
 a-year, by my faith. 
 
 Luc. But, I pray, take me with you.' 
 
 Host. Ay, sir. 
 
 Luc. What countryman might this young Witgood be ? 
 
 Host. A Leicestershire gentleman, sir. 
 
 Luc. My nephew, by th' mass, my nephew ? I'll fetch 
 out more of this, i'faith : a simple country fellow, I'll 
 work't out of him. [Aside.] — And is that gentleman, sayst 
 thou, presently to marry her ? 
 
 Host. Faith, he brought her up to town, sir ; has the 
 best card in all the bunch for't, her heart ; and I know 
 my mistress will be married ere she go down ; nay, I'll 
 swear that, for she's none of those widows that will go 
 down first, and be married after; she hates that, I can 
 tell you, sir. 
 
 Zuc. By my faith, sir, she is like to have a proper 
 gentleman, and a comely ; I'll give her that gift. 
 
 Host. Why, does your worship know him, sir ? 
 
 Zuc. I know him ? does not all the world know him ? 
 can a man of such exquisite qualities be hid under a 
 bushel ? 
 
 Host. Then your worship may save me a labour, for I 
 had charge given me to inquire after him. 
 
 Zuc. Inquire of him ? If I might counsel thee, thou 
 shouldst ne'er trouble thyself further; inquire of him 
 no more, but of me ; I'll fit thee. I grant he has been 
 youthful ; but is he not now reclaimed ? mark you that, 
 sir : has not your mistress, think you, been wanton in her 
 youth ? if men be wags, are there not women wagtails ? ^ 
 Host. No doubt, sir. 
 
 Zuc. Does not he return wisest that comes home whipt 
 with his own follies ? 
 
 Host. Why, very true, sir. 
 
 1 i.e. Let me understand you. ' Profligate women. 
 
20 A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. [ACT n. 
 
 Liic. The worst report you can hear of him, I can tell 
 you, is that he has been a kind gentleman, a liberal, and a 
 worthy ; who but lusty Witgood, thrice-noble Witgood ! 
 
 Host. Since your worship has so much knowledge in 
 him, can you resolve me, sir, what his living might be ? 
 my duty binds me, sir, to have a care of my mistress' 
 estate ; she has been ever a good mistress to me, though 
 I say it : many wealthy suitors has she nonsuited for his 
 sake ; yet, though her love be so fixed, a man cannot tell 
 whether his non-performance may help to remove it, sir; 
 he makes us believe he has lands and living. 
 
 Luc. Who, young Master Witgood ? why, believe it, he 
 has as goodly a fine living out yonder, — what do you call 
 the place. 
 
 Host. Nay, I know not, i'faith. 
 
 Luc. Hum — see, like a beast, if I have not forgot the 
 name — pooh ! and out yonder again, goodly grown woods 
 and fair meadows : pax on't, I can ne'er hit of that place 
 neither : he ? why, he's Witgood of Witgood Hall ; he an 
 unknown thing ! 
 
 Host. Is he so, sir ? To see how rumour will alter ! 
 trust me, sir, we heard once he had no lands, but all lay 
 mortgaged to an uncle he has in town here. 
 
 Luc. Pish, 'tis a tale, 'tis a tale. 
 
 Host. I can assure you, sir, 'twas credibly reported to 
 my mistress. 
 
 Luc. Why, do you think, i'failh, he was ever so simple 
 to mortgage his lands to his uncle? or his uncle so 
 unnatural to take the extremity of such a mortgage ? 
 
 Host. That was my saying still, sir. 
 
 Ltcc. Pooh, ne'er think it. 
 
 Host. Yet that report goes current. 
 
 Luc. Nay, then you urge me : 
 Cannot I tell that best that am his uncle? 
 
 Host. How, sir ? what have I done ! 
 
 Luc. Why, how now ! in a swoon, man ? 
 
 Host. Is your worship his uncle, sir ? 
 
SCENE I.] A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. 2 1 
 
 Luc. Can that be any harm to you, sir? 
 
 ffost. I do beseech you, sir, do me the favour to con- 
 ceal it : what a beast was I to utter so much ! pray, sir, 
 do me the kindness to keep it in ; I shall have my coat 
 pulled o'er my ears, an't should be known ; for the truth 
 is, an't please your worship, to prevent much rumour and 
 many suitors, they intend to be married very suddenly 
 and privately. 
 
 Luc. And dost thou think it stands with my judgment 
 to do them injury ? must I needs say the knowledge of 
 this marriage conies from thee ? am I a fool at fifty-four ? 
 do I lack subtlety now, that have got all my wealth by it? 
 There's a leash of angels^ for thee : come, let me woo thee 
 speak where lie they ? 
 
 Host. So I might have no anger, sir 
 
 Luc. Passion of me, not a jot : prithee, come. 
 
 ILost. I would not have it known, sir, it came by my 
 means. 
 
 Luc. Why, am I a man of wisdom ? 
 
 Host I dare -trust your worship, sir; but I'm a stranger 
 to your house ; and to avoid all intelligencers, I desire 
 your worship's ear. 
 
 Luc. This fellow's worth a matter of trust. \Aside.] — 
 Come, sir. [Host whispers to him.] Why, now thou'rt an 
 honest lad. — Ah, sirrah, nephew ! 
 
 Host. Please you, sir, now I have begun with your 
 worship, when shall I attend for your advice upon that 
 doubtful point ? I must come warily now. 
 
 Luc. Tut, fear thou nothing; 
 To-morrow's evening shall resolve the doubt. 
 
 Host. The time shall cause my attendance. 
 
 Luc. Fare thee well. [Exit Host.] — There's more true 
 honesty in such a country serving-man than in a hundred 
 of our cloak companions :^ I may well call 'em com- 
 panions, for since blue^ coats have been turned into 
 
 ' Gold coins, each worth from 6.r. 8rf. to los. 
 
 ^ Scurvy fellows. ^ The common livery of serving-men. 
 
22 A IRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. [act ii. 
 
 cloaks, we can scarce know the man" from the master. — 
 George ! 
 
 Enter George. 
 
 Geo. Anon, sir. 
 
 Luc. List hither : \whispers\ keep the place secret : 
 commend me to my nephew ; I know no cause, tell him, 
 but he might see his uncle. 
 
 Geo. I will, sir. ' 
 
 Luc. And, do you hear, sir ? 
 Take heed to use him with respect and duty. 
 
 Geo. Here's a strange alteration ; one day he must be 
 turned out like a beggar, and now he must be called in 
 like a knight. \^Aside, and exit. 
 
 Luc. Ah, sirrah, that rich widow ! — four hundred a- 
 year ! beside, I hear she lays claim to a title of a hundred 
 more. This' falls unhappily that he should bear a grudge 
 to me now, being likely to prove so rich : what is 't, trow, 
 that he makes me a stranger for? Hum, — I hope he 
 has not so much wit to apprehend that I cozened him : 
 he deceives me then. Good Heaven, who would have 
 thought it would ever have come to this pass ! yet he's a 
 proper gentleman, i' faith, give him his due, — marry, that's 
 his mortgage ; but that I ne'er mean to give him : I'll 
 make him rich enough in words, if that be good : and if 
 it come to a piece of money, I will not greatly stick for't'; 
 there may be hope some of the widow's lands, too, may 
 one day fall upon me, if things be carried wisely. 
 
 Re-enter George. 
 
 Now, sir, where is he ? 
 
 Geo. He desires your worship to hold him excused ; 
 he has such weighty business, it comm.ands him wholly 
 from all men. 
 
 Luc. Were those my nephew's words? 
 
 Geo, Yes, indeed, sir. 
 
 Luc. When men grow rich, they grow proud too, I 
 perceive that ; he would not have sent me such an answer 
 
SCENE I.] A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. 23 
 
 once within this twelvemonth : see what 'tis when a man's 
 come to his lands ! [^j/(/^.]— Return to him again, sir;. 
 tell him his. uncle desires his company for an hour ; I'll 
 trouble him but an hour, say ; 'tis for his own good, tell 
 him : and, do you hear, sir? put " worship " upon him : 
 go to, do as I bid you ; he's like to be a gentleman of 
 worship very shortly. 
 
 Geo. This is good sport, i' faith. {Aside, and exit. 
 
 Luc. Troth, he uses his uncle discourteously now : can 
 he tell what I may do for him? goodness may come from 
 me in a minute, that comes not in seven year again : 
 he knows my humour; I am not so usually good; 'tis no 
 small thing that draws kindn'fess from me, he may know 
 that an he will. The chief cause that invites me to do 
 him most good is the sudden astonishing of old Hoard, 
 my adversary : how pale his malice will look at my 
 nephew's advancement ! with what a dejected spirit he 
 will behold his fortunes, whom but last day he proclaimed 
 rioter, penurious makeshift, despised brothel-master ! Ha, 
 ha ! 'twill do me more secret joy than my last purchase, 
 more precious comfort than all these widow's revenues. 
 
 Re-enter George, showing m Witgood. 
 
 Now, sir ? 
 
 Geo. With much entreaty he's at length come, sir. . 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 Luc. O, nephew, let me salute you, sir ! you're wel- 
 come, nephew. 
 
 Wit. Uncle, I thank you. 
 
 Luc. You've a fault, nephew ; you're a stranger here : 
 Well, Heaven give you joy ! 
 
 Wit. 'Of what, sir? 
 
 Luc. Hah, we can hear ! 
 You might have known your uncle's house, i'faith. 
 You and your widow : go to, you were to blame ; 
 If I may tell you so without offence. 
 
 Wit. How could you hear of that, sir ? 
 
24 A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. [actII. 
 
 Ltic. O, pardon me ! 
 'Twas your will to have kept it from me, I perceive now. 
 
 Wit. Not for any defect of love, I protest, uncle. 
 
 Luc. Oh, 'twas unkindness, nephew ! fie, fie, fie. 
 
 Wit. I am sorry you take it in that sense, sir. 
 
 Luc. Pooh, you cannot colour it, i'faith, nephew. 
 
 Wit. Will you but hear what I can say in my just 
 excuse, sir. 
 ■Luc. Yes, faith, will I, and welcome. 
 
 Wit. You that know my danger i' th' city, sir, so well, 
 how great my debts are, and how extreme my creditors, 
 could not out of your pure judgment, sir, have wished us 
 hither. 
 
 Luc. Mass, a firm reason indeed. 
 
 Wit. Else, my uncle's house ! why, 't had been the 
 only make-match . 
 
 Luc. Nay, and thy credit. 
 
 Wit. My credit? nay, my countenance : pish, nay, I 
 know, uncle, you would have wrought it so by your wit, 
 you would have made her believe in time the whole 
 house had been mine. 
 
 Luc. Ay, and most of the goods too. 
 
 Wit. La, you there ! well, let 'em all prate what they 
 will, there's nothing like the bringing of a widow to one's 
 uncle's house. 
 
 Luc. Nay, let nephews be ruled as they list, they shall 
 find their uncle's house the most natural place when all's 
 done. 
 
 Wit. There they may be bold. 
 
 Luc. Life, they may do anything there, man, and fear 
 neither beadle nor soraner:^ an uncle's house! a very 
 Cole-Harbour.'' Sirrah, I'll touch thee near now ; hast 
 thou so much interest in thy widow, that by a token thou 
 couldst presently send for her ? 
 
 1 Summoner. 
 
 2 A coriuption of Cold Harbour, a building in the parish of All- 
 llallows the Less, where debtors and vagabonds found sanctuarv. 
 
SCENE I.] A TRrCKTO CATCB THE OLD ONE) 25 
 
 Wit. Troth, I think I can, uncle. 
 Luc. Go to, let me see that. 
 
 Wit. Pray, command one of your men hither, uncle. 
 Luc. George ! 
 
 Reenter George. 
 
 Geo. Here, sir. 
 
 Luc. Attend my nephew. [Witgood ivhispers to 
 George, who then goes out.] — I love a' life to prattle 
 widi a rich widow ; 'tis pretty, methinks, when our 
 tongues go together : and then to promise much and 
 perform little ; I love that sport a' life, i' faith ; yet I am 
 in the mood now to do my nephew some good, if he take 
 me handsomely. [Aside.] — What, have you despatched ? 
 
 Wit. I ha' sent, sir. 
 
 Lt(c. Yet I must condemn you of unkindness, nephew. 
 
 U7t. Heaven forbid, uncle ! 
 
 Luc. Yes, faith, must I. Say your debts be many, 
 your creditors importunate, yet the kindness of a thing is 
 all, nephew : you might have sent me close word on 't, 
 without the least danger or prejudice to your fortunes. 
 
 Wit. Troth, I confess it, uncle ; I was to blame there ; 
 but, indeed, my intent was to have clapped it up sud- 
 denly, and so have broke forth like a joy to my friends, 
 and a wonder to the world : beside, there's a trifle of a 
 forty pound matter toward the setting of me forth; my 
 friends should ne'er have known on 't; I meant to make 
 shift for that myself. 
 
 Luc. How, nephew? let me not hear such a word 
 again, I beseech you: shall I be beholden to you? 
 
 Wit. Tome? Alas,' what do you mean, uncle? 
 
 Luc. I charge you, upon my love, you trouble nobody 
 but myself. 
 
 Wit. You've no reason for that, uncle. 
 
 Luc. Troth, I'll ne'er be friends with you while you 
 live, an you do. 
 
 Wit. Nay, an you say so, uncle, here's my hand ; I 
 will not do 't. 
 
26 A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. [act ii. 
 
 Luc. Why, well said ! there's some hope in thee when 
 thou wilt be ruled ; I'll make it up fifty, faith, because I 
 see thee so reclaimed. Peace ; here comes my wife with 
 Sam, her t'other husband's son. 
 
 Enter Mistress Lucre and Freedom. 
 
 Wit. Good aunt. 
 
 Free. Cousin Witgood, I rejoice in my salute ; you're 
 most welcome to this noble city, governed with the sword 
 in the scabbard. 
 
 Wit. And the wit in the pommel. \Aside?\^ — ^Good 
 Master Sam Freedom, I return the salute. 
 
 Luc. By the mass, she's coming, wife ; let me see now 
 how thou wilt entertain her. 
 
 Mis. L. I hope I am not to learn, sir, to entertain a 
 widow ; 'tis not so long ago since I was one myself. 
 
 Enter Courtesan. 
 
 Wit. Uncle- 
 
 Luc. She's come indeed. 
 
 Wit. My uncle was desirous to see you, widow, and I 
 presumed to invite you. 
 
 Cour. The presumption was nothing, Master Witgood : 
 is this your un-cle, sir? 
 
 Luc. Marry am I, sweet widow; and his good uncle 
 he shall find me; ay, by this smack that I give thee 
 \kisses her\ thou'rt welcome. — Wife, bid the widow wel- 
 come the same way again. 
 
 Free, I am a gentleman now -too by my father's occu- 
 pation, and I see no reason but I may kiss a widow by 
 my father's copy ; truly, I think the charter is not against 
 it ; surely these are the words, " The son once a gentle- 
 man may revel it, though his father were a dauber ; " 'tis 
 about the fifteenth page : I'll to her. 
 
 \Aside, then offers to kiss the Courtesan, who 
 repulses him. 
 
SCENE I.] A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. 27 
 
 Luc. You're not very busy now; a word with thee, 
 sweet widow. 
 
 Free. Coads^nigs ! I was never so disgraced since the 
 hour my mother whipt me. 
 
 Luc. Beside, I have no child of mine own to care for ; 
 she's my second wife, old, past bearing; clap sure to him, 
 widow ; he's like to be my heir, I can tell you. 
 
 Cour. Is he so, sir ? 
 
 Luc. He knows it already, and the knave's proud on 't; 
 jolly rich widows have been offered him here i' th' city, 
 great merchants' wives ; and do you think he would once 
 look upon 'em ? forsooth, he'll none : you are beholding 
 to him i' th' country, then, ere we could be : nay, I'll 
 hold a wager, widow, if he were once known to be in 
 town, he would be presently sought after; nay, and 
 happy were they that could catch him first. 
 
 Cour. I think so. 
 
 Luc. O, there would be such running to and fro, 
 widow ! he should not pass the streets for 'em : he'd be 
 took up in one great house or other presently : faugh ! 
 they know he has it, and must have it. You see this 
 house here, widow ; this house and all comes to him ; 
 goodly rooms, ready furnished, ceiled with plaster of 
 Paris, and all hung about with cloth of arras. — Nephew. 
 
 Wit. Sir. 
 
 Luc. Show the widow your house ; carry her into all 
 the rooms, and bid her welcome. — You shall see, widow. 
 — Nephew, strike all sure above an thou beest a good 
 boy, — ah ! \Aside to Witgood. 
 
 Wit. Alas, sir, I know not how she would take it ! 
 
 Luc. The right way, I warrant t'ye : a pox, art an ass ? 
 would I were in thy stead ! get you up, I am ashamed of 
 you. \Exeunt Witgood and Courtesan.] So : let 'em 
 agree as they will now : many a match has been struck 
 up in my house a' this fashion : let 'em try all manner of 
 ways, still there's nothing like an uncle's house to strike 
 the stroke in. I'll hold my wife in talk a little. — Now 
 
28 A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. [act il. 
 
 Jenny, your son there goes a-wooing to a poor gentle- 
 woman but of a thousand pound portion : see ray 
 nephew, a lad of less hope, strikes at four hundred a-year 
 in 'good rubbish. 
 
 Mis. L. Well, we must do as we may, sir. 
 
 Luc. I'll have his money ready told for him against 
 he come down : let me see, too ; — by th' mass, I must 
 present the widow with some jewel, a good piece of 
 plate, or such a device ; 'twill hearten her on well : I have 
 a very fair standing cup ; and a good high standing cup 
 will please a widow above all other pieces. \Exif. 
 
 Mis. L. Do you mock us with your nephew? — I have 
 a plot in my head, son; — i'faith, husband, to cross 
 you. 
 
 Fi-ee. Is it a tragedy plot, or a comedy plot, good 
 mother ? 
 
 Mis. L. 'Tis a plot shall vex him. I charge you, of 
 my blessing, son Sam, that you presently withdraw the 
 action of your love from Master Hoard's niece. 
 
 Free. How, mother ? 
 
 Mis. L. Nay, I have a plot in my head, i'faith. Here, 
 take this chain of gold, and this fair diamond : dog me 
 the widow home to her lodging, and at thy best oppor- 
 tunity, fasten 'em both upon her. Nay, I have a reach :, 
 I can tell you thou art known what thou art, son, among 
 the right worshipful, all the twelve companies. 
 
 Free. Truly, I thank 'em for it. 
 
 Mis. L. He ? he's a scab to thee : and so certify her 
 thou hast two hundred a-year of thyself, beside thy good 
 parts — a proper person and a lovely. If I were a widow, 
 I could find in my heart to have thee myself, son ; ay, 
 from 'em all. 
 
 Free. Thank you for your good will, mother; but, 
 indeed, I had rather have a stranger : and if I woo her 
 not in that violent fashion, that I will make her be glad 
 to take these gifts ere I leave her, let me never be called 
 the heir of your body. 
 
SCENE 11.] A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. 29 
 
 Mis. L. Nay, 1 know there's enough in you, son, if you 
 once come to put it forth. 
 
 Free. I'll quickly make a bolt or a shaft on't.' 
 
 \Exeuiii. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 A Street. 
 
 Enter Hoard and Moneylove. 
 
 Mon. Faith, Master Hoard, I have bestowed many 
 months in the suit of your niece, such was the dear love 
 I ever bore to her virtues : but since she halh so ex- 
 tremely denied me, I am to lay out for my fortunes 
 elsewhere. 
 
 Hoa. Heaven forbid but you should, sir ! I ever told 
 you my niece stood otherwise affected. 
 
 Mon. I must confess you did, sir; yet, in regard of 
 my great loss of time, and the zeal with which I sought 
 your liiece, shall I desire one favour of your worship? 
 
 Hoa. In regard of those two, 'tis hard but you shall, sir. 
 
 Mon. I shall rest grateful : 'tis not full three hours, 
 sir, since the happy rumour of a rich country widow 
 came to my hearing. 
 
 Hoa. How ? a rich country widow ? 
 
 Mon. Four hundred a-year landed. 
 
 Hoa. Yea? 
 
 Mon. Most firm, sir; and I have learnt her lodging : 
 here my suit begins, sir; if I might but entreat your 
 Worship to be a countenance for me, and speak a good 
 word (for your words will pass), I nothing doubt but I 
 might set fair for the widow ; nor shall your labour, sir, 
 end altogether in thanks ; two hundred angels' - 
 
 1 A proverb meaning to lake the risk. A shaft was a sharp- 
 pointed arrow, and a bolt an airow with a round knob at its head. 
 "' See note ante, p. 21. 
 
30 A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. [ACt li. 
 
 Hoa. So, so : what suitors has she ? 
 
 Mon. There lies the comfort, sir ; the report of her is 
 yet but a whisper ; and only solicited by young riotous 
 Witgood, nephew to your mortal adversary. 
 
 Hoa. Ha ! art certain he's her suitor ? 
 
 Mon. Most certain, sir ; and his uncle very industrious 
 to beguile the widow, and make up the match. 
 
 Hoa. So : very good. 
 
 Mon. Now, sir, you know this young Witgood is a 
 spendthrift, dissolute fellow. 
 
 Hoa. A very rascal. 
 
 Mon. A midnight surfeiter. 
 
 Hoa. The spume of a brothel-house. 
 
 Mon. True, sir ; which being well told in your wor- 
 ship's phrase, may both heave him out of her mind, and 
 drive a fair way for me to the widow's affections. 
 
 Hoa. Attend me about five. 
 
 Mon. With my best care, sir. \Exit. 
 
 Hoa. Fool, thou hast left thy treasure with a thief, 
 To trust a widower with a suit in love ! 
 Happy revenge, I hug thee ! I have not only the means 
 laid before me, extremely to cross my adversary, and 
 confound the last hopes of his nephew, but thereby to 
 enrich my estate, augment my revenues, and build mine 
 own fortunes greater : ha, ha ! 
 I'll mar your phrase, o'erturn your flatteries, 
 Undo your windings, policies, and plots. 
 Fall like a secret and despatchful plague 
 On your secured comforts. Why, I am able 
 To buy three of Lucre ; thrice" outbid him. 
 Let my out-monies be reckoned and all. 
 
 Etiter three of Witgood's Creditors. 
 
 1st Cred. I am glad of this news. 
 
 2nd Cred. So are we^ by my faith. 
 
 ■^rd Cred. Young Witgood will be a gallant again now. 
 
 Hoa. Peace. [Listening. 
 
SCENE II.] A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. 31 
 
 \st Cred. I promise you, Master Cockpit, she's a 
 mighty rich widow. 
 
 2nd Cred. Why, have you ever heard of her ? 
 
 i^^ Cred. Who? Widow Medler? she lies open to 
 much rumour. 
 
 yd Cred. Four hundred a-year, they say, in very good 
 land. 
 
 ist Cred, Nay, take't of my word, if you believe that, 
 you believe the least. 
 
 md Cred. And to see how close he keeps it ! 
 
 \si Cred. O, sir, '^there's policy in that, to prevent 
 better suitors. 
 
 yd Cred. He owes me a hundred pound, and I pro- 
 test I ne'er looked for a penny, 
 
 \st Cred. He little dreams of our coming ; he'll won- 
 der to see his creditors upon him. 
 
 \Exeunt Creditors. 
 
 Hoa. Good, his creditors : I'll follow. This makes 
 for me : 
 All know the widow's wealth ; and 'tis well known 
 I can estate her fairly, ay, and will. 
 In this one chance shines a twice happy fate ; 
 I both deject my foe and raise my state. \Exit. 
 
ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 Witgood's Lodgings. 
 
 Enter Witgood and three Creditors. 
 
 IT. Why, alas, my creditors, could you 
 find no other time to undo me but 
 now? rather your malice appears in 
 this than the justness of the debt. 
 
 ist Cred. Master Witgood, I have 
 forborne my money long. 
 Wit. I pray, speak low, sir : what do you mean ? 
 2nd Cred. We hear you are to be married suddenly to 
 a rich country widow. 
 
 Wit. What can be kept so close but you creditors 
 hear on't ! well, 'tis a lamentable state, that our chiefest 
 afflictors should first hear of our fortunes. Why, this is 
 no good course, i'faith, sirs : if ever you have hope to be 
 satisfied, why do you seek to confound the means that 
 should work it ? there's neither piety, no, nor policy in 
 that. Shine favourably now : why, I may rise and spread 
 again, to your great comforts, 
 ij-^ Cred. He says true, i'faith. 
 Wit. Remove me now, and I consume for ever. 
 2nd Cred. Sweet gentleman ! 
 
 Wit. How can it thrive which from the sun you sever ? 
 yd Cred. It cannot, indeed. 
 
 Wit. O, then, show patience ! I shall have enough 
 To satisfy you all. 
 
SCENE I.] A TRICK 20 CATCH THE OLD ONE. 
 
 7,2> 
 
 \st Cred. Ay, if we could 
 Be content, a shame take us ! 
 
 Wit. For, look you ; 
 I am but newly sure^ yet to the widow, 
 And what a rdnd might this discredit make ! 
 Within these three days will I bind you lands 
 For your securities. 
 
 -Lst Cred. No, good Master Witgood : 
 Would 'twere as much as we dare trust you with ! 
 
 Wit. I know you have been kind ; however, now, 
 Either by wrong report or false incitement. 
 Your gentleness is injured : in such 
 A state as this a man cannot want foes. 
 If on the sudden he begin to rise. 
 No man that lives can count his enemies. 
 You had some intelligence, I warrant ye, 
 From an ill-wilier. 
 
 2nd Cred. Faith, we heard you brought up a rich 
 widow, sir, and were suddenly to marry her. 
 
 Wit. Ay, .why there it was : I knew 'twas so : but 
 since you are so well resolved ^ of my faith toward 
 you, let me be so much favoured of you, I beseech 
 you all 
 
 All. O, it shall not need, i' faith, sir ! 
 
 Wit. As to lie still awhile, and bury my debts in 
 silence, till I be fully possessed of the widow ; for the 
 truth is — ^I may tell you as my friends 
 
 All. O, O, O ! 
 
 Wit. I am to raise a little money in the city, toward 
 the setting forth of myself, for my own credit and your 
 comfort ; if my former debts should be divulged, all hope 
 of my proceedings were quite extinguished. 
 
 xst Cred. Do you hear, sir? I may deserve your 
 custom hereafter ; pray, let my money be accepted before 
 a stranger's : here's forty pound I received as I came to 
 you; if that may stand you in any stead, make use on't 
 
 1 Pledged. "• Satisfied. 
 
 Mid. D 
 
34 A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. [ACT ill. 
 
 \Offers him money, which he at first declines?^ Nay, pray, 
 sir ; 'tis at your service. \Aside to Witgood. 
 
 Wit. You do so ravish rae with kindness, that 
 I am constrained to play the maid, and take it. 
 
 \st Cred. Let none of them see it, I beseech you. 
 
 Wit. Faugh! 
 
 xst Cred. I hope I shall be first in your remembrance 
 After the marriage rites. 
 
 Wit. Believe it firmly. 
 
 \st Cred. So. — What, do you walk, sirs ? 
 
 2nd Cred. I go. — Take no care, sir, for money to 
 furnish you ; within this hour I send you sufficient. 
 [Aside to Witgood.] — Come, Master Cockpit, we both 
 stay for you. 
 
 2,rd Cred. I ha' lost a ring, i'faith; I'll follow you 
 presently \exeunt ist and 2nd Creditors] — but you shall 
 find it, sir ; I know your youth and expenses have dis- 
 furnished you of all jewels : there's a ruby of twenty 
 pound price, sir; bestow it upon your widow. \Offers 
 him the ring, which he at first declines^ — What, man ! 'twill 
 call up her blood to you ; beside, if I might so much 
 work with you, I would not have you beholden to those 
 bloodsuckers for any money. 
 
 Wit. Not I, believe it. 
 
 yd Cred. They're a brace of cut-throats. 
 
 Wit. I know 'em. 
 
 2,rd Cred. Send a note of all your wants to my shop, 
 and I'll supply you instantly. 
 
 Wit. Say you so ? why, here's my hand then, no man 
 living shall do't but thyself. 
 
 yd Cred. Shall I carry it away from 'em both, then ? 
 
 Wit. I'faith, Shalt thou. 
 
 ■yd Cred. Troth, then, I thank you, sir. 
 
 Wit. Welcome, good Master Cockpit. Exit 3rd 
 Creditor.] — Ha, ha, ha 1 why, is not this better now than 
 lying a-bed ? I perceive there's nothing conjures up wit 
 sooner than poverty, and nothing lays it down sooner 
 
SCENE I.] A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. 35 
 
 than wealth and lechery ; this has some savour yet. O 
 that I had the mortgage from mine uncle as sure in 
 possession as these trifles J I would forswear brothel at 
 noonday, and muscadine ' and eggs at midnight. 
 Cmtr. \within\. Master Witgood, where are you? 
 Wit. Holla! 
 
 Enter Courtesan. 
 Cour. Rich news ? 
 Wit. Would 'twere all in plate ! 
 
 Cour. There's some in chains and jewels : I am so 
 haunted with suitors, Master Witgood, I know not which 
 to despatch first. 
 
 Wit. You have the better term,^ by my faith. 
 Cour. Among the number 
 One Master Hoard, an ancient gentleman. 
 Wit. Upon my life, my uncle's adversary. 
 Cour. It may well hold so, for he rails on you, 
 Speaks shamefully of him. 
 Wit. As I could wish it. 
 Cour. I first denied him, but so cunningly, 
 It rather promised him assured hopes, 
 Than any loss of labour. 
 Wit. Excellent! 
 
 Cour. I expect him every hour with gentlemen. 
 With whom he labours to make good his words. 
 To approve you riotous, your state consumed. 
 
 Your uncle 
 
 Wit. Wench, make up thy own fortunes now; do 
 thyself a good turn once in thy days : he's rich in money, 
 movables, and lands ; marry him : he's an old doating 
 fool, and that's worth all; marry him : 'twould be a great 
 comfort to me to see thee do well, i'faith ; marry him : 
 'twould ease my conscience well to see thee well be- 
 stowed ; I have a care of thee, i'faith. 
 
 1 A sweet aromatic wine, the produce of the muscatel grape. 
 The mixture in question was taken as an aphrodisiac. 
 
 ^ Witgood is playing on the double meaning attached to the 
 word suitors. 
 
36 A TRICK ro CATCH THE OLD ONE. [ACT in. 
 
 Cnur. Thanks, sweet Master Witgood. 
 
 Wit. I reach at farther happiness : first, I am sure it 
 can be no harm to thee, and there may happen goodness 
 to me by it : prosecute it well ; let's send up for our wits, 
 now we require their best and most pregnant assistance. 
 
 Conr. Step in, I think I hear 'em. YExeunt. 
 
 Enter Hoard a7id Gentlemen, with the Host as Servant. 
 
 Hoa. Art thou the widow's man ? by my faith, sh'as a 
 company of proper men then. [coats. 
 
 Host. I am the worst of six, sir; good enough for blue 
 
 Hoa. Hark hither ; I hear say thou art in most credit 
 with her. 
 
 Host. Not so, sir. 
 
 Hoa. Come, come, thou'rt modest : there's a brace of 
 royals,' prithee, help me to th' speech of her. 
 
 \_Gives himvioney. 
 
 Host. I'll do what I may, sir, always saving myself 
 harmless. 
 
 Hoa. Go to, do't, I say ; thou shalt hear better from me. 
 
 Host. Is not this a better place than five mark' a-year 
 standing wages ? Say a man had but three such clients 
 in a day, methinks he might make a poor living on't ; 
 beside, I was never brought up with so httle honesty to 
 refuse any man's money ; never : what gulls there are a' 
 this side the world !"now know I the widow's mind; none 
 but my young master comes in her clutches : ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 \Aside, and exit. 
 
 Hoa. Now, my dear gentlemen, stand firmly to me ; 
 You know his follies and my worth. 
 
 \st Gent. We do, sir. 
 
 ■md Gent. But, Master Hoard, are you sure he is not 
 i' th' house now ? 
 
 Hoa. Upon my honesty, I chose this time 
 A' purpose, fit : the spendthrift is abroad : 
 Assist me ; here she comes. 
 
 1 Gold pieces 15s. in value. = The mark was worth 13J. e^d^ 
 
SCENE I.] A TRICK TO CAICHTHE OLD ONE. ^,7 
 
 Enter Courtesan. 
 
 Now, my sweet widovV. 
 
 Cour. You're welcome, Master Hoard. 
 
 Hoa. Despatch, sweet gentlemen, despatcli. — 
 I am come, widow, to prove those my words 
 Neither of envy sprung nor of false tongues. 
 But such as their ' deserts and actions 
 Do merit and bring forth ; all which these gentlemen, 
 Well known, and better reputed, will confess. 
 
 Cour. I cannot tell 
 How my affections may dispose of me ; 
 But surely if they find him so desertless, 
 They'll have that reason to withdraw themselves : 
 And therefore, gentlemen, I do entreat you, 
 As you are fair in reputation 
 And in appearing form, so shine in truth : 
 I am a widow, and, alas, you know. 
 Soon overthrown ! 'tis a very small thing 
 That we withstand, our weakness is so great : 
 Be partial unto neither, but deliver. 
 Without affection, your opinion. 
 
 Hoa. And that will drive it home. 
 
 Cour. Nay, I beseech your silence. Master. Hoard ; 
 You are a party. 
 
 Hoa. Widow, not a word. 
 
 ist Gent. The better first to work you to belief, 
 Know neither of us owe him flattery. 
 Nor t'other malice ; but unbribfed censure,' 
 So help us our best fortunes ! 
 
 Cour. It suffices. 
 
 isf Gent. That Witgood is a riotous, undone man, 
 Imperfect both in fame and in estate. 
 His debts wealthier than he, and executions 
 In wait for his due body, we'll maintain 
 With our best credit and our dearest blood. 
 
 1 i.e. Of Witgood and his uncle. ^ Judgment. 
 
38 A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. [act in. 
 
 Cour. Nor land nor living, say you ? Pray, take heed 
 You do not wrong the gentleman. 
 
 \st Gent. What we speak 
 Our lives and means are ready to make good. 
 
 Coiir. Alas, how soon are we poor souls beguiled ! 
 
 2nd Gent. And for his uncle 
 
 Hoa. Let that come to me. 
 His uncle, a severe extortioner; 
 A tyrant at a forfeiture ; greedy of others' 
 Miseries ; one that would undo his brother, 
 Nay, swallow up his father, if he can. 
 Within the fathoms of his conscience. 
 
 \st Gent. Nay, believe it, widow, 
 You had not only matched yourself to wants, 
 But in an evil and unnatural stock. 
 
 Hoa. Follow hard, gentlemen, follow hard, 
 
 [Aside to Gent. 
 
 Cour. Is my love so deceived ? Before you all 
 I do renounce him ; on my knees I vow [Kneeling. 
 
 He ne'er shall marry me. 
 
 Wit. [looking in]. Heaven knows he never meant it ! 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Hoa. There take her at the bound. [Aside to Gent. 
 
 \st Gent. Then, with a new and pure affection. 
 Behold yon gentleman ; grave, kind, and rich, 
 A match worthy yourself : esteeming him. 
 You do regard your state. 
 
 Hoa. I'll make her a jointure, say. [Aside to Gent. 
 
 xst Gent. He can join land to land, and will possess 
 you 
 Of what you can desire. 
 
 "ind Gent. Come, widow, come, 
 
 Cour. The world is so deceitful ! 
 
 -ist Gent. There, 'tis deceitful. 
 Where flattery, want, and imperfection lie ; 
 But none of these in him : pish.! 
 
 Cour. Pray, sir 
 
SCENE I.] A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. 39 
 
 xst Gent. Come, you widows are ever most back- 
 ward when you should do yourselves most good ; but 
 were it to marry a chin not worth a hair now, then 
 you would be forward enough. Come, clap hands, a 
 match. 
 
 Hoa. With all ray heart, widow. [Hoard and Cour- 
 tesan shake hands."] — Thanks, gentlemen : 
 I will deserve your labour, and \to Courtesan] thy love. 
 
 Cour. Alas, you love not widows but for wealth ! 
 I promise you I ha' nothing, sir. 
 
 Hoa. Well said, widow, 
 Well said ; thy love is all I seek, before 
 These gentlemen. 
 
 Cour. Now I must hope the best. 
 
 Hoa. My joys are such they want to be expressed. 
 
 Cour. But, Master Hoard, one thing I must remember 
 you of, before these gentlemen, your friends-.- how shall 
 I suddenly avoid the loathed soliciting of that perjured 
 Witgood, and his tedious, dissembling uncle ? who this 
 very day hath appointed a meeting for the same purpose 
 too ; where, had not truth come forth, I had been undone, 
 utterly undone ! 
 
 Hoa. What think you of that, gentlemen ? 
 
 isf Gent. 'Twas well devised. 
 
 Hoa. Hark thee, widow: train out young Witgood 
 single j hasten him thither with thee, somewhat before 
 the hour; where, at the place appointed, these gentlemen 
 and myself will wait the opportunity, when, by some 
 slight removing him from thee, we'll suddenly enter and 
 surprise thee, carry thee away by boat to Cole-Harbour, 
 have a priest ready, and there clap it up instantly. How 
 likest it, widow ? 
 
 Cour. In that it pleaseth you, it likes me well. 
 
 Hoa. I'll kiss thee for those words. \Kisses her.] — 
 
 Come, gentlemen. 
 Still must I live a suitor to your favours. 
 Still to your aid beholden. 
 
40 . A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. [act hi. 
 
 1st Gent. We're engaged, sir ; 
 'Tis for our credits now to see't well ended. 
 
 Hoa. 'Tis for your honours, gentlemen ; nay, look to't. 
 Not only in joy, but I in wealth excel : 
 No more sweet widow, but, sweet wife, farewell. 
 
 Cour. Farewell, sir. [£'ar«<r«i' Hoard «??(/ Gentlemen, 
 
 Re-enter Witgood. 
 Wit. O for more scope ! I could laugh eternally ! 
 Give you joy, Mistress Hoard, I promise your fortune 
 was good, forsooth ; you've fell upon wealth enough, 
 and there's young gentlemen enow can help you to the 
 rest. Now it requires our wits : carry thyself but heed- 
 fully now, and we are both 
 
 Re-enter Host. 
 
 Host. Master Witgood, your uncle. 
 Wit. Cuds me ! remove thyself awhile ; I'll serve for 
 him. \Exeunt Courtesan and Host. 
 
 Enter Lucre. 
 
 Luc. Nephew, good morning, nephew. 
 
 Wit. The same to you, kind uncle. 
 
 Luc. How fares the widow ? does the meeting hold ? 
 
 Wit. O, no question of that, sir. 
 
 Luc. I'll strike the stroke, then, for thee; no more 
 days. 
 
 Wit. The sooner the better, uncle. O, she's mightily 
 followed ! 
 
 Luc. And yet so little rumoured ! 
 
 Wit. Mightily : here comes one old gentleman, and 
 he'll make her a jointure of three hundred a year, for- 
 sooth ; another wealthy suitor will estate his son in his 
 lifetime, and make him weigh down the widow ; here a 
 merchant's son will possess her with no less than three 
 goodly lordships at once, which were all pawns to his 
 father. 
 
 Luc. Peace, nephew, let me hear no more of 'em ; 
 
SCENE n.] A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. 41 
 
 it mads me. Thou shalt prevent "em all. No words to 
 the widow of my coming hither. Let me see — 'tis now 
 upon nine : before twelve, nephew, we will have the bar- 
 gain struck, we will, faith, boy. 
 
 Wit. O, my precious uncle ! \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 A Room ill Hoard's House. 
 
 Enter Hoard a7id Joyce. 
 
 Hoa. Niece, sweet niece, prithee, have a care to my 
 house; I leave all to thy discretion. Be content to 
 dream awhile ; I'll have a husband for thee shortly : put 
 that care upon me, wench, for in choosing wives and 
 husbands I am only fortunate ; I have that gift given 
 me. \Exit. 
 
 Joy. But 'tis not likely yofi should choose for me, 
 Since nephew to your chiefest enemy 
 Is he whom I affect : but, O, forgetful ! 
 Why dost thou flatter thy affections so. 
 With name of him that for a widow's bed 
 Neglects thy purer love ? Can it be so. 
 Or does report dissemble ? 
 
 Enter George. 
 
 How now, sir? 
 Geo. A letter, with which came a private charge. 
 Joy. Therein I thank your care. \Jixit George. 
 
 — I know this hand — 
 [Reads.] Dearer than sight, what the world reports of 
 me, yet believe not ; rumour will alter shortly : be thou 
 constant ; I am still the same that I was in love, and I 
 hope to be the same in fortunes. Theodorus Witgood. 
 
 1 Anticipate. 
 
42 A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. [act hi. 
 
 I am resolved : ' no more shall fear or doubt 
 
 Raise their pale powers to keep affection out. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 A Tavern. 
 
 Enter Hoard, Gentlernen, and Drawer. 
 
 Dra. You're very welcome, gentlemen. — Dick, show 
 those gentlemen the Pomegranate there. 
 
 Hoa. Hist ! 
 
 Dra. Up those stairs, gentlemen. 
 
 Hoa. Hist ! drawer ! 
 
 Dra. Anon, sir. 
 
 Hoa. Prithee, ask at the bar if a gentlewoman came 
 not in lately. 
 
 Dra. William, at the bar, did you see any gentle- 
 woman come in lately ? Speak you ay, speak you no ? 
 
 [ Within.\ No, none came in yet, but Mistress Florence. 
 
 Dra. He says none came in yet, sir, but one Mistress 
 Florence. 
 
 Hoa. What is that Florence ? a widow ? 
 
 Dra. Yes, a Dutch widow.' 
 
 Hoa. How? 
 
 Dra. That's an English drab, sir : give your worship 
 good morrow. \Exit. 
 
 Hoa. A merry knave, i'faith ! I shall remember a 
 Dutch widow the longest day of my life. 
 
 \st Gent. Did not I use most art to win the widow ? 
 
 2nd Gent. You shall pardon me for that, sir ; Master 
 Hoard knows I took her at best 'vantage. 
 
 Hoa. What's that, sweet gentlemen, what's that? 
 
 2nd Gent. He will needs bear me down, that his art 
 only wrought with the widow most. 
 
 1 Convinced. * A cant term for a prostitute. 
 
SCENE III.] A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. 43 
 
 Hoa. O, you did both well, gentlemen, you did both 
 well, I thank you.' 
 
 \st Gent. I was the first that moved her. 
 
 Hoa. You were, i'faith. 
 
 %nd Gent. But it was I that took her at the bound. 
 
 Hoa. Ay, that was you : faith, gentlemen, 'tis right. 
 
 ird Gent. I boasted least, but 'twas I joined their 
 hands. 
 
 Hoa. By th' mass, I think he did : you did all well, 
 Gentlemen, you did all well ; contend no more. 
 
 \st Gent. Come, yon room's fittest. 
 
 Hoa. True, 'tis next the door. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Witgood, Courtesan, Host, atid Drawer. 
 
 Dra. You're very welcome : please you to walk up 
 stairs ; cloth's laid, sir. [Witgood. 
 
 Cour. Up stairs ? troth, I am very weary, Master 
 
 Wit. Rest yourself here awhile, widow ; we'll have a 
 cup of muscadine in this little room. [sir. 
 
 Dra. A cup of muscadine ? You shall have the best, 
 
 Wit. But, do you hear, sirrah ? 
 
 Dra. Do you call ? anon, sir. 
 
 Wit. What is there provided for dinner ? 
 
 Dra. I cannot readily tell you, sir : if you please you 
 may go into the kitchen and see yourself, sir ; many 
 gentlemen of worship do use to do it, I assure you, sir. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Host. A pretty familiar, prigging rascal ; he has his 
 part without book. 
 
 Wit. Against you are ready to drink to me, widow, 
 I'll be present to pledge you. 
 
 Cour. Nay, I commend your care, 'tis done well of 
 you. [Exit Witgood.] — 'Las, what have I forgot ! 
 
 Host. What, mistress ? 
 
 Cour. I slipt my wedding ring off when I washed, and 
 left it at my lodging : prithee, run ; I shall be sad with- 
 out it. [Exit Host.] — So, he's gone. Boy ! 
 
44 A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. [act hi. 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 Boy. Anon, forsooth. 
 
 Cour. Come hither, sirrah : learn secretly if one 
 Master Hoard, an ancient gentleman, be about house. 
 Boy. I heard such a one named. 
 Cour. Commend me to him. 
 
 Re-enter Hoard and Gentlemen. 
 
 Hoa. Ay, boy, do thy commendations. 
 Cour, O, you come well : away, to boat, begone. 
 Hoa. Thus wise men are revenged, give two for one. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 Re-enter Witgood aiid Vintner. 
 
 ■Wit. I must request 
 You, sir, to show extraordinary care : 
 My uncle comes with gentlemen, his friends. 
 And 'tis upon a making.^ 
 
 Vin. Is it so ? 
 I'll give a special charge, good Master Witgood. 
 May I be bold to see her ? 
 
 Wit. Who ? the widow ? 
 With all my heart, i'faithj I'll bring you to her. 
 
 Vin. If she be a Staffordshire gentlewoman, 'tis much 
 if I know her not. 
 
 Wit. How now ? boy ! drawer ! 
 
 Vin. Hie! 
 
 Re-enter Boy. 
 
 Boy. Do you call, sir? 
 
 Wit. Went the gentlewoman up that was here ? • 
 
 Boy. Up, sir ? she went out, sir. 
 
 Wit. Out, sir? 
 
 Boy. Out, sir: one Master Hoard, with a guard of 
 gentlemen, carried her out at back door, a pretty while 
 since, sir. 
 
 Wit. Hoard ? death and darkness ? Hoard ? 
 
 - I.e. Matching, 
 
SCENE III.] A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. 45 
 
 Re-enter Host. 
 Host. The devil of ring I can find. 
 Wit. How now ? what news ? where's the widow ? 
 Host. My mistress ? is she not here, sir ? 
 Wit. More madness yet ! 
 Host. She sent me for a ring. 
 Wit. A plot, a plot ! — To boat ! she's stole away. 
 Host. What? 
 
 E7iler Lucre and Gentlemen. 
 
 Wit. Follow ! inquire old Hoard, my uncle's adversary. 
 
 \Exit Host. 
 Luc. Nephew, what's that ? 
 Wit. Thrice-miserable wretch ! 
 Luc. Why, what's the matter ? 
 Vin. The widow's borne away, sir. 
 Luc. Ha ? passion of me ! — A heavy welcome, gentle 
 
 men. 
 \st Gent. The widow gone ? 
 Luc. Who durst attempt it ? 
 Wit. Who but old Hoard, my uncle's adversary ? 
 Luc. How ? 
 
 Wit. With liis confederates. 
 
 Luc. Hoard, my deadly enemy ? — Gentlemen, stand to 
 me, 
 I will not bear it ; 'tis in hate of me ; 
 That villain seeks my shame, nay, thirsts my blood ; 
 He owes me mortal malice. 
 I'll spend my wealth on this despiteful plot, 
 Ere he shall cross me and my nephew thus! 
 Wit. So maliciously ! 
 
 Re-enter Host. 
 Luc. How now, you treacherous rascal ? 
 Host. That's none ofmy name, sir. 
 
 Wit. Poor soul, he knew not on't ! 
 
 Luc. I'm sorry. I see then 'twas a mere plot. 
 
46 A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. [act hi. 
 
 Host. I traced em nearly 
 
 Luc. Well? 
 
 Host. And hear for certain 
 They have took Cole-Harbour. 
 
 Luc. The devil's sanctuary ! 
 They shall not rest ; I'll pluck her from his arms — 
 Kind and dear gentlemen, 
 If ever I had seat within your breasts 
 
 ist Gent. No more, good sir ; it is a wrong to us 
 To see you injured ; in a cause so just 
 We'll spend our lives but we will right our friends. 
 
 Luc. Honest and kind ! come we've delayed too long ; 
 Nephew, take comfort; a just cause is strong. 
 
 Wit. That's all my comfort, uncle. \Exeunt all but 
 WiTGooD.] Ha, ha, ha ! 
 Now may events fall luckily and well; 
 He that ne'er strives, says wit, shall ne'er excel. \Exit. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 A Room in Dampit's House. 
 
 Enter Dampit, drunk. 
 
 Dam. When did I say my prayers ? In anno 88, 
 when the great armada was coming ; and in anno 89, 
 when the great thundering and lightning was, I prayed 
 heartily then, i'faith, to overthrow Poovies' new buildings ; 
 I kneeled by foiy great iron chest, I remember. 
 
 Enter Audrey. 
 
 Aud. Master Dampit, one may hear you before they 
 see you : you keep sweet hours. Master Dampit ; we 
 were all a-bed three hours ago. 
 
 Dam. Audrey? 
 
 Aud. O, you're a fine gentleman ! 
 
SCENE IV.] A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. 47 
 
 Dam. So I am i'faith, and a fine scholar : do you use 
 to go to bed so early, Audrey ? 
 
 And. Call you this early, Master Dampit ? 
 
 Datn. Why, is't not one of clock i' th' morning ? is not 
 that early enough ? fetch me a glass of fresh beer. 
 
 Aud. Here, I have warmed your nightcap for you, 
 Master Dampit. 
 
 Dam. Draw it on then. I am very weak truly : I 
 have not eaten so much as the bulk of an egg these 
 three days. 
 
 Aud. You have drunk the more, Master Dampit. 
 
 Dam. What's that ? 
 
 Aud. You mought, an you would, Master Dampit. 
 
 Dam. I answer you, I cannot : hold your prating ; 
 you prate too much, and understand too little : are you 
 answered ? Give me a glass of beer. 
 
 Aud. May I ask you how you do. Master Dampit ? 
 
 Dam. How do I ? i'faith, naught. 
 
 Aud. I ne'er knew you do otherwise. 
 
 Dam. I eat not one pen'north of bread these two 
 years. Give me a glass of fresh beer. I am not sick, 
 nor I am not well. . 
 
 Aud. Take this warm napkin about your neck, sir, 
 whilst I help to make you unready.' 
 
 Dam. How now, Audrey-prater, with your scurvy 
 devices, what say you now? 
 
 Aud. What say I, Master Dampit? I say nothing, 
 but that you are very weak. 
 
 Dam. Faith, thou hast more cony-catching^ devices 
 than all London. 
 
 Aud. Why, Master Dampit, I never deceived you iii 
 all my life. 
 
 Dam. Why was that ? because I never did trust thee. 
 
 Aud. I care not what you say. Master Dampit. 
 
 Dam. Hold thy prating : I answer thee, thou art a 
 beggar, a quean, and a bawd : are you answered ? 
 1 Undress you. "' Cheating. 
 
48 A TRICK 20 CATCH THE OLD ONE. [act m. 
 
 And. Fie, Master Dampit ! a gentleman, and have 
 such words ? 
 
 Dam. Why, thou base drudge of infortunity, thou 
 kitchen-stuft-drab of beggary, roguery, and coxcombry, 
 thou cavernesed quean of foolery, knavery, and bawd- 
 reaminy, I'll tell thee what, I will not give a louse for 
 thy fortunes. 
 
 Aud. No, Master Dampit? and there's a gentleman 
 comes a-wooing to me, and he doubts ' nothing but that 
 you will get me from him. 
 
 Dam. I ? If I would either have thee or lie with 
 thee for two thousand pound, would I might be damned ! 
 why, thou base, impudent quean of foolery, flattery, and 
 coxcombry, are you answered ? 
 
 Aud. Come, will you rise and go to bed, sir ? 
 
 Dam. Rise, and go to bed too, Audrey ? How does 
 Mistress Proserpine ? 
 
 Aud. Fooh ! 
 
 Dam. She's as fine a philosopher of a stinkard's wife, 
 as any within the liberties. Faugh, faugh, Audrey ! 
 
 Aud. How now. Master Dampit ? 
 
 Dam. Fie upon't, what a choice of stinks here is ! 
 what hast thou done, Audrey ? fie upon't, here's a choice 
 of stinks indeed ! Give me a glass of fresh beer, and 
 then I will to bed. 
 
 Aud. It waits for you above, sir. 
 
 Dam. Foh ! I think they burn horns in Barnard's Inn. 
 If ever I smelt such an abominable stink, usury forsake 
 me. {Exit. 
 
 Aud. They be the stinking nails of his trampling feet, 
 and he talks of burning of horns. \Exit. 
 
 ' Fears. 
 
ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE I. ' 
 All Apartment at Cole-Harbour. 
 
 Enter Hoard, Courtesan, Lamprey, Spichcock, and 
 Gentlemen. 
 IRST GENT. Join hearts, join hands. 
 In wedlock's bands, 
 Never to part 
 
 Till death cleave your heart. 
 \To Hoard.] You shall forsake all other 
 women ; 
 \_To Courtesan.] You lords, knights, gentlemen, and 
 
 yeomen. 
 What my tongue slips 
 Make up with your lips. 
 
 Hoa. {kisses Aer.] Give you joy, Mistress Hoard ; let 
 the kiss come about. [Knocking. 
 
 Who knocks ? Convey my little pig-eater ' out. 
 Luc. [within.] Hoard I 
 
 Ifoa. Upon my life, my adversary, gentlemen ! 
 Zuc. [within^ Hoard, open the door, or we will force 
 it ope : 
 Give us the widow. 
 Hoa. Gentlemen, keep 'em out. 
 Lam. He comes upon^is death that enters here. 
 Luc. [witAin.] My friends, assist me ! 
 Hoa. He has assistants, gentlemen. 
 
 1 A term of endearment. 
 
 Mid. 
 
so A TRICK TO CA TCTI THE OLD ONE. [act iV. 
 
 Lam. Tut, nor him nor them we in this action fear. 
 
 Luc. [within.'] Shall I, in peace, speak one word with 
 the widow? 
 
 Cour. Husband, and gentlemen, hear me but a word. 
 
 Latn. Freely, sweet wife. 
 
 Coiir. Let him in peaceably ; 
 You know we're sure from any act of his. 
 
 Hod. Most true. 
 
 Cou7'. You may stand by and, smile at his old weakness : 
 Let me alone to answer him. 
 
 Jloa. Content; 
 Twill be good mirth, i'faith. Ho.w think you, gentlemen ? 
 
 Lam. Good gullery ! 
 
 ILoa. Upon calm conditions let him in. 
 
 Luc. [witAif/.] All spite and malice ! 
 
 Lam. Hear me, Master Lucre : 
 So you will vow a peaceful entrance 
 With those your friends, and only exercise 
 Calm conference with the widow, without fury, 
 The passage shall receive you. 
 
 Luc. \within?\ I do vow it. 
 
 Lam. Then enter and talk freely : here she stands. 
 
 Enter Lucre, Gentlemen, and Host. 
 
 Luc. O, Master Hoard, your spite has watched the hour ! 
 You're excellent at vengeance, Master Hoard. 
 
 Hoa. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Luc. I am the fool you laugh at ; 
 You are wise, sir, and know the seasons well. — 
 Come hither, widow : why is it thus ? 
 O, you have done me infinite disgrace, 
 And your own credit no small injury ! 
 Suffer mine enemy so despitefully 
 To bear you from my nephew ? O, I had 
 Rather half ray substance had been forfeit 
 And begged by some starved rascal ! 
 
 Cour. Why, what would you wish me do, sir? 
 
SCENE I.] A TRICK 10 CA TCH THE OLD ONE. 5 1 
 
 I must not overthrow my state for love : 
 We have too many precedents for that ;' 
 From thousands of our wealthy undone widows 
 One may derive some wit. I do confess 
 I loved your nephew, nay, I did affect him 
 Against the mind and liking of my friends ; 
 Believed his promises ; lay here in hope 
 Of flattered living, and the boast of lands : 
 • Coming to touch his wealth and state, indeed. 
 It appears dross ; I find him not the man ; 
 Imperfect, mean, scarce furnished of his needs : 
 In words, fair lordships ; in performance, hovels : 
 Can any woman love the thing that is not ? 
 
 Luc. Broke you for this ? 
 
 Cour. Was. it not cause too much ? 
 Send to inquire his state : most part of it 
 Lay two years mortgaged in his uncle's hands. 
 
 Luc. Why, say it did, you might have known ray miad : 
 I could have soon restored it. 
 
 Cour. Ay, had I but seen any such thing performed, 
 Why, 'twould have tied my affection, and contained 
 Me in my first desires : do you think, i'faith, 
 That I could twine such a dry oak as this, 
 Had promise in your nephew took effect ? 
 
 Luc. Why, and there's no time past ; and rather than 
 My adversary should thus thwart my hopes, 
 I would 
 
 Cour. Tut, you've been ever full of golden speech : 
 If words were lands, your nephew would be rich. 
 
 Luc. Widow, believe't, I vow by my best bliss. 
 Before these gentlemen, I will give in 
 The mortgage to my nephew instantly. 
 Before I sleep or eat. 
 
 ist Gent, [friend to Lucre.] We'll pawn our credits, 
 Widow, what he speaks shall be performed 
 In fulness. 
 
 Luc. Nay, more ; I will estate him 
 
52 A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD OA^E. [act iV. 
 
 In farther blessings ; he shall be ray heir ; 
 
 I have no son ; 
 
 I'll bind myself to that condition. 
 
 Cour. When I shall hear this done, I shall soon yield 
 To reasonable terms. 
 
 Luc. In the mean season, 
 Will you protest, before these gentlemen, 
 To keep yqurself as you'r^ now at this present ? 
 
 Cour. I do protest, before these gentlemen, 
 I will be as clear then as I am now. 
 
 Luc. I do believe you. Here's your own honest servant, 
 I'll take him along with me. 
 
 Cour. Ay, with all my heart. 
 
 Luc. He shall see all performed, and bring you word. 
 
 Cour. That's all I wait for. 
 
 Ifoa. What, have you finished, Master Lucre ? ha, ha, 
 ha, ha ! 
 
 Luc. So laugh, Hoard, laugh at your poor enemy, do ; 
 The wind may turn, you may be laughed at too ; 
 Yes, marry may you, sir. — Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 [Exeu?it LtrcRE, Gentlemen, and Host. 
 
 Hoa. Ha, ha, ha ! if every man that swells in malice 
 Could be revenged as happily as I, 
 He would choose hate, and forswear amity. — 
 What did he say, wife, prithee ? 
 
 Cour. Faith, spoke to ease his mind. 
 
 ILoa. 0,0,0! 
 
 Cour. You know now little to any purpose. 
 
 Lfoa. True, true, true ! 
 
 Cour. He would do mountains now. 
 
 Hoa. Ay, ay, ay, ay. 
 
 Lam. You've struck him dead, Master Hoard. 
 
 Sj>i. And his nephew desperate. 
 
 Hoa. I know't sirs, I. 
 Never did man so crush his enemy. [Exeunt. 
 
SCENE n.] A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. 53 
 
 SCENE II. 
 A Room in Lucre's House. 
 
 Enter Lucre, Gentlemen, and Host, meeting Freedom. 
 
 Ltic. My son-in-law, Sam Freedom, Where's my nephew? 
 
 Free. O man in lamentation,' father. 
 
 Luc. How! 
 
 Free. He thumps his breast hke a gallant dicer that has 
 lost his doublet, and stands in's shirt to do penance. 
 
 Luc. Alas, poor gentleman ! 
 
 Free. I warrant you may hear him sigh in a still 
 evening to your house at Highgate. 
 
 Luc. I prithee send him in. 
 
 Free. Were it to do a greater matter, I will not slick 
 with you, sir, in regard you married my mother. \Exit. 
 
 Luc. Sweet gentlemen, cheer him up; I will but fetch 
 the mortgage and return to you instantly. 
 
 \st Gent. We'll do our best, sir. {Exit Lucre.] — 
 
 See where he comes, 
 E'en joyless and regardless of all form. 
 
 Enter Witgood. 
 
 2.nd Gent. Why, how now, Master Witgood ? Fie ! you 
 a firm scholar, and an understanding gentleman, and give 
 your best parts to passion ? 
 
 1st Gent. Come, fie fie ! 
 
 Wit. O, gentlemen 
 
 \st Gent. Sorrow of me, what a sigh was there, sir ! 
 Nine such widows are not worth it. 
 
 Wit. To be borne from me by that lecher Hoard ! 
 
 \st Gent. That vengeance is your uncle's ; being done 
 More in despite to him than wrong to you : 
 But we bring comfort now. 
 
 Wit. I beseech you, gentlemen 
 
 2nd Gent. Cheer thyself, man ; there's hope of her, i'faiih . 
 
 Wit. Too gladsome to be true. 
 
 1 " O man in desperation " is the nam'; of an oM tunc. 
 
54 A TRICK TO CA TCH TH£ OLD ONE. [act iv. 
 
 Re-enter Lucre. 
 
 Luc. Nephew, what cheer? 
 Alas, poor gentleman, how art thou changed ! 
 Call thy fresh blood into thy cheeks again : 
 She comes. 
 
 Wit. Nothing afflicts me so much, 
 But that it is your adversary, uncle. 
 And merely plotted in despite of you. 
 
 Luc. Ay, that's it mads me, spites me ! I'll spend my 
 wealth ere he shall carry her so, because I know 'tis only 
 to spite me. Ay, this is it. Here, nephew \giving a paper\, 
 before these kind gentlemen, I deliver in your mortgage, 
 my promise to the widow; see, 'tis done: be wise, you're 
 once more master of your own. The widow shall per- 
 ceive now you are not altogether such a beggar as the 
 world reputes you; you can make shift to bring her to 
 three hundred a-year, sir. 
 
 \st Gent. Byrlady,' and that's no toy, sir. 
 
 Liic. A word, nephew. 
 
 \st Gent, [to Host.] Now you rnay certify the widow. 
 
 Luc. You must conceive it aright, nephew, now ; 
 To do you good I am content to do this. 
 
 Wit. I know it, sir. 
 
 Luc. But your own conscience can tell I had it 
 Dearly enough of you. 
 
 Wit. Ay, that's most certain. 
 
 Luc. Much money laid out, beside many a journey 
 To fetch the rent; I hope you'll think on't, nephew. 
 
 Wit. I were worse than a beast else, i'faith. 
 
 Luc. Although to blind the widow and the world, 
 I out of policy do't, yet there's a conscience, nephew. 
 
 Wit. Heaven forbid else ! 
 
 Li/c. When you are full possessed, 
 'Tis nothing to return it. 
 
 Wit. Alas, a thing quickly done, uncle ! 
 
 Luc. Well said ! you know I give it you but in trust. 
 1 A conuption of "By our Lady." 
 
SCENE II.] A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. 55 
 
 Wit. Pray, let me understand you rightly, uncle : 
 You give it me but in trust ? 
 
 Luc. No. 
 
 Wit. That is, you trust me with it ? 
 
 Luc. True, true. 
 
 Wit. But if ever I trust you with it again, 
 Would I might be trussed up for my labour ! \_Aside. 
 
 Luc. You can all witness, gentlemen; and you, sir 
 yeoman ? 
 
 Host. My life for yours, sir, now, I know my mistress's 
 mind so well toward your nephew, let things be in pre- 
 paration, and I'll train her hither in most excellent 
 fashion. . \Exit, 
 
 Luc. A good old boy ! — Wife ! Jenny ! 
 
 Enter Mistress Lucre. 
 
 Mis. L. What's the news, sir ? 
 
 Luc. The wedding-day's at hand : prithee, sweet wife, 
 express thy housewifery ; thou'rt a fine cook, I know't ; 
 thy first husband married thee out of an alderman's 
 kitchen; go to, he raised thee for raising of paste 
 What ! here's none but friends ; most of our beginnings 
 must be winked at. — Gentlemen, I invite you all to my 
 nephew's wedding against Thursday morning. 
 
 \st Gent. With all our hearts, and we shall joy to see 
 Your enemy so mocked. 
 
 Luc. He laughed at me, gentlemen; ha, ha, ha! 
 
 \Exeu7it all but Witgood. 
 
 Wit. He has no conscience, faith, would laugh at them : 
 They laugh at one another; 
 Who then can be so cruel? troth, not I ; 
 I rather pity now, than ought envy? 
 I do conceive such joy in mine own happiness, 
 I have no leisure yet to laugh at their follies. 
 Thou soul of my estate, I kiss thee ! \To the mortgage. 
 I miss life's comfort when I miss thee 
 O, never will we part agen. 
 
56 A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. [act IV. 
 
 Until I leave the sight of men ! 
 
 We'll ne'er trust conscience of our kinr 
 
 Since cozenage brings that title in. \_ExU. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 A Street. 
 
 Enter three Creditors. 
 
 \stCred. I'llwaitthesesevenhoursbutl'll seehim caught. 
 
 272d Cred. Faith, so will I. 
 
 yd Cred. Hang him, prodigal ! he's stript of the widow. 
 
 \st Cred. A' my troth, she's the wiser; she has made 
 the happier choice : and I wonder of what stuff those 
 widows' hearts are made of, that will marry unfledged 
 boys before comely thrum-chinned' gentlemen. 
 
 Enter Boy. 
 
 Boy. News, news, news ! 
 
 ist Cred. What, boy? 
 
 Boy. The rioter is caught. 
 
 \st Cred. So, so, so, so ! it warms me at the heart; 
 I love a' life to see dogs upon men. 
 O, here'he comes. 
 
 Enter Sergeants, with Witgood in mstody. 
 
 Wit. My last joy was so great, it took away the sense 
 of all future afflictions. What a day is here o'ercast ! 
 how soon a black tempest rises ! 
 
 1^/ Cred. O, we may speak with you now, sir ! what's 
 become of your rich widow ? I think you may cast your 
 cap at the widow, may you not, sir ? 
 
 2nd Cred. He a rich widow ? who, a prodigal, a daily 
 
 1 Rough-chinned. "Thrum " is properly the end of the warp'iu 
 weaving. 
 
SCENE III.] A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. 57 
 
 rioter, and a nightly vomiter ? he a widow of account ? 
 he a hole^ i' th' counter. 
 
 Wit. You do well, my masters, to tyrannise over 
 misery, to afflict the afflicted; 'tis a custom you have here 
 amongst you; I would wish you never leave it, and I 
 hope you'll do as I bid you. 
 
 \st Cred. Come, come, sir, what say you extempore 
 now to your bill of a hundred pound ? a sweet debt for 
 froatingf your doublets. 
 
 2tid Cred. Here's mine of forty. 
 
 yd Cred. Here's mine of fifty. 
 
 Wit. Pray, sirs, — you'll give me breath ? 
 
 ist Cred. No, sir, we'll keep you out of breath still ; 
 then we shall be sure you will not run away from us. 
 
 Wit. Will you but hear me speak ? 
 
 2nd Cred. You shall pardon us for that, sir ; we know 
 you haVe too fair a tongue of your own ; you overcame 
 us too lately, a shame take you ! we are like to lose all 
 that for want of witnesses : we dealt in policy then ; 
 always when we strive to be most politic we prove most 
 coxcombs : non plus ultra I perceive by us, we're not 
 ordained to thrive by wisdom, and therefore we must be 
 content to be tradesmen. 
 
 Wit. Give me but reasonable time, and I protest I'll 
 make you ample satisfaction. 
 
 ist Cred. Do you talk of reasonable time to us ? 
 
 Wit. 'Tis true, beasts know no reasonable time. 
 
 27id Cred. We must have either money or carcass. 
 
 Wit. Alas, what good will my carcass do you ? 
 
 2,rd Cred. O, 'tis a secret delight we have amongst us ! 
 we that are used to keep birds in cages, have the heart 
 to keep men in prison, I warrant you. 
 
 Wit. I perceive I must crave a little more aid from my 
 wits : do but make shift for me this once, and I'll for- 
 swear ever to trouble you in the like fashion hereafter ; 
 
 • Where the poorest prisoners were confined. 
 
 ' To froat a garment is to rub perfumed oil into it to sweeten it. 
 
58 A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. [ACT iv. 
 
 I'll have better employment for you, an I live. \Asider\ 
 — You'll give me leave, my masters, to make trial of my 
 friends, and raise all means I can ? 
 -iit Cred, That's our desire, sir. 
 
 Jinter Host. 
 
 Host. Master Witgood. 
 
 Wit. O, art thou come ? 
 
 Host. May I speak one word with you in private; sir ? 
 
 Wit. No, by my faith, canst thou; I am in hell here, 
 and the devils will not let me come to thee. 
 
 \st Cred. Do you call us devils? you shall find us 
 puritans. — Bear him away ; let 'em talk as they go : we'll 
 not stand to hear 'em. — Ah, sir, am I a devil? I shall 
 think the better of myself as long as I live : a devil, 
 i'faith ? \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 A Room in Hoard's House. 
 
 Enter Hoard. 
 
 Hoa. What a sweet blessing hast thou. Master Hoard, 
 above a multitude ! wilt thou never be thankful ? how 
 dost thou think to be blest another time ? or dost thou 
 count this the full' measure of thy happiness ? by my troth, 
 I think thou dost: not only a wife large in possessions, 
 but spacious in content ; she's rich, she's young, she's 
 fair, she's wise : when I wake, I think of her lands — that 
 revives me ; when I go to bed, I dream of her beauty — 
 and that's enough for me : she's worth four hundred a-year 
 in her very smock, if a man knew how to use it. But 
 the journey will be all, in troth, into the country; to ride 
 to her lands in state and order following ; my brotheu, 
 and other worshipful gentlemen, whose companies I ha' 
 sent down for already, to ride along with us in their goodly 
 
SCENE IV.] A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. 59 
 
 decorum beards, their broad velvet cassocks, and chains 
 of gold twice or thrice double ; against which time I'll 
 entertain some ten men of mine own into liveries, all of 
 occupations or qualities; I will not keep an idle man 
 about me : the sight of which will so vex my adversary 
 Lucre — for we'll pass by his door of purpose, make a 
 little stand for the nonce, and have our horses curvet 
 before the window — certainly he will never endure it, but 
 run up and hang himself presently. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 How now, sirrah, what news ? any that offer their service 
 to me yet ? 
 
 Ser. Yes, sir, there are some i' th' hall that wait for 
 your worship's hking, and desire to be entertained. 
 
 Hoa. Are they of occupation ? 
 
 Ser. They are men fit for your worship, sir. 
 
 Hoa. Sayest so? send 'em all in. [^^r/V Servant.] — 
 To see ten men ride after me in watchet' liveries, with 
 orange-tawny caps, — 'twill cut his comb, i'faith. 
 
 Enter Tailor, Barber, Perfumer, Falconer, and 
 Huntsman. 
 
 How now ? of what occupation are you, sir ? 
 
 Tai. A tailor, an't please your worship. 
 
 Hoa. A tailor ? O, very good : you shall serve to 
 make all the liveries. — What are you, sir ? 
 
 Bar. A barber, sir. 
 
 Hoa. A barber ? very needful : you shall shave all the 
 house, and, if need require, stand for a reaper i' th' summer 
 time. — You, sir? 
 
 Per. A perfumer. 
 
 Hoa. I smelt you before : perfumers, of all men, had 
 need carry themselves uprightly; for if they were once 
 knaves, they would be smelt out quickly. — To you, sir? 
 
 Fal. A falconer, an't please your worship. 
 1 Light blue. 
 
6o A 2 RICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. [ACT iv. 
 
 Hoa. Sa ho, sa ho, sa ho ! — And you, sir ? 
 
 Hunt. A huntsman, sir, 
 
 Hoa. There, boy, there, boy, there, boy ! I am not 
 so old but I have pleasant days to come. I promise, 
 you, my masters, I take such a good liking to you, that 
 I entertain you all; I put you already into my countenance, 
 and you shall be shortly in my livery ; but especially you 
 two, my jolly falconer and my bonny huntsman ; we shall 
 have most need of you at my wife's manor-houses i' th' 
 country; there's goodly parks and champion' groujidsfor 
 you ; we shall have all our sports within ourselves ; all 
 the gentlernen a' th' country shall be beholden to us and 
 our pastimes. 
 
 Fal. And we'll make your worship admire, sir. 
 
 Hoa. Sayest thou so ? do but make me admire, and 
 thou shall want for nothing. — My tailor. 
 
 Tai. Anon, sir. 
 
 Hoa. Go presently in hand with the liveries, 
 
 Tai. I will, sir. 
 
 Hoa. My barber. 
 
 Bar. Here, sir. 
 
 Hoa. Make 'em all trim fellows, louse 'em well, — 
 especially my huntsman, — and cut all their beards of the 
 Polonian fashion. — My perfumer. 
 
 Per. Under your nose, sir. 
 
 Hoa. Cast a better savour upon the knaves, to take away 
 the scent of my tailor's feet, and my barber's lotium-water. 
 
 Per. It shall be carefully performed, sir. 
 
 Hoa. But you, my falconer and huntsman, the wel- 
 coraest men alive, i'faith ! 
 
 Hunt. And we'll show you that, sir, shall deserve your 
 worship's favour. 
 
 Hoa. I prithee, show me that. — Go, you knaves all, 
 and wash your lungs i' th' buttery, go. [Exeunt Tailor, 
 Barber, &'c.'\ — By th' mass, and well remembered ! I'll 
 ask my wife that question. — Wife, Mistress Jane Hoard ! 
 
 1 Champaign. 
 
SCENE IV.] A TRICK TO CA TCJT THE OLD ONE. 6 1 
 
 Enter Courtesan, altered in apparel. 
 
 Cour. Sir, would you with me ? 
 
 Hoa. I would but know, sweet wife, which might stand 
 best to thy liking, to have the wedding dinner kept here 
 or i' th' country ? 
 
 Cour. Hum : — faith, sir, 'twould like me better here;, 
 here you were married, here let all rites be ended. 
 
 Hoa. Could a marquesse ^ give a better answer ? Hoard, 
 bear thy head aloft, thou'st a wife will advance it. 
 
 Enter Host with a letter. 
 
 What haste comes here now ? yea, a letter ? some dreg 
 of my adversary's malice. Come hither; what's the news? 
 
 Host. A thing that concerns my mistress, sir. 
 
 \Giving a letter to Courtesan. 
 
 Hoa, Why then it concerns me, knave. 
 
 Host. Ay, and you, knave, too (cry your worship 
 mercy) : you are both like to come into trouble, I 
 promise you, sir ; a pre-contract.' 
 
 Hoa. How ? a pre-contract, sayest thou ? 
 
 Host. I fear they have too much proof on't, sir : old 
 Lucre, he runs mad up and down, and will to law as fast 
 as he can ; young Witgood laid hold on by his creditors, 
 he exclaims upon you a' t'other side, says you have 
 wrought his undoing by the injurious detaining of his 
 contract. 
 
 Hoa. Body a' me ! 
 
 Host. He will have utmost satisfaction ; 
 The law shall give him recompense, he says. 
 
 Cour. Alas, his creditors so merciless ! my state being 
 yet uncertain, I deem it not unconscionable to further 
 him. \Aside. 
 
 Host. True, sir. 
 
 Hoa. Wife, what says that letter ? let me construe it. 
 
 1 Marchioness. 
 
 " A pre-contract of marriage could only be set aside with the 
 consent of both parties. — Bullen, 
 
62 A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. [act iv, 
 
 Cour. Cursed be my rash and unadvised words ! 
 
 \Tears the letter and stamps on it. 
 I'll set my foot upon my tongue, 
 And tread my inconsiderate grant to dust. 
 
 Hoa. Wife 
 
 Host. A pretty shift, i'faith ! I commend a woman 
 when she can make away a letter from her husband hand- 
 somely, and this was cleanly done, by my troth. \Aside. 
 
 Cour. I did, sir ; 
 Some foolish words I must confess did pass, 
 Which now litigiously he fastens on me. 
 
 Hoa. Of what force ? let me examine 'em. 
 
 Cour. Too strong, I fear : would I were well freed of him ! 
 
 Hoa. Shall I compound? 
 
 Cour. No, sir, I'd have it done some nobler way 
 Of your side; I'd have you come off with honour ; 
 Let baseness keep with them. Why, have you not 
 The means, sir ? the occasion's offered you. 
 
 Hoa. Where ? how, dear wife ? 
 
 Cour. He is now caught by his creditors ; the slave's 
 needy ; his debts petty ; he'll rather bind himself to all 
 inconveniences than rot in prison ; by this only means 
 you may get a release from him : 'tis not yet come to 
 bis uncle's hearing ; send speedily for the creditors ; by 
 this time he's desperate; he'll set his hand to anything : 
 take order for his debts, or discharge 'em quite : a pax 
 on him, let's be rid of a rascal !■ 
 
 Hoa. Excellent ! 
 Thou dost astonish me. — Go, run, make haste ; 
 Bring both the creditors and Witgood hither. 
 
 Host. -This will be some revenge yet. \Aside, and exit. 
 
 Hoa. In the mean space I'll have a release drawn. — 
 Within there ! 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Sir ? 
 
 Hoa. Sirrah, come take directions ; go to my scrivener. 
 
 Cour. [aside, while Hoard gives directions to the 
 
SCENE IV,] A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. 63 
 
 Servant.] I'm yet like those whose riches lie in dreams. 
 If I be waked, they're false ; such is my fate, 
 Who venture deeper than the desperate state. 
 Though I have sinned, yet could I become new. 
 For where I once vow, I am ever true. 
 
 Hoa, Away, despatch, on my displeasure quickly. 
 
 \_Exit Servant. 
 Happy occasion ! pray Heaven he be in the right vein 
 now to set his hand to't, that nothing alter him ; grant 
 that all his follies may meet in him at once, to*besot him 
 I pray for him, i'faith, and here he conies. [enough ! 
 
 Enter Witgood and Creditors. 
 
 Wit. What would you with me now, my uncle's spite- 
 ful adversary ? 
 
 Hoa. Nay, I am friends. 
 
 Wit. Ay, when your mischief's spent. 
 
 Hoa. I heard you were arrested. 
 
 Wit. Well, what then ? 
 You will pay none of my debts, I am sure. 
 ■ Hoa. A wise man cannot tell ; 
 There may be those conditions 'greed upon 
 May move me to do much. 
 
 Wit. Ay, when ? — 
 'Tis thou, perjured woman ! (O, no name 
 Is vile enough to match thy treachery !) 
 That art the cause of my confusion. 
 
 Cour. Out, you penurious slave ! 
 
 Hoa. Nay, wife, you are too froward ; 
 Let him alone ; give losers leave to talk. 
 
 Wit. Shall I remember thee of another promise 
 Far stronger than the first ? 
 
 Cour. I'd fain know that. 
 
 Wit. 'Twould call shame to thy cheeks. 
 
 Cour. Shame ! 
 
 Wit. Hark in your ear. — \They converse apart]. 
 Will he come off, think'st thou, and pay my debts roundly? 
 
64 A TklC^TO CA TCB TBE OLD OlSTE. [act iv. 
 
 Cottr. Doubt nothing ; there's a release a-drawing and 
 all, to which you must set your hand. 
 
 Wit. Excellent! 
 
 Cour. But methinks, i'faith, you might have made some 
 shift to discharge this yourself, having in the mortgage, 
 and never have burdened my conscience with it. 
 
 Wit. A' my troth, I could not, for my creditors' 
 cruelties extend to the present. 
 
 Cour. If o more. — 
 Why, do your worst for that, I defy you. 
 
 Wit. You're impudent : I'll call up witnesses. 
 
 Cour. Call up thy wits, for thou hast been devoted 
 To follies a long time. 
 
 Hoa. Wife, you're too bitter. — 
 Master Witgood, and you, my masters, you shall hear a 
 mild speech come from me now, and this it is : 't has 
 been my fortune, gentlemen, to have an extraordinary 
 blessing poured upon me a' late, and here she stands ; I 
 have wedded her, and bedded her, and yet she is little 
 the worse : some foolish words she hath passed to you in 
 the country, and some peevish ' debts you owe here in the 
 city ; set the hare's head to the goose-giblet,* release you 
 her of her words, and I'll release you of your debts, sir. 
 
 Wit. Would you so ? I thank you for that, sir ; I 
 cannot blame you, i'faith. 
 
 Hoa. Why, are not debts better than words, sir ? 
 
 Wit. Are not words promises, and are not promises 
 debts, sir ? 
 
 Hoa. He plays at back-racket with me. \Aside. 
 
 ist Cred. Come hither. Master Witgood, come hither; 
 be ruled by fools once. 
 
 2nd Cred. We are citizens, and know what belongs to't. 
 
 ist Cred. Take hold of his offer : pax on her, let her 
 go; if your debts were once discharged, I would help 
 you to a widow myself worth ten of her. 
 
 2,rd Cred. Mass, partner, and now you remember me 
 
 1 Trifling. 2 A proverbial phrase. 
 
SCENE IV.] A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. 65 
 
 on't, there's Master Mulligrub's sister newly fallen a 
 widow. 
 
 \st Cred. Cuds me, as pat as can be ! there's a widow 
 left for you ; ten thousand in money, beside plate, jewels, 
 et cetera : I warrant it a match ; we can do all in all with 
 her ; prithee, despatch ; we'll carry thee to her presently. 
 
 Wii. My uncle will ne'er endure me when he shall 
 hear I set my hand to a release. 
 
 2nd Cred. Hark, I'll tell thee a trick for that : I have 
 spent five hundred pound in suits in my time, I should 
 be wise ; thou'rt now a prisoner ; make a release ; take't 
 of my word, whatsoever a man makes as long as he is in 
 durance, 'tis nothing, in law, not thus much. 
 
 \Snaps his fingers. 
 
 Wit. Say you so, sir ? 
 
 ■i,rd Cred. I have paid for't, I know't. 
 
 Wit. Proceed then ; I consent. 
 
 yd Cred. Why, well said. [him ? 
 
 Hoa. How now, my masters, what have you done with 
 
 xst Cred. With much ado, sir, we have got him to 
 consent. 
 
 Hoa. Ah — a — a ! and what come his debts to now? 
 
 \st Cred. Some eight score odd pounds, sir. 
 
 Hoa. Naw, naw, naw, naw, naw ! tell me the second 
 time ; give me a lighter sum ; they are but desperate 
 debts, you know ; ne'er called in but upon such an acci- 
 dent ; a poor, needy knave, he would starve and rot in 
 prison : come, come, you shall have ten shillings in the 
 pound, and the sum down roundly. ■" 
 
 xst Cred, You must make it a mark, sir. 
 
 Hoa. Go to then, tell your money in the meantime ; 
 you shall find little less there. \Giving them money.'] — 
 Come, Master Witgood, you are so unwilling to do 
 yourself good now 1 
 
 Enter Scrivener. 
 Welcome, honest scriver^er, — Now you shall hear the 
 release read. 
 
 Mid. F 
 
66 A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. [act iv. 
 
 Scri. [reads.] Be it known to all men, by these pre- 
 sents, that I, Theodorus Witgood, gentleman, sole ne- 
 phew to Pecunius Lucre, having unjustly made title and 
 claim to one Jane Medler, late widow of Anthony Medler, 
 and now wife to Walkadine Hoard, in consideration of 
 a competent sum of money to discharge my debts, do 
 for ever hereafter disclaim any title, right, estate, or 
 interest in or to the said widow, late in the occupation of 
 the said Anthony Medler, and now in the occupation of 
 Walkadine Hoard ; as also neither to lay claim by virtue 
 of any former contract, grant, promise, or demise, to any 
 of her manors, manor-houses, parks, groves, meadow- 
 grounds, arable lands, barns, stacks^ stables, dove-holes, 
 and coney-burrows ; together with all her cattle, money, 
 plate, jewels, borders, chains, bracelets, furnitures, hang- 
 ings, moveables or immoveables. In witness whereof, I 
 the said Theodorus Witgood have interchangeably set to 
 my .hand and seal before these presents, the day and date 
 above written. 
 
 Wif. What a precious fortune hast thou slipt here^ 
 like a beast as thou art ! 
 
 Hoa. Come, unwilling heart, come. 
 
 Wif. Well, Master Hoard, give me the pen ; I see 
 'Tis vain to quarrel with our destiny. [Signs the paper. 
 
 Hoa. O, as vain a thing as can be ! you cannot com- 
 mit a greater absurdity, sir. So, so ; give me that hand 
 now ; before all these presents, I am friends for ever with 
 thee. 
 
 Wit. Troth, and it were pity of my heart now, if I 
 should' bear you any grudge, i'faith. 
 
 Hoa. Content : I'll send for thy uncle against the 
 wedding dinner ; we will be friends once again. 
 
 Wit. I hope to bring it to pass myself, sir. 
 
 Hoa. How now? is't right, my masters? 
 
 ist Cred. 'Tis something wanting, sir; yet it shall be 
 sufficient. 
 
 Hoa. Why, well said ; a good conscience makes a. fine 
 
SCENE v.] A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. 67 
 
 show now-a-days. Come, nay masters, you shall all taste 
 of my wine ere you depart. 
 
 All the Cred. We follow you, sir. 
 
 [Exeunt Hoard and Scrivener. 
 
 Wit. I'll try these fellows now. [Aside.'] — A word, 
 sir : what, will you carry me to that widow now ? 
 
 ist Cred. Why, do you think we were in earnest, 
 i'faith? carry you to a rich widow? we should get much 
 credit by that : a noted rioter ! a contemptible prodigal 1 
 'twas a trick we have amongst us to get in our money : 
 fare you well, sir. [Exeunt Creditors. 
 
 Wit. Farewell, and be hanged, you_ short pig-haired, 
 ram-headed rascals ! he that believes in you shall ne'er 
 be saved, I warrant him. By this new league I shall 
 have some access unto my love. 
 
 Joyce appears above. 
 Joyce. Master Witgood ! 
 Wit. My life! 
 
 Joyce. Meet me presently ; that note directs you [throws 
 him a letter] : I would not be suspected : our happiness 
 attends us : farewell. 
 
 Wit. A word's enough. [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE v. 
 Dampit's Bed-chamber. 
 
 Dampit in bed ; Audrey spinning by his side ; Boy. 
 
 Aud. [singing.] 
 Let the usurer cram him, in interest that excel, 
 There's pits enow to damn him, before he comes to hell; 
 In Holborn some, in Fleet Street some, 
 Where'er he come there's some, there's some. 
 
 jDam. I'rahe, trahito, dr^w the curtain ; give me a sip 
 pf sack more, 
 
68 A trick: to CA TCH the old one. [act IV. 
 
 While he drinks, enter Lamprey and Spichcock. 
 
 Lam. Look you ; did not I tell you he lay like the 
 devil in chains, when he was bound for a thousand year? 
 
 Spi. But I think the devil had no steel bedstaffs ; he 
 goes beyond him for that. 
 
 Lam. Nay, do but mark the conceit of his drinking ; 
 one must wipe his mouth for him with a muckinder,^ do 
 you see, sir ? 
 
 Spi. Is this the sick trampler ? why, he is only bed-rid 
 with drinking. 
 
 Lam. True, sir. He spies us. 
 
 Dam. What, Sir Tristram ? you come and see a weak 
 man here, a very weak man. 
 
 Lam. If you be weak in body, you should be strong 
 in prayer, sir. 
 
 Dam. O, I have prayed too much, poor man ! 
 
 iMm. There's a taste of his soul for you ! 
 
 Spi. Faugh, loathsome ! 
 
 Latn. I come to borrow a hundred pound of you, sir. 
 
 Dam. Alas, you come at an ill time ! I cannot spare 
 it i'faith ; I ha' but two thousand i' th' house. 
 
 And. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Dam. Out, you gernative^ quean, the mullipood' of 
 villainy, the spinner of concupiscency ! 
 
 Enter Sir Launcelot and others. 
 
 Sir L. Yea, gentlemen, are you here before us ? how 
 is he now ? 
 
 Lam. Faith, the same man still : the tavern bitch has 
 bit him i' th' head.* 
 
 Sir L. We shall have the better sport with him : peace. 
 — And how cheers Master Dampit now ? 
 
 Dam. O, my bosom, Sir Launcelot, how cheer I ! thy 
 presence is restorative. 
 
 ' Handkerchief. 
 
 2 Builen suggests that "gernative " means " grinning." To gem 
 is to grin or to snarl. 
 
 ' Multiple. * A proverb implying that a person was drunk. 
 
SCENE v.] A TRICK TO CA TCH THE OLD ONE. 69 
 
 Sir L. But I hear a great complaint of you, Master 
 Dampit, among gallants. 
 
 Dam. I am glad of that, i'faith : prithee, what ? 
 
 Sir L. They say you are waxed proud a' late, and if a 
 friend visit you in the afternoon, you'll scarce know him. 
 
 Dam. Fie, fie ; proud? I cannot remember any such 
 thing : sure I was drunk then. 
 
 Sir L. Think you so, sir ? 
 
 Dam. There 'twas, i'faith; nothing but the pride of 
 the sack ; and so certify 'em.— Fetch sack, sirrah. 
 
 Boy. A vengeance sack you once ! 
 
 \Exit, a7id returns presently with sack. 
 
 And. Why, Master Dampit, if you hold on as you 
 begin, and lie a little longer, you need not take care how 
 to dispose your wealth; you'll make the vintner your 
 heir. 
 
 Dam. Out, you babliaminy, you unfeathered, cremi- 
 toried quean, you cuUisance of scabiosity ! 
 
 Aud.^ Good words, Master Dampit, to speak before a 
 maid and a virgin ! 
 
 Dam. Hang thy virginity upon the pole of carnality ! 
 
 Aud. Sweet terms ! my mistress shall know 'em. 
 
 Lam. Note but the misery of this usuring slave : here 
 he lies, like a noisome dunghill, full of the poison of his 
 drunken blasphemies ; and they to whom he bequeaths 
 all, grudge him the very meat that feeds him, the very 
 pillow that eases him. Here may a usurer behold his 
 end : what profits it to be a slave in this world, and a 
 devil i' th' next ? 
 
 Dam. Sir Launcelot, let me buss thee. Sir Launcelot ; 
 thou art the only friend that I honour and respect. 
 
 Sir L. I thank you for that. Master Dampit. 
 
 Dam. Farewell, my bosom Sir Launcelot. 
 
 Sir L. Gentlemen, an you love me, let me step be- 
 hind you, and one of you fall a talking of me to him. 
 
 Lam. Content. — Master Dampit 
 
 Dani. So, sir. 
 
70 A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. [act IV. 
 
 Lam. Here came Sir Launcelot to see you e'en now. 
 
 Dam. Hang him, rascal ! 
 
 Lam. Who ? Sir Launcelot ? 
 
 Dam. Pythagorical rascal ! 
 
 Lam. Pythagorical? 
 
 Dam. Ay, he changes his cloak when he meets a 
 sergeant. 
 
 Sir L. What a rogue's this ! 
 
 Lam. I wonder you can rail at him, sir ; he comes in 
 love to see you. 
 
 Dam. A louse for his love ! his father was a comb- 
 maker ; I have no need of his crawling love : he comes 
 to have longer day,' the superlative rascal ! 
 
 Sir L. 'Sfoot, I can no longer endure the rogue! — 
 MastQr Dampit, I come to take my leave once again, sir. 
 
 Dam. Who? my dear and kind Sir Launcelot, the 
 only gentleman of England ? let me hug thee : " fare- 
 well, and a thousand." 
 
 Lam. Composed of wrongs and slavish flatteries ! 
 
 Sir L. Nay, gentlemen, he shall show you more tricks 
 yet ; I'll give you another taste of him. 
 
 Lam. Is't possible ? 
 
 Sir L. His memory is upon departing. 
 
 Dam. Another cup of sack ! 
 
 Sir L. Mass, then 'twill be quite gone ! Before he 
 drink that, tell him there's a country client come up, and 
 here attends for his learned advice. 
 
 Lam. Enough. 
 
 Dam. One cup more, and then let the bell toll : I 
 hope I shall be weak enough by that time. 
 
 Lam. Master Dampit ■ 
 
 Dam. Is the sack spouting ? 
 
 Lam. 'Tiscoming forward, sir. Here's a countryman, 
 a client of yours, waits for your deep and profound 
 advice, sir. 
 
 \ To postpone the payment of money he had borrowed. — Bullen. 
 
SCENE v.] A TRICK TO CATCTT TFIE OLD ONE. 71 
 
 Dam. A coxcombry, where is he ? let him approach : 
 set me up a peg higher. 
 
 Lam. \to Sir Laun.] You must draw near, sir. 
 
 Dam. Now, good man fooHaminy, what say you to 
 me now? 
 
 Sir L. Please your good worship, I am a poor man, 
 sir 
 
 Dam. What make you in my chamber then ? 
 
 Sir L. I would entreat your worship's device ' in a 
 just and honest cause, sir. 
 
 Dam. I meddle with no such matters ; I refer 'era to 
 Master No-man's office. 
 
 Sir L. I had but one house left me in all the world, 
 sir, which was my father's, my grandfather's, my great- 
 grandfather's, and now a villain has unjustly wrung me 
 out, and took possession on't. 
 
 Dam. Has he such feats ? Thy best course is to 
 bring thy ejectione firina, and in seven year thou mayst 
 shove him out by the law. 
 
 Sir L. Alas, an't please- your worship, I have small 
 friends and less money ! 
 
 Dam. Hoyday ! this geer will fadge well:^ hast no 
 money ? why, then, my advice is, thou must set fire a' 
 th' house, and so get him out. 
 
 Lam. That will break strife, indeed. 
 
 Sir L. I thank your worship for your hot counsel, sir. 
 ■ — Altering but my voice a little, you see he knew me 
 not : you may observe by this, that a drunkard's memory 
 holds longer in the voice than in the person. But, 
 gentlemen, shall I show you a sight ? Behold the little 
 dive-dapper ^ of damnation, Gulf the usurer, for his time 
 worse than t'other. 
 
 Lam, What's he comes with him?- 
 
 Sir L. Why, Hoard, that married lately the Widow 
 Medler. 
 
 1 Used designedly for " advice." ^ Answer well. 
 
 >> The didapper or dabchick, an aquatic bird. 
 
72 A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. [act IV. 
 
 Lam. O, I cry you mercy, sir. 
 
 £nter Hoard and Gulf. 
 
 Hoa. Now, gentlemen visitants, how does Master 
 Darapit? 
 
 Sir L. Faith, here he lies, e'en drawing in, sir, good 
 canary as fast as he can, sir ; a very weak creature, truly, 
 he is almost past memory. 
 
 Hoa. Fie, Master Dampit ! you lie lazing a-bed here, 
 and I come to invite you to my wedding-dinner : up, 
 up, up ! 
 
 Dam. Who's this ? Master Hoard ? who hast thou 
 married, in the name of foolery ? 
 
 Hoa. A rich widow. 
 
 Dam. A Dutch widow?' 
 
 Hoa. A rich widow ; one Widow Medler. 
 
 Dam. Medler ? she keeps open house. 
 
 Hoa. She did, I can tell you, in her t'other husband's 
 days ; open house for all comers ; horse and man was 
 welcome, and room enough for 'em all. 
 
 Dam. There'-s too much for thee, then ; thou mayst 
 let out some to thy neighbours. 
 
 Gulf. What, hung alive in chains ? O spectacle ! 
 bed-staffs of steel ? O monstrum horrendum, informe, 
 ingens, cui lumen ademptum ! " O Dampit, Dampit, here's 
 a just judgment shown upon usury, extortion, and 
 trampling villainy ! 
 
 Sir L. This is excellent, thief rails upon the thief! 
 
 Gulf. Is this the end of cut-throat usury, brothel, and 
 blasphemy? now mayst thou see what race a usurer 
 runs. 
 
 Dam. Why, thou rogue of universality, do not I know 
 thee ? thy sound is like the cuckoo, the Welch ambas- 
 sador : ^ thou cowardly slave, that offers to fight with a 
 
 1 See note ante, p. 42. 2 Viig. ^n. iii. 658. 
 
 3 So named, it is supposed, from the bird migrating hither from 
 the west. 
 
SCENE v.] A TRICIITO CATCH THE OLD ONE. 73 
 
 sick man when his weapon's down ! rail upon me in my 
 naked ' bed ? why, thou great Lucifer's Httle vicar ! I 
 am not so weak but I know a knave at first sight : thou 
 inconscionable rascal ! thou that goest upon Middlesex 
 juries, and wilt make haste to give up thy verdict; 
 because thou wilt not lose thy dinner ! Are you 
 answered ? 
 
 Gulf. An't were not for shame 
 
 \Praws his dagger. 
 
 Dam. Thou wouldst be hanged then. 
 
 Lam. Nay, you must exercise patience. Master Gulf, 
 always in a sick man's chamber. 
 
 Sir L. He'll quarrel with none, I warrant you, but 
 those that are bed-rid. 
 
 Dam. Let him come, gentlemen, I am armed : reach 
 my close-stool hither. 
 
 Sir L. Here will be a sweet fray anon : I'll leave you, 
 gentlemen. 
 
 Lam. Nay, we'll go along with you. — Master Gulf 
 
 Gulf. Hang him, usuring rascal ! 
 
 Sir L. Pish, set your strength to his, your wit to his ! 
 
 Aud. Pray, gentlemen, depart; his hour's come upon 
 him. — Sleep in my bosom, sleep. 
 
 Sir L. Nay, we have enough of him, i'faith ; keep him 
 for the house. 
 Now make your best : 
 For thrice his wealth I would not have his breast. 
 
 Gulf. A little thing would make me beat him now 
 he's asleep. 
 
 Sir L. Mass, then 'twill be a pitiful day when he 
 wakes : I would be loth to see that day : come. 
 
 Gulf. You overrule me, gentlemen, i'faith. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 ' i.e. leaked in bed. 
 
 ■•■ Did Pope remember this passage ? 
 
 " The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, 
 And wretches hang, that jurymen may dine." 
 
 The Rape of the Lock, iii. 2 i.—Dyce. 
 
ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE I, 
 A Room in Lucre's House. 
 
 Enter Lucre and Witgood. 
 
 IT. Nay, uncle, let me prevail with you 
 so much ; I'faith, go, now he has in- 
 vited you. 
 
 Luc. I shall have great joy there 
 when he has borne away the widow ! 
 Wit. Why, la, I thought where I 
 should find you presently : uncle, a' ma troth, 'tis 
 nothing so. 
 
 Luc. What's nothing so, sir ? is not he married to the 
 widow? 
 
 Wit. No, by my troth, is he not, uncle. 
 Luc. How? 
 
 Wit. Will you have the truth on't ? he is married to a 
 whore, i'faith. 
 
 Luc. I should laugh at that. 
 
 Wit. Uncle, let me perish in your favour if you find 
 it not so ; and that 'tis I that have married the honest 
 woman. 
 
 Luc. Ha ! I'd walk ten mile 'a foot to see' that, i'faith. 
 Wit. And see't you shall, or I'll ne'er see you again. 
 Luc. A quean, i'faith ? ha, ha, ha ! \Exeunt, 
 
SCENE II.] A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. 75 
 
 SCENE II. 
 A Room in Hoard's House. 
 
 Enter Hoard, tasting wine, Host following in a livery 
 cloak. 
 
 Hoa. Pup, pup, pup, pup, I like not this wine : is there 
 never a better tierce in the house ? 
 
 Host. Yes, sir, there are as good tierces in the house 
 as any are in England. 
 
 Hoa. Desire your mistress, you knave, to taste 'em all 
 over ; she has better skill. 
 
 Host. Has she so ? the better for her, and the worse 
 for you. {Aside, and exit. 
 
 Hoa. Arthur ! 
 
 Enter Arthur. 
 
 Is the cupboard of plate set out ? 
 
 Arth. All's in order, sir. \Exit. 
 
 Hoa. I am in love with my liveries every time I think 
 on 'em ; they make a gallant show, by my troth. Niece ! 
 
 Enter Joyce. 
 
 Joyce. Do you call, sir ? 
 
 Hoa. Prithee, show a little diligence, and overlook the 
 knaves a little ; they'll filch and steal to-day, and send 
 whole pasties home to their wives ; an thou be'st a good 
 niece, do not see me purloined. 
 
 Joyce. Fear it not, sir — I have cause : though the feast 
 be prepared for you, yet it serves fit for my wedding' 
 dinner too. \Aside, and exit. 
 
 Enter Lamprey and Spichcock. 
 
 Hoa. Master Lamprey and Master Spichcock, two the 
 most welcome gentlemen alive ! your fathers and mine 
 were all free o' th' fishmongers. 
 
 Lain. They were indeed, sir. You see bold guests, 
 sir : soon entreated. 
 
 Hoa. And that's best, sir. 
 
76 A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. [act V. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 How now, sirrah ? 
 
 Ser. There's a coach come to th' door, sir. \Exit. 
 
 Hoa. My Lady Foxtone, a' my life ! — Mistress Jane 
 Hoard ! wife ! — Mass, 'tis her ladyship indeed ! 
 
 Enter Lady Foxtone. 
 
 Madam, you are welcome to an unfurnished house, dearth 
 of cheer, scarcity of attendance. 
 
 L. Fox. You are pleased to make the worst, sir. 
 
 Hoa. Wife! 
 
 Enter Courtesan. 
 
 L. Fox. Is this your bride ? 
 
 Hoa. Yes, madam. — Salute my Lady Foxtone. 
 
 Coiir. Please you, madam, awhile to taste the air in 
 the garden ? 
 
 L. Fox. 'Twill please us well. 
 
 \Exeunt L. Foxtone and Courtesan. 
 
 Hoa. Who would not wed? the most deHcious life ! 
 No joys are like the comforts of a wife. 
 
 Lam. So we bachelors think, that are not troubled 
 with them. 
 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Your worship's brother, with other ancient gentle- 
 men, are newly alighted, sir. \Exit. 
 
 Hoa. Master Onesiphorus Hoard ? why, now our com- 
 pany begins to come in. 
 
 Enter Onesiphorus Hoard, Limber, and Kix. 
 
 My dear and kind brother, welcome, i'faith. 
 
 O. Hoa. You see we are men at an hour, brother. 
 
 Hoa. Ay, I'll say that for you, brother ; you keep as 
 good an hour to come to a feast as any gentleman in the 
 shire. — What, old Master Limber and Master Kix ! do 
 we meet, i'faith, jolly gentlemen ? 
 
 Lim. We hope you lack guests, sir ? 
 
SCENE II.] A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. 77 
 
 Hoa. O, welcome, welcome ! we lack still such guests 
 as your worships. 
 
 O. Hoa. Ah, sirrah brother, have you catched up 
 Widow Medler ? 
 
 Hoa. From 'em all, brother ; and I may tell you I had 
 mighty enemies, those that stuck sore ; old Lucre is a 
 sore fox, I can tell you, brother. 
 
 O. Hoa. Where is she ? I'll go seek her out : I long 
 to have a smack at her lips. 
 
 Hoa. And most wishfully, brother, see where she 
 comes. 
 
 Re-enter Courtesan and Lady Foxtone. 
 
 Give her a smack now we may hear it all the house over. 
 [Courtesan and O. Hoard start and turn away. 
 
 Cour. O Heaven, I am betrayed ! I know that face. 
 
 Hoa. Ha, ha, ha ! why, how now ? are you both 
 ashamed ? — Come, gentlemen, we'll look another way. 
 
 O, Hoa. Nay, brother, hark you : come, you're dis- 
 posed to be merry. • 
 
 Hoa. Why do we meet else, man ? 
 
 O. Hoa. That's another matter : I was ne'er so 'fraid 
 in my life but that you had been in earnest. 
 
 Hoa. How mean you, brother ? 
 
 O. Hoa. You said she was your wife. 
 
 Hoa. Did I so? by my troth, and so she is. 
 
 O. Hoa. By your troth, brother ? 
 
 Hoa. What reason have I to dissemble with my friends, 
 brother? if marriage can make her mine, she is mine. 
 Why [O. Hoard is about to retire. 
 
 O. Hoa. Troth, I am not well of a sudden : I must 
 crave pardon, brother ; I came to see you, but I cannot 
 stay dinner, i'faith. 
 
 Hoa. I hope you will not serve me so, brother ? 
 
 Lim. By your leave, Master Hoard 
 
 Hoa. What now ? what now ? pray, gentlemen :^you 
 were wont to show yourselves wise men. 
 
78 A TRICK TO CATCH THi: OLD ONE. [act v. 
 
 Lim. But you have shown your folly too much here. 
 
 Hoa. How ? 
 
 Kix. Fie, fie ! a man of your repute and name ! 
 You'll feast your friends, but cloy 'em first with shame. 
 
 Hoa. This grows too deep ; pray, let us reach the sense. 
 
 Lim. In your old age doat on a courtesan ! 
 
 Hoa. Ha! 
 
 Kix. Marry a strumpet ! 
 
 Hoa. Gentlemen ! 
 
 O. Hoa. And Witgood's quean ! 
 
 Hoa. O ! nor lands nor living ? 
 
 O. Hoa. Living ! 
 
 Hoa. \io Courtesan.] Speak. 
 
 Cotir. Alas, you know, at first, sir, 
 I told you I had nothing ! 
 
 Hoa. Out, out ! I am cheated ; infinitely cozened ! 
 
 Lim. Nay, Master Hoard 
 
 Enter Lucre, Witgood, and Joyce. 
 
 Hoa. A Dutch widow ! ' % Dutch widow ! a Dutch 
 widow ! 
 
 Luc. Why, nephew, shall I trace thee still a liar? 
 Wilt make me mad ? is not yon thing the widow ? 
 
 Wit. Why, la, you are so hard a' belief, uncle ! by my 
 troth, she's a whore. 
 
 Imc. Then thou'rt a knave. 
 
 Wit. Negatur argumenticm, uncle'. 
 
 Luc. Frobo iibi, nephew : he that knows a woman to 
 be a quean must needs be a knave; thou sayst thou 
 knowest her to be one ; ergo, if she be a quean, thou'rt 
 a knave. 
 
 Wit. Negatur sequela majoris, uncle j he that knows a 
 woman to be a quean must needs be a knave ; I deny 
 that. 
 
 Hoa. Lucre and Witgood, you're both villains ; get 
 you out of my house ! 
 
 ' See note ante, p. 42, 
 
SCENE II.] A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. 79 
 
 Luc. Why, didst not invite me to thy wedding-dinner ? 
 
 Wit. And are not you and I sworn perpetual friends 
 before witness, sir, and were both drunk upon't ? 
 
 Hoa. Daintily abused ! you've put a punk ' upon me ! 
 
 Luc. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Hoa. A Gommon strumpet ! 
 
 Wit. Nay, now 
 You wrong her, sir ; if I were she, I'd have 
 The law on* you for that ; I durst depose for her 
 She ne'er had common use nor common thought. 
 
 Cour. Despise me, publish me, I am your wife ; 
 What shame can I have now but you'll have part ? 
 If in disgrace you share, I sought not you ; 
 You pursued, nay, forced me ; had I friends would fol- 
 low it. 
 Less than your action has been proved a rape. 
 
 0. Hoa. Brother ! 
 
 Cour. Nor did I ever boast of lands unto you, 
 Money, or goods ; I took a plainer course, 
 And told you true, I'd nothing : 
 If error were committed, 'twas by you ; 
 Thank your own folly : nor has my sin been 
 So odious, but worse has been forgiven ; 
 Nor am I so deformed, but I may challenge 
 The utmost power of any old-man's. love. 
 She that tastes not sin before twenty, twenty to one but 
 she'll taste it after: most of you old men are content to 
 marry young virgins, and take that which follows ; where, 
 marrying one of us, you both save a sinner and are quit 
 from a cuckold for ever- : 
 
 And more, in brief, let this your best thoughts win. 
 She that knows sin, knows best how to hate sin. 
 
 Hoa. Cursed be all malice ! black are the fruits of spite, 
 And poison first their owners. O, my friends, 
 I must embrace shame, to be rid of shame! 
 
 1 Prostitute. All the editions have " junt," but this is evidently 
 a misprint. 
 
8o A TRICK TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. [act v. 
 
 Concealed disgrace prevents a public name. 
 Ah, Witgood ! ah, Theodorus ! 
 
 , Wit. Alas, sir, I was pricked in conscience to see her 
 well bestowed, and where could I bestow her better than 
 npon your pitiful worship ? Excepting but myself, I dare 
 swear she's a virgin ; and now, by marrying your niece, I 
 have banished myself for ever from her : she's mine aunt 
 now, by my faith, and there's no meddling with mine 
 aunt, yoii know : a sin against my nuncle. 
 
 Cour. Lo, gentlemen, before you all \Kneels. 
 
 In true reclaimed form I fall. 
 Henceforth for ever I defy 
 The glances of a sinful eye. 
 Waving of fans (which some suppose 
 Tricks of fancy '), treading of toes, 
 Wringing of fingers, biting the lip. 
 The wanton gait, th' alluring trip ; 
 All secret friends and private meetings, 
 Close-borne letters and bawds' greetings ; 
 Feigning excuse to women's labours 
 When we are sent for to th' next neighbour's ; 
 Taking false physic, and ne'er start 
 To be let blood though sign ^ be at heart ; 
 Removing chambers, shifting beds. 
 To welcome friends in husbands' steads, 
 Them to enjoy, and you to marry. 
 They first served, while you must tarry, 
 They to spend, and you to gather, 
 They to get, and you to father : 
 These, and thousand, thousand more, 
 New reclaimed, I now abhor. 
 
 Luc. \to Witgood.] Ah, here's a lesson, rioter, for 
 you! 
 
 Wit. I must confess my follies ; I'll down too : \Kneels. 
 
 ' T.ove. 
 
 ^ "According to the directions for bleeding in old almanacs, 
 blood was to be taken from particular parts under particular 
 planets." — Dyce. 
 
SCENE II.J A THICK' TO CATCH THE OLD ONE. 8i 
 
 And here for ever I disclaim 
 
 The cause of youth's undoing, game, 
 
 Chiefly dice, those true outlanders. 
 
 That shake out beggars, thieves, and panders ; 
 
 Soul-wasting surfeits, sinful riots, 
 
 Queans' evils, doctors' diets, 
 
 'Pothecaries' drugs, surgeons' glisters ; 
 
 Stabbing of arms ' for a common mistress ; 
 
 Riband favours, ribald speeches ; 
 
 Dear perfumed jackets, penniless breeches ; 
 
 Dutch flapdragons,^ healths in urine ; 
 
 Drabs that keep a man too sure in : 
 
 I do defy ° you all. 
 
 Lend me each honest hand, for here I rise 
 
 A reclaimed man, loathing the general vice. 
 
 Hoa. So, so, all friends ! the wedding-dinner cools : 
 Who seem most crafty prove ofttimes most fools. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 1 "To stab their arms with daggers, and drink oflF the blood 
 mixed with wine, to the health of their mistresses, was fotmeriy a 
 frequent practice among gallants." — Dyce. 
 
 2 " Dutchmen had the reputation of being very expert in swal'ow- 
 ing flapdragons." — Bullen. 
 
 ^ Renounce. 
 
 Mid. 
 
THE CHcAUXiG-ELIU^G. 
 
' Note of such Playes as were Acted at 
 Court in 1623 and 1624," in Sir Henry 
 Herbert's OflBce-book, contains the 
 entry : " Upon the Sonday after, beinge 
 the 4 of January 1623, by tlie Queen of 
 Bohemias company, The Changelinge, 
 the prince only being there. Att White- 
 hall. ' The play was published in 1653, as the joint work 
 of Middleton and William Rowley, and in 1688 the unsold 
 copies were reissued with a new title-page. 
 
 The story is taken from Reynolds's God's Revenge 
 against Murther (first published in 1621), Book I. Hist. 4. 
 Reynolds prefixed to the story the following argument : 
 " Beatrice Joanna, to marry Alsemero, causeth De Flores 
 to murder Alfonso Piracquo, who was a suitor to her. 
 Alsemero marries her, and finding De Flores and her in 
 adultery, kills them both. Thomaso Piracquo challengeth 
 Alsemero for his brother's death. Alsemero kills him 
 treacherously in the field, and is beheaded for the same, 
 and his body thrown into the sea. At his execution he 
 confesseth that his wife and De Flores murdered Alfonso 
 Piracquo : their bodies are taken up out of their graves, 
 then burnt, and their ashes thrown into the air." The 
 dramatists do not follow the prose narrative closely. 
 Rowley is probably responsible for the underplot (which 
 gives the play its title) as well as for much in the treat- 
 ment of the main story. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS . 
 
 Vermandero, governor of the castle of Alicant. 
 
 Alonzo de Piracquo, ") . ^t. 
 „ T, f brothers. 
 
 ToMAso DE Piracquo, ) 
 
 Alsemero. 
 
 Jasperino, his friend. 
 
 Alibius, a doctor, who undertakes the cure of fools and 
 
 madmen. 
 
 LOLLIO, his man. 
 
 Antonio, a pretended changeling. 
 
 Pedro, his friend. 
 
 Franciscus, a counterfeit madman. 
 
 De Flores, an attendant on Vermandero. 
 
 Madmen. 
 
 Servants. 
 
 Beatrice-Joanna, daughter of Vermandero. 
 Diaphanta, her waiting-woman. 
 Isabella, wife of Alibius. 
 
 Scene— Alicant. 
 
THE CHqAUXG^ELIU^G. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Street. 
 
 Enter Alsemero. 
 
 LS. 'Twas in the temple where I first be- 
 held her, [yet 
 And now again the same : what omen 
 Follows of that? none but imaginary ; 
 Why should my hopes or fate be tim- 
 orous ? 
 
 The place-is holy, so is my intent : 
 I love her beauties to the holy purpose ; 
 And that, methinks, admits comparison 
 With man's first creation, the place blessed. 
 And is his right home back, if he achieve it. 
 The church hath first begun our interview, 
 And that's the place must join us into one ; 
 So there's beginning and perfectiontoo. 
 
 Enter Jasperino. 
 Jas. O sir, are you here? come, the wind's fair with you; 
 You're like to have a swift and pleasant passage. 
 
88 THE CHANGELING. I act T. 
 
 Als. Sure, you're deceived, friend, it is contrary, 
 In my best judgment. 
 
 jfas. What, for Malta ? 
 If you could buy a gale ' amongst the witches. 
 They could not serve you such a lucky pennywoilh 
 As comes a'- God's name. 
 
 Als. Even now I observed 
 The temple's vane to turn full in my face ; 
 I know it is against me. 
 
 Jas. Against you ? 
 Then you know not where you are. 
 
 Als. Not well, indeed. 
 
 Jas. Are you not well, sir ? 
 
 Als. Yes, Jasperino, 
 Unless there be some hidden malady 
 Within me, that I understand not. 
 
 Jas. And that 
 I begin to doubt, sir : I never knew 
 Your inclination to travel at a pause, 
 With any cause to hinder it, till now. 
 Ashore you were wont to call your servants up, 
 And help to trap your horses for the speed ; 
 At sea I've seen you weigh the anchor with 'em, , 
 Hoist sails for fear to lose the foremost breath. 
 Be in continual prayers for fair winds ; 
 And have you changed your orisons ? 
 
 Als. No, friend ; 
 I keep the same church, same devotion. 
 
 Jas. Lover I'm sure you're none.; the. stoic was 
 Found in you long ago ; your mother nor 
 Best friends, who have set snares of beauty, ay. 
 And choice ones too, could never trap you that way ; 
 What migh! be the cause ? 
 
 Als. Lord, .how violent 
 
 1 " It has been observed by Steevens in a note on Macbeth, act i. 
 sc. iii., that the sellincf of winds was an usual practice amongst the 
 witches." — Editor of 1816. 
 
SCENE I.] THE CHANGELING. 89 
 
 Thou art ! I was but meditating of 
 Somewhat I heard within the temple. 
 
 Jas. Is this 
 Violence ? 'tis but idleness compared 
 With your haste yesterday. 
 
 Ah. I'm all this while 
 A-going man. 
 
 Jas. Backwards, I think, sir. Look, your servants. 
 
 Enter Servants. 
 
 1st Ser. The seamen call ; shall we board your trunks? 
 
 Als. No, not to day. 
 
 Jas. 'Tis the critical day, it seems, and the sign in 
 Aquarius. 
 
 2nd Ser. We must not to sea to-day ; this smoke will 
 bring forth fire. 
 
 Als. Keep all on shore ; I do not know the end. 
 Which needs I must do, of an affair in hand 
 Ere I can go to sea. 
 
 T.st Ser. Well, your pleasure. 
 
 2nd Ser. Let him e'en take his leisure too; we are 
 safer on land. [Exeunt Servants. 
 
 Enter Beatrice, Diaphanta, aizd Servants : Alsemero 
 accosts Beatrice and then kisses her. 
 
 Jas. "How now ? the laws of the Medes are changed 
 sure ; salute a woman ! he kisses too ; wonderful ! where 
 learnt he this ? and does it perfectly too ; in my con- 
 science, he ne'er rehearsed it before. Nay, go on ; this 
 will be stranger and better news at Valencia than if he 
 liad ransomed half Greece from the Turk. \Aside. 
 
 Beat. You are a scholar, sir ? 
 
 Als. A weak one, lady. 
 
 Beat. Which of the sciences is this love you speak of ? 
 
 Als. From your tongue I take it to be music. 
 
 Beat. You're skilful in it, can sing at first sight. 
 
 Als. And I have showed you all my skill at once ; 
 
go 7HE CHANGELING. [act i.- 
 
 I want more words to express me further, 
 And must be forced to repetition ; 
 I love you dearly. 
 
 Beat. Be better advised, sir : 
 Our eyes are sentinels unto our judgments, 
 And should give certain judgment what they see ; 
 But they are rash sometimes, and tell us wonders 
 Of common things, which when our judgments find. 
 They can then check the eyes, and call them blind. 
 
 Als. But I am further, lady ; yesterday 
 Was mine eyes' employment, and hither now 
 They brought my judgment, where are both agreed : 
 Both houses then consenting, 'tis agreed ; 
 Only there wants the confirmation 
 By the hand royal, that is your part, lady. 
 
 Beat. There's one above me, sir. — O, for five days past 
 To be recalled ! sure mine eyes were mistaken ; 
 This was the man was meant me : that he should come 
 So near his time, and miss it ! \Aside. 
 
 /as. We might have come by the carriers from Valencia, 
 I see, and saved all our sea-provision ; we are at farthest 
 sure : methinks I should do something too ; 
 I mean to be a venturer in this voyage : 
 Vender's another vessel, I'll board her-; 
 If she be lawful prize, down goes her topsail. 
 
 [^Accosts DiAPHANTA. 
 
 Etiter De Flores. 
 De F. Lady, your father 
 
 Beat. Is in health, I hope. 
 
 De F. Vour eye shall instantly instruct you, lady ; 
 He's coming hitherward. 
 
 Beat. What needed then 
 Your duteous preface ? I had rather 
 He had come unexpected ; you must stale 
 A good presence with unnecessary blabbing ; 
 And how welcome for your part you are, 
 I'm sure you know. 
 
SCENE I.] THE CHANGELING. 91 
 
 De F. Will't never mend, this scorn, 
 One side nor other? must I be enjoined 
 To follow still whilst she flies from me? well. 
 Fates, do your worst, I'll please myself with sight 
 Of her at all opportunities. 
 If but to spite her anger : I know she had 
 Rather see me dead than living ; and yet 
 She knows no cause for't but a peevish will. \Aside. 
 
 Ah. You seemed displeased, lady, on the sudden. 
 
 Beat. Your pardon, sir, 'tis my infirmity ; 
 Nor can I other reason render you, 
 Than his or hers, of some particular thing 
 They must abandon as a deadly poison, 
 Which to a thousand other tastes were wholesome ; 
 Such to mine eyes is that same fellow there. 
 The same that report speaks of the basilisk. 
 
 Als. This is a frequent frailty in our nature ; 
 There's scarce a man amongst a thousand found 
 But hath his imperfection : one distastes 
 The scent of roses, which to infinites 
 Most pleasing is and odoriferous ; 
 One oil, the enemy of poison ; 
 Another wine, the cheerer of the heart ' 
 And lively refresher of the countenance : 
 Indeed this fault, if so it be, is general ; 
 There's scarce a thing but is both loved and loathed : 
 Myself, I must confess, have the same frailty. 
 
 Beat. And what may be your poison, sir ? I'm bold ■ 
 with you. 
 
 Als. What might be your desire, perhaps ; a cherry. 
 
 Beat. I am no enemy to any creature 
 My memory has, but yon gentleman. 
 
 Als. He does ill to tempt your sight, if he knew it. 
 
 Beat. He cannot be ignorant of that, sir, 
 I have not spared to tell him so ; and I want 
 To help myself, since he's a gentleman 
 In good respect with my father, and follows him. 
 
92 THE CHANGELING. [act I. 
 
 Ah. He's out of his place then now. \They talk apart. 
 
 Jas. I am a mad wag, wench. 
 
 JOia. So methinks ; but for your comfort, I can tell 
 you, we have a doctor in the city that undertakes the 
 cure of such. 
 
 /as. Tush, I knov/ what physic is best for the state of 
 mine own body. 
 
 jDia. 'Tis scarce a well-governed state, I believe. 
 • [as. I could show thee such a thing with an ingredi- 
 ence that we two would compound together, and if it 
 (lid not tame the maddest blood i' th' town for two 
 hours after, I'll ne'er profess physic again. 
 
 Dia. A little poppy, sir, were good to cause you sleep. 
 
 Jas. Poppy ? I'll give thee a pop i' th' lips for that 
 first, and begin there : poppy is one simple indeed, and 
 cuckoo-what-you-call't another : I'll discover no more 
 now; another time I'll show thee all. \_Exit. 
 
 Beat. My father, sir. 
 
 Enter Vermandero and Servants. 
 
 Ver. O Joanna, I came to meet thee ; 
 Your devotion's ended? 
 
 Beat. For this time, sir. — 
 I shall change my saint, I fear me ; I find 
 A giddy turning in me. \Aside^ — Sir, this while 
 I am beholden to this gentleman, who 
 Left his own way to keep me company, 
 And in discourse I find him much desirous 
 To see your castle ; he hath deserved it, sir, 
 If ye please to grant it. 
 
 Ver. With all my heart, sir : 
 Yet there's an article between ; I must know 
 Your country j we use not to give survey 
 Of our chief strengths to strangers ; our citadels 
 Are placed conspicuous to outward view. 
 On promonts' ' tops, but within our secrets. 
 
 Als. A Valencian, sir. 
 
 ' Promontories. 
 
SCENE I.] THE CHANGELING. 
 
 93 
 
 Ver. A Valencian ? 
 That's native, sir : of what name, I beseech you ? 
 
 Ak. Alsemero, sir. , 
 
 Ver. Alsemero ? not the son 
 Of John de Alsemero ? 
 
 Ah. The same, sir. 
 
 Ver. My best love bids you welcome. 
 
 Beat. He was wont 
 To call me so, and then he speaks a most 
 Unfeignfed truth. 
 
 Ver. O sir, I knew your father ; 
 We two were in acquaintance long ago. 
 Before our chins were worth iulan ^ down, 
 And so continued till the stamp of time 
 Had coined us into silver : well, he's gone ; 
 A good soldier went with him. 
 
 Ah. You went together in that, sir. 
 
 Ver. No, by Saint Jacques, I came behind him ; 
 Yet I've done somewhat too : an unhappy day 
 Swallowed him at last at Gibraltar, 
 In fight with those rebellious Hollanders j 
 Was it not so? 
 
 Ah. Whose death I had revenged, 
 Or followed him in fate, had not the late league 
 Prevented me. 
 
 Ver. Ay, ay, 'twas lime to breathe. — 
 
 Joanna, I should ha' told thee news ; 
 
 1 saw Piracquo lately. 
 
 Beat. That's ill news. {Aside. 
 
 Ver. He's hot preparing for this day of triumph : 
 Thou must be a bride within this sevennight. 
 
 Ah. Ha.r \Asuie. 
 
 Beat. Nay, good sir, be not so violent; with speed 
 I cannot render satisfaction 
 Unto the dear companion of my soul, 
 Virginity, whom I thus long have lived with, 
 And part with it so rude and suddenly ; 
 
 ^ From the Greek, meanine the first tender down. 
 
94 THE CHANGELING. [ACT r. 
 
 Can such friends divide, never to meet again, 
 Without a solemn farewell ? 
 
 Ver. Tush, tush ! there's a toy.' 
 
 Als. I must now part, and neveftneet again 
 With any joy on earth. \Aside.\—'S>\x, your pardon ; 
 My affairs call on me. 
 
 Ver. How, sir ? by no means ; 
 Not changed so soon, I hope ? you must see my castle, 
 And her best entertainment, e'er we part, 
 I shall think myself unkindly used else. 
 Come, come, let's on ; I had good hope your stay 
 Had been a while with us in Alicant ; 
 I might have bid you to my daughter's wedding. 
 
 Als. He means to feast me, and poisons me before- 
 hand. — \Aside. 
 I should be dearly glad to be there, sir. 
 Did my occasions suit as I could wish. 
 
 Beat. I shall be sorry if you be not there 
 When it is done, sir; but not so suddenly. 
 
 Ver. I tell you, sir, the gentleman's complete, 
 A courtier and a gallant, enriched 
 With many fair and noble ornaments ; 
 I would not change him for a son-in-law 
 For any he in Spain, the proudest he, 
 And we have great ones, that you know. 
 
 Als. He's much 
 Bound to you, sir. 
 
 Ver. He shall be bound to me 
 As fast as this tie can hold him ; I'll want 
 My will else. 
 
 Beat. I shall want mine, if you do it. \Aside. 
 
 Ver. But come, by the way I'll tell you more of him. 
 
 Als. How shall I dare to venture in his castle. 
 When he discharges murderers ^ at the gate ? 
 But I must on, for back I cannot go. \Aside. 
 
 1 Whim, fancy. 
 
 ^ Pieces of ordnance ; also styled murdering-pieces. 
 
SCENE II.] THE CHANGELING. 95 
 
 Beat. Not this serpent gone yet? 
 
 \Aside. Drops a glove. 
 Ver. Look, girl, thy glove's fallen. 
 Stay, stay ; De Flores, help a little. 
 
 \Exeunt Vermandero, Alsemero, ««/f Servants. 
 De F. Here, lady. \Offers her the glove. 
 
 Beat. Mischief on your officious forwardness ; 
 Who bade you stoop ? they touch my hand no more : 
 There ! for the other's sake I part with this ; 
 
 \Takes off and throivs down the other glove. 
 Take 'em, and draw thine own skin off with 'em ! 
 
 \Exit with DiAPHANTA and Servants. 
 De F. Here's a favour come with a mischief now ! I 
 know 
 She had rather wear my pelt ' tanned in a pair 
 Of dancing pumps, than I should thrust my fingers 
 Into her sockets here. I know she hates me, 
 Yet cannot choose but love her : no matter, 
 If but to vex her, I will haunt her still; 
 Though I get nothing else, I'll have my will. \Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 A Room in the House of Alibius. 
 
 Enter Alibius and Lollio. 
 Alib. Lollio, I must trust thee with a secret, 
 But thou must keep it.; 
 
 Lol. I was ever close to a secret, sir. 
 Alib. The diligence that I have found in thee. 
 The care and industry already past. 
 Assures me of thy good continuance. 
 Lollio, I have a wife. 
 
 -1 Skin. 
 
96 THE CHANGELING. [act i. 
 
 Lol. Fie, sir, 'tis too late to keep her secret ; she's 
 known to be married all the town and country over. 
 
 Alib. Thou goest too fast, my Lpllio ; that knowledge 
 I allow no man can be barrfed it ; 
 But there is a knowledge which is nearer, 
 Deeper, and sweeter, Lollio. 
 
 Lol. Well, sir, let us handle that between you and I. 
 
 Alib. 'Tis that I go about, man : Lollio, 
 My wife is young. 
 
 Lol. So much the worse to be kept secret, sir. 
 
 Alib. Why, now thou meet'st the substance of the 
 point ; 
 I am old, Lollio. 
 
 Lol. No, sir, 'tis I am old Lollio. 
 
 Alib. Yet why may not these concord and sympathise? 
 Old trees and young plants often grow together, 
 Well enough agreeing. 
 
 Lol. Ay, sir, but the old trees raise themselves higher 
 and broader than the young plants. 
 
 Alib. Shrewd application ! - there's the fear, man ; 
 I would wear my ring on my own finger ; 
 Whilst it is borrowed, it is none of mine. 
 But his that useth it. 
 
 Lol. You must keep it on still then; if it but lie by, 
 one or other will be thrusting into't. 
 
 Alib. Thou conceiv'st me, Lollio ; here thy watchful eye 
 Must have employment ; 1 cannot always be 
 At home. 
 
 Lol. I dare swear you cannot. 
 
 Alib. I must look out. 
 
 Lol. I know't, you must look out, 'tis every man's case. 
 
 Alib. Here, I do say, must thy employment be ; 
 To watch her treadings, and in my absence 
 Supply my place. 
 
 ^ "The 'shrewd application' is, I concEive, to that perpetual 
 jest of the age, the cuckold's horns ; which Lollio supposes mi^ht 
 raise Alibius's head above his wile's." — Editor of 1816. 
 
SCENE II.] TBE CHANGELING. 
 
 97 
 
 Lol. I'll do my best, sir ; yet surely I cannot see frlio 
 you should have cause to be jealous of. 
 
 Alib. Thy reason for that, Lollio ? it is 
 A comfortable question. 
 
 Lol. We- have but two sorts of people in the house, 
 and both under the whip, that's fools' and madmen ; the 
 one has not wit enough to be knaves, and the other not 
 knavery enough to be fools. 
 
 Alib. Ay, those are all my patients, Lollio ; 
 I do profess the cure of either sort, 
 My trade, my living 'tis, I thrive by it ; 
 But here's the care that mixes with my thrift ; 
 The daily visitants, that come to see 
 My brain-sick patients, I would not have 
 To see my wife : gallants I do observe 
 . Of quick enticing eyes, rich in habits. 
 Of stature and proportion very comely : 
 These are most shrewd temptations, Lollio. 
 
 Lol. They may be easily answered, sir; if they come 
 to see the fools and madmen, you and I may serve the 
 turn, and let my mistress alone, she's of neither sort. 
 Alib. 'Tis a good ward ; * indeed, come they to see 
 Our madmen or our fools, let em see no more 
 Than what they come for ; by that consequent 
 They must not see her, I'm sure she's no fool. 
 JLol. And I'm sure she's no madman. 
 Alib. Hold that buckler fast ; Lollio, my trust 
 Is on thee, and I account it firm and strong. 
 What hour is't, Lollio ? 
 
 Lol. Towards belly-hour, sir. 
 
 Alib. Dinner-time? thou mean'st twelve o'clock? 
 
 Ia)1. Yes, sir, for every part has his hour : we wake 
 
 at six and look about us, that's eye hour ; at seven we 
 
 should pray, that's knee-hour ; at eight walk, that's leg-" 
 
 hour; at nine gather flowers and pluck a rose,' that's. 
 
 1 Idiots. ' i.e. Guard (in fencing). — Dyce. 
 
 2 To plucli a rose is a euphemism of fairly obvious meaning.- 
 
 Mid. H 
 
98 THE CHANGELING. [act i. 
 
 nose-hour ; at ten we drink, that's mouth-hour ; at elevea 
 lay about us for victuals, that's hand-hour ; at twelve go 
 to dinner, that's belly-hour. 
 
 Alib. Profoundly, Lollio ! it will be long 
 Ere all thy scholars learn this lesson, and 
 I did look to have a new one entered ; — stay, 
 I think my expectation is come home. 
 
 Enter Pedro, and Antonio disguised as an idiot. 
 
 Fed. Save you, sir ; my business speaks itself. 
 This sight takes off the labour of my tongue. 
 
 Alib. Ay, ay, sir, it is plain enough, you mean 
 Him for my patient. 
 
 Fed. And if your pains prove but commodious, to give 
 but some little strength to the sick and' weak part of 
 nature in him, these are \^ves him money\ but patterns 
 to show you of the whole pieces that will follow to you, 
 beside the charge of diet, washing, and other necessaries, 
 fully defrayed. 
 
 Alib. Believe it, sir, there shall no care be wanting. 
 
 Lol. Sir, an officer in this place may deserve some- 
 thing, the trouble will pass through my hands. 
 
 Fed. 'Tis fit something should come to your hands 
 then, sir. ■ \Gives him money. 
 
 Lol. Yes, sir, 'tis I must keep him sweet, and read to 
 him : what is his name ? 
 
 Fed. His name is Antonio; marry, we use buf halt to 
 him, only Tony. 
 
 Lol. Tony, Tony, 'tis epough, and a very good name 
 for a fool. — What's your name, Tony ? 
 
 Ant. He, .he, he ! well, I thank you, cousin ; he, he, 
 he ! ■ 
 
 Lol. Good boy! hold up your head. — He can laugh; 
 I perceive by that he is no beast. 
 
 Fed. Well, sir, 
 If you can raise him but to any height, 
 Any degree of wit, might he attain, 
 
SCENE II.] THE CHANGELING. 99 
 
 As I might say, to creep but on all four 
 Towards the chair of wit, or walk on crutches, 
 'Twould add an honour to your worthy pains, 
 And a great family might pray for you, 
 To which he should be heir, had he discretion 
 To claim and guide his own : assure you, sir. 
 He is a gentleman. 
 
 Lol. Nay, there's nobody doubted that ; at first sight 
 I knew him for a gentleman, he looks no other yet. 
 
 Fed. Let him have good attendance and sweet lodging. 
 
 Lol. As good as my mistress lies in, sir; and as you 
 allow us time and means, we can raise him to the higher 
 degree of discretion. 
 
 Fed. Nay, there shall no cost want, sir. 
 
 Lol. He will hardly be stretched up to the wit of a 
 magnifico. 
 
 Fed. O no, that's not to be expected ; far shorter will 
 be enough. 
 
 Lol. I'll warrant you I'll make him fit to bear office in 
 five weeks ; I'll undertake to wind him up to the wit of 
 constable. 
 
 Fed. If it be lower than that, it might serve turn. 
 
 Lol. No, fie ; to level him with a headborough, beadle, 
 or watchman, were but little better than he is ; constable 
 I'll able ^ him ; if he do come to be a justice afterwards, 
 let him thank the keeper : or I'll go further with you ; 
 say I do bring him up to my own pilch, say I make him 
 as wise as myself. 
 
 Fed. Why, there I would have it. 
 
 Lol. Well, go to ; either I'll be as arrant a fool as he, 
 or he shall be as wise as I, and then I think 'twill serve 
 his turn. 
 
 Fed. Nay, I do like thy wit passing well. 
 
 Lol. Yes, you may ; yet if I had not been a fool, I had 
 had more wit than I have too ; remember what state you 
 find me in. 
 
 ' i.e. Answer for. 
 
100 THE CHANGELING. [act i. 
 
 Fed. I will, and so leave you ; your best cares, I be- 
 seech you. 
 
 Alib. Take you none with you, leave 'em all with us. 
 
 \Exit Pedro. 
 
 Ant. 0, my cousin's gone I cousin, cousin, O ! 
 
 Lol. Peace, peace, Tony ; you must not cry, child, 
 you must be whipped if you do ; your cousin is here 
 still; I am your cousi,n, Tony. 
 
 Ant. He, he ! then I'll not cry, if thou be'st my cousin ; 
 he, he, he ! 
 
 Lol. I were best try his wit a little, that I may know 
 what form to place him in. 
 
 Alib. Ay, do, Lollio, do. 
 
 Lol. I must ask him easy questions at first. — Tony, 
 how many true ' fingers has a tailor on his right hand ? 
 
 Ant. As many as on his left, cousin. 
 
 Lol. Good : and how many on both? 
 
 Ant. Two less than a deuce, cousin. 
 
 Lol. Very well answered : I come to you again, cousin 
 Tony ; how many fools goes to a wise man ? 
 
 Ant. Forty in a day sometimes, cousin. 
 
 Lol. Forty in a day ? how prove you that ? 
 
 Ant. All that fall out amongst themselves, and go to a 
 lawyer to be made friends. 
 
 Lol. A parlous fool ! he must sit in the fourth form at 
 least, I perceive that. — I come again, Tony; how many 
 knaves make an honest man ? 
 
 Ant. I know not that, cousin. 
 
 Lol. No, the question is too hard for you : I'll tell 
 you, cousin ; there's three knaves may make an honest 
 man, a sergeant, a jailor, arid a beadle ; the sergeant 
 catches him, the jailor holds him, and the beadle lashes 
 him ; and if he be not honest then, the hangman must 
 cure him. 
 
 Ant. Ha, ha, h:v ! that's fine sport, cousin. 
 
 ' i.e. Honest. 
 
SCENE II.] THE CHANGELING. loi 
 
 AUb. This was too deep a question for the fool, Lollio. 
 
 Lol. Yes, this might have served yourself, though I 
 say't. — Once more and you shall go play, Tony. 
 
 Ant. Ay, play at push-pin, cousin; ha, he ! 
 
 Lol. So thou shalt : say how many fools are here — — 
 
 Ant. Two, cousin ; thou and I. 
 
 JLol. Nay, you're too forward there, Tony : mark my 
 question ; how many fools and knaves are here ; a fool 
 before a knave, a fool behind a knave, between every two 
 fools a knave ; how many fools, how many knaves ? 
 
 Ant. I never learnt so far, cousin. 
 
 AUb. Thou puttest too hard questions to him, Lollio. 
 
 I^L I'll make him understand it easily. — Cousin, stand 
 there. 
 
 Ant. Ay, cousin. 
 
 Lol. Master, stand you next the fool. 
 
 Alib. Well, Lollio. 
 
 Lol. Here's my place : mark now, Tony, there's a fool 
 before a knave. 
 
 Ant. That's I, cousin. 
 
 Lol. Here's a fool behind a knave, that's I ; and be- 
 tween us two fools there is a knave, that's my master, 
 'tis but we three, that's all. 
 
 Ant. We three, we three, cousin. 
 
 1st Mad. \within.\ Put's head i' th' pillory, the bread's 
 too little. 
 
 2nd Mad. \within.\ Fly, fly, and he catches the swal- 
 low. 
 
 ■^rd Mad. \_witMn.] Give her more onion, or the devil 
 put the rope about her crag.' 
 
 Lol. You may hear what time of day it is, the chimes 
 of Bedlam goes. 
 
 Alib. Peace, peace, or the wire " comes ! 
 
 ^rd Mad. \within.] Cat whore, cat whore ! her parma- 
 sant, her parmasant ! ^ 
 
 I Neck. * Whip. ' Parmesan cheese. 
 
I03 THE CHANGELING. [act i. 
 
 Alib. Peace, I say ! — Their hour's come, they must be 
 fed, Lollio. 
 
 Lol. There's no hope of recovery of that Welsh mad- 
 man; was undone by a mouse that spoiled him a parma- 
 sant ; lost his wits for't. 
 
 Alib. Go to your charge, Lollio ; I'll to mine. 
 
 Lol. Go you to your madman's ward, let me alone with 
 your fools. • 
 
 Alib. And remember my last chaige, Lollio. \Exit. 
 
 Lol. Of wJiich your patients do you think I am ? — 
 Come, Tony, you must amongst your school-fellows now; 
 there's pretty scholars amongst 'em, I can tell you; there's 
 some of 'em at stiilfus, stulta, stultum. 
 
 Ant. I would see the madmen, cousin, if they would 
 not bite me. 
 
 Lol. No, they shall not bite thee, Tony. 
 
 Ant. They bite when they are at dinner, do they not, 
 coz? 
 
 IM. They bite at dinner indeed, Tony. Well, I hope 
 to get credit by thee ; I like thee the best of all the 
 scholars that ever I brought up, and thou shalt prove a 
 wise man, or I'll prove a fool myself. \Examt. 
 
ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A)i Apartment in the Castle. 
 
 Enter Beatrice <?«</ Jasperino severally. 
 
 EAT. O sir, I'm ready now for that fair 
 
 service 
 Which makes the name of friend sit 
 
 glorious on you ! 
 Good angels and this conduct be your 
 guide! [Giving a paper. 
 
 Fitness of time and place is there set down, sir. 
 Jas. The joy I shall return rewards my service. [Exit. 
 Beat. How wise is Akemero in his friend ! 
 It is a sign he makes his choice with judgment ; 
 Then I appear in nothing more approved 
 Than making choice of him ; for 'tis a principle, 
 He that can choose 
 
 That bosom well who of his thoughts partakes, 
 Proves most discreet in every choice he makes. 
 Methinks I love now with the eyes of judgment, 
 And see the way to merit, clearly see it. 
 A true deserver like a diamond sparkles ; 
 In darkness you may see him, that's in absence, 
 Which is the greatest darkness falls on love ; 
 Yet is he best discerned then 
 With intellectual eyesight. What's Piracquo, 
 My father spends his breath for? and his blessing 
 
104 THE CHANGELING. [act ii. 
 
 Is only mine as I regard his name, 
 Else it goes from me, and turns head against me, 
 Transformed into a curse : some speedy way 
 Must be remembered ; he's so forward too, 
 So urgent that way, scarce allows me breath 
 To speak to my new comforts. 
 
 Enter De Flores. 
 
 De F. Yonder's she ; 
 Whatever ails me, now a-late especially, 
 I can as well be hanged as refrain seeing her ; 
 Some twenty times a day, nay, not so little. 
 Do I force errands, frame ways and excuses. 
 To come into her sight; and I've sm^ll reason for't, 
 And less encouragement, for she baits me still 
 Every time worse than other ; does profess herself 
 The cruellest enemy to my face in town 
 At no hand can abide the sight of me, 
 As if danger or ill-luck hung in my looks. 
 I must confess my face is bad enough, 
 But I know far worse has better fortune. 
 And not endured alone, but doted on ; 
 And yet such pick-haired faces, chins like witches'. 
 Here and there five hairs whispering in a corner, 
 As if they grew in fear one of another. 
 Wrinkles like troughs, where swine-deformity swills 
 The tears of perjury, that lie there like wash 
 Fallen from the slimy and dishonest eye ; 
 Yet such a one plucks sweets without restraint. 
 And has the grace of beauty to his sweet. 
 Though my hard fate has thrust me out to servitude, 
 I tumbled into th' world a gentleman. 
 She turns her blessfed eye upon me now. 
 And I'll endure all storms before I part with't. [^Asi(fe. 
 
 Beat. Again? 
 This ominous ill-faced fellow more disturbs me 
 Than all my other passions. \Aside. 
 
SCENE I.] THE CHANGELING. 105 
 
 De F. Now 't begins again ; \Aside. 
 
 I'll stand this storm of hail, though the stones pelt me. 
 
 Beat. Thy business ? what's thy business ? 
 
 De F. Soft and fair ! 
 I cannot part so soon now. \Aside. 
 
 Beat. The villain's fixed. — \Aside. 
 
 Thou standing toad-pool 
 
 De F. The shower falls amain now. S^Aside. 
 
 Beat. Who sent thee ? what's thy errand ? leave my 
 sight ! 
 
 De F. My lord, your father, charged me to deliver 
 A message to you, 
 
 Beat. What, another since ? 
 Do't, and be hanged then ; let me be rid of thee. 
 
 De F. True service merits mercy. 
 
 Beat. What's thy message ? 
 
 De F. Let beauty settle but in patience, 
 Vou shall hear all. 
 
 Beat. A dallying, trifling torment ! 
 
 De F. Signor Alonzo de Piracquo, lady, 
 Sole brother to Tomaso de Piracquo 
 
 Beat. Slave, when wilt make an end ? 
 
 De F. Too soon I shall. 
 
 Beat. What all this while of him ? 
 
 De F. The said Alonzo, 
 
 With the foresaid Tomaso 
 
 Beat. Yet again ? 
 
 De F. Is new alighted. 
 
 Beat. Vengeance strike the news ! 
 Thou thing most loathed, what cause was there in this 
 To bring thee to my sight ? 
 
 De F. My lord, your father. 
 Charged me to seek you out. 
 
 Beat. Is there no other 
 To send his errand by ? 
 
 De F. It seems 'tis my luck 
 To be i' th' way still. 
 
io6 THE CHANGELING. [act ii. 
 
 Beat. Get thee from me ! 
 
 De F. So: 
 Why, am not I an ass to devise ways 
 Thus to be railed at ? I must see her still ! 
 I shall have a mad qualm within this hour again, 
 I know't j and, like a common Garden-bull,' 
 I do but take breath to be lugged^ again. 
 What this may bode I know not; I'll despair the less. 
 Because there's daily precedents of bad faces 
 Beloved beyond all reason ; these foul chops 
 May come into favour one day 'mongst their fellows ■ 
 Wrangling has proved the mistress of good pastime ; 
 As children cry themselves asleep, I ha' seen 
 Women have chid themselves a-bed to men. 
 
 \Aside, ami exit. 
 
 Beat. I never see this fellow but I think 
 Of some harm towards me, danger's in ray mind still ; 
 I scarce leave trembling of an hour after ; 
 The next good mood I find my father in, 
 I'll get him quite discarded. O, I was 
 Lost in this small disturbance, and forgot 
 Affliction's fiercer torrent that now comes 
 To bear down all my comforts ! 
 
 Enter Vermandero, Alonzo, and Tomaso. 
 
 Ver. You're both welcome, 
 But an especial one belongs to you, sir, 
 To whose most noble name our love presents 
 Th' addition of a son, our son Alonzo. 
 
 Alon. The treasury of honour cannot bring forth 
 A title I should more rejoice in, sir. 
 
 Ver. You have improved it well. — Daughter, prepare ; 
 The day will steal upon thee suddenly. 
 
 ^ At Paris Garden, on the Bankside, bull-baiting and similar pas- 
 times were carried on. 
 
 . 2 " Dragged by the ear. The term ' lug ' is usually found in con- 
 nection with bull or bear-baiting. FalstafF protested that he was 
 ' as melancholy as a gib cat or a lugged bear.' " — Bullen. 
 
SCENE I.] THE CHANGELING. 107 
 
 Beat. Howe'er I will be sure to keep the night, 
 If it should come so near me. \Aside. 
 
 [Beatrice and Vermandero talk apart. 
 
 Tom. Alonzo. 
 
 Alon. Brother? 
 
 Tom. In troth I see small welcome in her eye. 
 
 Alon. Fie, you are too severe a ceiisurer 
 Of love in all points, there's no bringing on you : 
 If lovers should mark everything a fault. 
 Affection would be like an ill-set book. 
 Whose faults might prove as big as Jialf the volume. 
 
 Beat. That's all I do entreat. 
 
 Ver. It is but reasonable ; 
 I'll see what my son says to't. — Son Alonzo, 
 Here is a motion made but to reprieve 
 A maidenhead three days longer ; the request 
 Is not far out of reagon, for indeed 
 The former time is pinching. 
 
 Alon. Though my joys 
 Be set back so much time as I could wish 
 They had been forward, yet since she desires it. 
 The time is set as pleasing as before, 
 I find no gladness wanting. 
 
 Ver. May I ever 
 Meet it in that point- still ! you're nobly welcome, sirs. 
 
 \Exit with Beatrice. 
 
 Tom. So; did you mark the dulness of her parting 
 now? 
 
 Alon. What dulness ? thou art so exceptious still ! 
 
 Tom. Why, let it go then ; I am but a fool 
 To mark your harms so heedfully. 
 
 Alon. Where's the oversight? [cozened : 
 
 Tom. Come, your faith's cozened in her, strongly 
 Unsettle your aflfection with all speed 
 Wisdom can bring it to ; your peace is ruined else. 
 Think what a torment 'tis to marry one 
 Whose heart is leaped into another's bosom : 
 
io8 THE CHANGELING. [act II. 
 
 If ever pleasure she receive from thee, 
 
 It comes not in thy name, or of thy gift ; 
 
 She lies but with another in thine arms, 
 
 He the half-father unto all thy children 
 
 In the conception ; if he get 'em not, 
 
 She helps to get 'em for him; and how dangerous 
 
 And shameful her restraint may go in time to. 
 
 It is not to be thought on without sufferings. 
 
 Alon. You speak as if she loved some other, then. 
 
 Tom. Do you apprehend so slowly ? 
 
 Alon. Nay, an that 
 Be your fear only, I am safe enough : 
 Preserve your friendship and your counsel, brother. 
 For times of more distress ; I should depart 
 An enemy, a dangerous, deadly one. 
 To any but thyself, that should but think 
 She knew the meaning of inconstancy. 
 Much less the use and practice : yet we're friends 
 Pray, let no more be urged ; I can endure 
 Much, till I meet an injury to her. 
 Then I am not myself. Farewell, sweet brother ; 
 How much we're bound to Heaven to depart lovingly 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 Tom. Why, here is love's tame madness ; thus a man 
 Quickly steals into his vexation. \Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Another Apartment in the Castle. 
 
 Enter Diaphanta and Alsemero. 
 
 Dia. The place is my charge ; you have kept your 
 And the reward of a just meeting bless you ! [hour, 
 
 I hear my lady coming : complete gentleman, 
 
SCENE II.] THE CHANGELING. 109 
 
 I dare not be too busy with my praises, 
 
 They're dangerous things to deal with. \Exit. 
 
 Ah. This goes well ; 
 These women are the ladies' cabinets, 
 Things of most precious trust are locked into 'em. 
 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
 Beat. I haye within mine eye all my desires : 
 Requests that holy prayers ascend Heaven for, 
 And brings 'em down to furnish our defects, 
 Come not more sweet to our necessities 
 Than thou unto my wishes. 
 
 Als. We're so like 
 In our expressions, lady, that unless I borrow 
 The same words, I shall never find their equals. 
 
 Beat. How happy were this meeting, this embrace, 
 If it were free from envy ! this poor kiss 
 It has an enemy, a hateful one, 
 That wishes poison to 't : how well were I now. 
 If there were none such name known as Piracquo, 
 Nor no such tie as the command of parents ! 
 I should be but too much blessed. 
 
 Als. One good service 
 Would strike off both your fears, and I'll go near't too. 
 Since you are so distressed ; remove the cause, 
 The command ceases ; so there's two fears blown out 
 With one and the same blast. 
 
 Beat. Pray, let me find you, sir :' 
 What might that service be, so strangely happy? 
 
 Als. The honourablest piece about man, valour : 
 I'll send a challenge to Piracquo instantly. 
 
 Beat. How ? call you that extinguishing of fear. 
 When 'tis the only way to keep it flaming ? 
 Are not you ventured in the action. 
 That's all my joys and comforts? pray, no more, sir : 
 Say you prevailed, you're danger's and not mine then ; 
 The law would claim you from me, or obscurity 
 
1 10 I'HE CHANGELING. [act ii. 
 
 Be made the grave to bury you alive. 
 
 I'm glad these thoughts come forth ; O, keep not one 
 
 Of this condition, sir ! here was a course 
 
 Found to bring sorrow on her way to death ; 
 
 The tears would ne'er ha' dried, till dust had choked 'era. 
 
 Blood-guiltiness becomes a fouler visage ; — 
 
 And now I think on one ; I was to blame, 
 
 I ha' marred so good a market with my scorn ; 
 
 'Thad been done questionless : the ugliest creature 
 
 Creation framed for some use : yet to see 
 
 I could not mark so much where it should be ! \Ande, 
 
 Als. Lady 
 
 Beat. Why, men of art make much of poison, 
 Keep one to expel another ; where was my art? S^Aside. 
 Als. Lady, you hear not me. 
 Beat. I do especially, sir : 
 The present times are not so sure of our side 
 As those hereafter may be ; we must use 'em then 
 As thrifty folks their wealth, sparingly now, 
 Till the time opens. 
 
 Als. You teach wisdom, lady. 
 Beat. Within there ! Diaphanta ! 
 
 Re-enter Diaphanta. 
 Dia. Do you call, madam ? 
 
 Beat. Perfect your service, and conduct this gentleman 
 The private way you brought him. 
 Dia. I shall, madam. 
 Als. My love's as firm as love e'er built upon. 
 
 \Exit with Diaphanta. 
 
 E7iter De Flo res. 
 De F. I've watched this meeting, and do wonder much 
 What shall become of t'other ; I'm sure both 
 Cannot be served unless she transgress ; haply 
 Then I'll put in for one ; for if a woman 
 Fly from one point, from him she makes a husband. 
 She spreads and mounts then like arithmetic ; 
 One, ten, a hundred, a thousand, ten thou.sand, 
 
SCENE 11.] THE CHANGELING. iii 
 
 Proves in time sutler to an army royal. 
 
 Now do I look to be most richly railed at, 
 
 Yet I must see her. [Aside. 
 
 Beat. Why, put case I loathed him • 
 As much as youth and beauty hates a sepulchre, 
 Must I needs show it ? cannot I keep that secret. 
 And serve my turn upon him ? See, he's here, — [Aside. 
 De Flores. 
 
 De F. Ha, I shall run mad with joy ! 
 She called me fairly by my name De Flores, 
 And neither rogue nor rascal. [Aside. 
 
 Beat. What ha' you done * 
 
 To your face a' late ? you've met with some good 
 
 physician ; 
 You've pruned yourself, methinks : you were not wont 
 To look so amorously.^ 
 
 De F. Not I ;— 
 'Tis the same physnomy, to a hair and pimple. 
 Which she called scurvy scarce an hour ago : 
 How is this ? [Aside. 
 
 Beat. Come hither ; nearer, man. 
 
 De F. I'm up to the chin in Heaven ! [Aside. 
 
 Beat. Turn, let me see ; 
 Faugh, 'tis but the heat of the liver, I perceive't ; 
 I thought it had been worse. 
 
 De F. Her fingers touched me ! 
 She smells all amber.'' [Aside. 
 
 Beat. I'll make a water for you shall cleanse this 
 Within a fortnight. 
 
 De F. With your own hands, lady ? 
 
 Beat. Yes, mine own, sir ; in a work ot cure 
 I'll trust no other. 
 
 De F. 'Tis half an act of pleasure 
 To hear her talk thus to me. [Aside. 
 
 Beat. When we're used 
 To a hard face, it is not so unpleasing ; 
 
 1 i.e. An object of love. «_ Ambergris . 
 
112 THE CHANGELING: [ACT il. 
 
 It mends still in opinion, hourly mends ; 
 I see it by experience. 
 
 De F. I was l)lessed 
 To light upon this minute ; I'll make use on't. {^Aside. 
 
 Beat. Hardness becomes the visage of a man well ; 
 It argues service, resolution, manhood. 
 If cause were of employment. 
 
 De F. 'Twould be soon seen 
 If e'er your ladyship had cause to use it ; 
 I would but wish the honour of a service 
 So happy as that mounts to. 
 
 Beat. We shall try you : 
 
 my De Flores ! 
 
 De F. How's that ? she calls me hers ! 
 Already, my De Flores ! \Aside?[ — You were about 
 To sigh out somewhat, madam ? 
 
 Beat. No, was I ? 
 
 1 forgot,— O ! 
 
 De F. There 'tis again, the very fellow on't. 
 
 Beat. You are too quick, sir. 
 
 De F. There's no excuse for't now; I heard it twice, 
 madam ; 
 That sigh would fain have utterance : take pity on't. 
 And lend it a free word ; 'las, how it labours 
 For liberty ! I hear the murmur yet 
 Beat at your bosom. 
 
 Beat. Would creation' 
 
 De F. Ay, well said, that is it. 
 
 Beat. Had formed me man ! 
 
 De F. Nay, that's not it. 
 
 Beat. O, 'tis the soul of freedom ! 
 I should not then be forced to marry one 
 I hate beyond all depths ; I should have power 
 Then to oppose my loathings, nay, remove 'em 
 For ever from my sight. 
 
 De F. O blfessed occasion ! {Aside. 
 
 Without change to your sex you Jiave your wishes \ 
 Claim so much man in me. 
 
SCENE 11.] THE CHANGELIATG. 113 
 
 Beat. In thee, De Flores ? 
 There is small cause for that. 
 
 De F. Put it not from me, 
 It is a service that I kneel for to you. [Kncils. 
 
 Beat. You are too violent to mean faithfully: 
 There's horror in my service, blood, and danger ; 
 Can those be things to sue for ? 
 
 De F. If you knew 
 How sweet it were to me to be employed 
 In any act of yours, you would say then 
 I failed, and used not reverence enough 
 When I received the charge on't. 
 
 Beat. This is much, methinks ; 
 Belike his wants are greedy ; and to such 
 Gold tastes like angel's food. [Aside.] — De Flores, rise. 
 
 De F. I'll have the work first. 
 
 Beat. Possible his need 
 Is strong upon him. [Aside.] — There's to encourage 
 thee; • [Gives money. 
 
 As thou art forward, and thy service dangerous. 
 Thy reward shall be precious. 
 
 De F. That I've thought on ; 
 I have assured myself of that beforehand. 
 And know it will be precious ; the thought ravishes ! 
 
 Beat. Then take him to thy fury ! 
 
 De F. I thirst for him. 
 
 Beat. Alonzo de Piracquo. 
 
 De F. [rising.] His end's upon him ; 
 He shall be seen no more. 
 
 Beat. How lovely now 
 Dost thou appear to me ! never was man 
 Dearlier rewarded. 
 
 De F. I do think of that. 
 
 Beat. Be wondrous careful in the execution. 
 
 De F. Why, are not both our lives upon the cast ? 
 
 Beat. Then I throw all my fears upon thy service. 
 
 De F. They ne'er shall rise to hurt you. 
 
 Beat. When the deed's don p. 
 
 I 
 
114 THE CHANGELING. [ACT IT. 
 
 I'll furnish thee with all things for thy flight ; 
 Thou may'st live bravely in another country. 
 
 De F. Ay, ay ; 
 We'll talk of tliat hereafter. 
 
 Beat. I shall rid myself 
 Of two inveterate loathings at one time, 
 Piracquo, and his dog-face. {^Aside, and exit, 
 
 De F. O my blood ! 
 Methinks I feel her in mine arms already ; 
 Her wanton fingers combing out this beard, 
 And, being pleased, praising this bad face. 
 Hunger and pleasure, they'll commend sometimes 
 Slovenly dishes, and feed heartily on 'em. 
 Nay, which is stranger, refuse daintier for 'em : 
 Some women are odd feeders. — t am too loud. 
 Here comes the man goes supperless to bed, 
 Yet shall not rise to-morrow to his dinner. 
 
 Enter Alonzo. 
 
 Alon, De Flores. , 
 
 De F. My kind, honourable lord ? 
 
 Alon. I'm glad I ha' met with thee. 
 
 De F. Sir? 
 
 Alon. Thou canst show me 
 The full strength of the castle? 
 
 De F. That I can, sir. 
 
 Alon. I much desire it. 
 
 De F. And if the ways and straits 
 Of some of the passages be not too tedious for you, 
 I'll assure you, worth your time and sight, my lord. 
 
 Alon. Pooh, that shall be no hindrance. 
 
 De F. I'm your servant, then : 
 'Tis now near dinner-time ; 'gainst your lordship's rising 
 I'll have the keys about me. 
 
 Alon. Thanks, kind De Floras. 
 
 De F. He's safely thrust upon me beyond hopes. 
 
 [Aside. 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. i 
 A Narrow Passage in the Castle. 
 
 Enter Alonzo and De Flores. {In the ad-time • De 
 Flores hides a naked rapier behind a door?') 
 
 E FLORES. Yes, here are all the keys ; 
 I was afraid, my lord, 
 I'd wanted for the postern, this is it : 
 I've all, I've all, my lord : this for the 
 sconce. [nable fort. 
 
 Alan. 'Tis a most spacious and impreg- 
 DeF. You will tell me more, my lord : this- descent 
 Is somewhat narrow, we shall never pass 
 Well with our weapons, they'll but trouble us. 
 Alon. Thou sayest true. 
 De F. Pray, let me help your lordship. 
 Alon. 'Tis done : thanks, kind De Flores. 
 
 1 i.e. Between the acts. 
 
 " " Whiles Piracquo is at dinner with Vermandero, De Flores is 
 providing of a bloody banquet in the east casemate ; where of pur- 
 pose he goes and hides a naked sword and poniard behind the door. 
 Now dinner being ended, Piracquo finds out De Flores, and sum- 
 mons him of his promise ; who tells him he is ready to wait on 
 him : so away they go from the walls to the ravelins, sconces, and 
 bulwarks, and from thence by a postern to the ditches ; and so in 
 again to the casemates, whereof tBey have already viewed three, 
 and are now going to the last, which is the theatre whereon we 
 shall presently see acted a mournful and bloody tragedy. At the 
 descent hereof De Flores puts off his rapier, and leaves it behind 
 him ; treacnerousiy mlorming Piracquo that the descent is narrow 
 and craggy. See here the poUcy and villainy of this devilish and 
 
ii6 THU: CHANGELING. [act in. 
 
 De F. Here are hooks, my lord, 
 To hang such things on purpose. 
 
 [Hanging up his own sword and that of A1.0NZ0. 
 A/on. Lead, I'll follow thee. [£xeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 A Vault. 
 
 Enter Alonzo and De Flores. 
 
 De F. All this is nothing ; you shall see anon 
 A place you little dream on. 
 
 Alon. I am glad 
 1 have this leisure ; all your master's house 
 Imagine I ha' taken a gondola. 
 
 De F. All but myself, sir, — which makes up my safety. 
 
 [Aside. 
 My lord, I'll place you at a casement here 
 Will show you the full strength of all the castle. 
 Look, spend your eye awhile upon that object. 
 
 Alon. Here's rich variety, De Flores. 
 
 De F. Yes, sir. 
 
 Alon. Goodly munition. 
 
 De F. Ay, there's ordnance, sir. 
 No bastard metal, will ring you a peal hke bells 
 At great men's funerals : keep your eye straight, my lord; 
 
 treacherous miscreant. Piracquo, not doubting nor dreaming of any 
 treason, follows hii example, and so casts oflF his rapier : De Flores 
 leads the way, and he follows him ; but, alas, poor gentleman, he 
 shall never return with his life. They enter the vault of the case- 
 mate, De Flores opens the door, and throws it back, thereby to 
 hide his sword and poniard : he stoops and looks through a port- 
 hole, and tells him that that piece doth thoroughly scour the ditch. 
 Piracquo stoops likewise down to view it, when (O grief to think 
 thereon) De Flores steps for his weapons, and with his poniard 
 stabs him ' through the back, and swiftly redoubling blow upon 
 blow, kills him dead at his feet, and, without going farther, buries 
 him there, right under the ruins of an old wall, whereof that case- 
 mate was built."— Reynolds's Triumphs of God's R'venge against 
 Murther, pp. 54, 55, ed. 1635. 
 
SCENE II.] THE CHANGELING, 117 
 
 Take special notice of that sconce before you, 
 There you may dwell awhile. 
 
 [Takes the rapier which he had hid behind the door. 
 
 Alon. I am upon't. 
 
 De F. And so am I. {Stabs him. 
 
 Alon. De Flores ! O De Flores ! 
 Whose malice hast thou put on ? 
 
 De p.. Do you question 
 A work of secrecy ? I must silence you. [Stabs him. 
 
 Alon. O, O, O ! 
 
 De F. I must silence you. \_Stabs him. 
 
 So here's an undertaking well accomplished : 
 This vault serves- to good use now : ha, what's that 
 Threw sparkles in my eye ? O, 'tis a diamond 
 He wears upon his finger ; 'twas well found, 
 This will approve the work.' What, so fast on ? 
 Not part in death ? I'll take a speedy course then. 
 Finger and all shall off. [Cuts off the finger^ So, now 
 
 I'll clear 
 The passages from all suspect or fear. [Exit with body. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Ati Apartment in the House of Aubius. 
 
 .£'«/(f/' Isabella and Lollio. 
 
 Isa. Why, sirrah, whence have you commission 
 To fetter the doors against me ? 
 If you keep me in a cage, pray, whistle to me. 
 Let me be doing something. 
 
 Lol. You shall be doing, if it please you ; I'll whistle 
 to you, if you'll pipe after. 
 
 Isa. I's it your master's pleasure, or your own. 
 To keep me in this pinfold ? 
 
 Lol. 'Tis for my master's pleasure, lest being taken in 
 
 1 i.e. Prove it has been done. 
 
ii8 THE CHANGELING. [act iii. 
 
 another man's corn, you might be pounded in another 
 place. 
 
 Jsa. 'Tis very well, and he'll prove very wise. 
 
 Lol. He says you have company enough in the house, 
 if you please to be sociable, of all sorts of people. 
 
 Isa. Of all sorts ? why, here's none but fools and 
 madmen . 
 
 Lol. Very well : and where will you find any other, i 
 you should go abroad ? there's my master, and I to 
 boot too. 
 
 Isa. Of either sort one, a madman and a fool. 
 
 Lol. I would even participate of both then if I were as 
 you ; I know' you're half mad already, be half foolish too. 
 
 Isa. You're a brave saucy rascal ! come on, sir. 
 Afford me then the pleasure of your bedlam ; 
 You were commending once to-day to me 
 Your last-come lunatic ; what a proper ' 
 Body there was without brains to guide, it. 
 And what a pitiful delight appeared 
 In that defect, as if your wisdom had found 
 A mirth in madness ; pray, sir, let me partake. 
 If there be such a pleasure. 
 
 Lol. If I do not show you the handsomest, discreetest 
 madman, one that I may call the understanding mad- 
 man, then say I am a fool. 
 
 Isa. Well, a match, I will say so. 
 
 Lol. When you have had a taste of the madman, you 
 shall, if you please, see Fool's College, o' th' other side. 
 I seldom lock there ; 'tis but shooting a bolt or two, and 
 you are amongst 'em. \Exit, and brings hi Franciscus.] 
 — Come on, sir ; let me see how handsomely you'll be- 
 have yourself now. 
 
 Fran. How sweetly she looks ! O, but there's a 
 wrinkle in her brow as deep as philosophy. Anacreon, 
 drink to my mistress' health, I'll pledge it; stay, stay, 
 there's a spider in the cup ! no, 'tis but a grape-stone ; 
 swallow it, fear nothing, poet ; so, so, lift higher. 
 
SCENE 111.] THE CHANGELING. iig 
 
 Isa. Ala'ck, alack, it is too full of pity 
 To be laughed at ! How fell he mad ? canst thou tell ? 
 
 Lol. For love, mistress : he was a pretty poet too, and 
 that set him forwards first: the muses then forsook him ; 
 he ran mad for a chambermaid, yet she was but a dwarf 
 neither. 
 
 Fran. Hail, bright Titania ! 
 Why stand'stthou idle on these flowery banks ? 
 Oberon is dancing with his Dryadesj 
 I'll gather daisies, primrose, violets. 
 And bind them in a verse of poesy. 
 
 Lol. \holding up a whip.l Not too near i you see your 
 danger. 
 
 Fran. O, hold thy hand, great Diomede ! 
 Thou feed'st thy horses well, they shall obey thee : 
 Get up, Bucephalus kneels. [Ktieels. 
 
 Lol. You see how I awe my flock; a shepherd has not 
 his dog at more obedience. 
 
 Isa. His conscience is unquiet ; sure that was 
 The cause of this : a proper gentleman ! 
 
 Fran. Come hither, ^sculapius ; hide the poison. 
 
 Lol. Well, 'tis hid. [Hides the whip. 
 
 Fran. Didst thou ne'er hear of one Tiresias, 
 A famous poet ? 
 
 Lol. Yes, that kept tame wild geese. 
 
 Fran. That's he \ I am the man. 
 
 Lol. No? 
 
 Fran. Yes ; but make no words on 't : I was a mm 
 Seven years ago. 
 
 Lol. A stripling, I think, you might. 
 
 Fran. Now I'm a woman, all feminine. 
 
 Lol. I would I might see that ! 
 
 Fran. Juno struck me blind. 
 
 Lol. I'll ne'er believe that : for a woman, they say, has 
 an eye more than a man. 
 
 Fran. I say she struck me blin,d. 
 
 Lol. And Luna made you mad": you have two trades 
 to beg with. 
 
120 THE CHANGELING. [act hi. 
 
 Fran. Luna is now big-bellied, and there's room 
 For both of us to ride with Hecate ; 
 I'll drag thee up into her silver sphere, 
 And there we'll kick the dog — and beat the bush — 
 That barks against the witches of the night ; 
 The swift lycauthropi ^ that walks the round, 
 We'll tear their wolvish skins, and save the sheep. 
 
 \Attempts to seize Lollio. 
 
 Lol. Is't come to this ? nay, then, my poison comes 
 forth again \_showing the whip] : mad slave, indeed, abuse 
 your keeper ! 
 
 Isa. I prithee, hence with him, now he grows dan- 
 gerous. 
 
 Fran, [sings.] Sweet love, pity me, 
 
 Give me leave to lie with thee. 
 
 Lol. No, I'll see you wiser first : to your own kennel ! 
 
 Fran. No noise, she sleeps ; draw all the curtains 
 round. 
 Let no soft sound molest the pretty soul. 
 But love, and love creeps in at a mouse-hole. 
 
 Lol. I would you would get into your hole ! [Exit 
 Franciscus.] — Now, mistress, I will bring you another 
 sort ; you shall be fooled another while. [Exit, and 
 brings in Antonio.] — Tony, come hither, Tony : look 
 who's yonder, Tony. 
 
 Ant. Cousin, is it not my aunt?'* 
 
 Lol. Yes, 'tis one of 'era, Tony. 
 
 Ant. He, he ! how do you, uncle ? 
 
 Lol. Fear him not, mistress, 'tis a gentle nigget;' you 
 may play with him, as safely with him as with his bauble. 
 
 Isa. How long hast thou been a fool ? 
 
 Ant. Ever since I came hither, cousin. 
 
 Isa. Cousin ? I'm none of thy cousins, fool. 
 
 Lol. O, mistress, fools have always so much wit as to 
 claim their kindred. 
 
 • Persons suffering from lycanthropia, or wolf-madness, at one 
 time believed to be common. 
 '^ Cant term for procuress or bawd, ' Nidget, i.e. idiot. 
 
SCENE III.] THE CHANGELING. 121 
 
 Madman {within.] Bounce, bounce ! he falls, he falls ! 
 
 Jsa. Hark you, your scholars in the upper room 
 Are out of order. 
 
 Lol. Must I come amongst you there ? — Keep you ilie 
 fool, mistress ; I'll go up and play left'handed Orlando 
 amongst the madmen. [Exit. 
 
 Isa. Well, sir. 
 
 Ant. 'Tis opportuneful now, sweet lady ! nay, 
 Cast no amazing eye upon this change. 
 
 Isa. Ha! 
 
 Ant. This shape of folly shrouds your dearest love, 
 The truest servant to your powerful beauties. 
 Whose magic had this force thus to transform me. 
 
 Isa. You're a fine fool indeed ! 
 
 Ant. O, 'tis not strange ! 
 Love has an intellect that runs through all 
 The scrutinous sciences, and, like a cunning poet, 
 Catches a quantity of every knowledge. 
 Yet brings all home into one mystery, 
 Into one secret, that he proceeds in. 
 
 Isa. You're a parlous fool. 
 
 Ant. No danger in me ; I bring nought but love 
 And his soft-wounding shafts to strike you with ; 
 Try but one arrow ; if it hurt you, I 
 Will stand you twenty back in recompense. 
 
 Isa. A forward fool too ! 
 
 Ant. This was love's teaching : 
 A thousand ways he fashioned out ray way, 
 And this I found the safest and the nearest, 
 To tread the galaxia to my star. 
 
 Isa. Profound withal ! .certain you dreamed of this, 
 Love never taught it waking. 
 
 Ant. Take no acquaintance 
 Of these outward follies, there's within 
 A gentleman that loves you. 
 
 Isa. When I see him, 
 I'll speak with him ; so, in the meantime, keep 
 
122 THE CHANGELING. [act hi. 
 
 Your habit, it becomes you well enough : 
 As you're a gentleman, I'll not discover you ; 
 That's all the favour that you must expect : 
 Wh^n you are weary, you may leave the school. 
 For all this while' you have but played the fool. 
 
 Re-enter Lollio. 
 
 Ant. And must again. — He, he! I thank you, cousin; 
 I'll be your valentine to-morrow morning. 
 
 Lol. How do you like the fool, mistress ? 
 
 Jsa. Passing well, sir. 
 
 Lot. Is he not witty, pretty well, for a fool? 
 
 Isa. If he holds on as he begins, he's like 
 To come to something. 
 
 Lot. Ay, thank a good tutor : you may put him to't ; 
 he begins to answer pretty hard questions. — Tony, how 
 many is five times six? 
 
 Ant. Five times six is six times five. 
 
 Lol. What arithmetician could have answered better? 
 How many is one hundred and seven ? 
 
 Ant. One hundred and seven is seven hundred and 
 one, cousin. 
 
 Lol. This is no wit to speak on ! — Will you be rid of 
 the fool now ? 
 
 Isa. By no means ; let him stay a little. 
 
 Madman [within.] Catch there, catch the last couple 
 in hell ! ' 
 
 Lol. Again ! must I come amongst you ? Would my 
 master were come home ! I am not able to govern both 
 these wards together. [Exit. 
 
 Ant. Why should a minute of love's hour be lost ? 
 
 Isa. Fie, out again ! I had rather you kept 
 Your other posture ; you become not your tongue ' 
 When you speak from your clothes. 
 
 Ant. How can he freeze 
 
 ' An allusion to the game of bailey-b:eak, the ground for which 
 was divided into three compartments, of which the middle one was 
 termed '•hell." 
 
SCENE HI.] THE CHANGELING. 123 
 
 Lives near so sweet a warmth ? shall I alone 
 Walk through the orchard of th' Hesperides, 
 And, cowardly, not dare to pull an apple ? 
 
 Enter LoLlio above. 
 
 This with the red cheeks I must venture for. 
 
 {Attempts to kiss her. 
 
 Isa. Take heed, there's giants keep 'em. 
 
 Lol. How now, fool, are you good at that ? have you 
 read Lipsius?' he's past Ars Amandi ; 1 believe I must 
 put harder questions to him, I perceive that. [Aside, 
 
 Isa. You're bold without fear too. 
 
 Ant. What should I fear. 
 Having all joys about me ? Do you but smile, 
 And love shall play the wanton on yow lip. 
 Meet and retire, retire and meet again ; 
 Look you but cheerfully, and in your eyes 
 I shall behold mine own deformity. 
 And dress myself up fairer : I know this shape 
 Becomes me not, but in those bright mirrors 
 I shall array me handsomely. 
 
 [ Cries of madmen are heard within, like those of 
 birds and beasts. 
 
 Lol. Cuckoo, cuckoo ! \Exit above. 
 
 Ant. What are these ? 
 
 Isa. Of fear enough to part us • 
 Yet are they but our schools of lunatics. 
 That act their fantasies in any shapes, 
 Suiting their present thoughts : if sad, they cry 
 If mirth be their conceit, they laugh again : 
 Sometimes they imitate the beasts and birds. 
 Singing or howling, braying, barking ; all 
 As their wild fancies prompt 'em. 
 
 Ant. These are no fears. 
 
 Isa. But here's a large one, my man. 
 
 1 " Is it necessary to notice that the name of this great scholar is 
 ntroduced merely for the sake of its firsc syllable .? " — Dyce. 
 
124 THE CHANGELING. [act hi. 
 
 Re-enter Lollio. 
 
 Ant. Ha, he ! that's fine sport indeed, cousin. 
 
 Lot. I would my master were come home ! 'tis too 
 niuch for one shepherd to govern two of these flocks ; 
 nor can I believe that one churchman can instruct two 
 benefices at once j there will be some incurable mad of 
 the one side, and very fools on the other. — Come, Tony. 
 
 Ant. Prithee, cousin, let me stay here still. 
 
 Lol. No, you must to your book now; you have played 
 sufficiently. 
 
 Isa. Your fool has grown wondrous witty. 
 
 Lol. Well, I'll say nothing : but I do not think but he 
 will put you down one of these days. 
 
 \Exit with Antonio. 
 
 Isa. Here the restrained current might make breach, 
 Spite of the watchful bankers : would a woman stray, 
 She need not gad abroad to seek her sin, 
 It would be brought home one way or other : 
 The needle's point will to the fixfed north ; 
 Such drawing arctics women's beauties are. 
 
 Re-enter Lollio. 
 
 Lol. How dost thou, sweet rogue ? 
 
 Isa. How now ? 
 
 Lol. Come, there are degrees ; one fool may be better 
 than another. 
 
 Isa. What's the matter ? 
 
 Lol. Nay, if thou givest thy mind to fool's flesh, have 
 at thee ! 
 
 Isa. You bold slave, you ! 
 
 Lol. I could follow now as t'other fool did : 
 " What should I fear, 
 
 Having all joys about me ? Do you but smile. 
 And love shall play the wanton on your lip. 
 Meet and retire, retire and meet again ; 
 Look you but cheerfully, and in your eyes 
 I shall behold my own deformity, 
 
SCENE in.] THE CHANGELING. 125 
 
 And dress myself up fairer : I know this shape 
 Becomes me not — " 
 
 And so as it follows: but is not this the more foolish 
 way ? Come, sweet rogue ; kiss me, my little Lace- 
 daemonian ; let me feel how thy pulses beat ; thou hast a 
 thing about thee would do a man pleasure, I'll lay my 
 hand pn't. 
 
 Isa. Sirrah, no more ! I see you have discovered 
 This love's knight errant, who hath made adventure 
 For purchase of my love : be silent, mute, 
 Mute as a statue, or his injunction 
 For me enjoying, shall be to cut thy throat ; 
 I'll do it, though for no other purpose ; and 
 Be sure he'll not refuse it. 
 
 Lol. My share, that's all ; 
 I'll have my fool's part with you. 
 
 Isa. No more! your master. 
 
 Enter Alibius. 
 
 Alib. Sweet, how dost thou ? 
 
 Isa. Your bounden servant, sir. 
 
 Alib. Fie, fie, sweetheart. 
 No more of that. 
 
 Isa. You were best lock me up. 
 
 Alib. In my arms and bosom, my sweet Isabella, 
 I'll lock thee up most nearly. — Lollio, 
 We have employment, we have task in hand : 
 At noble Vermandero's, our castle's captain, 
 There is a nuptial to be solemnised — " 
 Beatrice-Joanna, his fair daughter, bride — 
 For which the gentleman hath bespoke our pains, 
 A mixture of our madmen and our fools,' 
 To finish, as it were, and make the fag 
 Of all the revels, the third night from the first ; 
 Only an unexpected passage over, 
 
 1 " So Corax, a physician, in Ford's Lover's Melancholy, provides 
 a ' Masque of Melancholy,' in which various forms of madness are 
 represented, for the entertainment of Palador, Prince of Cyprus.' ' 
 . — Bullen. 
 
126 THE CHANGELING. [act m. 
 
 To make a frightful pleasure, that is all, 
 
 But not the all I aim at ; could we so act it, 
 
 To teach it in a wild distracted measure, 
 
 Though out of form and figure, breaking time's head, 
 
 It were no matter, 'twould be healed again 
 
 In one age or other, if not in this : 
 
 This, this, Lollio, there's a good reward begun. 
 
 And will beget a bounty, be it known. 
 
 Lol. This is easy, sir, I'll warrant you : you have 
 about you fools and madmen that can dance very well ; 
 and 'tis no wonder, your best dancers are not the wisest 
 men ; the reason is, with often jumping they jolt their 
 brains down into their feet, that their wits lie more in 
 their heels than in their heads. 
 
 Alib. Honest Lollio, thou giv'st me a good reason. 
 And a comfort in it. 
 
 Isa. You've a fine trade on't ; 
 Madmen and fools are a staple commodity. 
 
 Alib. O wife, we must eat, wear clothes, and live : 
 Just at the lawyer's haven we arrive. 
 By madmen and by fools we both do thrive. {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 An Apartment in the Castle. 
 
 Enter Vermandero, Beatrice, Alsemero, and 
 Jasperino, 
 
 Ver. Valencia speaks so nobly of you, sir, 
 I wish I had a daughter now for you. 
 
 Ah. The fellow of this creature were a partner 
 For a king's love. 
 
 Ver. I had her fellow once, sir, 
 But Heaven has married her to joys eternal ; 
 'Twere sin to wish her in this vale again. 
 
SCENE IV.] THE CHANGELING. 127 
 
 Come, sir, your friend and you shall see the pleasures 
 Which my health chiefly joys in. 
 
 Ah. I hear 
 The beauty of this seat largely commended. 
 
 Ver. It falls much short of that. 
 
 \Exit with Alsemero and Jaspertno. 
 
 Beat. So, here's one step 
 
 Into my father's favour ; time will fix him ; 
 
 I've got him nov/ the liberty of the house ; 
 
 So wisdom, by degrees, works out her freedom : 
 
 And if that eye be darkened that offends me, — 
 
 I wait but that eclipse, — this gentleman 
 
 Shall soon shine glorious in my father's liking, 
 
 Through the refulgent virtue of my love. 
 
 V 
 Enter De Flores. 
 
 De F. My thoughts are at a banquet ; for the deed, 
 I feel no weight in't ; 'tis but, light and cheap 
 For the sweet recompense that I set down for't. \ Aside. 
 
 Beat. De Flores ? 
 
 De F. Lady? 
 
 Beat. Thy looks promise cheerfully. 
 
 De F. All things are answerable, time, circumstance. 
 Your wishes, and my service. 
 
 Beat. It is done, then ? 
 
 De F. Piracquo is no more. 
 
 Beat. My joys start at mine eyes; our sweet'st de- 
 lights 
 Are evermore born weeping. 
 
 De F, I've a token for you. 
 
 Beat. For me ? 
 
 De F. But it was sent somewhat unwillingly ; 
 I could not get the ring without the finger. 
 
 [Producing the finger and ring. 
 
 Beat. Bless me, what hast thou done ? 
 
 De F, Why, is that more 
 Than killing the whole man ? I cut his heart-strings ; 
 
128 THE CHANGELING. [act ill. 
 
 A greedy hand thrust in a dish at court, 
 In a mistake hath had as much as this. 
 
 Beat. 'Tis the first token my father made me send 
 him. 
 
 De F. And I have made him send it back again 
 For his last token ; I was loth to leave it, 
 And I'm sure dead men have no use of jewels; 
 He was as loth to part with't, for it stuck 
 As if the flesh and it were both one substance. 
 
 Beat. At the stag's fall, the keeper has his fees ; 
 'Tis soon applied, all dead men's fees are yours, sir : 
 I pray, bury the finger, but the stone 
 You may make use on shortly ; the true value, 
 Tak't of my truth, is near three hundred ducats. 
 
 De F. 'Twill hardly buy a capcase ' for one's con- 
 science though, 
 To keep it from the worm, as fine as 'tis : 
 Well, being my fees, I'll take it ; 
 Great men have taught me that, or else my merit 
 Would scorn the way on't. 
 
 Beat. It might justly, sir ; 
 Why, thou misfak'st, De Flores, 'tis not given 
 In state of recompense. 
 
 De F. No, I hope so, lady ; 
 You should soon witness my contempt to't then. 
 
 Beat. Prithee, — thou look'st as if thou wert of- 
 fended. 
 
 De F. That were strange, lady ; 'tis not possible 
 My service should draw such a cause from you : 
 Offended ! could you think so ? that were much 
 For one of my performance, and so warm 
 Yet in my service. 
 
 Beat. 'Twere misery in me to give you cause, sir. 
 
 De F. I know so much, it were so ; misery 
 In her most sharp condition. 
 
 Beat. 'Tis resolved then ; 
 
 1 B^^nd-box. 
 
SCENE IV.] THE CHANGELING. 129 
 
 Look you, sir, here's three thousand golden florens -y 
 I have not meanly thought upon thy merit. 
 
 De F. What ! salary? now you move me. 
 
 Beat. How, De Flores ? 
 
 De F. Do you place me in the rank of verminous 
 fellows, 
 To destroy things for wages ? offer gold 
 For the life-blood of man ? is anything 
 Valued too precious for my recompense .'' 
 
 Beat. I understand thee not. 
 
 De F. I could ha' hired 
 A journeyman in murder at this rate, 
 And mine own conscience might have slept at ease, 
 And have had the work brought home. 
 
 Beat. I'm in a labyrinth ;■■ 
 What will content him ? I'd fain be rid of him. \Aside. 
 I'll double the sum, sir. 
 
 De F. You take a course 
 To double my vexation, that's the good you do. 
 
 Beat. Bless me, I'm now in worse plight than I was ; 
 I know not what will please him. [Aside]. — For my 
 
 fear's sake, 
 I prithee, make away with all speed possible ; 
 And if thou be'st so modest not to name 
 The sum that will content thee, paper blushes not, 
 Send thy demand in writing, it shall follow thee ; 
 But, prithee, take thy flight. 
 
 De F. You must fly too then. 
 
 Beat. I? 
 
 DeF. I'll not stir a foot else. 
 
 Beat. What's your meaning ? 
 
 De F. Why, are not you as guilty ? in, I'm sure, 
 As deep as I; and we should stick together: 
 Come, your fears counsel you but ill ; my absence 
 
 1 So called from having been first coined by the Florentines. 
 Their value was y. i,d. each. 
 
 Mid. K 
 
130 THE CHANGELING. [act hi. 
 
 Would draw suspect upon you instantly ; . 
 There were no rescue for you. 
 
 Beat. He speaks home ! {Aside. 
 
 De F. Nor is it fit we two, engaged so jointly, 
 Should part and live asunder. 
 
 Beat. How now, sir ? 
 This shows not well. 
 
 De F. What makes your lip so strange ? 
 This must not.be betwixt us. 
 
 Beat. The man talks wildly ! 
 
 De F. Come, kiss me with a zeal now. 
 
 Beat. Heaven, I doubt him ! [Aside. 
 
 De F. I will not stand so long to beg 'em. shortly. 
 
 Beat. Take heed, De Flores, of forgetfulness, 
 'Twill soon betray us. 
 
 De F. Take you heed first ; 
 Faith, you're grown much forgetful, you're to blame in't. 
 
 Beat. He's bold, and I am blamed for't. [Aside. 
 
 De F. I have eased you 
 Of your trouble, think on it ; I am in pain. 
 And must be eased of you ; 'tis a charity, 
 Justice invites your blood to understand me. 
 
 Beat. I dare not. 
 
 DeF. Quickly! 
 
 •Beat. O, I never shall ! 
 Speak it yet further off, that I may lose 
 What has been spoken, and no sound remain on't ; 
 I would not hear so much offence again 
 For such another deed; 
 
 De F. Soft, lady, soft ! 
 The last is not yet paid for : O, this act 
 Has put me into spirit; I was as greedy on't 
 As the parched earth of moisture, when the clouds weep : 
 ■Did you not mark, I wrought myself into't, 
 Na,y, sued and kneeled for't? why was all that pains 
 
 took? 
 You see I've thrown conterript upon your gold; 
 
SCENE IV.] THE CHANGELING. 131 
 
 Not that I want it not, for I do piteously, 
 In order I'll come unto't, and make use on't, 
 But 'twas not held so precious to begin with, 
 For I place wealth after the heels of pleasure ; 
 And were not I resolved in my belief 
 That thy virginity were perfect in thee, 
 I should but take my recompense with griidging, 
 As if I had but half my hopes I agreed for. 
 
 Beat. Why, 'tis impossible thou canst be so wicked, 
 Or shelter such a cunning cruelty, 
 To make his death the murderer of my honour ! 
 Thy language is so bold and vicious, 
 I cannot see which way I can forgive it 
 With any modesty. • 
 
 De F. Pish ! you forget yourself ; 
 A woman dipped in blood, and talk of modesty ! 
 
 Beat.. O misery of sin ! would I'd been bound 
 Perpetually unto my living hate 
 In that Piracquo, than to hear these words ! 
 Think but upon the distance that creation 
 Set 'twixt thy blood and mine, and keep thee there. 
 
 De F. Look but into your conscience, read me there ; 
 'Tis a true book, you'll find me there your equal : 
 Pish ! fly not to your birth, but settle you 
 In what the act has made you ; you're no more now. 
 You must forget your parentage to me ; 
 You are the deed's creature ; by that name 
 You lost your first condition, and- 1 challenge you. 
 As peace and innocency has turned you out. 
 And made you one with me. 
 
 Beat. With thee, foul villain ! 
 
 De F. Yes, my fair murderess; do you urge me, 
 Though thou writ'st maid, thou whore in thy affection ? 
 'Twas changed from thy first love, and that's a kind 
 Of whoredom in the heart ; and he's changed now 
 To bring thy second on, thy Alsemero, 
 Whom by all sweets that ever darkness tasted. 
 
ija THE CHANGELING. [act hi; 
 
 If I enjoy thee not, thou ne'er enjoyest ! 
 I'll blast the hopes and joys of marriage, 
 I'll confess all ; my life I rate at nothing. 
 
 Beat. De Flores ! 
 
 De F. I shall rest from all plagues then ; 
 I live in pain now; that love-shooting eyei 
 Will burn my heart to cinders. 
 
 Beat. O sir, hear me 1 
 
 De F. She that in life and love refuses me, 
 In death and shame my partner she shall be. 
 
 Beat, [kneeling.] Stay, hear me once for all; I make 
 thee master 
 Of all the wealth I have in gold and jewels ; 
 L^t me go poor unto my bed with honour, 
 And I am rich in all things ! 
 
 De F. Let this silence thee : 
 The wealth of all Valencia shall not buy 
 My pleasure from me ; 
 
 Can you weep Fate from its determined purpose ? 
 So soon may you weep me. 
 
 Beat. Vengeance begins ; 
 Murder, I see, is followed by more sins : 
 Was my creation in the womb so curst, 
 It must engender with a viper first? 
 
 De F. [raising /ter.] Come, rise and shroud your 
 blushes in my bosom ; 
 Silence is one of pleasure's best receipts : 
 Thy peace is wrought for ever in this yielding. 
 'Las ! how the turtle pants ! thou'lt love anon 
 What thou so fear'st and faint'st to venture on. 
 
 [Fxeunt. 
 1 In the old edition : — 
 
 " I shall rest from all Jove's plagues then ; 
 I live in pain now ; that shooting eye." 
 The correction was suggested by Dyce. 
 
ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 Dumb Shoiv. 
 
 Enter Gentlemen, Vermandero meeting them with action 
 of wonderment at the disappearance of Piracquo. 
 Enter Alsemero with Jasperino and gallants : 
 Vermandero points to him, the gentlemen seeming 
 to applaud the choice. Alsemero, Vermandero, 
 Jasperino, and the others pass over the stage with 
 much pomp, Beatrice as a bride following in great 
 state, attended by Diaphanta, Isabella, and other 
 gentlewomen ; De Flores after all, smiling at tJie 
 accident : Alonzo's ghost appears to him in the midst 
 of his smile, and startles him, showing the hand whose 
 finger he had cut off. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 Alsemero's Apartment in the Castle. 
 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
 has undone me 
 
 1EAT. This fellow 
 endlessly ; 
 Never was bride so fearfully dis- 
 tressed : [night, 
 The more I think upon th' ensuing 
 And whom I am to cope with in 
 embraces, 
 
 One who's ennobled both in blood and mind. 
 So clear in understanding,— that's my plague now^- 
 Before whose judgment will my fault appear 
 Like malefactors' crimes before tribunals 
 
134 THE CHANGELING. [act iv. 
 
 There is no hiding on't, the more I dive 
 
 Into my own distress : how a' wise man 
 
 Stands for a great calamity ! there's no venturing 
 
 Into his bed, what course soe'er I light upon, 
 
 Without my shame, which may grow up to danger ; 
 
 He cannot but in justice strangle me 
 
 As I lie by him, as a cheater use me ; 
 
 'Tis a precious craft to play with a false die 
 
 Before a cunning gamester. Here's his closet ; 
 
 The key left in't, and he abroad i' th' park ! 
 
 Sure 'twas forgot ; I'll be so bold as look in't. 
 
 \Opens closet. 
 Bless me ! a right physician's closet 'tis. 
 Set round with vials ; every one her mark too : 
 Sure he does practise physic for his own use. 
 Which may be safely called your great man's wisdom. 
 What manuscript lies here ? 
 
 \Reads.\ " The Book of Experiment, called Secrets in 
 Nature : '' 
 So 'tis so : 
 
 \Reads.\ " How to know whether a woman be with child 
 or no : " 
 
 I hope I am not yet ; if he should try though ! 
 Let me see [reads] " folio forty-five," here 'tis, 
 The leaf tucked down upon't, the place suspicious : 
 [Jieads.] "If you would know whether a woman be with 
 child or not, give her two spoonfuls (jf the white water in 
 
 glass C " 
 
 Where's that glass C ? O yonder, I see 't now — 
 
 [Jimds.] " and if she be with child, she sleeps full twelve 
 
 hours after ; if not, not : " 
 
 None of that water comes into my belly ; 
 
 I'll know you from a hundred ; I could break you now, 
 
 Or turn you into milk, and so beguile 
 
 The master of the mystery ; but I'll look to you. 
 
 1 " In Antonii Mizaldi Monluciani de Arcanis Natures Libelli 
 Quatuor, ed. tertia, 1558, i2mo, I find no passages resembling 
 Ihose which are read by Beatrice." — Dyce. 
 
SCENE I.] THE CHANGELING. 135 
 
 Ha ! that which is next is ten times worse : 
 
 \Reads^ "How to know whether a woman be a maid 
 
 or not : " 
 
 If that should be applied, what would become of me ? 
 
 Belike he has a strong faith of my purity, 
 
 That never yet made proof; but this he calls 
 
 \Reads'\ "A merry slight,^ but true experiment; the 
 
 author Antonius Mizaldus. Give the party you suspect 
 
 the quantity of a spoonful of the water in the glass M, 
 
 which, upon her that is a maid, makes three several 
 
 effects; 'twill make her incontinently' gape, then fall 
 
 into a sudden sneezing, last into a violent laughing ; else, 
 
 dull, heavy, and lumpish." 
 
 Where had I been ? 
 
 I fear it, yet 'tis seven hours to bed-time. 
 
 Enter Diaphanta. 
 
 Dia. Cuds, madam, are you here ? 
 
 Beat. Seeing that wench now, 
 A trick comes in my mind ; 'tis a nice piece 
 Gold cannot purchase. '\Aside.\ — I come hither, wench, 
 To look my lord. 
 
 Dia. Would I had such a cause [madam. 
 
 To look him too! \Aside.\—'^\\y , he's i' th' park, 
 
 Beat. There lei him be. 
 
 Dia. Ay, madam, let him compass 
 Whole parks and forests, as great rangers do. 
 At roosting-time a little lodge can hold 'em : 
 Earth-conquering Alexander, that thought the world 
 Too narrow for him, in th' end had but his pit-hole. 
 
 Beat. I fear thou art not modest, Diaphanta. 
 
 Dia. Your thoughts are so unwilling to be known, 
 'Tis ever the bride's fashion, towards bed-time, [madam. 
 To set light by her joys, as if she owned 'em not. 
 
 Beat. Her joys ? her fears thou wouldst say. 
 
 Dia. Fear of what? 
 
 Beat. Art thou a maid, and talk'st so to a maid ? 
 
 ' Trick. ''■ Immediately. 
 
136 THE CHANGELING. [act W. 
 
 You leave a blushing business behind ; 
 Beshrew your heart for't ! 
 
 Dia. Do you mean good sooth, madam ? 
 
 Beat. Well, if I'd thought upon the fear at first, 
 Man should have been unknown. 
 
 Dia. Is't possible ? 
 
 Beat. I'd give a thousand ducats to that woman 
 Would try what my fear were, and tell me true 
 To-morrow, when she gets from't ; as she likes, 
 I might perhaps be drawn to't. 
 
 Dia. Are you in earnest ? 
 
 Beat. Do you get the woman, then challenge me. 
 And see if I'll fly from't ; but I must tell you 
 This by the way, she must be a true maid, 
 Else there's no trial, my fears are not her's else. 
 
 Dia. Nay, she that I would put into your hands,' 
 madam. 
 Shall be a maid. 
 
 Beat. You know I should be shamed else. 
 Because she lies for me. 
 
 Dia. 'Tis a strange humour ! 
 But are you serious still ? would you resign. 
 Your first night's pleasure, and give money too ? 
 
 Beat. As willingly as live. — Alas, the gold 
 Is but a by-bet to wedge in the honour ! {Aside. 
 
 Dia. I do not know how the world goes abroad 
 For faith or honesty; there's both required in this. 
 Madam, what say you to me, and stray no further ? 
 I've a good mind, in troth, to earn your money. 
 
 Beat. You are too quick, I fear, to be a maid. 
 
 Dia. How? not a maid? nay, then you urge me, 
 Your honourable self is not a truer, [madam ; 
 
 With all your fears upon you 
 
 Beat. Bad enough then. \Aside. 
 
 Dia. Than I with all my lightsome joys about me. 
 
 Beat. I'm glad to hear't : then you dare put your 
 Upon an easy trial. [honesty 
 
 Dia. Easy? anything. 
 
SCENE I.] THE CHANGELING. 137 
 
 Beat. I'll come to you straight. \Goes to the Closet. 
 
 Dia. She will not search me,"will she, 
 Like the forewoman of a female jury ? ' 
 
 Beat. Glass M : ay, this is it. [Brings viali\ — Look, 
 Diaphanta, 
 You take no worse than I do. \Drinks. 
 
 Dia. And in so doing, 
 I will not question what it is, but take it. [Drinks. 
 
 Beat. Now if th' experiment be true, 'twill praise itself, 
 And give me noble ease : begins already ; 
 
 [Diaphanta gapes. 
 There's the first symptom ; and what haste it makes 
 To fall into the second, there by this time ! 
 
 [Diaphanta sneezes. 
 Most admirable secret ! on the contrary, 
 It stirs hot me a whit, which most concerns it. [Aside. 
 
 Dia. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Beat. Just in all things, and in order 
 As if 'twere circumscribed ; one accident 
 Gives way unto another. [Aside. 
 
 Dia. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Beat. How now, wench ? 
 
 Dia. Ha, ha, ha ! I'm so, so light 
 At heart — ha, ha, ha ! — so pleasurable ! 
 But one swig more, sweet madam. 
 
 Beat. Ay, to-morrow, 
 We shall have time to sit by't. 
 
 Dia. Now I'm sad again. 
 
 Beat. It lays itself so gently too ! [Aside.] — Come, 
 Most honest Diaphanta I dare call thee now. [wench. 
 
 Dia. Pray, tell me, madam, what trick call you this ? • 
 
 Beat. I'll tell thee all hereafter ; we must study 
 The carriage of this business. 
 
 Dia. I shall carry't well. 
 Because I love the burthen. 
 
 1 Mr. Bullen suspects that there is a reference here to the exam- 
 ination by matrons of the notorious Countess of Essex in the divorce 
 suit brought by her against her husband a few years previously. 
 
138 THE CHANGELING. [act iv. 
 
 Beat. About midnight 
 You must not fail to steal forth gently, 
 That I may use the place. 
 
 Dia. O, fear not, madam, 
 I shall be cool by that time : the bride's place, 
 And with a thousand ducats ! I'm for a justice now, 
 I bring a portion with me; I scorn small fools. [Exeunt 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Another Atartment in the Castle. 
 
 Enter Vermandero and Servant. 
 
 Ver. I tell thee, knave, mine honour is in question, * 
 A thing till now free from suspicion. 
 Nor ever was there cause. Who of my gentlemen 
 Are absent ? 
 Tell me, and truly, how many, and who ? 
 
 Ser. Antonio, sir, and Franciscus. 
 
 Ver. When did they leave the castle? 
 
 Ser. Some ten days since, sir ; the one intending to 
 Briamata, th' other for Valencia. 
 
 Ver. The time accuses 'em ; a charge of murder 
 Is brought within my castle-gate, Piracquo's murder ; 
 I dare not answer faithfully their absence : 
 A strict command of apprehension 
 Sliall pursue 'em suddenly, and either wipe 
 The stain off clear, or openly discover it. 
 Provide me winged warrants for the purpose. 
 
 \_Exit Servant. 
 See, I am set on again. 
 
 Enter Tomasc- 
 Tom. I claim a brother of you. 
 Ver. You're too hot ; 
 Seek-him not here. 
 
SCENE II.] THE CHANGELING. 139 
 
 Tom. Yes, 'mongst your dearest bloods, 
 If my peace find no fairer satisfaction : 
 This is the place must yield account for him, 
 For here I left him ; and the hasty tie 
 Of this snatched marriage gives strong testimony 
 Of his most certain ruin. 
 
 Ver. Certain falsehood ! 
 This is the place indeed ; his breach of faith 
 Has too much marred both my abusfed love. 
 The honourable love I reserved for him, 
 And mocked my daughter's joy ; the prepared morning 
 Blushed at his infidelity ; he left 
 Contempt and scorn to throw upon those friends 
 Whose belief hurt 'em : O, twas most ignoble 
 To take his flight so unexpectedly. 
 And throw such public wrongs on those that loved him ! 
 
 Tom. Then this is all your answer? 
 
 Ver. 'Tis too fair ♦ 
 
 For one of his alliance.; and I warn you 
 That this place no more see you. \Exit. 
 
 Enter De Flores. 
 
 Tom. The best is. 
 There is more ground to meet a man's revenge on. — 
 Honest De Flores ? 
 
 De F. That's my name indeed. 
 Saw you the bride ? good sweet sir, which way took she ? 
 
 Tom. I've blessed mine eyes from seeing such a false 
 one. 
 
 De F. I'd fain get off, this man's not for my company ; 
 I smell his brother's blood when I come near him. {^Aside. 
 
 Tom. Come hither, kind and true one ; I remember 
 My brother loved thee well. 
 
 De F. O, purely, dear sir ! — 
 Methinks I'm now again a-killing on him, 
 He brings it so fresh to me. \Aside. 
 
 Tom. Thou canst guess, sirrah — 
 
140 THE CHANGELING. \_kCT IV. 
 
 All honest friend has an mstinct of jealousy — 
 At some foul guilty person. 
 
 De F. Alas! sir, 
 I am so charitable, I think none 
 Worse than myself! you did not see the bride then ? 
 
 To7n. I prithee, name her not : is she not wicked ? 
 
 De F. No, no ; a pretty, easy, round-packed sinner, 
 As your most ladies are, else you might think 
 I flattered her ; but, sir, at no hand wicked. 
 Till they're so old their chins and noses' meet, 
 And they salute witches. I'm called, I think, sir. — 
 His company even overlays my conscience. 
 
 \Aside, and exit, 
 
 Tom. That De Flores has a wondrous honest heart ; 
 He'll bring it out in time, I'm assured on't. 
 O, -here's the glorious master of the day's joy ! 
 'Twill not be long till he and I do reckon. 
 
 Enter Alsemero. 
 Sir. 
 
 Als. You're most welcome. 
 
 Tom. You may call that word back ; 
 I do not think I am, nor wish to be. 
 
 Als. 'Tis strange you found the way to this house, then. 
 
 Tom. Would I'd ne'er known the cause ! I'm none of 
 those, sir. 
 That come to give you joy, and swill your wine ; 
 'Tis a more precious liquor that must lay 
 The fiery thirst I bring. 
 
 Als. Your words and you 
 Appear to me great strangers. 
 
 Tom. Time and our swords 
 May make us more acquainted ; this the business : 
 I should have had a brother in your place ; 
 How treachery and malice have disposed of him, 
 
 ' Old ed, has "sins and vices.'' The correction was suggested 
 by Dyce. 
 
SCENE II.] 2'HE- CHANGELING. 141 
 
 I'm bound to inquire of him which holds his right. 
 Which never could come fairly. 
 
 Als. You must look 
 To answer for that word, sir, 
 
 Tom. Fear you not, 
 I'll have it ready drawn at our next meeting. 
 Keep your day solemn; farewell, I disturb it not; 
 I'll bear the smart with patience for a time,. \Exit. 
 
 Ah. 'Tis somewhat ominous this ; a quarrel entered 
 Upon this day ; my innocence relieves me. 
 
 Enter Jasperino. 
 
 I should be wondrous sad else. — Jasperino, ' 
 I've news to tell thee, strange news. 
 
 Jasp. I ha' some too, 
 I think as strange as yours : would I might keep 
 Mine, so my faith and friendship might be kept in't ! 
 Faith, sir, dispense a little with my zeal, 
 And let it cool in this. 
 
 Als. This puts me on, 
 And blames thee for thy slowness. 
 
 Jas. All may prove nothing, 
 Only Jl friendly fear that leapt from me, sir. 
 
 Als. No question, 't may prove nothing ; let's partake 
 it though. 
 
 Jas. 'Twas Diaphanta's chance — for to that wench 
 I pretend ' honest love, and she deserves it — 
 To leave me in a back part of the house, 
 A place we chose for private conference ; 
 She was no sooner gone, but instantly 
 I heard your bride's voice in the next room to me ; 
 And lending more attention, found De Flores 
 Louder than she. 
 
 Als. De Flores ! thou art out now. 
 
 Jas. You'll tell me more anon. 
 
 Als. Still I'll prevent ' thee, 
 
 ' Offer. ^ Anticipate. 
 
142 THE CHANGELING. [act iv. 
 
 The very sight of him is poison to her. 
 
 Jas. That made me stagger too ; but Diaphanta 
 At her return confirmed it. 
 
 Als. Diaphanta ! 
 
 Jas. Then fell we both to listen, arid words passed 
 Like those that challenge interest in a woman. 
 
 Als. Peace; quench thy zeal, 'tis dangerous to thy 
 bosom. 
 
 Jas. Then truth is full of peril. 
 
 Als. Such truths are. 
 O, were she the sole glory of the earth, 
 Had eyes that could shoot fire into king's breasts. 
 And touched,' she sleeps not here ! yet I have time. 
 Though night be near, to be resolved hereof; 
 And, prithee, do not weigh me by my passions. 
 
 Jas. I never weighed friend so. 
 
 Als. Done charitably ! 
 That key will lead thee to a pretty secret, \Giving key. 
 By a Chaldean taught me, and I have 
 My study upon some : bring from my closet 
 A glass inscribed there with the letter M, 
 And question not my purpose. 
 
 Jas. It shall be done, sir. , \_Exit. 
 
 Als. How can this hang together ? not an hour since 
 Her woman came pleading her lady's fears, 
 DeUvered her for the most timorous virgin 
 That ever shrunk at man's name, and so modest. 
 She charged her weep out her request to me, 
 That she might come obscurely to my bosom. 
 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
 Beat. All things go well; my woman's preparing yonder 
 For her sweet voyage, which grieves me to lose ; 
 Necessity compels it; I lose all else. \Aside. 
 
 Als. Tush ! modesty's shrine is set in yonder forehead : 
 I cannot be too sure though. \Aside?\ — My Joanna ! 
 
 ' Tainted. 
 
SCENE II.] THE CHANGELING. 143 
 
 Beat. Sir, I was bold, to weep a message to you ; 
 Pardon my modest fears. 
 
 Als. The dove's not meeker ; 
 She's abused, questionless. \Aside. 
 
 Re-enter Jasperino with vial. 
 
 O, are you come, sir ? 
 
 Beat. The glass, upon my life ! I see the letter. \Aside 
 
 /as. Sir, this is M. [Giving vial. 
 
 Als. 'Tis it. 
 
 Beat. I am suspected. [Aside. 
 
 Als. How fitly our bride comes to partake with us ! 
 
 Beat. What is't, my lord ? 
 
 Als. No hurt. 
 
 Beat. Sir, pardon me, 
 I seldom taste of any composition. 
 
 Als. But this, upon my warrant, you shall venture on. 
 
 Beat. I fear 'twill make me ill. 
 
 Als. Heaven forbid that. 
 
 Beat. I'm put now to my cunning : th' effects I know. 
 If I can now but feign 'em handsomely. [Aside, then drinks. 
 
 Als. It has that secret virtue, it ne'er missed, sir. 
 Upon a virgin. 
 
 /as. Treble-qualitied ? [Beatrice gapes and sneezes. 
 
 Als. By all that's virtuous it takes there ! proceeds ! 
 
 /as. This is the strangest trick to know a maid by. 
 
 Beat. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 You have given me joy of heart to drink, my lord. 
 
 Als. No, thou hast given me such joy of heart, 
 That never can be blasted. 
 
 Beat. What's the matter, sir? 
 
 Als. See now 'tis settled in a melancholy ; 
 Keeps both the time and method. [Aside."] — My Joanna, 
 Chaste as the breath of Heaven, or morning's womb. 
 That brings the day forth ! thus my love encloses thee. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ' II i nn cocee eog " ■ 
 
144 1'HE CHANGELIRG. [act iv. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 A Room in the House (t/" Alibius. 
 
 Enter Isabella and Lollio. 
 
 Isa. O Heaven ! is this the waning moon ? 
 Does love turn fool, run mad, and all at once ? 
 Sirrah, here's a madman, akin to the fool too, 
 A lunatic lover. 
 
 LoL No, no, not he I brought the letter from. 
 
 Isa. Compare his inside with his out, and tell me. 
 
 Lol. The out's mad, I'm sure of that ; I had a taste on't. 
 
 Isa. {reads letter.] " To the bright Andromeda, chief 
 chambermaid, to the Knight of the Sun, at the sign of 
 Scorpio, in the middle region, sent by the bellows-mender 
 of^olus. Pay the post." 
 
 lot. This is stark madness ! 
 
 Isa. Now mark the inside. . . 
 
 [Reads.] " Sweet lady, having now cast off this counterfeit 
 cover of a madman, I appear to your best judgment a 
 true and faithful lover of your beauty." 
 
 Lot. He is mad still. 
 
 Isa. [reads.] " If any fault you find, chide those per- 
 fections in you which have made me imperfect; 'tis 
 the same sun that causeth to grow and enforceth to 
 wither " 
 
 Zo/. O rogue ! 
 
 Isa. [reads.] " Shapes and transhapes, destroys and 
 builds again : I come in winter to you, dismantled of my 
 proper ornaments ; by the sweet splendour of your cheer- 
 ful smiles, I spring and live a lover." 
 
 lot. Mad rascal still ! 
 
 Isa. [reads.] "Tread him not under foot, that shall 
 appear an honour to your bounties. ' I remain — mad till 
 I speak with you, from whom I expect my cure, yours all, 
 or one beside himself, Franciscus." 
 
 lot. You are like to have a fine time on't : mv master 
 
SCENE III.] THE CHANGELING. 145 
 
 and I may give over our professions ; I do not think but 
 you can cure fools and madmen faster than we, with\ 
 .little pains too. 
 
 Isa. Very likely. 
 
 Lol. One thing I must tell you, mistress ; you perceive 
 that I am privy to your skill ; if I ftnd you minister once, 
 and set up the trade, -I put in for my thirds ; I shall be 
 mad or fool else. 
 
 Jsa. The first place is thine, believe it, LolHo, 
 If I do fall. 
 
 Lol. I fall upon you. 
 
 Isa. So. 
 
 Lol. Well, I stand to my venture. 
 
 Isa. But thy counsel now ; how shall I deal with 
 'em? 
 
 Lol. Why, do you mean to deal with em ? 
 
 Isa. Nay, the fair understanding, how to use 'em. 
 
 Lol. Abuse 'em ! that's the way to mad the fool, and 
 make a fool of the madman, and then you use 'em 
 kindly. 
 
 Isa. 'Tis easy, I'll practise ; do thou observe it ; 
 The key of thy wardrobe. 
 
 Lol. There \^gives key] ; fit yourself for 'era, and I'll fit 
 'em both for you. 
 
 Isa, Take thou no further notice than the outside. 
 
 Lol. Not an inch [Sxti Isabella] ; I'll put you to the 
 inside. 
 
 Snfer Alibius. 
 
 AM. LoUio, art there? will all be perfect, think'st thou? 
 To-morrow night, as if to close up the 
 Solemnity, Vermandero expects us. 
 
 Lol. I mistrust the madmen most ; the fools will do 
 well enough; I have taken pains with them. 
 
 Ali^. Tush ! they cannot miss ; the more absurdity. 
 The more commends it, so no rough behaviours 
 Affright the ladies ; they're nice things, thou knowest. 
 
 Zol. You ne^d not fear, sir ; so Ipn^ as we are there 
 
 Mid. L 
 
•146 THk CHANGELING. [act iv. 
 
 with our commanding pizzles', they'll be as tame as the 
 ladies themselves. 
 
 Alib. I'll see them once more rehearse before they 
 
 go- 
 
 Lol. I was about it, sir : look you to the nmdmen's 
 morris, and let me alone with the other : there is one or 
 two that I mistrust their footing ; I'll instruct them, and 
 then they shall rehearse the whole measure. 
 
 Alib. Do so ; I'll see the music prepared : but, Lollio, 
 By the way, how does my wife brook her restraint ? 
 Does she not grudge at it ? 
 
 Lol. So, so ; she takes some pleasure in the house, she 
 would abroad else ; you must allow her a little more 
 length, she's kept too short. 
 
 Alib. She shall along to Vermandero's with us, 
 That will serve her for a month's liberty. 
 
 Lol. What's that on your face, sir ? 
 
 Alib. Where, I.ollio ? I see nothing. 
 
 Lol. Cry you mercy, sir, 'tis your nose ; it showed like 
 the trunk of a young elephant. 
 
 Alib. Away, rascal ! I'll prepare the music, LolHo. 
 
 Lol. Do, sir, and I'll dance the whilst, [^a;// Alibius.] 
 — Tony, where art thou, Tony ? 
 
 Enter Antonio. 
 
 Ant. Here, cousin; where art thou? 
 Lol. Come, Tony, the footmanship I taught you. 
 Ant. I had rather ride, cousin. 
 
 Lol. Ay, a whip take you ! but I'll keep you out; vault 
 in : look you, Tony ; fa, la, la, la, la. \pances. 
 
 Ant. Fa, la, la, la, la. \Sings and dances. 
 
 Lol. There, an honour. 
 Ant. Is this an honour, coz ? 
 
 ' In Ti€^i<tx'%Wonderofa Kingdom, 1<yixea.\Ms brother says 
 that he has been taken by the Turks and chained to the oar : 
 " If thou wouldst know more, read it on my back, 
 Printed with the bull's pizzle," 
 
SCENE III.] THE CHANGELING. 147 
 
 Lol. Yes, an it please your worship. , 
 
 Ant. Does honour bend in the hams, coz? 
 
 Lol. Marry does it, as low as worship, squireship, nay, 
 yeomanry itself sometimes, from whence it first stiffened : 
 there rise, a caper. 
 
 Ant. Caper after an honour, coz ? 
 
 Lol. Very proper, for honour is but a caper, rises as 
 fast and high, has a knee or two, and falls to th' ground 
 again : you can remember your figure, Tony ? 
 
 Ant. Yes, cousin ; when I see thy figure^ I can remember 
 mine. \^Exit Lollio. 
 
 Re-enter Isabf.lla, dressed as a i7iadwoman. 
 
 Isa. Hey, how he treads the air ! shough, shough, 
 t'other way ! he burns his wings else : here's wax enough 
 below, Icarus, more than will he cancelled these eigh- 
 teerL moons : he's down, he's down ! what a terrible fall 
 he had ! 
 
 Stand up, thou son of Cretan Dsedalus, 
 And let us tread the lower labyrinth ; 
 I'll bring thee to the clue. 
 
 Ant. Prithee, coz, let me alone. 
 
 Isa. Art thoii not drowned? 
 About thy head I saw a heap of clouds 
 AVrapt like a Turkish turban ; on thy back 
 A crooked chamelonrcoloured rainbow hung 
 Like a tiara down unto thy hams : 
 Let me suck out those billows in thy belly ; 
 Hark, how they roar and rumble in the straits ! 
 Bless thee from the pirates ! 
 
 Ant. Pox upon you, let me alone ! 
 - Isa. AVhy shouldst thou mount so high as Mercur)', 
 Unless thou hadst reversion of his place ? 
 Stay in the moon with me, Endymion, 
 And we will rule these wild rebellious waves, 
 That would have drowned my love. 
 
 Ant. I'll kick thee,, if 
 
148 THE CHANGELING. [act rv. 
 
 Again thou touch me, thou wild unshapeii antic j 
 I am no fool, you bedlam ! 
 
 Isa. But you are, as sure as I am mad : 
 Have I put on this habit of a frantic. 
 With love as full of fury, to beguile 
 The nimble eye of watchful jealousy, 
 And am I thus rewarded ? 
 
 Ant.. Ha ! dearest beauty ! 
 
 Isa. No, I have no beauty now, 
 Nor never had but what was in my garments : 
 You a quick-sighted lover ! come not near me : 
 Keep your caparisons, you're aptly clad ; 
 I came a feigner, to return stark mad. 
 
 Ant. Stay, or I shall change condition, 
 And become as you are. \Exit Isabella. 
 
 Re-enter Lollio. 
 L'ol. Why, Tony, whither now ? why, fopl- 
 
 Ant. Whose fool, usher of idiots ? you coxcomb ! 
 I have fooled too much. 
 
 Lol. You were best be mad another while then. 
 
 Ant. So I am, stark mad ; I have cause enough ; 
 And I could throw the full effects on thee. 
 And beat thee like a fury. 
 
 Lol. Do not, do not ; I shall not forbear the gentle- 
 man under the fool, if you do : alas ! I saw through your 
 fox-skin before now ! Come, I can give you comfort ; 
 my mistress loves you ; and there is as arrant a mad- 
 man i' th' house as you are a fool, your rival, whom she 
 loves not ; if after the masque we can rid her of him, 
 you earn her love, she says, and the fool shall ride her. 
 
 Ant. May I believe thee? 
 
 Lol. Yes, or you may choose whether you will or no. 
 
 Ant. She's eased of him ; I've a good quarrel on't. 
 
 Lol. Well, keep your old station yet, and be quiet. 
 
 Ant. Tell her I will deserve her love. \Exit. 
 
 Lol. And you are like to have your desert. 
 
SCENE III.] THE CHANGELING. 149 
 
 Enter Franciscus. 
 
 Fran. \singsl\ " Down, down, down a-down a-down," — 
 and then with a horse-trick 
 To kick Latona's forehead, and break her bowstring. 
 
 Lol. This is t'other counterfeit ; I'll put him out of his 
 humour. \Aside. Takes out a letter and reads.'\ " Sweet 
 lady, having now cast this counterfeit cover of a mad- 
 man, I appear to your best judgment a true and faithful 
 lover of your beauty." This is pretty well for a madman. 
 
 Fran. Ha ! what's that ? 
 
 Lot. [reads.] "Chide those perfections in you which 
 have made me imperfect." 
 
 Fran. I am discovered to the fool. 
 
 Zo/. I hope to discover the fool in you ere I have 
 done with you. [Jieads.^ " Yours all, or one beside him- 
 self, Franciscus." This madman will mend sure. 
 
 Fran. What do you read, sirrah ? 
 
 Zp/. Your destiny, sir ; you'll be hanged for this trick, 
 and another that I know. 
 
 Fran. Art thou of counsel with thy mistress ? 
 
 Zot. Next her apron-strings. 
 
 Fran. Give me thy hand. 
 
 Zo/. Stay, let me put yours in my pocket first [putting 
 letter into his pocket] : your hand is true,' is it not? it will 
 not pick ? I partly fear it, because I think it does lie. 
 
 Fran. Not in a syllable. 
 
 Ij)1. So if you love my mistress so well as you have 
 handled the matter here, you are like to be cured of 
 your madness. 
 
 Fran. And none but she can cure it. 
 
 Zol. Well, I'll give you over then, and she shall cast 
 your water next. 
 
 Fran. Take for thy pains past. \Gives him money. 
 
 Lol. I shall deserve more, sir, I hope : my mistress 
 loves you, but must have some proof of your love to her. 
 
 1 Honest. 
 
150 THE CHANGELING. [ACT IV. 
 
 Fran. There I meet my wishes. 
 
 Lol. That will not serve, you must meet her enemy 
 and yours. 
 
 Fran. He's dead already. 
 
 Lol. Will you tell me that, and I parted but now with 
 him ? 
 
 Fran. Show me the man. 
 
 Lol. Ay, that's a right course now ; see him before 
 you kill him, in any case ; and yet it needs not go so far 
 neither, 'tis but a fool that haunts the house and my mis- 
 tress in the shape of an idiot ; bang but his fool's coat 
 well-favouredly, and 'tis well. 
 
 Fran. Soundly, soundly ! 
 
 Lol. Only reserve him till tlie masque be past ; and if 
 you find him not now in the dance yourself, I'll show 
 you- In, in ! my master ! [Dancing. 
 
 Fran. He handles him like a feather. Hey ! [Exit. 
 
 Enter Alibius. 
 
 Alib. Well said : m a readiness, Lollio ? 
 
 Lol. Yes, sir. 
 
 Alib. Away then, and guide them in, Lollio : 
 Entreat your mistress to see this sight. 
 Hark, is there not one incurable fool 
 That might be begged ? ' I have friends. 
 
 Lol. I have him for you, 
 One that shall deserve it too. [Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Isabella : then re-enter Lollio with the 
 madmen and fools, who dance. 
 Alib. Good boy, Lollio ! 
 Tis perfect : well, fit but once these strains. 
 We shall have coin and credit for our pains. [Exeunt. 
 
 ' Begging a person for a fool, meant applying to be his guardian, 
 to whom the profits of-his lands and the custody of his person were 
 granted by the king. 
 
ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Gallery in the Castle. 
 
 Enter Beatrice : a clock strikes one. 
 
 EAT. One struck, and yet she lies by't ! 
 
 O my fears ! 
 This strumpet serves her own ends, 'tis 
 
 apparent now, ■■* 
 
 Devours the pleasure with a greedy 
 appetite. 
 
 And never minds my'honour or my peace-. 
 Makes havoc of my right ; but she pays dearly for't ; 
 No trusting of her life with such a secret. 
 That cannot rule her blood to keep her promise ; 
 Beside, I've some suspicion of her faith to me, 
 Because I was suspected of my lord, 
 And it must come from her \clock strikes two\ : hark ! by 
 
 my horrors, 
 Another clock strikes two ! 
 
 Enter De Fl6res. 
 
 De F. Hist ! where are you ? 
 
 Beat. De Flores? 
 
 De F. Ay : is she hot come from him yet ? 
 
 Beat. As I'm a living soul, not ! 
 
 De F. Sure the devil 
 Hath sowed his itch within her ; who would trust 
 A waiting-woman ? 
 ' Beat. I must trust somebody. 
 
1 52 THE CHANGELING. [act V. 
 
 De F. Tush ! they're termagants ; 
 Especially when they fall upon their masters 
 And have their ladies' first-fruits ; they're mad whelps, 
 You cannot stave 'em off from game royal : then 
 You are so rash and hardy, ask jio counsel ; 
 And I could have helped you to a 'pothecary's daughter 
 Would have fall'n off before eleven, and thanked you too. 
 
 Beat. O me, not yet ! this whore forgets herself. 
 
 De F. The rascal fares so well : look, you're undone ; 
 The day-star, by this hand ! see Phosphorus plain yonder. 
 
 Beat. Advise me now to fall upon some ruin ; 
 There is no counsel safe else. 
 
 De F. Peace ! I ha't now, 
 For we must force a rising, there's no remedy. 
 
 Beat. How ? .take heed of that. 
 
 De F. Tush ! be you quiet, or else give over all. 
 
 Beat. Prithee, I ha' done then. 
 
 De F. This is my reach : ' I'll set 
 Some part a-fire of Diaphanta's chamber. 
 
 Beat. How ? fire, sir ? that may endanger the whole 
 house. 
 
 De F. You talk of danger when your fame's on fire ? 
 
 Beat. That's true ; do what thou wilt now. 
 
 De F. Tush ! I aim 
 At a most rich success strikes all dead sure : 
 The chimney being a-fire, and some light parcels 
 Of the least danger in her chamber only. 
 If Diaphanta should be met by chance then 
 Far from her lodgirig, Tvhich is now suspicious, 
 It would be thought her fears and affrights then 
 Drove her to seek for succour; if not seen 
 Or met at all, as that's the lik,eliest, 
 For her own shame she'll hasten towards her lodging ; 
 I will be ready with a piece high-charged, 
 As 'twere to cleanse the chimney, there 'tis proper now 
 But she shall be the mark. 
 
 1 Plan. 
 
SCENE 1.] THE CHANGELING. 153 
 
 Beat. I'm forced to love thee now, 
 'Cause thou provid'st so carefully for ray honour. 
 
 De F. 'Slid, it concerns the safety of us both, 
 Our pleasure and continuance. 
 
 Beat. One word now, prithee ; 
 How for the servants ? 
 
 De F. I will despatch them, 
 Some one way, some another in the hurry, 
 For buckets, hooks, ladders ; fear not you, 
 The deed shall find its time ; and I've thought since 
 Upon a safe conveyance for the body too : 
 How this fire purifies wit ! watch you your minute. 
 
 Beat. Fear keeps my soul upon't, I cannot stray from't. 
 
 Entey Ghost of Alonzo. 
 
 De F. Ha 1 what art thou that tak'st away, the light 
 Betwixt that star and me ? I dread thee not : 
 'Twas but a mist of conscience ; all's clear again. \Exit. 
 
 Beat. Who's that, De Flores ? bless me, it slides by ! 
 
 \Exit Ghost. 
 Some ill thing haunts the house ; 't has left behind it 
 A shivering sweat upon me ; I'm afraid now : 
 This night hath been so tedious ! O this strumpet ! 
 Had she a thousand lives," he should not leave her 
 Till he had destroyed the last. List ! O my terrors ! 
 
 \Clock strikes three. 
 Three struck by Sebastian's ! 
 
 Voices \ivithiii\. Fire, fire, fire ! 
 
 Beat. Already ? how rare is that man's speed ! 
 How heartily he' serves me ! his face loathes one ; 
 But look upon his care, who would not love him ? 
 The east is not more beauteous than his service. 
 
 Voices [within]. Fire, fire, fire ! 
 
 Re-enter De FloreS ; Servants pass over the stage. 
 
 De F. Away, despatch 1 hooks, buckets, ladders ! that's 
 well said. \BeU rings within. 
 
154 THE CHANGELING. [act v. 
 
 The fire-bell rings ; the chimney works, my charge ; 
 The piece is ready. \_Exit. 
 
 Beat. Here's a man worth loving ! 
 
 Enter Diaphanta. 
 
 you're a jewel ! 
 
 Dia. Pardon frailty, madam ; 
 In troth, I was so well, I even forgot myself. 
 
 Beat. You've made trim work ! 
 
 Dia. What? 
 
 Beat. Hie quickly to your chamber ; 
 Your reward follows you. 
 
 Dia. I never made 
 So sweet a bargain. \Exit. 
 
 Enter Alsemero. 
 
 Als. 0, my dear Joanna, 
 Alas ! art thou risen too ? I was coming. 
 My absolute treasure ! 
 
 Beat. When I missed you, 
 
 1 could not choose but follow. 
 Als. Thou'rt all sweetness : 
 
 The fire is not so dangerous. 
 Beat. Think, you so, sir ? 
 Als I prithee, tremble not ; believe me, 'tis not. 
 
 Enter Vermandero and Jasperino. 
 
 Ver. O bless my house and me ! 
 Als. My lord your father. 
 
 Re-enter De Flores with a gun. 
 
 Ver. Knave, whither goes that piece ? 
 De F. To scour the chimney. 
 
 Ver. O, well said, well said ! \Exit De Flores. 
 
 That fellow's good on all occasions. 
 
 Beat. A Wondrous necessary man, my lord. 
 
 Ver. He hath a ready wit ; he's worth 'em all, sir ; 
 
SCENE I.] THE CHANGELING. 155 
 
 Dog at a house of fire ; I ha' seen him singed ere now. — 
 
 \Gun fired offwitlun. 
 Ha, there he goes ! 
 
 Beat. 'Tis done ! \Aside. 
 
 Als. Come, sweet, to bed now ; 
 Alas ! thou wilt get cold. 
 
 Beat. Alas ! the fear keeps that out ! 
 My heart will find no quiet till I hear 
 How Diaphanta, my poor woman, fares ; 
 It is her chamber, sir, her lodging chamber. 
 
 Ver. How should the fire come there ? 
 
 Beat. As good a soul as ever lady countenanced. 
 But in her chamber negligent and heavy : 
 She 'scaped a mine twice. 
 
 Ver. Twice ? 
 
 Beat. Strangely twice, sir. 
 
 Ver. Those sleepy sluts are dangerous in a house. 
 An they be ne'er so good. 
 
 Re-enter De Flores. 
 
 De F. O poor virginity. 
 Thou hast paid dearly for't ! 
 
 Ver. Bless us, what's that ? 
 
 De F. A thing you all knew once, Diaphanta's burnt. 
 , Beat. My woman ! O my woman ! 
 
 De F. Now the flames 
 Are greedy of her ; burnt, burnt, burnt to death, sir ! 
 
 Beat. O rny presaging soul ! 
 
 Als. Not a tear more ! 
 I charge you by the last embrace I gave you 
 In bed, before this raised us. 
 
 Beat. Now you tie me ; 
 Were it my sister, now she gets no more. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 Ver. How now ? 
 Ser. All danger's past ; you may now take 
 
iS6 THE CHANGELING. [act V, 
 
 Your rests, my lords ; the fire is throughly quenched : 
 Ah, poor gentlewoman, how soon was she stifled ! 
 
 Beat. De Flores, what is left of her inter, 
 And we as mourners all will follow her : 
 I will entreat that honour to my servant 
 Even of my lord himself. 
 
 Als. Command it, sweetness. 
 
 Beat. Which of you spied the fire first ? 
 
 De F. 'Twas I, madam. 
 
 Beat. And took such pains in't too? a double goodness ! 
 'Twere well he were rewarded. 
 
 Ver. He shall be. — 
 De Flores, call upon me. 
 
 Als. And upon me, sir. 
 
 [Exewtt all except De Flores. 
 
 De F. Rewarded ? precious ! here's a trick beyond me : 
 I see in all bouts, both of sport and wit. 
 Always a woman strives for the last hit. {Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Another Apartment in the Castle. 
 
 Enter Tomaso. 
 
 Tom. I cannot taste the benefits of hfe 
 With the same relish I was wont to do : 
 Man I grow weary of, and hold his fellowship 
 A treacherous bloody friendship ; and because 
 I'm ignorant in whom my wrath should settle, 
 I must think all men villains, and the next 
 I meet, whoe'er he be, the murderer 
 Of my most worthy brother. Ha ! what's he ? 
 
 De Yv.OKY.i passes across the stage. 
 O, the fellow that some call honest De Flores ; 
 But methinks honesty was hard bested 
 
SCENE II.] THE CHANGELING. 157 
 
 To come here for a lodging ; as if a queen 
 
 Should make her palace of a pest-house : 
 
 I find a contrariety in nature 
 
 Betwixt that face and me ; the least occasion 
 
 Would give me game upon him ; yet he's so foul 
 
 One would scarce touch him with a sword he loved 
 
 And made account of; so most deadly venomous, 
 
 He would go near to poison any weapon 
 
 That should draw blood on him ; one must resolve 
 
 Never to use that sword again in fight 
 
 In way of honest manhood that strikes him ; 
 
 Some river must devour it ; 'twere not fit 
 
 That any man should find it. What, again? 
 
 He-enter De Flo res. 
 
 He walks a' purpose by, sure," to choke me up, 
 T' infect my blood. 
 
 De F. My worthy noble lord ! 
 
 Tom. Dost oifer to come near and breathe upon me ? 
 
 \_Strikes him. 
 
 De F. A blow ! \_Draws. 
 
 Tom. Yea^ are you so prepared ? 
 I'll rather like a soldier die by the sword, 
 Than like a politician by thy poison, {Draws. 
 
 De F. Hold, my lord, as you are honourable ! 
 
 Tom. All slaves that kill by poison are still cowards. 
 >DeF. I cannot strike; I see his brother's wounds 
 Fresh bleeding in his eye, as in a crystal. — • [Aside. 
 
 I will not question this, I know you're noble ; 
 I take my injury with thanks given, sir. 
 Like a wise lawyer, and as a favour 
 Will wear it for the worthy hand that gave it. — • 
 Why this from him that yesterday appeared 
 So strangely loving to me ? 
 O, but instinct is of a subtler strain ! 
 Guilt must not walk so near his lodge again ; 
 He came near me now. [Aside and exit. 
 
158 THE CHANGELING. [act v. 
 
 Tom. All league with mankind I renounce for ever, 
 Till I find this murderer ; not so much 
 As common courtesy but I'll lock up ; 
 For in the state of ignorance I live in, 
 A brother may salute his brother's murderer, 
 •And wish good speed to the villain in a greeting. 
 
 Enter Vermandero, Alibius, and Isabella. 
 
 Ver. Noble Piracquo ! 
 
 To7n. Pray, keep on your way, sir j 
 I've nothing to say to you. 
 
 Ver. Comforts bless you, sir ! 
 
 Tom. I've forsworn compliment, in troth I have, sir ; 
 As you are merely man, I have not left 
 A good wish for you, nor for any here. 
 
 Ver. Unless you be so far in love with grief. 
 You will not part from't upon any terms. 
 We bring that news will make a welcome for us. 
 
 Tom. What news can that be ? 
 
 Ver. Throw no scornful smile 
 Upon the zeal I bring you, 'tis worth more, sir ; 
 Two of the chiefest men I kept about me 
 I hide not from the law of your just vengeance. 
 
 Tom. Ha! 
 
 Ver. To give your peace more ample satisfaction, 
 Thank these discoverers. 
 
 Tom. If you bring that calm. 
 Name but the manner I shall ask forgiveness in 
 For that contemptuous smile I threw upon you, 
 I'll perfect it with reverence that belongs 
 Unto a sacred altar. - {Kneels- 
 
 Ver. [raising him.] Good sir, rise ; 
 Why, now you overdo as much 'a this hand 
 As you fell short 'a t'other. — Speak, Alibius. 
 
 Alib. 'Twas my wife's fortune, as she is most lucky 
 At a discovery, to find out lately, 
 Within our hospital of fools and madmen, 
 
SCENE III.] THE CHANGELING. 159 
 
 Two counterfeits slipp'd into these disguises, 
 Their names Franciscus and Antonio. 
 
 Ver. Both mine, sir, and I ask no favour for 'em. 
 
 Alib. Now that which draws suspicion to their habits, 
 The time of their disguisings agrees justly 
 With the day of the murder. 
 
 Tom. O blest revelation ! 
 
 Ver. Nay, more, nay, more, sir — I'll not spare mine 
 In way of justice — they both feigned a journey [own 
 To Briamata, and so wrought out their leaves ; 
 My love was so abused in it. 
 
 Tom. Time's too precious 
 To run in waste now ; you have brought a peace 
 The riches of five kingdoms could not purchase : 
 Be my most happy conduct ; I thirst for 'em : 
 Like subtle lightning will I find about 'em. 
 And melt their marrow in 'em. \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Alsemero's Afartment in the Castle. 
 
 Enter Alsemero and Jasperino. 
 
 Jas. Your confidence, I'm sure, is now of proof; 
 The prospect from the garden has showed 
 Enough for deep suspicion. 
 
 Als. The black mask 
 That so continually was worn upon't 
 Condemns the face for ugly ere't be seen. 
 Her despite to him, and so seeming bottomless. 
 
 Jas. Touch it home then ; 'tis not a shallow probe 
 Can search this ulcer soundly ; I fear you'll find it 
 Full of corruption : 'tis fit I leave you. 
 She meets you opportunely from that walk ; 
 She took the back door at his parting with her. {Exit, 
 
i6o THE CHANGELING. [act y. 
 
 Als. Did my fate wait for this unhappy stroke 
 At my first sight of woman ? She is here. 
 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
 Beat. Alsemero ! 
 
 Als. How do you ? 
 
 Beat. How do I ? 
 Alas, sir ! how do you ? you look not well. 
 
 Als. You read me well enough, I am not well. 
 
 Beat. Not well, sir? is't in my power to better you? 
 
 Als. Yes. 
 
 Beat. Nay, then you're cured again. 
 
 Als. Pray, resolve me one question, lady. 
 
 Beat. If I can. 
 
 Als. None can so sure : are you honest ? 
 
 Beat. Ha, ha, ha ! that's a broad question, my lord. 
 
 Als. But that's not a modest answer, my lady : 
 Do you laugh ? my doubts are strong upon me. 
 
 Beat. 'Tis innocence that smiles, and no rough brow 
 Can take away the dimple in her cheek : 
 Say I should strain a tear to fill the vault. 
 Which would you give the better faith to ? 
 
 Als. 'Twere but hypocrisy of a sadder colour. 
 But the same stuff; neither your smiles nor tears 
 Shall move or flatter me from my belief: 
 You are a whore ! 
 
 Beat. What a horrid sound it hath ! 
 It blasts a beauty to deformity ; 
 Upon what face soever that breath falls, 
 It strikes it ugly : O, you have ruined 
 What you can ne'er repair again ! 
 
 Als. I'll all 
 Demolish, and seek out truth within you. 
 If there be any left ; let your sweet tongue 
 Prevent your heart's rifling ; there I'll ransack 
 And tear out my suspicion. 
 
 Beat. You may, sir ; 
 
SCENE HI.] Tlt£ CHANGELING. i6i 
 
 It is an easy passage ; yet, if you please, 
 Show me the ground whereon you lost your love ; 
 My spotless virtue may but tread on that 
 Before I perish. 
 
 Als. Unanswerable ; 
 A ground you cannot stand on ; you fall down 
 Beneath all grace and goodness when you set 
 Your ticklish heel on it : there was a visor 
 Over that cunning face, and that became you ; 
 Now impudence in triumph rides upon't ; 
 How comes this tender reconcilement else 
 'Twixt you and your despite, your rancorous loathing, 
 De Flores ? he that your eye was sore at sight of. 
 He's now become your arm's supporter, your 
 Lip's saint ! 
 
 Beat. Is there the cause ? 
 Als. Worse, your lust's devil. 
 Your adultery ! 
 
 Beat. Would any but. yourself say that, 
 'T would turn him to a villain ! 
 
 Als. It was witnessed 
 By the counsel of your bosom, Diaphanta. 
 Beat. Is your witness dead then ? 
 Als. 'Tis to be feared 
 It was the wages of her knowledge ; poor soul. 
 She lived not long after the discovery. 
 
 Beat. Then hear a story of not much less horror 
 Than this your false suspicion is beguiled with ; 
 To your bed's scandal I stand up innocence. 
 Which even the guilt of one black other deed 
 Will stand for proof of; your love has made me 
 A cruel murderess. 
 Als., Ha ! 
 
 Beat. A bloody one ; 
 I have kissed poison for it, stroked a serpent : 
 That thing of hate, worthy in my esteem 
 Of no better employment, and him most worthy 
 
 Mid, M 
 
i62 THE CHANGELING. [act v. 
 
 To be so employed, I caused to murder 
 That innocent Piracquo, having no 
 Better means than that worst to assure 
 Yourself to me. 
 
 Ah.. O, the place itself e'er since 
 Has crying been for vengeance ! the temple, 
 Where blood and beauty first unlawfully 
 Fired their devotion and quenched the right one ; 
 'Twas in my fears at first, 'twill have it now : 
 O, thou art all deformed ! 
 
 Beat. Forget not, sir, 
 It for your sake was done : shall greater dangers 
 Make the less welcome ? 
 
 Ah. O, thou should'st have gone 
 A thousand leagues about to have avoided 
 This dangerous bridge of blood ! here we are lost. 
 
 Beat. Remember, I am true unto your bed. 
 
 Ah. The bed itself's a charnel, the sheets shrouds 
 For murdered carcasses. It must ask pause 
 What I must do in this ; meantime you shall 
 Be my prisoner only : enter my closet ; 
 
 \Exit Beatrice into closet. 
 I'll be your keeper yet. O, in what part 
 Of this sad story shall I first begin ? Ha ! 
 This same fellow has put me in. — 
 
 E7iter De Flores. 
 
 De Flores ! 
 
 De F. Noble Alsemero ! 
 
 Ah. I can tell you 
 News, sir ; my wife has her commended to you. 
 
 De F. That's news indeed, my lord ; I think she would 
 Commend me to the gallows if she could, 
 She ever loved me so well ; I thank her. 
 
 Ah. What's this blood upon your band, De Flores ? 
 
 De F. Blood 1 no, sure 'twas washed since. 
 
 Ah. Since when, man ? 
 
SCENE m.] THE CHANGELING. 163 
 
 De F. Since t'other day I got a knock 
 In a sword-and-dagger school ; I think 'tis out. 
 
 Als. Yes, 'tis almost out, but 'tis perceived though. 
 I had forgot my message ; this it is, 
 What price goes murder ? 
 
 BeF. How, sir? 
 
 Als. I ask you, sir ; 
 . My wife's behindhand with you, she tells me, 
 For a brave bloody blow you gave for her sake 
 Upon Piracquo. 
 
 De F. Upon? 'twas quite through him sure : 
 Has she confessed it ? 
 
 Als. As sure as death to both of you ; 
 And much more than that. 
 
 De F. It could not be much more ; 
 'Twas but one thing, and that — she is a whore. 
 
 Als. It could not choose but follow : O cunning devils ! 
 How should blind men know you froni fair-faced saints ? 
 
 Beat. \wiihin.\ He lies ! the villain does belie me ! 
 
 De F. Let me go to her, sir. 
 
 Als. Nay, you shall to her. — 
 Peace, crying crocodile, your sounds are heard ; 
 Take your prey to you ; — get you in to her, sir : 
 
 [Exit De Flores into closet. 
 I'll be your pander now ; rehearse again 
 Your scene of lust, that you may be perfect 
 When you shall come to act it to the black audience, 
 Where howls and gnashings shall be music to you : 
 Clip^ your adulteress freely, 'tis the pilot 
 Will guide you to the mare mortuum, 
 Where you shall sink to fathoms bottomless. 
 
 Enter Vermandero, Tomaso, Alibius, Isabella, 
 Feanciscus, and Antonio. 
 
 Ver. O Alsemero ! I've a wonder for you. 
 Als. No, sir, 'tis I, I have a wonder for you. 
 
 1 Embrace. 
 
i64 THE CHANGELING. [act V. 
 
 Ver. I have suspicion near as proof itself 
 For Piracquo's murder. 
 
 Ah. Sir, I have proof 
 Beyond suspicion for Piracquo's murder. 
 
 Ver. Beseech you, hear me; these who have been 
 disguised 
 E'er since the deed was done. 
 
 Ah. I have two other 
 That were more close disguised than your two could 
 
 be 
 E'er since the deed were done. 
 
 Ver. You'll hear me — these mine own servants 
 
 Ah. Hear me — those nearer than your servants 
 That shall acquit them, and prove them guiltless. 
 
 Fran. That may be done with easy truth, sir, 
 
 Tom. How is my cause bandied through your delays ! 
 'Tis urgent in my blood and calls for haste ; 
 Give me a brother or alive or dead ; 
 Alive, a wife with him ; if dead, for both 
 A recompense, for murder and adultery. 
 
 Beat. [wMin.] 0,0,0! 
 
 Ah. Hark ! 'tis coming to you. 
 
 T)e F. \_withini\ Nay, I'll along for company. 
 
 Beat. [wMm.] O, O ! 
 
 Ver. What horrid sounds are these ? 
 
 Ah. Come forth, you twins 
 Of mischief ! 
 
 Re-enter De Flores, dragging in Beatrice wounded. 
 
 De F. Here we are ; if you have any more 
 To say to us, speak quickly, I shall not 
 Give you the hearing else ; I am so stout yet, 
 And so, I think, that broken rib of mankind. 
 
 Ver. An host of enemies entered my citadel 
 Could not amaze like this : Joanna ! Beatrice ! Joanna ! 
 
 Beat. O, come not near me, sir, I shall defile you ! 
 I that am of your blood was taken from you 
 
SCENE m.] THE CHANGELING. 165 
 
 For your better health ; look no more upon't, 
 But cast it to the ground regardlessly, 
 Let the common sewer take it from distinction : 
 Beneath the stars, upon yon meteor 
 
 [Pointing to De Flores. 
 Ever hung my fate, 'mongst things corruptible; 
 I ne'er could pluck it from him ; ray loathing 
 Was prophet to the rest, but ne'er believed : 
 Mine honour fell with him, and now my life. — 
 Alsemero, I'm a stranger to your bed ; 
 Your bed was cozened on the nuptial night, 
 For which your false bride died. 
 
 Ah. Diaphanta? 
 
 De F. Yes, and the while I coupled with your mate 
 At barley-break ; now we are left in hell.' 
 
 Ver. We are all there, it circumscribes us here. 
 
 De F. I loved this woman in spite of her heart : 
 Her love I earned out of Piracquo's murder. 
 
 Tom. Ha ! my brother's murderer ? 
 
 De F. Yes, and her honour's prize 
 Was my reward ; I thank life for nothing 
 But that pleasure ; it was so sweet to me, 
 That I have drunk up all, left none behind 
 For any man to pledge me. 
 
 Ver. Horrid villain ! 
 Keep life in him for further tortures. 
 
 DeF. No ! 
 I can prevent you ; here's my pen-knife still ; 
 It is but one thread more [stabbing himself], and now 'tis 
 
 cut. — 
 Make haste, Joanna, by that token to thee. 
 Canst not forget, so lately put in mind ; 
 I would not go to leave thee far behind. [Dies. 
 
 Beat. Forgive me, Alsemero, all forgive ! 
 'Tis time to die when 'tis a shame to live. \Dies. 
 
 ' See note ante, p. 129. 
 
i66 THE CHANGELING. [act v. 
 
 Ver. O, my name's entered now in that record 
 Where till this fatal hour 'twas never read. 
 
 Als. Let it be blotted out; let your heart lose it, 
 And it can never look you in the face, 
 Nor tell a tale behind the back of life 
 To your dishonour ; justice hath so right 
 The guilty hit, that innocence is quit 
 By proclamation, and may joy again. — 
 Sir, you are sensible of what truth hath done ; 
 'Tis the best comfort that your grief can find. 
 
 Tom. Sir, I am satisfied ; my injuries 
 Lie dead before me ; I can exact no more, 
 Unless my soul were loose, and could o'ertake 
 Those black fugitives that are fled from hence. 
 To take a second vengeance; but there are wraths 
 Deeper than mine, 'tis to be feared, about 'em. 
 
 A/s. What an opacous body had that moon 
 That last changed on us ! here is beauty changed 
 To ugly whoredom ; here servant-obedience 
 To a master-sin, imperious murder ; 
 I, a supposed husband, changed embraces 
 With wantonness, — but that was paid before. — 
 Your change is come too, from an ignorant wrath 
 To knowing friendship. — Are there any more on's ? 
 
 Ant Yes, sir, I was changed too from a little ass as I 
 was to a great fool as I am ; and had like to ha' been 
 changed to the gallows, but that you know my innocence^ 
 always excuses me. 
 
 J^ran. I was changed from a little wit to be stark 
 mad. 
 Almost for the same purpose. 
 
 Isa. Your change is still behind. 
 But deserve best your transformation : 
 You are a jealous coxcomb, keep schools of folly, 
 And teach your scholars how to break your own head. 
 
 1 Idiocy. 
 
SCENE HI.] 
 
 THE CHANGELING. 
 
 167 
 
 Alib. I see all apparent, wife, and will change now 
 Into a better husband, and ne'er keep 
 Scholars that shall be wiser than myself. 
 
 Ah. Sir, you have yet a son's duty living, 
 Please you, accept it ; let that your sorrow. 
 As it goes from your eye, go from your heart, 
 Man and his sorrow at the grave must part. 
 
 Epilogue. 
 
 Ah. All we can do to comfort one another. 
 To stay a brother's sorrow for a brother, 
 To dry a child from the kind father's eyes. 
 Is to no purpose, it rather multiplies : 
 Your only smiles have power to cause re-live 
 The dead again, or in their rooms to give 
 Brother a new brother, father a child ; 
 If these appear, all griefs are reconciled. \Exeunt. 
 
 ~W" 
 
CHEdATSIVE. 
 
O record exists of the date when A 
 Chaste Maid m Cheajistiie vtas first 
 performed, although it is known to 
 have been often acted at the " Swan," 
 on the Bankside, by " the Lady Eliza- 
 beth's Servants " ; in 1630 it was pub- 
 lished in quarto, with Middleton's name on the title-page, 
 as " a Pleasant conceited Comedy neuer before printed."' 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Sir Walter Whorehound. 
 
 Sir Oliver Kix. 
 
 Touchwood senior. 
 
 Touchwood junior. 
 
 Allwit. 
 
 Yellowhammer, a goldsmitli. 
 
 Tim, his son. 
 
 Tutor to Tim. 
 
 Davy Dahanna, Sir Walter's poor kinsman"and 
 
 attendant. 
 Parson. 
 Wat ) 
 Nick I ^°"^ °^ ^'"^ Walter by Mistress Allwit. 
 
 Two Promoters. 
 Porter, Watermen, &c. 
 
 Lady Kix. 
 
 Mistress Touchwood, wife of Touchwood 
 senior. 
 
 Mistress Allwit. 
 
 Maudlin, wife of Yellowhammer. 
 
 Moll, her daughter. 
 
 Welshwoman, mistress to SIR W. WHOREHOUND. 
 
 Country Girl. 
 
 Susan. 
 
 Maid, Midwife, Nurses, Puritans, and other Gos- 
 sips, &c. 
 
 Scene — L on don. 
 
c^ chqaste m<iAiT> ivh; 
 
 CHEqATSIVE. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 Yellowhammer's Shop. 
 
 Enter Maudlin and Moll. 
 
 AUD. Have you played over all your 
 old lessons o' the virginals ?' 
 Moll. Yes. 
 
 Maud. Yes ? you are a dull maid a' 
 late; methinks you had. need have 
 somewhat to quicken your green sick- 
 ness — do you weep ? — a husband : had not such a piece 
 of flesh been ordained, what had us wives been good for ? 
 to make salads, or else cried up and .down for samphire. 
 To see the difference of these seasons ! when I was of 
 your youth, I was lightsome and quick two years before 
 I was married. You fit for a knight's bed ! drowsy-browed, 
 dull-eyed, drossy-spirited ! I hold my life you have for- 
 got your dancing : when was the dancer with you ? 
 Moll. The last week. 
 Maud. Last week? when I was of your bord' 
 
 ' The Elizabethan ancestor of the piano. 
 * i.e. Bore (of a gun), capacity. 
 
174 ^ CHA STB MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act i. 
 
 He missed me not a night ; I was kept at it ; 
 I took delight to learn, and he to teach me ; 
 Pretty brown gentleman ! he took pleasure in my com- 
 pany : 
 But you are dull, nothing comes nimbly from you ; 
 You dance like a plumber's daughter, and deserve 
 Two thousand pound in lead to your marriage, 
 And not in goldsmith's ware. 
 
 Enter Yellowhammer. 
 Yd. Now, what's the din 
 Betwixt mother and daughter, ha ? 
 
 Maud. Faith, small; 
 Telling your daughter, Mary, of her errors. 
 
 Yel. Errors ? nay, the city cannot hold you, wife. 
 But you inust needs fetch words from Westminster : 
 I ha' done, i'faith. 
 ' Has no attorney's clerk been here a' late. 
 And changed his half-crown-piece his mother sent him. 
 Or rather cozened you with a gilded twopence, 
 To bring the word in fashion for her faults 
 Or cracks in duty and obedience ? 
 Term 'em even so, sweet wife. 
 As there's no woman made without a flaw ; 
 Your purest lawns have frays, and cambrics bracks.' 
 
 Maud. But 'tis a husband solders up all cracks. 
 
 Moll. What, is he come, sir? 
 
 Yel. Sir Walter's come : he was met 
 At Holborn Bridge, and in his company 
 A proper fair young gentlewoman, which I guess. 
 By her red hair and other rank descriptions. 
 To be his landed niece, brought out of Wales, 
 Which Tim our son, the Cambridge boy, must marry : 
 'Tis a match of Sir Walter's own making, 
 To bind us to him and our heirs for ever. 
 
 Maud. We're honoured then, if this baggage would be 
 humble, 
 
 1 Flaws. 
 
SCENE I.] A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 1 75 
 
 And kiss him with devotion when he enters. 
 
 I cannot get her for my life 
 
 To instruct her hand thus, before and after, — 
 
 Which a knight will look for, — before and after : 
 
 I've told her still 'tis the waving of a woman 
 
 Does often move a man, and prevails strongly. 
 
 But, sweet, ha' you sent to Cambridge? has Tim word on't? 
 
 Yel. Had word just the day after, when you sent him 
 The silver spoon to eat his broth in the hall 
 Amongst the gentlemen commoners. 
 
 Maud. O, 'twas timely. 
 
 Enter Porter. 
 
 Yel. How now? 
 
 For. A letter from a gentleman in Cambridge. 
 
 [Gives letter to Yellowhammer. 
 
 Yel. O, one of Hobson's' porters : thou art welcome. — 
 I told thee, Maud, we should hear from Tim. \Reads?[ 
 Amantissimis carissimisque ambobus parentibiis, patri et 
 matri. 
 
 Maud. What's the matter ? 
 
 Yel. Nay, by my troth, I know not, ask not me : 
 He's grown too verbal ; this learning's a great witch. 
 
 Maud. Pray, let me see it ; I was wont to understand 
 him. \ReadsI\ Amantissimis carissimis, he has sent the 
 carrier's man, he says ; ambobus parentibus, for a pair of 
 boots ; fatri et matri, pay the porter, or it makes no 
 matter. 
 
 Por. Yes, by my faith, mistress ; there's no true con- 
 struction in that : I have took a great deal of pains, and 
 come Jirom the Bell sweating. Let me come to't, for I 
 was a scholar forty years ago ; 'tis thus, I warrant you : 
 [Heads.] Matri, it makes no matter ; ambobus parentibus, 
 for a pair of boots ; patri, pay the porter 3 amantissimis 
 
 ' The Cambridge carrier, for whom Milton wrote an epitaph and 
 who is immortalised in the proverb "Hobsou's choice," which 
 originated in his neyer allowing his customers to choose their 
 horses, the animals being always let out by him in succession. 
 
176 A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSWE. [act 1. 
 
 carissimis, he's the carrier's man, and his name is Sims ; 
 and there he says true, forsooth, my name is Sims 
 indeed; I have not forgot all my learning: a money- 
 matter, I thought I should hit on't. 
 
 Yel. Go, thou'rt an old fox; there's a tester' for thee. 
 
 \^Gives money. 
 
 For, If I see your worship at Goose-fair, I have a dish 
 of birds for you. 
 
 Yel. Why, dost dwell at Bow ? 
 
 For. All my lifetime, sir; I could ever say bo to a 
 goose. Farewell to your worship. \Exit. 
 
 Yel. A merry porter. 
 
 Maud. 'How can he choose but be so, 
 Coming witTi Cambridge letters from our son Tim. 
 
 Yel. What's here? maximus diligo ; faith, I must to 
 my learned counsel with this gear,^ 'twill ne'er be dis- 
 cerned else. 
 
 Maud. Go to my cousin then, at Inns of Court. 
 
 Yel. Fie, they are all for French, they speak no Latin. 
 
 Maud. The parson then will do it. 
 
 Yel. Nay, he disclaims it. 
 Calls Latin papistry, he will not deal with it.— 
 
 Enter a Gentleman. 
 
 What is't you lack, gentleman ? 
 Gent. Pray, weigh this chain. 
 
 \_Gives chain, ivhich Yellowhammer weighs. 
 
 Enter Sir Walter Whorehound, Welshwoman, and 
 Davy. 
 
 Sir Wal. Now, wench, thou art welcome 
 To the heart of the city of London. 
 Welsh. Dugat a whee. 
 
 Sir Wal. You can thank me in English, if you list. 
 Welsh. I can, sir, simply. 
 Sir Wal. 'Twill serve to pass, wench ; 
 
 ' Sixpence. « Business. 
 
SC£NE I.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 177 
 
 'Twas strange that I should lie with thee so often. 
 To leave thee vyithout English, that were unnatural. 
 I bring thee up to turn thee into gold, wench, 
 And make thy fortune shine like your bright trade ; 
 A goldsinith's shop sets out a city maid. — 
 Davy Dahanna, not a word. 
 
 Davy. Mum, mum, sir. 
 
 Sir Wal. Here you must pass for a pure virgin. 
 
 Davy. Pure Welsh virgin ! 
 She lost her maidenhead in Brecknockshire. \Aside. 
 
 Sir Wal. I hear you mumble, Davy. 
 
 Davy. I have teeth, sir ; 
 I need not mumble yet this forty years, 
 
 Sir Wal. The knave bites plaguily ! 
 
 Yel. What's your price, sir ? 
 
 Gent. A hundred pound, sir. 
 
 Yel. A hundred marks ' the utmost ; 
 'Tis not for me else. — What, Sir Walter Whorehound ? 
 
 \Exit Gentleman. 
 
 Moll. O'death! \_ExU. 
 
 Maud. Why, daughter — Faith, the baggage is 
 A bashful girl, sir ; these young things are shamefaced ; 
 Besides, you have a presence, sweet Sir Walter, 
 Able to daunt a maid brought up i' the city : 
 A brave court-spirit makes our virgins quiver. 
 And kiss with' trembling thighs ; yet see, she comes, sir. 
 
 Re-enter Moll. 
 
 Sir Wal. Why, how now, pretty mistress ? now I've 
 
 caught you : 
 
 What, can you injure so your time to stray 
 
 Thus from your faithful servant ? 
 
 Yel. Pish, stop your words, good knight, — 'twill make 
 
 her blush else, — 
 
 Which wound^ too high for the daughters of the freedom. 
 
 Honour and faithful servant ! they are compliments 
 
 ' The mark was worth 13J. /^d. 
 * Dyce suggests "sound." 
 
 Mid. N 
 
178 A CHA STE MAW IN CHEAPSIDE. [act i. 
 
 For the worthies of Whitehall or Greenwich ; 
 E'en plain, sufficient subsidy words serves us, sir. 
 And is this gentlewoman your worthy niece ? 
 
 Sir Wal. You may be bold with her on these terms ; 
 'tis she, sir. 
 Heir to some nineteen mountains. 
 
 Yd. Bless us all ! 
 You overwhelm me, sir, with love and riches. 
 
 Sir Wal. And all as high as Paul's. 
 
 Davy. Here's work, i'faith ! \Aside. 
 
 Sir Wal. How sayst thou, Davy ? 
 
 Davy. Higher, sir, by far; 
 You cannot see the top of 'em. 
 
 Yel. What, man !— 
 Maudlin, Salute this gentlewoman, our daughter. 
 If things hit right. 
 
 Enter Touchwood junior. 
 
 Touch, jutt. My knight, with a brace of footmen, 
 Is come, and brought up his ewe-mutton to find 
 A ram at London ; I must hasten it, 
 Or else pick ' a' famine ; her blood is mine. 
 And that's the surest. Well, knight, that choice spoil 
 Is only kept for me. [Aside. 
 
 Moll. Sir . 
 
 Touch, jun. Turn not to me till thou mayst lawfully; 
 it but whets my stomach, which is too sharp-set already. 
 Read that note carefully \_giving letter to Moll] ; keep 
 me from suspicion still, nor know my zeal but in thy 
 heart : 
 
 Read,' and send but thy liking in three words ; 
 I'll be at hand to take it. 
 
 Yel. O turn, sir, turn. 
 A ^ poor, plain boy, an university man ; 
 Proceeds next Lent to a bachelor of art ; 
 
 ' Peak, grow meagre. 
 
 ' Some previous lines referring to Tim seem to have dropped out, 
 
SCENE I.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 179 
 
 He will be called Sir Yellowhammer then 
 Over all Cambridge, and that's half a knight. 
 
 Maud. Please you, draw near 
 And taste the welcome of the city, sir. 
 
 Yel. Come, good Sir Walter, and your virtuous niece 
 here. 
 
 Sir Wal. 'Tis manners to take kindness. 
 
 Yel. Lead 'em in, wife. 
 
 Sir Wal. Your company, sir? 
 
 Yel. I'll give't you instantly. 
 
 \Exeunt Maudlin, Sir W. Whorehound, 
 Welshwoman, and Davy. 
 
 Touch, jun. How strangely busy is the devil and 
 riches ! 
 Poor soul ! kept in too hard, her mother's eye 
 Is cruel toward her, being to him. 
 'Twere a good mirth now to set him a-work 
 To make her wedding-ring ; I must about it : 
 Rather than the gain should fall to a stranger, 
 'Twas honesty in me t' enrich my father. \Aside. 
 
 Yel. The girl is wondrous peevish. I fear nothing 
 But that she's taken with some other love. 
 Then all's quite dashed : that must be narrowly looked 
 
 toj 
 We cannot be too wary in our children. — \Aside. 
 
 What is't you lack ? 
 
 Touch, jun. O, nothing now ; all that I wish is 
 present : 
 I'd have a wedding-ring made for a gentlewoman 
 With all speed that may be, 
 
 Yel. Of what weight, sir ? 
 
 Touch, jun. Of some half ounce, stand fair 
 And comely, with the spark of a diamond ; 
 Sir, 'twere pity to lose the least grace. 
 
 Yel. Pray, let's see it. 
 
 \Takes stone from TovavffOOD junior. 
 Indeed, sir, 'tis a pure one. 
 
i8o A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act i. 
 
 Touch, jun. So is the mistress. 
 
 Yel. Have you the wideness of her finger, sir ? 
 
 Touch, jun. Yesj sure, I think I have her measure 
 about me : 
 Good faith, 'tis down, I cannot show it you; 
 I must pull too many things out to be certain. 
 Let me see — long and slender, and neatly jointed ; 
 Just such another gentlewoman — that's your daughter, 
 sir? 
 
 Yel. And therefore, sir, no gentlewoman. 
 
 Touch, jun. I protest 
 I ne'er saw two maids handed more alike ; 
 I'll ne'er seek farther, if you'll give me leave, sir. 
 
 Yel. If you dare venture by her finger, sir. 
 
 Touch, jun. Ay, and I'll bide all loss, sir. 
 
 Yel. Say you so, sir ? 
 Let us see. — Hither, girl. 
 
 Touch, jun. Shall I make bold 
 With your finger, gentlewoman ? 
 
 Moll. Your pleasure, sir. 
 
 Touch, jun. That fits her to a hair, sir. 
 
 \Trying ring on Moil! sjinger. 
 
 Yel. What's your posy how, sir ? 
 
 Touch, jun. Mass, that's true : posy ? i'faith, e'en 
 thus, sir : 
 
 " Love that's wise 
 Blinds parents' eyes." 
 
 Yel. How, how ? if I may speak without offence, sir, 
 I hold my life 
 
 Touch, jun. What, sir ? 
 
 Yel. Go to, — you'll pardon me ? 
 
 Touch, jun. Pardon you ? ay, sir. 
 
 Yel. Will you, i'faith ? 
 
 Touch, jun. Yes, faith, I will. 
 
 Yel, You'll steal away some man's daughter : am I 
 near you ? 
 Do you turn aside ? you gentlemen are mad wags 1 
 
SCENE II.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. i8i 
 
 I wonder things can be so warily carried, 
 
 And parents blinded so : but they're served right, 
 
 That have two eyes and were so dull a' sight. 
 
 Touch, jun. Thy doom take hold of thee ! \Aside. 
 
 Yel. To-morrow noon 
 Shall show your ring well done. 
 
 Touch, jun. Being so, 'tis soon. — 
 Thanks, and your leave, sweet gentlewoman. 
 
 Moll. Sir, you're welcome. — 
 
 \_Exit Touchwood junior. 
 O were I made of wishes, I went with thee ! [Aside. 
 
 Yel. Come now, we'll see' how the rules ^ go within. 
 
 Moll. That robs my joy; there I lose all I win. 
 
 \Aside. Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 A Hall in Allwit's House. 
 
 Enter Daw and'hzswism: severally. 
 
 Davy. Honesty wash my eyes ! I've spied a wittol.^ 
 
 [Aside. 
 Allwit. What, Davy Dahanna ? welcome from North 
 Wales, i'faith ! 
 And is Sir Walter come ? 
 
 Davy. New come to town, sir. 
 Allwit. In to the maids, sweet Davy, and give order 
 His chamber be made ready instantly. 
 My wife's as great as she can wallow, Davy, and longs 
 For nothing but pickled cucumbers and his coming ; 
 And now she shall ha't, boy. 
 Davy. She's sure of them, sir. 
 
 Allwit. Thy very sight will hold my wife in pleasure 
 ' Games. 2 A contented cuckold. 
 
1 82 A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act i. 
 
 Till the knight come himself; go in, in, in, Davy. 
 
 \jE,xit Davy. 
 The founder's come to town : I'm like a man 
 Finding a table furnished to his hand, 
 As mine is still to me, prays for the founder, — 
 Bless the right worshipful the good founder's life ! 
 I thank him, has maintained my house this ten years; 
 Not only keeps my wife, but 'a keeps me 
 And all my family; I'm at his table : 
 He gets me all my children, and pays the nurse 
 Monthly or weekly; puts me to nothing, rent. 
 Nor church-duties, not so much as the scavenger : 
 The happiest state that ever man was born to ! 
 I walk out in a morning ; come to breakfast. 
 Find excellent cheer ; a good fire in winter ; 
 Look in my coal-house about midsummer eve. 
 That's full, five or six chaldron new laid up ; 
 Look in my back-yard, I shall find a steeple 
 Made up with Kentish faggots, which o'erlooks 
 The water-house and the windmills : I say nothing, 
 But smile and pin the door. When she lies in, 
 As now she's even upon the point of grunting, 
 A lady lies not in like her ; there's her embossings, 
 Embroiderings, spangHngs, and I know not what. 
 As if she lay with all the gaudy-shops ' 
 In Gresham's Burse'' about her; then her restoratives, 
 Able to set up a young 'pothecary, 
 And richly stock the foreman of a drug-shop ; 
 Her sugar by whole loaves, her wines by rundlets. 
 I see these things, but, like a happy man, 
 I pay for none at all ; yet fools think's mine ; 
 I have the name, and in his gold I shine : 
 And where some merchants would in soul kiss hell 
 To buy a paradise for their wives, and dye 
 Their conscience in the bloods of prodigal heirs 
 
 ' Where articles of finely were sold. 
 ^ The Royal Exchange. 
 
SCENE II.] A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 183 
 
 To deck their night-piece, yet all this being done, 
 
 Eaten with jealousy to the inmost bone, — 
 
 As what affliction nature more constrains, 
 
 Than feed the wife plump for another's veins ? — 
 
 These torments stand I freed of; I'm as clear 
 
 From jealousy of a wife as from the charge : 
 
 O, two miraculous blessings ! 'tis the knight 
 
 Hath took that labour all out of my hands : 
 
 I may sit still and play; he's jealous for me, 
 
 Watches her steps, sets spies ; I live at ease, 
 
 He has both the cost and torment : when the string 
 
 Of his heart frets, I feed, laugh, or sing. 
 
 La dildo, dildo la dildo, la dildo dildo de dildo ! \Sings. 
 
 Enter two Servants. 
 
 •Lst Ser. What, has he got a singing in his head now? 
 2nd Ser. Now's out of work, he falls to making dildoes, 
 Allwit. Now, sirs. Sir Walter's come. 
 xst Ser. Is our master come ? 
 Allwit. Your master ! what am I ? 
 Tst Ser. Do not you know, sir? 
 Allwit. Pray, am not I your master ? 
 1st Ser. O, you're but 
 Our mistress's husband. 
 
 Allwit. Ergo, knave, your master. . 
 
 1st Ser. Negatur argumentum. — Here comes Sir Walter: 
 
 Enter Sir Walter and Davy. 
 Now 'a stands bare as well as we ; make the most of him, 
 He's but one peep above a serving-man. 
 And so much his horns make him. 
 
 Sir Wal. How dost. Jack? 
 
 Allwit. Proud of your worship's health, sir. 
 
 Sir Wal. How does your wife ? 
 
 Allwit. E'en after your own making, sir ; 
 She's a tumbler, a' faith, the nose and belly meets. 
 
i84 A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act i. 
 
 Sir Wal. They'll part in time again. 
 
 Allwit. At the good hour they will, an't please your 
 worship. 
 
 Sir Wal. Here, sirrah, pull off my boots. — Put on,' 
 put on. Jack. [Servant /z^//^' off his boots. 
 
 Allwit. I thank your kind worship, sir. 
 
 Sir Wal. Slippers ! heart, you are sleepy ! 
 
 [Servant brings slippers. 
 
 Allwit. The game begins already. {Aside. 
 
 Sir Wal. Pish, put on, Jack. 
 
 Allwit. Now I must do't, or he'll be as angry now, 
 As if I had put it on at first bidding ; 
 'Tis but observing, 
 
 'Tis but observing a man's humour once. 
 And he may ha' him by the nose all his life. \Aside. 
 
 Sir Wal. What entertainment has lain open here ? 
 No strangers in my absence ? 
 
 ist Ser. Sure, sir, not any. 
 
 Allwit. His jealousy begins : am not I happy now, 
 That can laugh inward whilst his marrow melts ? \Aside. 
 
 Sir Wal. How do you satisfy me ? 
 
 xst Ser. Good sir, be patient ! 
 
 Sir Wal. For two months' absence I'll be satisfied. 
 
 1st Ser. No living creature entered 
 
 Sir Wal. Entered ? come, swear ! 
 
 1st Ser. You will not hear me out, sir 
 
 Sir Wal. Yes, I'll hear't out, sir. 
 
 ist Ser. Sir, he can tell himself 
 
 Sir Wal. Heart, he can tell ? 
 Do you think I'll trust him ? as a usurer 
 With forfeited lordships : — him? O monstrous injury ! 
 Believe him ? can the devil speak ill of darkness ? — 
 What can you say, sir ? 
 
 Allwit. Of my soul and conscience, sir, 
 She's a wife as honest of her body to me 
 As any lord's proud lady e'er can be ! 
 1 i.e. Put on your hat. 
 
SCENE II.] A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 185 
 
 Sir Wal. Yet, by your leave, I heard )ou were once 
 offering 
 To go to bed to her. 
 
 Allwit. No, I protest, su- ! 
 
 Sir Wal. Heart, if you do, you shall take all! I'll 
 marry. 
 
 Allwit. O, I beseech you, sir ! 
 
 Sir Wal. That wakes the slave, 
 And keeps his flesh in awe. [Aside. 
 
 Allwit. I'll stop that gap 
 Where'er I find it open : I have poisoned 
 His hopes in marriage already with 
 Some old rich widows, and some landed virgins ; 
 And I'll fall to work still before I'll lose him ; 
 He's yet too sweet to part from. \Aside. 
 
 Enter Wat and Nick. 
 
 Wat. God-den,i father. 
 
 Allwit. Ha, villain, peace ! 
 
 Nick. God-den, father. 
 
 Allwit. Peace, bastard ! 
 Should he hear 'em ! \Aside?[ — These are two foolish 
 
 children, 
 They do not know the gentleman that sits there. 
 
 Sir Wal. O, Wat— how- dost, Nick? go to school, 
 ply your books, boys, ha ! 
 
 Allwit. Where's your legs, whoresons ? — They should 
 kneel indeed, 
 If they could say their prayers. 
 
 Sir Wal. Let me see, stay, — 
 How shall I dispose of these two brats now [Aside. 
 
 When I arn married ? for they must not mingle 
 Amongst my children that I get in wedlock ; 
 'Twill make foul work that, and raise many storms. 
 1 will bind Wat prentice to a goldsmith, 
 
 1 A corruption of " good evening." 
 
i86 A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act i. 
 
 My father Yellowhammer, as fit as can be ; 
 
 Nick with some vintner ; good, goldsmith and vintner • 
 
 There will be wine in bowls, i'faith. 
 
 Enter Mistress Allwit. 
 
 Mis. All. Sweet knight, 
 Welcome ! I've all my longings now in town ; 
 Now welcome the good hour ! 
 
 Sir Wal. How cheers my mistress ? 
 
 Mis. All. Made lightsome e'en by him that made me 
 
 heavy. 
 Sir Wal. Methinks she shows gallantly, like a moon 
 
 at full, sir. 
 Allwit. True, and if she bear a male child, there's the 
 man in the moon, sir. 
 
 Sir Wal. 'Tis but the boy in the moon yet, goodman 
 
 calf. 
 Alhvit. There was a man, the boy had ne'er been 
 
 there else. 
 Sir Wal. It shall be yours, sir. 
 Allwit. No, by my troth, I'll swear 
 It's none of mine ; let him that got it keep it ! — 
 Thus do I rid myself of fear, 
 Lie soft, sleep hard, drink wine, and eat good cheer. 
 
 [Aside. Exetmt. 
 
ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Street. 
 
 Enter Touchwood senior and Mistress Touchwood. 
 
 Mis. Touch. Twill be so tedious, sir, to live from you. 
 But that necessity, must be obeyed. 
 
 Touch, sen. I would it might not, wife ! the tediousness 
 Will be the most part mine, that understand 
 The blessings I have in thee ; so to part, 
 That drives the torment to a knowing heart. 
 But, as thou sayst, we must give way to need, 
 And live awhile asunder; our desires 
 Are both too fruitful for our barren fortunes. 
 How adverse runs the destiny of some creatures ! 
 Some only can get riches and no children ; 
 We only can get children and no riches : 
 Then 'tis the prudent'st part to check our wills, 
 And, till our state rise, make our bloods lie still. 
 'Life, every year a child, and some years two ! 
 Besides drinkings abroad, that's never reckoned ; 
 This gear will not hold out. 
 
 Mis. Touch. Sir, for a time 
 I'll take the courtesy of my uncle's house, 
 If you be pleased to like on't, till prosperity 
 Look with a friendly eye upon our states. 
 
 Touch, sen. Honest wife, I thank thee ! I never knew 
 The perfect treasure thou brought'st with thee more 
 Than at this instant minute : a man's happy 
 
i88 A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act ii. 
 
 When he's at poorest, that has matched his soul 
 
 As rightly as his body : had I married 
 
 A sensual fool now, as 'tis hard to 'scape it 
 
 'Mongst gentlewomen of our time, she would ha' hanged 
 
 About my neck, and never left her hold 
 
 Till she had kissed me into wanton businesses, 
 
 Which at the waking of my better judgment 
 
 I should have cursed most bitterly, 
 
 And laid a thicker vengeance on my act 
 
 Than misery of the birth ; which were enough 
 
 If it were born to greatness, whereas mine 
 
 Is sure of beggary, though 't were got in wine. 
 
 Fulness of joy showeth the goodness in thee ; 
 
 Thou art a matchless wife : farewell, my joy ! 
 
 Mis. Touch. I shall not want your sight ? 
 
 Touch, sen. I'll see thee often, 
 Talk in mirth, and play at kisses with thee ; 
 Anything, wench, but what may beget beggars : 
 There I give o'er the set, throw down the cards. 
 And dare not take them up. 
 
 Mis. Touch. Your will be mine, sir ! [Exit. 
 
 Touch, sen. This does not only make her honesty 
 perfect, 
 But her discretion, and approves her judgment. 
 Had her desires been wanton, they'd been blameless. 
 In being lawful ever; but of all creatures, 
 I hold that wife a most unmatched treasure, 
 That can unto her fortunes fix her pleasure. 
 And not unto her blood : this is like wedlock ; 
 The feast of marriage is not lust, but love. 
 And care of the estate. When I please blood, 
 Alerrily I sing and suck out others' then : 
 'Tis many a wise man's fault ; but of all men 
 I am the most unfortunate in that game 
 That ever pleased both genders ; I ne'er played yet 
 Under a bastard ; the poor wenches curse me 
 To the pit where'er I come ; they were ne'er served so, 
 
SCENE I.] A CUA STE MAID IN CBEAPSIDE. 189 
 
 But used to have more words than one to a bargain : 
 
 I've such a fatal finger in such business, 
 
 I must forth with't ; chiefly for country wenches, 
 
 For every harvest I shall hinder haymaking ; 
 
 I had no less than seven lay in last progress,i 
 
 Within three weeks of one another's time. 
 
 Enter a Country Girl with a child. 
 
 C. Girl. O snaphance,^ have I found you? 
 
 Touch, sen. How snaphance ? 
 
 C. Girl. Do you see your workmanship ? nay, tuYn 
 not from't, 
 Nor offer to escape ; for if you do, 
 I'll carry it through the streets, and follow you. 
 Your name may well be called Touchwood, — a pox on 
 
 you ! 
 You do but touch and take ; thou hast undone me : 
 I was a maid before, I can bring a certificate 
 For it from both the churchwardens. 
 
 Touch, sen. I'll have 
 The parson's hand too, or I'll not yield to't. 
 
 C. Girl. Thou shalt have more, thou villain ! Nothing 
 grieves me 
 But Ellen my poor cousin in Derbyshire ; 
 Thou'st cracked her marriage quite j she'll have a bout 
 with thee. 
 
 Touch, sen. Faith, when she will, I'll have a bout with 
 her. 
 
 C. Girl. A law bout, sir, I mean. 
 
 Touch, sen. True, lawyers use 
 
 Such bouts as other men do ; and if that 
 
 Be all thy grief, I'll tender her a husband ; 
 
 I keep of purpose two or three gulls in pickle 
 
 To eat such mutton with, and she shall choose one. 
 
 Do but in courtesy, faith, wench, excuse me 
 
 ' Royal journey. 
 
 2 A spring-lock to a gun ; hence applied to anything that strikes 
 sharply. — Bullen. 
 
rgo A CHA ST£ MAID IN CHMAPSIDE. [act ii. 
 
 Of this half yard of flesh, in which, I think, 
 It wants a nail or two. 
 
 C. Girl. No ; thou shalt find, villain. 
 It hath right shape, and all the nails it should Lave. 
 
 Touch, sen. Faith, I am poor ; do a charitable deed, 
 wench ; 
 I am a younger brother, and have nothing. 
 
 C. Girl. Nothing? thou hast too much, thou lying 
 villain, 
 tireless thou wert more thankful ! 
 
 Touch, sen. I've no dwelling ; 
 I brake up house but this morning ; pray thee, pity me ; 
 I'm a good fellow, faith ; have been too kind 
 To people of your gender; if I ha't 
 Without my belly, none of your sex shall want it ; 
 That word has been of force to move a woman. 
 There's tricks enough to rid thy hand on't, wench ; 
 Some rich man's porch to-morrow before day, 
 Or else anon i' the evening ; twenty devices. 
 Here's all I have, i'faith ; take purse and all, 
 And would I were rid of all the ware i' the' shop so ! 
 
 \Gives money. 
 
 C. Girl. Where I find manly dealings, I am pitiful : 
 This shall not trouble you. 
 
 Touch, sen. And I protest, wench, 
 The next I'll keep myself. 
 
 C. Girl. Soft, let it be got first. 
 This is the fifth ; if e'er I venture more. 
 Where I now go for a maid, may I ride for a whore ! ' 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 Touch, sen. What shift she'll make now with this piece 
 of flesh 
 In this strict time of Lent, I cannot imagine ; 
 iFlesh dare not peep abroad now : I have known 
 This city now above this seven years. 
 But, I protest, in better state of government 
 
 ' An allusion to the carting of prostitutes. 
 
SCENE I.] A CffA ST£ MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. igt 
 
 I never knew it yet, nor ever heard of; 
 
 There have been more religious wholesome laws 
 
 In the half-circle of a -year erected 
 
 For common good than memory e'er knew of, 
 
 Setting apart corruption of promoters,' 
 
 And other poisonous officers, that infect 
 
 And with a venomous breath taint every goodness. 
 
 Enter Sir Oliver KiX and Lady Kix. 
 
 Lady Kix. O that e'er I was begot, or bred, or born ! 
 Sir 01. Be content, sweet wife. 
 Touch, sen. What's here to do now ? 
 I hold my life she's in deep passion^ 
 For the imprisonment of veal and mutton, 
 Now kept in garrets ; weeps for some calf's head now : 
 Methinks her husband's head might serve, with bacon. 
 
 \Asidc. 
 Enter "Iovchwqo^ junior. 
 
 Touch, jun. Hist ! 
 Sir 01. Patience, sweet wife. 
 Touch, jun. Brother, I've sought you strangely. 
 Touch, sen. Why, what's the business ? 
 Touch, jun. With all speed thou canst 
 Procure a license for me. 
 Touch, sett. How, a license ? 
 Touch, jun. Cud's foot, she's lost else ! I shall miss 
 
 her ever. 
 Touch, sen. Nay, sure thou shalt not miss so fair a 
 mark 
 For, thirteen shillings fourpence.' 
 Touch, jun. Thanks by hundreds ! 
 
 \Exeunt Touchwood senior and junior. 
 Sir 01. Nay, pray thee, cease; I'll be at more cost 
 yet. 
 Thou know'st we're rich enough. 
 
 ' Common informers. " Sorrow. 
 
 ' The worth of a mark. 
 
192 A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [ACT II. 
 
 Lady Kix. All but in blessings, 
 And there the beggar goes beyond us : O-o-o ' 
 To be seven years a wife, and not a child ! 
 O, not a child ! 
 
 Sir 01. Sweet wife, have patience. 
 
 Lady I^ix. Can any woman have a greater cut ? 
 
 Sir 01. I know 'tis great, but what of that, sweet wife? 
 I cannot do withal ; ' there's things making. 
 By thine own doctor's advice, at pothecary's : 
 I spare for nothing, wife ; no, if the price 
 Were forty marks a spoonful, I would give 
 A thousand pound to purchase fruitfulness : 
 It is but bating so many good works' 
 In the erecting of bridewells and spittlehouses, 
 And so fetch it up again ; for having none, 
 I mean to make good deeds my children. 
 
 Lady Kix. Give me but those good deeds, and I'll 
 find children. 
 
 Sir 01. Hang thee, thou'st had too many ! 
 
 Lady Kix. Thou liest, brevity. 
 
 Sir 01. O horrible ! dar'st thou call me brevity ? 
 Dar'st thou be so short with me ? 
 
 Lady Kix. Thou deserv'st worse : 
 Think but upon the goodly lands and livings 
 That's kept back through want on't. 
 
 Sir 01. Talk not on't, pray thee ; 
 Thou'lt make me play the woman and weep too. 
 
 Lady Kix. 'Tis our dry barrenness puffs up Sir Walter ; 
 None gets by your not getting but that knight ; 
 He's made by th' means, and fats his fortunes shortly 
 In a great dowry with a goldsmith's daughter. 
 
 Sir 01. They may be all deceived ; be but you patient, 
 wife. 
 
 Lady Kix. I've suffered a long time. 
 
 Sir 01. Suffer thy heart out ; 
 A pox suffer thee ! 
 
 ' i.e. I cannot help it. 
 
SCENE 1.] A Of A Sr£ MAID IN CHBAPSIDE. 193 
 
 Lady Kix. Nay, thee, thou desertless slave ! 
 
 Sir 01. Come, come, I ha' done: you'll -to the gos- 
 siping 
 Of Master AUwit's child? 
 
 Lady Kix. Yes, to my much joy ! 
 Every one gets before me ; there's my sister 
 Was married but at Bartholomew Eve last, , . 
 And she can have two children at a birth : 
 O, one of them, one of them, would ha' served my turn ! 
 
 Sir 01. Sorrow consume thee ! thou'rt still crossing me. 
 And know'st my nature. 
 
 Enter Maid. 
 
 Maid. O mistress ! — weeping or railing. 
 That's our house-harmony. \Aside. 
 
 Lady Kix. What sayst, Jug ? 
 
 Maid. The sweetest news ! 
 
 Lady Kix. What is't, wench ? 
 
 Maid. Throw down your doctor's drugs, 
 They're all but heretics ; I bring certain remedy, 
 That has been taught and proved, and never failed. 
 
 Sir 01. O that, that, that, or nothing ! 
 
 Maid. There's a gentleman, 
 I haply have his name too, that has got 
 Nine children by one water that he useth : 
 It never misses ; they come so fast upon him. 
 He was fain to give it over. 
 
 Lady Kix. His name, sweet Jug? 
 
 Maid. One Master Touchwood, a fine gentleman, 
 But run behind-hand much with getting children. 
 
 Sir 01. Is't possible ! 
 
 Maid. Why, sir, he'll undertake, 
 Using that water, within fifteen year, 
 For all your wealth, to make you a poor man, 
 You shall so swarm with children. 
 
 Sir 01. I'll venture that, i'faith. 
 
 Lady Kix. That shall you, husband. 
 
 Mid. O 
 
194 A CHASTE MAID IN- CHEAPSIDE. [ACT 11. 
 
 Maid. But I must tell you first, he's very dear. 
 
 Sir 01. No matter, what serves wealth for ? 
 
 Lady Kix. True, sweet husband ; 
 There's land to come ; put case ' his water stands me 
 In some five hundred pound a pint, 
 'Twill fetch a thousand, and a kersten^ soul, 
 And that's worth all, sweet husband : I'll about it. 
 
 \Exeunt, 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Before Allwit's House. 
 
 Enter Allwit. 
 
 Allwit. I'll go bid gossips' presently myself. 
 That's all the work I'll do ; nor need I stir, 
 But that it is my pleasure to walk forth. 
 And air myself a little : I am tied 
 To nothing in this business ; what I do 
 Is merely recreation, not constraint. 
 Here's running to and fro ! nurse upon nurse, 
 Three charwomen, besides maids and neighbours' chil- 
 dren. 
 Fie, what a trouble have I rid my hands on ! 
 It makes me sweat to think on't. 
 
 Enter Sir Walter Whorehound. 
 Sir Wal. How now. Jack? 
 
 Allwit. I'm going to bid gossips for your worship's 
 child, sir; 
 A goodly girl, i'faith ! give you joy on her ; 
 She looks as if she had two thousand pound 
 To her portion, and run away with a tailor ; 
 
 ^ i.e. Suppose. •* A coiruption of Cbrislian. 
 
 ^ Godparents. 
 
SCENE 11.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 195 
 
 A fine plump black-eyed slut : under correction, sir, 
 I take delight to see her. — Nurse ! 
 
 Enter Dry Nurse,. 
 
 Dry N. Do you call, sir? 
 
 Allwit. I call not you, I call the wet nurse hither. 
 
 \Exit Dry Nurse. 
 Give me the wet nurse ! — 
 
 Enter Wet Nurse carrying child. 
 
 Ay, 'tis thou ; come hither. 
 Come hither : 
 
 Let's see her once again ; I cannot choose 
 But buss her thrice an hour. 
 
 Wet N. You may be proud on't, sir ; 
 'Tis the best piece of work that e'er you did. 
 
 Allwit. Think'st thou so, nurse? what sayst to Wat 
 
 and Nick? 
 Wet N. They're pretty children both, but here's a 
 wench 
 Will be g. knocker. 
 
 Allwit. Pup, — sayst thou me so ? — pup, little coun- 
 tess ! — 
 Faith, sir, I thank your worship for this girl 
 Ten thousand times and upward. 
 
 Sir Wal. I am glad 
 I have her for you, sir. 
 
 Allwit. Here, take her in, nurse ; 
 Wipe her, and give her spoon-meat. 
 
 Wet N. Wipe your mouth,' sir. \_Exit with the cliild. 
 Alhvit. And now about these gossips. 
 Sir Wal. Get but two ; 
 I'll stand for one myself. 
 
 Allwit. To your own child, sir? 
 Sir Wal The better policy, it prevents suspicion ; 
 ^Tis good to play with rumour at all weapons. 
 
 1 Make a fool of yourself. — Bullen, 
 
196 A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act II. 
 
 Allwit. Troth, I commend your care, sir ; 'tis a thing 
 That I should ne'er have thought on. 
 
 Sir Wal. The more slave i 
 When man turns base, out goes his soul's pure flame, 
 The fat of ease o'erthrows' the eyes of shame. 
 
 Allwit. I'm studying who to get for godmother, 
 Suitable to your worship. Now I ha' thought on't. 
 
 Sir Wal. I'll ease you of that care, and please myscll" 
 in't— 
 My love the goldsmith's daughter, if I send. 
 Her father will command her. [Aside.] — Davy Dahanna ! 
 
 £nler Davy. 
 
 Allwit. I'll fit your worship then with a male partner. 
 
 Sir Wal. What is he ? 
 
 Allwit. A kind, proper gentleman, 
 Brother to Master Touchwood. 
 
 Sir Wal. I know Touchwood : 
 Has he a brother living ? 
 
 Allwit. A neat bachelor. 
 
 Sir Wal. Now we know him, we will make shift with 
 him : 
 Despatch, the time draws near. — Come hither, Davy. 
 
 \Exit with Davy. 
 
 Allwit. In troth, I pity him ; he ne'er stands still : 
 Poor knight, what pains he takes ! sends this way one, 
 That way another ; has not an hour's leisure : 
 I would not have thy toil for all thy pleasure. 
 
 Enter two Promoters. 
 
 Ha, how now ? what are these that stand so close 
 At the street-corner, pricking lip their ears 
 And snuffing up their noses, Hke rich men's dogs 
 When the first course goes in ? By the mass, promoters ; 
 'Tis so, I hold my life ; and planted there 
 
 ' Qy. "o'ergiows." — Dyce. 
 
SCENE II.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. iqf 
 
 T' arrest the dead corps' of poor calves and sheep, 
 
 Like ravenous creditors, that will not suffer 
 
 The bodies of their poor departed debtors 
 
 To go to th' grave, but e'en in death to vex 
 
 And stay the corps with bills of Middlesex, 
 
 This Lent will fat the whoresons up with sweetbreads, 
 
 And lard their whores with lamb-stones : what their 
 
 golls' 
 Can clutch goes presently to their Molls and Dolls : 
 The bawds will be so fat with what they earn. 
 Their chins^ will hang like udders by Easter-eve, 
 .And, being stroked, will give the milk of witches. 
 How did the mongrels hear my wife lies in ? 
 Well, I may baffle 'em gallantly. [Aside.] — By your 
 
 favour, gentlemen, 
 I am a stranger both unto the city 
 And to her carnal strictness. 
 
 isi Pro. Good ; your will, sir ? 
 
 AUwit. Pray, tell me where one dwells that kills this 
 Lent ? 
 
 \st Pro. How ? kills ? — Come hither, Dick ; a bird, a 
 bird! 
 
 2nd Pro. What is't that you would have ? 
 
 AUwit. Faith, any flesh ; 
 But I long especially for veal and green-sauce. 
 
 \st Pro. Green goose, you shall be sauced. \Aside. 
 
 AUwit. I've half a scornful stomach. 
 No fish will be admitted. 
 
 \st Pro. Not this Lent, sir ? 
 
 AUwit. Lent ? what cares colon* here for Lent? 
 
 1st Pro. You say well, sir ; 
 Good reason that the colon of a gentleman, 
 As you were lately pleased to term your worship's, sir. 
 Should be fulfilled with answerable food, 
 
 ^ Corpses. - A cant term for hands. 
 
 ^ A douWe chin was regarded as the distinguishing mark of a 
 bawd. — Bullen. * A part of the intestines. 
 
198 A CHA S'TE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act n. 
 
 To sharpen blood, delight health, and tickle nature. 
 Were you directed hither to this street, sir? 
 
 Allwit. That I was, ay, marry. 
 
 2nd Pro. And the butcher, belike. 
 Should kill and sell close in some upper room ? 
 
 Allwit. Some apple-loft, as I take it, or a coal-house ; 
 I know not which i'faith. 
 
 2ncl Pro. Either will serve : 
 This butcher shall kiss Newgate, 'less he turn up 
 The bottom of the pocket of his apron. — \Aside. 
 
 You go to seek him ? 
 
 Allwit, Where you shall not find him : 
 I'll buy, walk by your noses with my flesh; 
 Sheep-biting mongrels, hand-basket freebooters ! 
 My wife lies in — a foutra ^ for promoters ! \Exit. 
 
 1st Pro, That shall not serve your turn. — What a 
 rogue's this ! 
 How cunningly he came over us ! 
 
 Enter Man with a basket under his cloak. 
 
 2nd Pro. Hush't, stand close ! 
 
 Man. I have 'scaped well thus far ; they say the knaves 
 Are wondrous hot and busy. 
 
 1st Pro. By your leave, sir. 
 We must see what you have under your cloak there. 
 
 Man, Have? I have nothing. 
 
 1st Pro. No? do yoii tell us that? what makes this 
 lump 
 Stick out then? we must see, sir. 
 
 Man. What will you see, sir ? 
 A pair of sheets and two of my wife's foul smocks 
 Going to the washers. 
 
 2nd Pro. O, we love that sight well ! 
 You cannot please us better. What, do you gull us ? 
 Call you these shirts and smocks ? 
 
 [Seizes basket and takes out of it a piece of meat. 
 
 ^ A tenii' of contempt. 
 
SCENE II.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. igg 
 
 Man. Now, a pox choke you ! 
 You've cozened me and five of my wife's kindred 
 Of a good dinner J we must make it up now 
 With herrings and milk-pottage \_Exit. 
 
 \ St Pro. 'Tis all veal. 
 
 2nd Pro. All veal ? 
 Pox, the worse luck ! I promised faithfully 
 To send this morning a fat quarter of lamb 
 To a kind gentlewoman in TurnbuU Street ' 
 That longs, and how I'm crost ! 
 
 \st Pro. Let us share this, and see what hap comes 
 next then. 
 
 ztid Pro. Agreed. Stand close again, another booty : 
 
 Enter Man with a basket. 
 What's he ? 
 
 ist Pro. Sir, by your favour. 
 
 Man. Meaning me, sir ? 
 
 ist Pro. Good Master Oliver ? cry thee mercy i'faith ! 
 What hast thou there ? 
 
 Man. A rack of mutton, sir, 
 And half a lamb ; you know my mistress' diet. 
 
 \st Pro. Go, go, we see thee not ; away, keep 
 close ! — 
 Heart, let him pass ! thou'lt never have the wit 
 To know our benefactors. 
 
 znd Pro. I have forgot him. 
 
 \st Pro. 'Tis Master Beggarland's man, the wealthy 
 merchant. 
 That is in fee with us,, 
 
 2nd Pro. Now I've a feeling of him. \ExitM.w\. 
 
 ist Pro. You know he purchased the whole Lent 
 together. 
 Gave us ten groats a-piece on Ash Wednesday. 
 
 2nd Pro. True, true. 
 
 1 A street in Clerkenwell noted as the residence of thieves and 
 prostitutes. 
 
200 . A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act n. 
 
 1st Pro. A wench ! " 
 
 2nd Pro. Why, then, stand close indeed. 
 
 Enter Country Girl with a basket. 
 
 C. Girl. Women had need of wit, if they'll shift here, 
 And she thatihath wit may shift anywhere. \Asidc'. 
 
 ist Pro. Look, look! poor fool, sh'as left the rump 
 uncovered too. 
 More to betray her ! this is like a murderer 
 That will outface the deed with a bloody band. 
 
 2nd Pro. What time of the year is't, sister ? 
 
 C. Girl. O sweet gentlemen ! 
 I'm a poor servant, let me go, 
 
 1st Pro. You shall, wench, 
 But this must stay with us. 
 
 C. Girl. O you undo me, sir ! 
 'Tis for a wealthy gentlewoman that takes physic, 
 
 sir; 
 The doctor does allow my mistress mutton.. 
 O, as you tender the dear life of a gentlewoman ! 
 I'll bring my master to you ; he shall show you 
 A true authority from the higher powers, 
 And I'll run every foot. 
 
 2nd Pro. Well, leave your basket then, 
 And run and spare not. 
 
 C. Girl. Will you swear then to me 
 To keep it till I come ? 
 
 1st Pro. Now by this light I will. 
 
 C. Girl. What say you, gentlemen? 
 
 2iid Pro. What a strange wenph 'tis ! — 
 Would we, might perish else. 
 
 C. Girl. Nay, then I run, sir. 
 
 [Leaves the basket, and exit. 
 
 isf Pro. And ne'er return, I hope. 
 
 27,'!^ P?'o. A politic baggage ! she makes us swear to 
 keep it ; 
 I prithee look what market she hath made. 
 
SCENE II.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 201 
 
 \st Pro. Imprimis, sir, a good fat loin of mutton. 
 
 \Taking out a loin of mutton. 
 What comes next under this cloth ? now for a quarter 
 Of lamb. 
 
 2nd Fro. No, for a shoulder of mutton. 
 
 1st Pro. Done ! 
 
 2nd Pro. Why, done, sir ! 
 
 isi Pro. By the mass, I feel I've lost 
 Tis of more weight, i'faith, 
 
 2nd Pro. Some loin of veal ? 
 
 1st Pro. No, faith, here's .a lamb's head, I feel that 
 plainly ; 
 Why, I'll yet win my wager. 
 
 2nd Pro. Ha ! 
 
 1st Pro. 'Swounds, what's here ! [Taking out a child. 
 
 2nd Pro. A child ! 
 
 1st Pro. A pox of all dissembling cunning whores ! 
 
 2nd Pro. Here's an unlucky breakfast ! 
 
 1st Pro. What shall's do 1 
 
 2nd Pro. The quean made us swear to keej) it too. 
 
 xst Pro. We might leave it else. 
 
 2nd Pro. Villainous strange ! 
 Life, had she none to gull but poor promoters. 
 That watch hard for a living ? 
 
 1st Pro. Half our gettings 
 Must run in sugar-sops and nurses' wages now. 
 Besides many a pound of soap and tallow ; 
 We've need to get loins of mutton still, to save 
 Suet to change for candles. 
 
 2nd Pro. Nothing mads me 
 But this was a lamb's head with you ; you felt it : 
 She has made calves' heads of us. 
 
 1st Pro. Prithee, no more on't ; 
 There's time to get it up ; it is not come 
 To Mid-Lent Sunday yet. 
 
 2nd Pro. I am so angry, 
 I'll watch no more to-day. 
 
203 A CHASTE MAID IN- CHEAPSIDE. f ACT ii, 
 
 \st Pro. Faith, nor I neither. 
 
 2nd Fro. Why, then, I'll make a motion. 
 
 ist Fro. Well, what is't ? 
 
 2nd Fro. Let's e'en go to the Checker at Queen- 
 hive,^ 
 And roast the loin of mutton till young flood ; 
 Then send the child to Branford.^ \Exeuiit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 A Hall in Allwit's House. 
 
 Enter Allwit in one of Sir AValter's suits, and Davy 
 trussing^ him. 
 
 Allwit. 'Tis a busy day at our house, Davy. 
 
 Davy. Always the kursning* day, sir. 
 
 Allwit. Truss, truss me, Davy. 
 
 Davy. No matter an you were hanged, sir. \Aside. 
 
 Allwit. How does this suit fit me, Davy ? 
 
 Davy. ' Excellent neatly ; 
 My master's things were ever fit for you, sir. 
 E'en to a hair, you know. 
 
 Allwit. Thou'st hit it right, Davy : 
 We ever jumped in one this ten years, Davy; 
 So, well said. — 
 
 Enter Man with a box. 
 
 What art thou ? 
 
 Man. Your comfit-maker's man, sir. 
 
 Allwit. O sweet youth ! 
 In to the nurse, quick, quick, 'tis time, i'faith. 
 Your mistress will be here ? 
 
 ' Queenhithe. 
 
 2 Tying the points of his trunk hose. 
 
 2 Brentford. 
 * Christening. 
 
SCENE III.] ^ CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 203 
 
 Man. She was setting forth, sir. \Exit. 
 
 Alhvit. Here comes our gossips now : O, I shall 
 have 
 Such kissing work to-day. — 
 
 Enter two Puritans. 
 
 Sweet Mistress Underman 
 Welcome, i'faith, 
 
 ist Pur. Give you joy of your fine girl, sir : 
 Grant that her education may be pure, 
 And become one of the faithful ! 
 
 Allwit. Thanks to your sisterly wishes. Mistress Un- 
 derman. 
 2nd Pur. Are any of the brethren's wives yet come ? 
 Allwit, There are some wives within, and some at 
 
 home. 
 ist Pur. Verily, thanks, sir. \_Exeunt Puritans. 
 
 Allwit. Verily you're an ass, forsooth : 
 I must fit all these times, or there's no music. 
 Here comes a friendly and familiar pair : 
 
 Enter t^vo Gossips. 
 
 Now I like these wenches well. 
 \st Gos. How dost, sirrah ? 
 Allwit. Faith, well, I thank you, neighbour j — and how 
 
 dost thou ? 
 2nd Gos. Want nothing but such getting, sir, as 
 
 thine. 
 Allwit. My gettings, wench ? they're poor. 
 \st Gos. Fie, that thou'lt say so ; 
 Thou'st as fine children as a man can get. 
 
 Davy. Ay, as a man can get, and that's my master. 
 
 \Aside. 
 Allwit. They're pretty foolish things, -put 'to making in 
 minutes, 
 • I ne'er stand long about 'em. Will you walk in, wenches ? 
 
 - ' \Exeunt Gossips, 
 
204 A CHASTE MAID m CHEAPSIDE. [act ii. 
 
 Enter Tovch.'woo'd junior and Mou-. 
 
 Touch, jun. The happiest meeting that our souls could 
 wish for ! 
 Here is the ring ready ; I'm beholden 
 Unto your father's haste, has kept his hour. 
 
 Moll. He never kept it better. 
 
 Enter Sir Walter WnoREHOtJND. 
 
 Touch, jun. Back, be silent. 
 
 Sir Wal. Mistress and partner, I will put you both 
 Into one cup. 
 
 Davy. Into one cup? most proper; 
 A fitting compliment for a goldsmith's daughter. \Aside. 
 
 Allwit. Yes, sir, that's he must be your worship's 
 partner 
 In this day's business. Master Touchwood's brother. 
 
 Sir Wal. I embrace your acquaintance, sir. 
 
 Touch, jun. It vows your service, sir. 
 
 Sir Wal. It's near high time ; come, Master Allwit. 
 
 Allwit. Ready, sir. 
 
 Sir Wal. Wilt please you walk ? 
 
 Touch, jun. Sir, I obey your time. \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene iv. 
 
 Before Allwit's House. 
 
 Enter from the house Midwife with the child, Lady Kix 
 and other Gossips, who exeunt; then Maudlin, Puri- 
 tans, and other Gossips. 
 
 \st Gos. Good Mistress Yellowhammer 
 
 Maud. In faith, I will not. 
 
 1st Gos. Indeed it ^ shall be yours. 
 
 1 The two are entreating each other to take piecedence. 
 
SCENE IV.] A CBA Sm MAID- IN CHEAPSlDE. 205 
 
 Maud. I have sworn, i'faith. 
 
 \si Gos. I'll stand still then. 
 
 Maud. So, will you let the child 
 Go without company, and make me forsworn ? 
 
 1st Gos. You are such another creature ! 
 
 \Exeuni ist Gossip arid Maudlin. 
 
 2nd Gos. Before me ? 
 I pray come down a little. 
 
 ^rd Gos. Not a whit ; 
 I hope I know my place. 
 
 2nd Gos: Your place ? great wonder, sure ! 
 Are you any better than a comfit-maker's wife ? 
 
 T,rd Gos. And that's as good at all times as a pothe- 
 cary's. 
 
 2nd Gos. Ye lie ! yet I forbear you too. 
 
 \Exeunt 2nd and 3rd Gossips. 
 
 1st. Pur. Come, sweet sister ; we go 
 In unity, and show the fruits of peace, 
 Like children of the spirit. 
 
 2nd Pur. I love lowliness. [^a'«/«/ Puritans. 
 
 i[,th Gos. True, so say I, though they strive more ; 
 There comes as proud behind as goes before. 
 
 $th Gos. Every inch, i'faith. \Exeimt. 
 
^ [^ 
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Room m T oxsckwood Jwtior's lodgingi, 
 
 Enter TovcRVfoOT) junior a7id Parson. 
 
 OUCH. JUN. O sir, if e'er you, felt the 
 force of love, 
 Pity it in me ! 
 
 Par. Yes, though I ne'er was mar- 
 ried, sir, 
 I've felt the force of love from good 
 men's daughters, 
 And some that will be maids yet three years hence. 
 Have you got a license ? 
 
 Touch, jun. Here, 'tis ready, sir. 
 
 Par. That's well. 
 
 Touch. jun. The ring, and all things perfect; she'll 
 
 steal hither. 
 Par. She shall be welcome, sir ; I'll not be long 
 A clapping you together. 
 
 Touch, jun, O, here she's come, sir ! 
 
 Enter Moll and Touchwood senior. 
 
 Par. What's he ? 
 
 Touch, jun. My honest brother. 
 
 Touch, sen. Quick, make haste, sirs ! 
 
 Moll, You must despatch with all the speed you caii; 
 
SCENE I.] A CHA Sm MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 207 
 
 For I shall be missed straight ; I made hard shift 
 For this small time I have. 
 
 Par. Then I'll not linger, 
 Place that ring upon her finger : 
 
 \TovciiyrooB jumor puis ring on yiouls finger. 
 This the finger plays the part, 
 Whose master-vein shoots firom the heart : 
 Now join hands — 
 
 Enter Yellowhammer and Sir W. Whorehound. 
 
 Yel. Which I will sever, 
 And so ne'er again meet, never 1 
 
 Moll. O, we're betrayed ! 
 
 Touch, jun. Hard fate ! 
 
 Sir Wal. I'm struck 'with wonder ! 
 
 Yel. Was this the politic fetch, thou mystical baggage, 
 Thou disobedient strumpet ! — And were you 
 So wise to send for her to such an end ? 
 
 Sir Wal. Now I disclaim the endj you'll make me 
 mad. 
 
 Yel. And what are you, sir ? 
 
 Touch, jun. An you cannot see 
 With those two glasses, put on a pair more. 
 
 Yel. I dreamed of anger still. — Here, take your ring, 
 sir, — \Taking ring off MotX.'sfifiger. 
 
 Ha ! this? life, 'tis the same ! abominable! 
 Did not I sell this ring ? 
 
 Touch, jun. I think you did ; 
 You received money for't. 
 
 Yel. Heart, hark you, knight j 
 Here's no unconscionable villainy ! 
 Set me a-work to make the wedding-ring, 
 And come with an intent to steal my daughter ! 
 Did ever runaway match it ! 
 
 Sir Wal. This your brother, sir ? 
 
 Touch, sen. He can tell that as well as I. 
 
 Yel. The very posy mocks me to my face, — 
 
208 A CBASTH MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act HI. 
 
 " Love that's wise 
 Blinds parents' eyes." 
 I thank your wisdom, sir, for blinding of us ; 
 We've good hope to recover our sight shortly : 
 In the meantime I will lock up this baggage 
 As carefully as my gold ; she shall see 
 As little sun, if a close room or so 
 Can keep her from the light on't. 
 
 Moll. O sweet father. 
 For love's sake, pity me ! 
 
 Yel. Away ! 
 
 Moll. Farewell, sir ; 
 All content bless thee ! and take this for comfort, 
 Though violence keep me, thou canst lose me never, 
 I'm ever thine, although we part for ever. 
 
 Yel. Ay, we shall part you, minx. \Exit with Moll. 
 
 Sir Wal. Your acquaintance, sir, 
 Came very lately, yet came too soon ; 
 I must hereafter know you for no friend. 
 But one that I must shun like pestilence, 
 Or the disease of lust. 
 
 Touch- jun. Like enough, sir; 
 You ha' ta'en me at the worst time for words 
 That e'er ye picked out : faith, do not wrong me, sir. 
 
 \Exit with Parson. 
 
 Touch, sen. Look after him, and spare not : there he 
 walks 
 That ne'er yet received baffling ; ' you are blest 
 More than ever I knew ; go, take your rest. \F.xit. 
 
 Sir Wal. I pardon you, you are both losers. \Exit. 
 
 1 Endured Insult. 
 
SCENE II.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 209 
 
 SCENE 11. 
 A Bedchamber ; Mistress Allwit discovered in bed. 
 
 Enter Midwife with the child. Lady Kix, Maudlin, 
 Puritans, and other Gossips. 
 
 "ist Gos. How is it, woman ? we have brought you 
 home 
 A kursen ' soul. 
 
 Mis. All. Ay, I thank your pains. 
 
 1st Far. And, verily, well kursened, i' the right way. 
 Without idolatry or superstition, 
 After the pure manner of Amsterdam.^ 
 
 Mis. All. Sit down, good neighbours. — Nurse. 
 
 Nurse. At hand, forsooth. 
 
 Mis. All. Look they have all low stools. 
 
 Nurse. They have, forsooth. 
 
 \_All the Gossips seat themselves. 
 
 2nd Gos. Bring the child hither, nurse. — How say you 
 now, gossip, 
 Is't not a chopping girl ? so like the father. 
 
 ^rd Gos. As if it had been spit out of his mouth ! 
 Eyed, nosed, and browed, as like as a girl can be. 
 Only, indeed, it has the mother's mouth. 
 
 znd Gos. The mother's mouth up and down, up and 
 down. 
 
 ^rd Gos. 'Tis a large child, she's but a little woman. 
 
 1st Pur. No, believe me, 
 A very spiny' creature, but all heart J 
 Well mettled, like the faithful, to endure 
 Her tribulation here, and raise up seed. 
 
 2nd Gos. She had a sore labour on't, I warrant you ; 
 You can tell, neighbour ? 
 
 2,rd Gos. O, she had great speed ; 
 We were afraid once, but she made us all 
 
 ' Christened. ' Slender. 
 
 2 Many Puritans took refuge at Amsterdam. 
 Mid. P 
 
210 A CHASTE MAID IN CHEATSIDE. [act hi. 
 
 Have joyful hearts again ; 'tis a good soul, i'faith ; 
 The midwife found her a most' cheerful daughter. 
 \st Pur. 'Tis the spirit ; the sisters are all like her. 
 
 Enter Sir Walter Whoeehound, carrying a silver 
 standing-cup and two spoons, and Allwit. 
 
 2nd Gos. O, here comes the chief gossip, neighbours ! 
 
 \_Exit Nurse. 
 Sir Wal. The fatness of your wishes to you all, 
 
 ladies ! 
 j,rd Gos. O dear, sweet gentleman, what fine words 
 he has ! 
 The fatness of our wishes ! 
 2nd Gos, Calls us all ladies ! 
 4th Gos. I promise you, a fine gentletnan and a 
 
 courteous. 
 2nd Gos. Methinks her husband shows like a clown to 
 
 him. 
 ^rd Gos. I would not care what clown my husband 
 were too, 
 So I had such fine children. 
 
 2nd Gos. Sh'as all fine children, gossip. 
 ^rd Gos. Ay, and see how fast they come ! 
 ist Pur. Children are blessings. 
 If they be got with zeal by the brethren, 
 As I have five at home. 
 
 Sir Wal. The worst is past, 
 I hope, now, gossip. 
 Mis. All. So I hope too, good sir. 
 Allwit. What, then, so hope I too, for company ; 
 I've nothing to do else. 
 
 Sir Wal. A poor remembrance, lady. 
 To the love of the babe ; I pray, accept of it. 
 
 \jGiving cup and spoont 
 Mis. All. O, you are at too much charge, sir ! 
 2?id Gos. Look, look, what has he given her? what 
 is't, gossip ? 
 
SCENE 11.] A CRA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 2 1 1 
 
 Z^d Gos. Now, by my faith, a fair high standing-cup 
 And two great 'postle-spoons,' one of them gilt. 
 
 ist Pur. Sure that was Judas then with the red beard.^ 
 
 znd-Fur. I would not feed 
 My daughter with that spoon for all the world, 
 For fear of colouring her hair ; red hair 
 The brethren like not, it consumes them much ; 
 'Tis not the sisters' colour. 
 
 He-enter Nurse with comfits and wine. 
 
 Allwit. Well said, nurse ; 
 About, about with them among the gossips ! 
 
 [Nurse hands about the comfits. 
 Now out comes all the tasselled handkerchers, 
 They're spread abroad between their knees already; 
 Now in goes the long fingers that are washed 
 Some thrice a day in urine j my wife uses it. 
 Now we shall have such pocketing ; see how 
 They lurch ^ at the lower end ! \Aside, 
 
 1st Pur. Come hither, nurse. 
 
 Allwit. Again ? she has taken twice already. \Aside. 
 
 1st Pur. I had forgot a sister's child that's sick. 
 
 \Taking comfits. 
 
 Allwit. A pox ! it seems your purity 
 Loves sweet things well that puts in thrice together. 
 Had this been all my cost now, I'd been beggared ; 
 These women have no consciences at sweetmeats,* 
 Where'er they come ; see an they've not culled out 
 
 ' Spoons with a little figure of an apostle at the end of the 
 handle ; a common present of sponsors at christenings. 
 
 2T<.ed, "the dissembling colour," is the traditional colour of 
 Judas's hair. There is a prejudice against red hair among most 
 Eastern nations. ' Filch. — Bullen. 
 
 * Bullen refers to Dekker's Bachelor's Banquet, cap. iii. : — 
 " Consider then what cost and trouble it will be to him to have 
 all, things fine against the christening day : what store of sugar, 
 biscuits, comfits and caraways, marmalade and marchpane, with all 
 kind of sweet suckets and superfluous banqueting stuff, with a 
 hundred other odd and needless ttiiles, which at that time must fill 
 the pockets of dainty dames." 
 
212 A CHASTM MAID IN CHeApSiDE. [act l«. 
 
 All the long plums too, they've left nothing here 
 
 But short wriggle-tail comfits, not worth mouthing : 
 
 No mar'l I heard a citizen complain once 
 
 That his wife's belly only broke his back ; 
 
 Mine had been all in fitters' seven years since, 
 
 But for this worthy knight, 
 
 That with a prop upholds my wife and me, 
 
 And all my estate buried in Bucklersbury.^ \Aside. 
 
 Mis. All. Here, Mistress Yellowhammer, and neigh- 
 bours, 
 To you all that have taken pains with me, 
 All the good wives at once ! 
 
 SjDrinks ; after which Nurse hands round the wine. 
 
 1st Pur. I'll answer for them ; 
 They wish all health and strength, and that you may 
 Courageously go forward, to perform 
 The like and many such, like a true sister. 
 With motherly bearing. {Drinks, 
 
 Allwit. Now the cups troll about 
 To wet the gossips' whistles ; it pours down, i'faith ; 
 They never think of payment. \Aside. 
 
 1st Pur. Fill again, nurse. {Drinks. 
 
 Allwit. Now bless thee, two at Once ! I'll stay no longer; 
 It would kill me, an I paid for it. — \Aside. 
 
 Will't please you to walk down, and leave the women ? 
 
 Sir Wal. With all my heart. Jack. 
 
 Allwit. Troth, I cannot blame you. 
 
 Sir Wal. Sit you all merry, ladies. 
 
 Gossips. Thank your worship, sir. 
 
 1st Pur. Thank your worship, sir. 
 
 Allwit. A pox twice tipple ye, you're last and lowest! 
 
 \Aside. 
 [Exeunt Sir W. Whorehound and Allwit. 
 
 1st Pur. Bring hither that same cup, nurse; I would fain 
 Drive away this — hup — antichristian grief. \Drinks, 
 
 ^ Pieces. 
 
 '^ Inhabited at the time chiefly by druggists, who were the prin- 
 cipal sellers of sweetmeats. 
 
SCENE II.] A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 2 13 
 
 ^rdGos. See, gossip, an she lies not in like a countess; 
 Would I had such a husband for my daughter ! 
 
 ^ik Gos. Is not she toward marriage ? 
 
 ^rd Gos. O no, sweet gossip ! 
 
 4M Gos. Why, she's nineteen. 
 
 2,rd Gos. Ay, that she was last Lammas ; 
 But she has a fault, gossip, a secret fault. 
 
 ^h Gos. A fault? what is't? 
 
 ^rd Gos. I'll tell you when I've drunk. \Drinks. 
 
 i^th Gos. Wine can do that, I see, that friendship can- 
 not. \Aside. 
 
 ■^rd Gos. And now, I'll tell you, gossip ; she's too free. 
 
 \Exit Nurse. 
 
 i,th Gos. Too free ? 
 
 2,rd Gos. O ay, she cannot lie dry in her bed. 
 
 j^th Gos. What, and nineteen ? 
 
 ^rd Gos. 'Tis as I tell you, gossip. 
 
 He-enter Nurse, and whispers Maudlin. 
 
 Maud. Speak with me, nurse ? who is't ? 
 
 Nurse. A gentleman 
 From Cambridge; I think it be your son, forsooth. 
 
 Maud. 'Tis my son Tim, i'faith ; prithee, call him up 
 Among the women, 'twill embolden him well, — 
 
 \Exit Nurse. 
 For he wants nothing but audacity. 
 Would the Welsh gentlewoman at home were here now ! 
 
 \Aside. 
 
 Lady Kix. Is your son come, forsooth ? 
 
 Maud. Yes, from the university, forsooth. 
 
 Lady Kix. 'Tis great joy on ye. 
 
 Maud. There's a great marriage 
 Towards' for him. 
 
 Lady Kix. A marriage ? 
 
 Maud. Yes, sure, 
 A huge heir in Wales at least to nineteen mountains. 
 Besides her goods and cattle. 
 
 ' In preparation. 
 
214' A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [ACT III. 
 
 Re-enter Nurse with Tim. 
 
 Tim. O, I'm betrayed ! \Exit. 
 
 Maud. What, gone again ?— Run after him, good nurse; 
 He is so bashful, that's the spoil of youth : \Exit Nurse. 
 In the university they're kept still to men, 
 And ne'er trained up to women's company. 
 
 Lady Kix, 'Tis a great spoil of youth indeed. 
 
 Re-enter Nurse and Tim. 
 
 Nurse. Your mother will have it so. 
 
 Maud. Why, son ! why Tim ! 
 What, must I rise and fetch you ? for shame, son ! 
 
 Tim. Mother, you do intreat like a fresh-woman ; 
 'Tis against the laws of the university 
 For any that has answered under bachelor 
 To thrust 'mongst married wives. 
 
 Maud. Come, we'll excuse you here. 
 
 Tim. Call up my tutor, mother, and I care not. 
 
 Maud. What, is your tutor come ? have you brought 
 him up ? 
 
 Tim, I ha' not brought him up, he stands at door ; 
 Negatur, there's logic to begin with you, mother. 
 
 Maud. Run, call the gentleman, nurse; he's my son's ' 
 tutor. — \Exit Nurse. 
 
 Here, eat some plums. [Offers comfits. 
 
 Tim. Come I from Cambridge, 
 And offer me six plums ? 
 
 Maud. Why, how now, Tim ? 
 Will not your old tricks yet be left ? 
 
 Tim. Served like a child. 
 When I have answered under bachelor ! 
 
 Maud. You'll ne'er lin ' till I make your tutor whip' you ; 
 
 ^ Cease, 
 
 ■' Undergraduates were frequently whipped in those days. Bul- 
 len mentions that, according to Aubrey, Milton, when a student at 
 Cambridge, was whipped by his tutor, William Chappell ; also 
 that Chamberlain, in a letter to Carleton (1612), states that " a 
 son of the Bishop of Bristol, of nineteen or twenty, killed himself 
 
SCENE II.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 215 
 
 You know how I served you once at the free-school 
 In Paul's Churchyard ? 
 
 Tim. O monstrous absurdity ! 
 Ne'er was the like in Cambridge since my time ; 
 'Life, whip a bachelor ! you'd be laughed at soundly ; 
 Let not my tutor hear you, 'twould be a jest 
 Through the whole university. No more words, mother. 
 
 Re-enter Nurse with Tutor. 
 
 Maud. Is this your tutor, Tim ? 
 Tutor. Yes, surely, lady, 
 I am the man that brought him in league with logic. 
 And read the Dunces' to him. 
 Tim. That did he, mother ; 
 But now I have 'em all in my own pate. 
 And can as well read 'em to others. 
 
 Tutor. That can he. 
 Mistress, for they flow naturally from him. 
 Maud. I am the more beholding to your pains, sir. 
 Tutor. Non idea sane. 
 Maud. True, he was an idiot indeed 
 When he went out of London, but now he's well 
 
 mended. 
 Did you receive the two goose-pies I sent you ? 
 
 Tutor. And eat them heartily, thanks to your wor- 
 ship. 
 Maud. 'Tis my son Tim ; I pray bid him welcome, 
 
 gentlewomen. 
 Tim. Tim ? hark you, Timotheus, mother, Timotheus. 
 Maud. How, shall I deny your name ? Timotheus, 
 quoth he ! 
 Faith there's a name ! — 'Tis my son Tim, forsooth. 
 Lady JKix. You're welcome, master Tim. \Kisses Tim. 
 
 ■with a knife to avoid the disgrace of breeching, which his mother 
 or mother-in-law (I know not whether) would need have put him 
 to, for losing his money at tennis." 
 
 1 The schoolmen, so named after Duns Scotus. 
 
2i6 A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act hi. 
 
 Tim. O this is horrible, 
 She wets as she kisses ! \Aside.\ — Your handkercher, 
 
 sweet tutor, 
 To wipe them off as fast as they come on. 
 
 2nd Gos. Welcome from Cambridge. [Kisses Tim. 
 
 Tim. This is intolerable ! 
 This woman has a villainous sweet breath, 
 Did she not stink of comfits. [Aside.] — Help me, sweet 
 
 tutor. 
 Or I shall rub my lips off ! 
 
 Tutor. I'll go kiss 
 The lower end the whilst. 
 
 Tim. Perhaps that's the sweeter. 
 And we shall despatch the sooner. 
 
 1st Fur. Let me come next : 
 Welcome from the wellspring of discipline. 
 That waters all the brethren. 
 
 [Attempts to kiss Tim, but reels and falls. 
 
 Tim. Hoist, I beseech thee ! 
 
 2,rd Gos. O bless the woman ! — Mistress Underman — 
 
 [They raise her up. " 
 
 istFur. 'Tis but the common affliction of the faithful ; 
 We must embrace our falls. 
 
 Tim. I'm glad I escaped it ; 
 It was some rotten kiss sure, it dropt down 
 Before it came at me. 
 
 Re-enter Allwit with Davy. 
 
 Allwit. Here is a noise ! not parted yet ? heyday, 
 A looking-glass ! — They've drunk so hard in plate, 
 That some of them had need of other vessels. — [Aside. 
 Yonder's the bravest show ! 
 
 Gossips. Where, where, sir? 
 
 Allwit. Come along presently by the Pissing-conduit,^ 
 With two brave drums and a standard-bearer. 
 
 1 So called from its running in a small stream. It was also 
 known as the " conduit in Cornhill." Shortyard (in Middleton's 
 
SCENE II.] A CHASIE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 217 
 
 Gossips. O brave ! 
 
 Tim. Come, tutor. [Exit with 'Vwtox. 
 
 Gossips. Farewell, sweet gossip ! 
 
 Mis. All. I thank you all for your pains. 
 
 xst Fur. Feed and grow strong. 
 
 [Exeunt Lady Kix, Maudlin, and all the Gossips. 
 
 Allwit. You had more need to sleep than eat; 
 Go take a nap with some of the brethren, go. 
 And rise lip a well-edified, boldified sister. 
 O, here's a day of toil well passed over, 
 Able to make a citizen hare-mad ! 
 How hot they've made the room with their thick 
 
 bums ! 
 Dost not feel it, Davy ? ' 
 
 Davy. Monstrous strong, sir. 
 
 Allwit. What's here under the stools ? 
 
 Davy. Nothing but wet, sir ; 
 Some wine spilt here belike. 
 
 Allwit. Is't no worse, think'st thou? 
 Fair needlework stools cost nothing with them, Davy. 
 
 Davy. Nor you neither, i'faith. ■ [Aside. 
 
 Allwit. Look how they have laid them, 
 E'en as they lie themselves, with their heels up ! 
 How they have; shuffled up the rushes ' too, Davy, 
 With their short figging little shittle-cock ^ heels ! 
 These women can let nothing stand as they find it. 
 But what's the secret thou'st about to tell me, 
 My honest Davy ? 
 
 Davy. If you should disclose it, sir 
 
 Allwit. 'Life, rip my belly up to the throat then, Davy ! 
 
 Davy. My master's upon marriage. 
 
 Michaelmas Term), who apes the fashionable observances of a 
 sentleman, says, in reference to this conduit, " I tell you what I ha 
 done Sometimes I carry my water all London over only to deliver 
 it proudly at the Standard ; and do I pass altogether unnoticed, 
 
 think you?" , . j 
 
 1 With which the floors were always strewed. 
 
 2 The original form of shuttlecock. 
 
2i8 A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act hi. 
 
 Allwit. Marriage, Davy ? 
 Send me to hanging rather. 
 
 Davy. I have stung him ! \Aside. 
 
 Allwit. When? where? what is she, Davy? 
 
 Davy. Even the same was gossip, and gave the spoon. 
 . Allwit. I have no time to stay, nor scarce can speak : 
 I'll stop those wheels, or all the work will break. \Exit. 
 
 Davy. I knew 'twould prick. Thus do 1 fashion still , 
 All mine own ends by him and his rank toil : 
 'Tis my desire to keep him still from marriage ; 
 Being his poor nearest kinsman, I may fare 
 The better at his death ; there my hopes build, 
 Since my Lady Kix is dry, and hath no child. {Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 A Room in Sir Oliver Kix's House. 
 
 Enter Touchwood senior and TovCR-viooTt junior. 
 
 Touch, jun. You're in the happiest way t' enrich your- 
 self 
 And pleasure me, brother, as man's feet can tread in \ 
 For though she be locked up, her vow is fixed 
 Only to me ; then time shall never grieve me. 
 For by that vow e'en absent I enjoy her, 
 Assuredly confirmed that none else shall. 
 Which will make tedious years seem gameful to me : 
 In the mean space, lose you no- time, sweet brother ; 
 You have the means to strike at this knight's fortunes, 
 And lay him level with his bankrout' merit j 
 Get but his wife with child, perch at tree-top, 
 And shake the golden fruit into her lap ; 
 About it before she weep herself to a dry ground, 
 And whine out all her goodness. 
 
 ' Banlcrupt. 
 
SCENE 111.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 219^ 
 
 Touch, sen. PritheCj cease ; 
 I find a too much aptness in my blood 
 For such a business, without provocation ; 
 You might well spared this banquet of eringoes, 
 Artichokes, potatoes, and your buttered crab;^ 
 They were fitter kept for your wedding-dinner. 
 
 Touch, jun. Nay, an you'll follow my suit, and save my 
 purse too, 
 Fortune doats on me : he's iii happy case 
 Finds such an honest friend i' the common-place. 
 
 Touch, sen. Life, what makes thee so merry ? thou'st 
 no cause 
 That I could hear of lately since thy crosses, 
 Unless there be news come with new additions. 
 
 Touch, jun. Why, there thou hast it right ; I look for 
 her 
 This evening, brother. 
 
 Tottch. sen. How's that ? look for her ? 
 
 Touch, jun. I will deliver you of the wonder straight, 
 brother : 
 By the firm secrecy and kind assistance 
 Of a good wench i' the house, who, made of pity. 
 Weighing the case her own, she's led through gutters, 
 Strange hidden ways, which none but love could 
 
 find. 
 Or ha' the heart to venture : I expect her 
 Where you would little think. 
 
 Touch, sen. I care not where. 
 So she be safe, and yours. 
 
 Touch, jun. -Hope tells me so; 
 But from your love and time my peace must grow. 
 
 Touch, sen. You know the worst then, brother. 
 [^a;/V Touchwood /««.] — Now to my Kix, 
 The barren he and she ; they're i' the next room ; 
 But to say which of their two humours hold them 
 Now at this instant, I cannot say truly. 
 
 1 All these were regarded as aphrodisiacs. 
 
220 A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act iii. 
 
 Sir 01. \withtn.'\ Thou liest, barrenness ! 
 
 Touch, sen. O, is't that time of day? give you joy of 
 your tongue, 
 There's nothing else good in you : this their life 
 The whole day, from eyes open to eyes shut, 
 Kissing or scolding, and then must be made friends ; 
 Then rail the second part of the first fit out, 
 And then be pleased again, no man knows which 
 
 way : 
 Fall out like giants, and fall in like children ; 
 Their fruit can witness as much. 
 
 Enter Sir Oliver Kix and Lady Kix. 
 
 Sir 01. 'Tis thy fault. 
 
 Lady Kix. Mine, drouth and coldness ? 
 
 Sir 01. Thine ; 'tis thou art barren. 
 
 Lady Kix. I barren ? O life, that I durst but speak 
 now 
 In mine own justice, in mine own right ! I barren ? 
 'Twas otherwise with me when I was at court ; 
 I was ne'er called so till I was married. 
 
 Sir 01. I'll be divorced. 
 
 Lady Kix. Be hanged ! I need not wish it. 
 That will come too soon to thee : I may say 
 Marriage and hanging goes by destiny, 
 For all the goodness I can find in't yet. 
 
 Sir 01. I'll give up house, and keep some fruitful 
 whore. 
 Like an old bachelor, in a tradesman's chamber ; 
 She and her children shall have all. 
 
 Lady Kix. Where be they ? 
 
 Touch, sen. Pray, cease ; 
 When there are friendlier courses took for you, 
 To get and multiply within your house 
 At your own proper costs, in spite of censure, 
 Methinks an honest peace might be established. 
 
 Sir 01. What, with her ? never. 
 
SCENE III.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 221 
 
 Touch, sen. Sweet sir 
 
 Sir 01. You work all in vain. 
 
 iMdy Kix. Then he doth all like thee. 
 
 Touch, sen. Let me entreat, sir 
 
 Sir 01. Singleness confound her ! 
 I took her with one smock. 
 
 Lady Kix. But, indeed, you 
 Came not so single when you came from shipboard. 
 
 Sir 01. Heart, she bit sore there ! [Aside.] — Prithee, 
 make us friends. 
 
 Touch, sen. Is't come to that? the peal begins to 
 cease. [Aside. 
 
 Sir 01. I'll sell all at aii out-cry.' 
 
 Lady Kix. Do thy worst, slave ! — 
 Good, sweet sir, bring us into love again. 
 
 Touch, sen. Some would think this impossible to com- 
 pass. — [Aside. 
 
 Pray, let this storm fly over. ' 
 
 Sir 01. Good sir, pardon me ; 
 I'm master of this house, which I'll sell presently ; 
 I'll clap up bills this evening. 
 
 Touch, sen. Lady, friends, come ! 
 
 Lady Kix. If ever ye loved woman, talk not on't, sir ; 
 What, friends with him? good faith, do you think I'm 
 
 mad? 
 With one that's scarce th' hinder quarter of a man ? 
 
 Sir 01. Thou art nothing of a woman. 
 
 Lady Kix. Would I were less than nothing ! [ Weep. 
 
 Sir 01. Nay, prithee, what dost mean ? 
 
 Lady Kix. I cannot please you. 
 
 Sir 01. I'faith, thou'rt a good soul ; he lies that says it ; 
 Buss, buss, pretty rogue. [Kisses her. 
 
 Lady Kix. You care not for me. 
 
 Touch, sen. Can any man tell now which way they 
 came in ? 
 By this light, I'll be hanged then ! [Aside. 
 
 1 An auction announced.by the common crier. — Dyce. 
 
222 A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act ill. 
 
 Sir 01. Is the drink come ? 
 
 Totuh. sen. Here is a little vial of almond-milk — 
 That stood me in some threepence. \Aside. 
 
 Sir 01. I hope to see thee, wench, within these few 
 years, 
 Circled with children, pranking up a girl, 
 And putting jewels in her little ears ; 
 Fine sport, i'faith 1 
 
 Lady Kix. h.y, had you been aught, husband. 
 It had been done ere this time. 
 
 Sir 01. Had I been aught ? 
 Hang thee, hadst thou been aught ! but a cross thing 
 I ever found thee. 
 
 Lady Kix. Thou'rt a grub, to say so. 
 
 Sir 01. A pox on thee ! 
 
 Touch, sen. By this light, they're out again 
 At the same door, and no man can tell which way ! 
 
 \Aside. 
 Come, here's your drink, sir. 
 
 Sir 01. I'll not take it now, sir. 
 An I were sure to get three boys ere midnight. 
 
 Lady Kix. Why, there thou show'st now of what breed 
 thou com'st 
 To hinder generation : O thou villain. 
 That knows how crookedly the world goes with us 
 For want of heirs, yet put by all good fortune ! 
 
 Sir 01. Hang, strumpet! I will take it now in 
 spite. 
 
 Touch, sen. Then you must ride upon't five^hours. 
 
 \Gives vial to Sir Oliver. 
 
 Sir 01. I mean so. — 
 Within there ! 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 Ser. Sir? 
 
 'Sir 01. Saddle the white mare : \_Exit Servant. 
 
 I'll take a whore along, and ride to Ware. 
 Lady Kix, Ride to the devil ! 
 
SCENE III.] ^ CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 223 
 
 Sir 01. I'll plague you every way : 
 Look ye, do you see ? 'tis gone. [Drinks. 
 
 Lady Kix. A pox go with it ! 
 
 Sir 01. Ay, curse, and spare not now. 
 
 Touch, sen. Stir up and down, sir ; 
 You must not stand. 
 
 Sir 01. Nay, I'm not given to standing. 
 
 Touch, sen. So much the better, sir, for the 
 
 Sir 01. I never could stand long in one place yet ; 
 I learnt it of my father, ever figient.^ 
 How if I crossed this, sir? \Capersi 
 
 Touch, sen. O, passing good, sir. 
 And would show well 'a horseback : when you come to 
 
 your inn. 
 If you leapt over a joint-stool or two, 
 'Twere not amiss — although you brake your neck, sir. 
 
 \Aside. 
 
 Sir 01. What say you to a table thus high, sir? 
 
 Touch, sen. Nothing better, sir, if 't be furnished with 
 good victuals. 
 You remember how the bargain runs 'bout this business ? 
 
 Sir 01. Or else I had a bad head : you must receive, 
 sir. 
 Four hundred pounds of me at four several payments ; 
 One hundred pound now in hand. 
 
 Touch, sen. Right, that I have, sir. 
 
 Sir 01. Another hundred when my wife is quick ; 
 The third when she's brought a-bed; and the last 
 
 hundred 
 When the child cries, for if't should be still-born. 
 It doth no good, sir. 
 
 Touch, sen. All this is even still : 
 A little faster, sir. 
 
 Sir 01. Not a whit, sir j 
 I'm in an excellent pace for any physic. 
 
 1 Fidgety; 
 
224 ^ CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act HI. 
 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Your white mare's ready. . 
 
 Sir 01. I shall up presently. — \ExU Servant. 
 
 One kiss and farewell. \Kisses her. 
 
 Lady Kix. Thou shalt have two, love. 
 Sir 01. Expect me about three. 
 Lady Kix. With all my heart, sweet. 
 
 \Exit Sir Oliver Kix. 
 Touch, sen. By this light, they've forgot their anger 
 since, 
 And are as far in again as e'er they were ! 
 Which way the devil came they? heart, I saw 'em 
 
 not! 
 Their ways are beyond finding out. [Aside.] — Come, 
 sweet lady. 
 Lady Kix. How must I take mine, sir ? 
 Touch, sen. Clean contrary ; 
 Yours must be taken lying. 
 Lady Kix. A-bed, sir ? 
 
 Touch, sen. A-bed, or where you will, for your own 
 ease; 
 Your coach will serve. 
 
 Lady Kix. The physic must needs please. \Exeunt. 
 
ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Room in Yellowhammer's House. 
 
 Enter Tim and Tutor. 
 
 Tim. Negatur argumentum, tutor. 
 
 Tutor. Pro tibi, pupil, stultus non est animal rationale. 
 
 Tim. Falleris sane. 
 
 Tutor. QucBso ut taceas, — -probo tibi 
 
 Tim. Quomodo probas, domine? 
 
 Tutor. Stultus non habet rationem, ergo non est animal 
 rationale. 
 
 Tim. Sic argumentaris, domine; stultus non habet 
 rationem, ergo non est animal rationale ; negatur argu- 
 mentum again, tutor. 
 
 Tutor. Argumentum iterum probo tibi, domine; qui 
 non participat de ratione, nullo modo potest vocari rationalis ; 
 but stultus non participat de ratione, ergo stultus nullo modo 
 potest did rationalis. 
 
 Tim. Participat. 
 
 Tutor. Sic disputas ; qui participat, quomodo participate 
 
 Tim. Ut homo, probabo tibi in syllogismo. 
 
 Tutor. Hunc proba. 
 
 Tim. Sic probo, domine ; stultus est homo, sicut tu et ego 
 sumus ; homo est animal rationale, sicut stultus est animal 
 rationale. 
 
 Enter Maudlin. 
 
 Maud. Here's nothing but disputing all the day long 
 with 'em ! 
 
 Mid. Q 
 
226 A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [ACT iv. 
 
 Tutor. Sic disputas'; stultus est homo, sicut tu et ego 
 sumus ; homo est animal rationale, sicut stultus est animal 
 rationale. 
 
 Maud. Your reasons are both good, whate'er they be. 
 Pray, give them over ; faith, you'll tire yourselves ; 
 What's the matter between you ? 
 
 Tim. Nothing but reasoning 
 About a fool, mother. 
 
 Maud. About a fool, son ? 
 Alas, what need you trouble your heads 'bout that ! 
 None of us all but knows what a fool is. 
 
 Tim. Why, what's a fool, mother ? I come to you now. 
 
 Maud. Why, one that's married before he has wit. 
 
 Tim. 'Tis pretty, i'faith, and well guessed of a woman 
 never brought up at the university ; but bring forth what 
 fool you will, mother, I'll prove him to be as reasonable 
 a creature as myself or my tutor here. 
 
 Maud. Fie, 'tis impossible ! 
 
 Tutor. Nay, he shall do't, forsooth. 
 
 Tim. 'Tis the easiest thing to prove a fool by logic ; 
 By logic I'll prove anything. 
 
 Maud. What, thou wilt not ? 
 
 Tim. I'll prove a whore to be an honest woman. 
 
 Maud. Nay, by my faith, she must prove that herself, 
 Or logic will ne'er do't. 
 
 Tim. 'Twill do't, I tell' you. 
 
 Maud. Some in this street would give a thousand 
 pounds 
 That you could prove their wives so. 
 
 Tim. Faith, I can. 
 And all their daughters too, though they had three bastards. 
 When comes your tailor hither ? 
 
 Maud. Why, what of him ? 
 
 Tim. By logic I'll prove him to be a man, 
 Let him come when he will. 
 
 Maud. How hard at first 
 
SCENE I .] ^ C2IA STE MA ID IN CHE A PSIDE. 2 2 7 
 
 Was learning to him ! truly, sir, I thought 
 He would never 'a took the Latin tongue : 
 How many accidences do you think he wore out 
 Ere he came to his grammar ? 
 
 Tutor. Some three or four. . 
 
 Maud. Beheve me, sir, some four and thirty. 
 
 Tim. Pish, I made haberdines^ of 'em in church- 
 porches, 
 
 Maud. He was eight years in his grammar, and stuck 
 horribly 
 _ At a foolish place there, call'd as in frasenti. 
 
 Tim. Pox, I have it here now. 
 
 Maud. He so shamed me once. 
 Before an honest gentleman that knew me 
 When I was a maid. 
 
 Tim. These womeii must have all out ! 
 
 Maud. Quid est grammatica ? says the gentleman to 
 him, — 
 I shall remember by a sweet, sweet token, — 
 But nothing could he answer. 
 
 Tutor. How now, pupil, ha ? 
 Quid est grammatica ? 
 
 Tim. Grammatica ? ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Maud. Nay, do not laugh, son, but let me hear you 
 say't now : 
 There was one word went so prettily off 
 The gentleman's tongue, I shall remember it 
 The longest day of my life. 
 
 Tutor. Come, quid est grammatica ? 
 
 Tim. Are you not ashamed, tutor, grammatica ? 
 Why, recte scribendi atque loquendi ars, 
 Sir-reverence^ of my mother. 
 
 Maud. That was it, i'faith : why now, son, 
 I see you're a deep scholar : — and, master tutor, 
 
 I " Perhaps Tim alludes to some childish sport : a l?ind of cod 
 generally salted, was called haberdine." — Dyce, 
 ' ? A common form of apology 
 
228 A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act iv. 
 
 A word, I pray; let us withdraw a little 
 
 Into my husband's chamber ; I'll send in 
 
 The North Wales gentlewoman to him, she looks for 
 
 wooing : 
 I'll put together both, and lock the door. 
 
 Tutor. I give great approbation to your conclusion. 
 
 \Exeunt Maudlin and Tutor. 
 
 Tim. I mar'P what this gentlewoman should be 
 That I should have in marriage; she's a stranger to me ; 
 I wonder what my parents mean, i' faith, 
 To match me with a stranger so, 
 A maid that's neither kiff " nor kin to me : 
 'Life, do they think I've no more care of my body 
 Than to lie with one that I ne'er knew, a mere stranger, 
 One that ne'er went to school with me neither, 
 Nor ever play-fellows together ? 
 They're mightily o'erseen in it, methinks. 
 They say she has mountains to her marriage. 
 She's full of cattle, some two thousand runts : 
 Now, what the meaning of these runts ' should be. 
 My tutor cannot tell me ; I have look'd 
 In Rider's Dictionary* for the letter R, 
 And there I can hear no tidings of these runts neither ; 
 Unless they should be Romford hogs, I know them not. 
 
 Enter Welshwoman. 
 
 And here she comes. If I kno\v what to say to her now 
 
 In the way of marriage, I'm no graduate : 
 
 Methinks, i'faith, 'tis boldly done of her 
 
 To come into my chamber, being but a stranger ; 
 
 She shall not say I am so proud yet but 
 
 I'll speak to her ; marry, as I will order it, 
 
 She shall take no hold of my words, I'll warrant her. 
 
 [Welshwoman curtsies. 
 
 1 Marvel. . " Kith. ^ Oxen of small size. 
 
 * The familiar Latin dictionary of the seventeenth century ; it was 
 first published in 1589. 
 
SCENE I.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. '229 
 
 She looks and makes a curtsy. — - 
 
 Salve iu quoque, puella fulcherrima ; quid vis nescio nee 
 
 sane euro, — 
 
 Tully's own phrase to a heart. 
 
 Welsh. I know not what he means : a suitor, quoth'a? 
 I hold my life he understands no English. \Aside. 
 
 Tim. Fertur, mehercule, tu virgo, Wiallid ut qpibus 
 abundas maximis. 
 
 Welsh. What's xkiis, fertur and abundundis ? 
 He mocks me sure, and calls me a bundle of farts. 
 
 Tim. I have no Latin word now for their runts ; 
 I'll make some shift or other : [Aside. 
 
 Iterum dico, opibus abundas maximis, montibus, et fontibus 
 et ut ita dicam rontibus ; attamen vera homunculus ego sum 
 natura, simuf^ ef arte baccalaureus, lecto profecto non parato. 
 
 Welsh. This is most strange : may be he can speak 
 "Welsh. 
 Avedera whee comrage, der due cogfoginis. 
 
 Tim. Cog foggini I scorn to cog* with her; I'll tell 
 her so too in a word near her own language, — Ego non 
 cogo. 
 
 Welsh. Rhegosin a whiggih harle ron corid ambro. 
 
 Tim. By my faith, she's a good scholar, I see that 
 already ; 
 She has the tongues plain; I hold my life sh'as travelled; 
 What will folks say ? there goes the learned couple ! 
 Faith, if the truth were known, she hath proceeded.^ 
 
 Re-enter Maudlin. 
 
 Maud. How now ? how speeds your business ? 
 Tim. I'm glad 
 My mother's come to part us. \Aside. 
 
 Maud._ How do you agree, forsooth ? 
 
 1 "Old ed. 'simule . . . parata.' lam by no means satisfied 
 with my alterations ; indeed, I do not quite understand the drift of 
 Tim's oration." — Dyce. 
 
 * Dissemble. ' Taken W degree. 
 
230 A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act iv. 
 
 Welsh. As well as e'er we did before we met. 
 
 Maud. How's that? 
 
 Welsh. You put me to a man I understand not : 
 Your son's no Englishman, methinks. 
 
 Maud. No Englishman ? 
 Bless my boy, and born i' the heart of London ! 
 
 Welsh. I ha' been long enough in the chamber with 
 him, 
 And I find neither Welsh nor English in him. 
 
 Maud. Why, Tim, how have you used the gentle- 
 woman ? 
 
 Thn. As well as a man might do, mother, in modest 
 Latin. 
 
 Maud. Latin, fool? 
 
 Tim. And she recoiled in Hebrew. 
 
 Maud. In Hebrew, fool ? 'tis Welsh. 
 
 Tim. All comes to one, mother. 
 
 Maud. She can speak English too. 
 
 Tim. Who told me so much ? 
 Heart, an she can speak English, I'll clap to her; 
 I thought you'd marry me to a stranger. 
 
 Maud. You must forgive him ; he's so inured to Latin, 
 He and his tutor, that he hath quite forgot 
 To use the Protestant tongue. 
 
 Welsh. 'Tis quickly pardoned, forsooth. 
 
 Maud. Tim, make amends and kiss her. — 
 He makes towards you, forsooth. {They kiss. 
 
 Tim. O delicious ! 
 One may discover her country by her kissing : 
 'Tis a true saying, there's nothing tastes so sweet 
 As your Welsh mutton. — 'Twas reported you could sing. 
 
 Maud. O, rarely, Tim, the sweetest British songs ! 
 
 Tim. And 'tis my mind, I swear, before I marry, 
 I would see all my wife's good parts at once, 
 To view how rich I were 
 
 Maud. Thou shalt hear sweet music, Tim. — 
 Pray, forsooth. 
 
SCENE I.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. i'lt 
 
 Welsh. \sings?[ ' 
 
 Cupid is Venus' only joy, 
 
 But he is a wanton boy, 
 
 A very, very wanton boy ; 
 
 He shoots at ladies' naked breasts, 
 
 He is the cause of most men's crests, 
 
 I mean upon the forehead. 
 
 Invisible but horrid ; 
 
 'Twas he first thought upon the way 
 
 To keep a lady's lips in play. 
 
 Why should not Venus chide her son 
 For the pranks that he hath done. 
 The wanton pranks that he hath done ? 
 He shoots his fiery darts so thick, 
 • They hurt poor ladies to the quick. 
 Ah me, with cruel wounding ! 
 His darts are so confounding. 
 That life and sense would soon decay, 
 But that he keeps their lips in play. 
 
 Can there be any part of bliss 
 
 In a quickly fleeting kiss, 
 
 A quickly fleeting kiss ? 
 
 To one's pleasure leisures are but waste, 
 
 The slowest kiss makes too much haste, 
 
 And lose it ere we find it : 
 
 The pleasing sport they only know 
 
 That close above and close below. 
 
 Tim. I would not change my wife for a kingdom : 
 I can do somewhat too in my own lodging. 
 
 Enter Yellowhammer and Allwit. 
 
 Yel. Why, well said, Tim ! the bells go merrily; 
 I love such peals a' life.' — Wife, lead them in awhile ; 
 
 1 "Old ed. 'Musicke and Welche Song,' the words probably 
 being adapted to some Welsh air." — Dyce. 
 ^ As nay life ; i.e., extremely. 
 
232 A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [ACT iv. 
 
 Here's a strange gentleman desires private conference. — 
 \Exeunt Maudlin, Welshwoman, and Tim. 
 You're welcome, sir, the more for your name's sake, 
 Good Master Yellowhammer : I love my name well : 
 And which o' the Yellowhammers take you descent 
 
 from, 
 If I may be so bold with you ? which, I pray ? 
 
 Allwit. The Yellowhammers in Oxfordshire, near 
 
 Abingdon. 
 Yel. And those are the best Yellowhammers, and 
 truest bred ; 
 I came from thence myself, though now a citizen : 
 I will be bold with you ; you are most welcome. 
 Allwit. I hope the zeal I bring with me shall de- 
 serve it. 
 Yel. I hope no less : what is your will, sir ? 
 Allwit. I understand, by rumours, you've a daughter, 
 Which my bold love shall henceforth title cousin. 
 Yel. I thank you for her, sir. 
 Allwit. I heard of her virtues 
 And other confirmed graces. 
 Yel. A plaguy girl, sir ! 
 
 Allwit. Fame sets her out with richer ornaments 
 Than you are pleased to boast of; 'tis done modestly : 
 I hear she's towards marriage. 
 Yel. You hear truth, sir. 
 
 Allwit. And with a knight in town. Sir Walter Whore- 
 hound. 
 Yel. The very same, sir. 
 Allwit. I'm the sorrier for't. 
 Yel. The sorrier ? why, cousin ? 
 Allwit. 'Tis not too far past, is't ? 
 It may be yet recalled ? 
 
 Yel. Recalled ! why, good sir? 
 
 Allwit. Resolve ' me in that point, ye shall hear from 
 me. 
 
 ^ Satisfy. 
 
SCENE I.] A CHAS2E MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 233 
 
 Yel. There's no contract past. 
 
 AHwit. I'm very joyful, sir. 
 
 Yel. But he's the man must bed her. 
 
 Allwit. By no means, coz ; 
 She's quite undone then, and you'll curse the time 
 That e'er you made the match; he's an arrant whore- 
 master. 
 
 Consumes his time and state ' 
 
 Whom in my knowledge he hath kept this seven years ; 
 Nay, coz, another man's wife too. 
 
 Yel. O, abominable ! 
 
 Allwit. Maintains the whole house, apparels the hus- 
 band, 
 Pays servants' wages, not so much but ^ 
 
 Yel. Worse and worse ; and doth the husband know 
 this ? 
 
 Allwit. Knows? ay, and glad he may too, 'tis his 
 living : 
 As other trades thrive, butchers by selling flesh, 
 Poulters by vending conies, or the like, coz. 
 
 Yel. What an incomparable wittol's ^ this ! 
 
 Allwit. Tush, what cares he for that ? believe me, coz. 
 No more than I do. 
 
 Yel. What a base slave's that ! 
 
 Allwit. All's one to him ; he feeds and takes his ease, 
 Was ne'er the man that ever broke his sleep 
 To get a child yet, by his own confession. 
 And yet his wife has seven. 
 
 Yel. What, by Sir Walter? 
 
 Allwit. Sir Walter's like to keep 'em and maintain 'em 
 In excellent fashion ; he dares do no less, sir. 
 
 Yel. 'Life, has he children too ? 
 
 Allwit. Children ! boys thus high, 
 In their Cato and Corderius.* 
 
 1 There is a similar blank in the old edition. 
 * Ibid. ^ A complaisant cuckold. 
 
 Two old schoolbooks. 
 
234 ^ CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act iV. 
 
 Yel. What? you jest, sir? 
 
 Allwit. Why, one can make a verse, and now's at 
 Eton College. 
 
 Yel. O, this news has cut into my heart, coz ! 
 
 Allwit. 'Thad eaten nearer, if it had not been pre- 
 vented : 
 One Allwit's wife. 
 
 Yel. Allwit ! 'foot, I have heard of him ; 
 He had a girl kursened lately ? 
 
 Allwit. Ay, that work 
 Did cost the knight above a hundred mark. 
 
 Yel. I'll mark him for a knave and villain for't ; 
 A thousand thanks and blessings! I have done with him. 
 
 Allwit, Ha, ha, ha ! this knight will stick by my ribs 
 still ; 
 I shall not lose him yet ; no wife will come ; 
 Where'er he woos, I find him still at home : 
 Ha, ha ! • \A'side, and exit. 
 
 Yel. Well, grant all this, say now his deeds are black, 
 Pray, what serves marriage but to call him back ; 
 I've kept a whore myself, and had a bastard 
 
 By Mistress Anne, in anno 
 
 I care not who knows it; he's now a jolly fellow. 
 Has been twice warden ; so may his fruit be, 
 They were but base begot, and so was he. 
 The knight is rich, he shall be my son-in-law ; 
 No matter, so the whore he keeps be wholesome. 
 My daughter takes no hurt then ; so let them wed : 
 I'll have him sweat well ere they go to bed. 
 
 Re-enter Maudlin. 
 
 Maud. O husband, husband ! 
 
 Yel. How now. Maudlin ? 
 
 Maud. We are all undone j she's gone, she's gone ! 
 
 Yel. Again ? death, which way ? 
 
 1 There is a similar blank in the old edition. 
 
SCENE III.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDB. 235 
 
 Maud. Over the houses : lay ' the water-side, 
 She's gone for ever else. 
 
 Yel. O venturous baggage ! \Exmnt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Another Room in Yellovs^hammer's House. 
 
 Enter Tim atid Tutor sei<erally. 
 
 Tim. Thieves, thieves ! my sister's stolen ; some thief 
 hath got her : 
 O how miraculously did my father's plate 'scape ! 
 'Twas all left out, tutor. 
 
 Tutor. Is't possible ? 
 
 Tim. Besides three chains of pearl and a box of coral. 
 My sister's gone \ let's look at Trig-stairs for her ; 
 My mother's gone to lay the common stairs 
 At Puddle-wharf; and at the dock below 
 Stands my poor silly father ; run, sweet tutor, run ! 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A Street by the Thames. 
 
 Efiter Touchwood senior and Touchwood junior. 
 
 Touch, sen. I had been taken, brother, by eight 
 sergeants. 
 But for the honest watermen ; I'm bound to them j 
 They are the most requitefull'st people living. 
 For as they get their means by gentlemen, 
 They're still the forwardest to help gentlemen : 
 
 ' Scour. 
 
236 A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act iv. 
 
 You heard how one 'scaped out of the Blackfriars, 
 But a while since, from two or three varlets came 
 Into the house with all their rapiers drawn, 
 As if they'd dance the sword-dance on the stage, 
 With candles in their hands, like chandlers' ghosts ; 
 Whilst the poor gentleman so pursued and banded, 
 Was by an honest pair of oars safely landed. 
 Touch, jun. I love them with my heart for't ! 
 
 Enter several Watermen. 
 
 1st W. Your first man, sir. 
 
 2nd W. Shall I carry you, gentlemen, with a pair of 
 
 oars? 
 Touch, sen. These be the honest fellows : take one 
 pair. 
 And leave the rest for her. 
 Touch, jun. Barn Elms. 
 
 Touch, sen. No more, brother. \Exit. 
 
 1st W. Your first man. 
 2nd W. Shall I carry your worship ? 
 Touch, jun. Go; and you honest watermen that stay. 
 Here's a French crown for you [gives money] : there 
 
 comes a maid 
 With all speed to take water, row her lustily 
 To Barn Elms after me. 
 
 2nd W. To Barn Elms, good sir. — 
 Make ready the boat, Sam ; we'll wait below. 
 
 {Exeunt Watermen. 
 
 Enter Moll. 
 
 Touch, jun. What made you stay so long? 
 
 Moll. I found the way more dangerous than I looked 
 
 for. 
 Touch, jun. Away, quick ; there's a boat waits for 
 
 you; and I'll 
 Take water at Paul's wharf, and overtake you. 
 
 Moll. Good sir, do ; we cannot be too safe. {Exeunt. 
 
SCENE III.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. ^yj- 
 
 Enter Sir Walter Whorehound, Yellowhammer, 
 Tim, fl!«^ Tutor. 
 
 Sir Wal. Life, call you this close keeping ? 
 
 Yel. She was kept 
 Under a double lock. 
 
 Sir Wal. A double devil ! 
 
 Tim. That's a buff sergeant, tutor; he'll ne'er wear out. 
 
 Yel. How would you have women locked ? 
 
 Tim. With padlocks, father ; 
 The Venetian uses it ; my tutor reads it. 
 
 Sir Wal. Heart, if she were so locked up, how got 
 she out? 
 
 Yel. There was a little hole looked into the gutter ; 
 But who would have dreamt of that ? 
 
 Sir Wal. A wiser man would. 
 
 Tim. He says true, father ; a wise man for love 
 Will seek every hole ; my tutor knows it. 
 
 Tutor. Verum poeta dicit. 
 
 Tim. Didt Virgilius, father 
 
 Yel. Prithee, talk of thy gills ^ somewhere else ; sh'as 
 played 
 The gill with me : where's your wise mother now ? 
 
 Tim. Run mad, I think; I thought she would have 
 drowned herself; 
 She would not stay for oars, but took a smelt-boat ; 
 Sure I think" she be gone a-fishing for her. 
 
 Yel. She'll catch a goodly dish of gudgeons now, 
 Will serve us all to supper. 
 
 Enter Maudlin, drawing in Moll by the hair, and 
 Watermen. 
 
 Maud. I'll tug thee home by the hair. 
 \st W. Good mistress, spare her ! 
 Maud. Tend your own business. 
 ist W. You're a cruel mother. 
 
 [Exeunt Watermen. 
 1 Lewd women. 
 
.238 A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act iv. 
 
 Moll. O, my heart dies ! 
 
 Maud. I'll make thee an example 
 For all the neighbours' daughters. 
 
 Moll Farewell, life ! 
 
 Maud. You that have tricks can counterfeit. 
 
 Yel. Hold; hold, Maudlin ! 
 
 Maud. I've brought your jewel by the hair. 
 
 Yel. She's here, knight. 
 
 Sir Wal. Forbear, or I'll grow worse. 
 
 Tim. Look on her, tutor ; 
 She hath brought her from the water like a mermaid ; 
 She's but half my sister now, as far as the flesh goes. 
 The rest may be sold to fishwives. 
 
 Maud. Dissembling, cunning baggage ! 
 
 Yel. Impudent strumpet ! 
 
 Sir Wal. Either give over, both, or I'll give over. — 
 Why have you used me thus unkindly, mistress ? 
 Wherein have I deserved ? 
 
 Yel. You talk too fondly, sir : 
 We'll take another course and prevent all : 
 We might have done't long since; we'll lose no time now, 
 Nor trust to't any longer : to-morrow morn. 
 As early as sunrise, we'll have you joined. 
 
 Moll. O, bring me death to-night, love-pitying fates ; 
 Let me not see to-morrow up on the world ! 
 
 Yel. Are you content, sir ? till then she shall be 
 watched. 
 
 Maud. Baggage, you shall. 
 
 Tim. Why, father, my tutor and I 
 Will both watch in armour. 
 
 \Exeunt Maudlin, Moll, (zw;/ Yellowhammer. 
 
 Tutor. How shall we do for weapons ? 
 
 Tim. Take you 
 No care for that ; if need be, I can send 
 For conquering metal, tutor, ne'er lost day yet. 
 'Tis but at Westminster ; I am acquainted 
 With him that keeps the monuments ; I can borrow 
 
SCENE III.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 239 
 
 Harry the Fifth's sword ; it will serve us both 
 
 To watch with. {Exeunt Tim and Tutor. 
 
 Sir Wal. I never was so near my wish 
 As this chance makes me : ere to-morrow noon 
 I shall receive two thousand pound in gold, 
 And a sweet maidenhead worth forty. 
 
 He-enter Tovchwoob jumor and Waterman. 
 
 Touch, jun. O, thy news splits me ! 
 
 Water. Half-drowned, she cruelly tugged her by the 
 hair. 
 Forced her disgracefully, not like a mother. 
 
 Touch, jun. Enough; leave me, like my joys. — 
 
 \Exit Waterman. 
 Sir, saw you not a wretched maid pass this way ? 
 Heart, villain, is it thou ? 
 
 Sir Wal. Yes, slave, 'tis I. 
 
 Touch, jun. I must break through thee then : there is 
 no stop 
 That checks my tongue ^ and all my hopeful fortunes. 
 That breast excepted, and I must have way. 
 
 Sir Wal. Sir, I believe 'twill hold your life in play. 
 
 Touch, jun. Sir, you will gain the heart in my breast 
 first. 
 
 Sir Wal. There is no dealing then ; think on the 
 dowry 
 For two thousand pounds. [Theyjight. 
 
 Touch, jun. O, now 'tis quit, sir. 
 
 Sir Wal. And being of even hand, I'll play no longer. 
 
 Touch, jun. No longer, slave? 
 
 Sir Wal. I've certain things to think on. 
 Before I dare go further. 
 
 Touch, jun. But one bout ! 
 I'll follow thee to death, but ha' it out. {Exeunt. 
 
 I "i,e. Perhaps, suit — if it be not a misprint." — Dyce. 
 
ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Room in Allwit's House. 
 
 Enter Allwit, Mistress Allwit,' and Davy. 
 
 IS. ALL. A misery of a house ! 
 
 Allwit. What shall become of us ! 
 Davy. I think his wound be mortal. 
 Allwit. Think'st thou so, Davy ? 
 Then am I mortal too, but a dead 
 man, Davy; 
 This is no world for me, whene'er he goes ; 
 I must e'en truss up all, and after him, Davy ; 
 A sheet with two knots, and away. 
 Davy. O see, sir ! 
 
 Enter Sir Walter Whorehound led in by two Servants, 
 who place him in a chair. 
 
 How faint he goes ! two of my fellows lead him. 
 
 Mis. All. O me ! [Swoons. 
 
 Allwit. Heyday, my wife's laid down too ; here's like 
 to be 
 A good house kept, when we're all together down : 
 Take pains with her, good Davy, cheer her up there ; 
 Let me come to his worship, let me come. 
 
 Sir Wal. Touch me not, villain ; my wound aches at 
 thee. 
 Thou poison to my heart ! 
 
 Allwit. He raves already ; 
 His senses are quite gone, he knows me not. — 
 
SCENE I.] A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 241 
 
 Look up, an't like your worship ; heave those eyes,; 
 
 Call me to mind ; is your remembrance left ? 
 
 Look in my face ; who am I, ah't like your worship ? 
 
 Sir Wal. If anything be worse than slave or villain. 
 Thou art the man ! 
 
 AllwU. Alas, his poor worship's weakness ! 
 He will begin to know me by little and little. 
 
 Sir Wal. No devil can be like thee ! 
 
 Allwit. Ah, poor gentleman. 
 Methinks the pain that thou endurest mads thee. 
 
 Sir Wal. Thou know'st nie to be wicked ; for thy 
 baseness 
 Kept the eyes open still on all my sins ; 
 None knew the dear account my soul stood charged 
 
 with 
 So well as thou, yet, like hell's flattering angel, 
 Wouldst never tell me on't, lett'st me go on. 
 And join with death in sleep; that if I had not 
 Waked now by chance, even by a stranger's pity, 
 I had everlastingly slept out all hope 
 Of grace and mercy. 
 
 Allwit. Now he's worse and worse. 
 Wife, to him, wife ; thou wast wont to do good on him. 
 
 Mis. All. How is it with you, sir ? 
 
 Sir Wal. Not as with you. 
 Thou loathsome strumpet ! Some good, pitying man. 
 Remove my sins out of my sight a little ; 
 I tremble to behold her, she keeps back 
 All comfort while she stays. Is this a time. 
 Unconscionable woman, to see thee ? 
 Art thou so cruel to the peace of man. 
 Not to give liberty now ? the devil himself 
 Shows a far fairer reverence and respect 
 To goodness than thyself; he dares not do this, 
 But parts in time of penitence, hides his face j 
 When man withdraws from him, he leaves the place : 
 Hast thou less manners and more impudence 
 
 Mid. R 
 
242 A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act V. 
 
 Than thy instructor ? prithee, show thy modesty, 
 If the least grain be left, and get thee from me :. 
 Thou shouldst be rather locked many rooms hence 
 From the poor miserable sight of me, 
 If either love or grace had part in thee. 
 
 Mis. AU/He's lost for ever ! [Aside. 
 
 Allwit. Run, sweet Davy, quickly, 
 And fetch the children hither ; sight of them 
 Will make him cheerful straight. \Exit Davy. 
 
 Sir Wal. O death ! is this 
 A place for you to weep ? what tears are those ! 
 Get you away with them, I shall fare the worse 
 As long as they're a-weeping, they work against me ; 
 There's nothing but thy appetite in that sorrow, ^ 
 Thou weep'st for lust ; I feel it in the slackness 
 Of comforts coming towards me ; I was well 
 Till thou began'st t' undo me : this shows like 
 The fruitless sorrow of a careless mother. 
 That brings her son with dalliance to the gallows. 
 And then stands by and weeps to see him suffer. 
 
 • 
 
 Re-enter Davy with Nick, Wat, and other children. 
 
 Davy. There are the children, sir, an't like your wor- 
 ship. 
 Your last fine girl ; in troth, she smiles ; 
 Look, look, in faith, sir. 
 
 Sir Wal. O my vengeance ! 
 Let me for ever hide my cursfed face 
 From sight of those that darken all my hopes. 
 And stand between me and the sight of Heaven ! 
 Who sees me now — O, and those so near me. 
 May rightly say I am o'ergrown with sin. 
 O, how my offences wrestle with my repentance ! 
 It hath scarce breath ; 
 Still my adulterous guilt hovers aloft. 
 And with her black wings beats down all my prayers 
 Ere they be half-way up. What's he knows now 
 
SCENE I.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 243 
 
 How long I have to live ? O, what comes then ? 
 My taste grows bitter ; the round world all gall now ; 
 Her pleasing pleasures now hath poisoned me, 
 Which I exchanged my soul for ! 
 Make way a hundred sighs at once for me ! - 
 
 Alhvit. Speak to him, Nick. 
 
 Nick. I dare not, I'm afraid, 
 
 Allwit. Tell him he hurls his wounds, Wat, with 
 making moan. 
 
 Sir Wal. Wretched, death of seven ! ^ 
 
 Allwit. Come let's be talking 
 Somewhat to keep him alive. Ah, sirrah Wat, 
 And did my lord bestow that jewel on thee 
 For an epistle thou mad'st in Latin ? thou 
 Art a good forward boy, there's great joy on thee. 
 
 Sir Wal. O sorrow ! 
 
 Allwit. Heart, will nothing comfort him ? 
 If he be so far gone, 'tis time to moan. [Aside. 
 
 Here's pen and ink, and paper, and all things ready ; 
 Will't please your worship for to make your will ? 
 
 Sir Wal. My will ! yes, yes, what else ? who writes 
 apace now ? 
 
 Allwit. That can your man Davy, an't like your wor- 
 ship ; 
 A fair, fast, legible hand. 
 
 Sir Wal, Set it down then. [Davy writes. 
 
 Imprimis, I bequeath to yonder vvittol 
 Three times his weight in curses. 
 
 Allwit. How ! 
 
 Sir Wal. All plagues 
 Of body and of mind. 
 
 Allwit. Write them not down, Davy. 
 
 Davy. It is his will ; I must. 
 
 Sir Wal. Together also 
 With such a sickness ten days ere his death. 
 
 ^ His seven children bv AUwit's wife. 
 
244 ^ CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE; [act v. 
 
 Allwii. There's a sweet legacy ! I'm almost choked 
 with't. {Aside. 
 
 Sir Wal. Next, I bequeath to that foul whore his wife 
 All barrenness of joy, a drouth of virtue. 
 And dearth of all repentance : for her end, 
 The common misery of an English strumpet. 
 In French and Dutch ; beholding, ere she dies, 
 Confusion of her brats before her eyes, 
 And never shed a tear for't. 
 
 Enter 3rd Servant. 
 
 ■^rd Ser. Where's the knight ? — 
 
 sir, the gentleman you wounded is 
 Newly departed ! 
 
 Sir Wal. Dead ? lift, lift, who helps me ? 
 
 Allwit. Let the law lift you now, that must have all \ 
 
 1 have done lifting on you, and my wife too. 
 
 yd Ser. You were best lock yourself close. 
 
 Allwif. Not in my house, sir ; 
 I'll harbour no such persons as men-slayers ; 
 Lock yourself where you will. 
 
 Sir Wal. What's this? 
 
 Mis. AIL Why, husband ! 
 
 Allwit. I know what I do, wife. 
 
 Mis. All. You cannot tell yet ; 
 For having killed the man in his defence, 
 Neither his life nor estate will be touched, husband. 
 
 Allwii. K\iz.y, wife ! hear a fool ! his lands will hang 
 him. 
 
 Sir Wal. Am I denied a chamber ? — What say you, 
 forsooth ? 
 
 Mis. All. Alas, sir, I am one that would have all 
 well. 
 But must obey my husband. — Prithee, love. 
 Let the poor gentleman stay, being so sore wounded ; 
 There's a close chamber at one end of the garret 
 We never use ; let him have that, I prithee. 
 
SCENE I.] A CHASm MAID IN CBSAPSIDE, 245 
 
 Allwit. We never use ? you forgot sickness then, 
 And physic-times ; is't not a place for easement ? 
 
 Sir Wal. O, death ! do I hear this with part 
 Of former life in me ? — 
 
 Enter i,th Servant. 
 
 What's the news now ? 
 
 \th Ser. Troth, worse and worse ; you're like to lose 
 your land. 
 If the law save your life, sir, or the surgeon. 
 
 Allwit. Hark you there, wife. 
 
 Sir Wal. Why, how, sir ? 
 
 i,th Ser. Sir Oliver Kix's wife is new quickened ; 
 That child undoes you, sir. 
 
 Sir Wal. All ill at once ! 
 
 Allwit. I wonder what he makes here with his con- 
 sorts ? 
 Cannot our house be private to ourselves. 
 But we must have such guests ? I pray, depart, sirs, 
 And take your murderer along with you ; 
 Good he were apprehended ere he go, 
 Has killed some honest gentleman ; send for officers. 
 
 Sir Wal. I'll soon save you that labour. 
 
 Allwit. I must tell you, sir, 
 You have been somewhat bolder in my house 
 Than I could well like of; I suffered you 
 Till it stuck here at my heart ; I tell you truly 
 I thought y'had been familiar with my wife once. 
 
 Mis. All. With mel I'll see him hanged first; I defy him. 
 And all such gentlemen in the like extremity. 
 
 Sir Wal. If ever eyes were open, these are they : 
 Gamesters, farewell, I've nothing left to play. 
 
 Allwit. And therefore get you gone, sir. 
 
 \Exit Sir Walter, led off by Servants. 
 
 Davy. Of all wittols 
 Be thou the head — thou the grand whore of spittles ! 
 
 \Exit. 
 
246 A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSlDE. [act v. 
 
 AUwit. So, since he's like now to be rid of all, 
 I am right glad I'm so well rid of him. 
 
 Mis. All. I knew he durst not stay when you named 
 officers.. 
 
 Allwit. That stopped his spirits straight. What shall 
 we do now, wife ? 
 
 Mis. All. As we were wont to do. 
 
 Allwit. We're richly furnished, wife. 
 With household stuff. 
 
 Mis. All. Let's let out lodgings then, 
 And take a house in the Strand. 
 
 Allwit. In troth, a match, wench ! 
 We're simply stocked with cloth-of-tissue cushions 
 To furnish out bay-windows ; pish, what not 
 That's quaint and costly, from the top to the bottom ; 
 Life, for furniture we may lodge a countess : 
 There's a close-stool of tawny velvet too. 
 Now I think on it, wife. 
 
 Mis. All. There's that should be, sir ; 
 Your nose must be in everything. 
 
 Allwit. I've done, wench. 
 And let thi-s stand in every gallant's chamber, — 
 There is no gamester like a politic sinner. 
 For whoe'er games, the box is sure a winner. \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 A Room in Yellowhammer's House. 
 
 Enter Yellowhammer and Maudlin. 
 
 Maud. O husband, husband, she will die, she will 
 die! 
 There is no sign but death. 
 
 Yel. 'Twill be our shame then. 
 
 Maud. O, how she's changed in compass of an hour ! 
 
SCENE 11.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 247 
 
 Yel. Ah, my poor girl ! good faith, thou wert too cruel 
 To drag her by the hair. 
 
 Maud. You'd have done as much, sir. 
 To curb her of her humour. 
 
 Yel. 'Tis curbed sweetly ; 
 She catched her bane o' th' water. 
 
 Enter Tim. 
 
 Maud. How now, Tim ? 
 
 Tim. Faith, busy, mother, about an epitaph 
 Upon my sister's death. 
 
 Maud. Death ? she's not dead, I hope ? 
 
 Tim. No, but she means to be, and that's as good. 
 And when a thing's done, 'tis done ; you taught me that, 
 mother. 
 
 Yel. What is your tutor doing ? 
 
 Tim. Making one too, in principal pure Latin, 
 Culled out of Ovid de Tristibus. 
 
 Yel. How does your sister look? is she not changed ? 
 
 Tim. Changed ? gold into white money was ne'er so 
 changed 
 As is my sister's colour into paleness. 
 
 Enter Moll, led in by Servants, who place her in a chair. 
 
 Yel. O, here she's brought; see how she looks like 
 
 death ! 
 Tim. Looks she like "death, and ne'er a word made 
 yet? 
 I must go beat my brains against a bed-post. 
 And get before my tutor. \Exit. 
 
 Yel. Speak, how dost thou ? 
 Moll. I hope I shall be well, for I'm as sick 
 At heart as I can be. 
 
 Yel. 'Las, my poor girl ! 
 The doctor's making a most sovereign drink for thee. 
 The worst ingredience dissolved pearl and amber ; 
 We spare no cost, girl. 
 
248 A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act V. 
 
 Moll. Your love comes too late, 
 Yet timely thanks reward it. What is comfort, 
 When the poor patient's heart is past relief? 
 It is no doctor's art can cure my grief. 
 
 Yel. All is cast away, then ; 
 Prithee, look upon me cheerfully. 
 
 Maud. Sing but a strain or two ; thou wilt not think 
 How 'twill revive thy spirits ; strive with thy fit, 
 Prithee, sweet Moll. 
 
 Moll. You shall have my good will, mother. 
 
 Maud. Why, well said, wench. 
 
 Moll. \sings?\ 
 
 Weep eyes, break heart ! 
 My love and I must part. 
 Cruel fates true love do soonest sever : 
 O, I shall see thee never, never, never ! 
 O, happy is the maid whose life takes end 
 Ere it knows parent's frown or loss of friend ! 
 Weep eyes, break heart ! 
 My love and I must part. 
 
 Maud. O, I could die with music ! — Well sung, girl. 
 Moll. If you call't so, it was. 
 Yel. She plays the swan. 
 And sings herself to death. 
 
 Enter Touchwood sefiior. 
 
 Touch, sen. By your leave, sir. 
 
 Yel. What are you, sir? or what's your business, pray ? 
 
 Touch, sen. I may be now admitted, though the 
 brother 
 Of him your hate pursued : it spreads no further. 
 Your malice sets in death, does it not, sir ? 
 
 Yel. In death ? 
 
 Touch, sen. He's dead : 'twas a dear love to him, 
 It cost him but his life, that was all, sir ; 
 He paid enough, poor gentleman, for his love. 
 
SCENE II.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 249 
 
 Yel. There's all our ill removed, if she were well 
 now. — \Aside. 
 
 Impute not, sir, his end to any hate 
 That sprung from us ; he had a fair wound brought that. 
 
 Touch, sen. That helped him forward, I must needs 
 confess ; 
 But the'restraint of love, and your unkindness, 
 Those were the wounds that from his heart drew blood ; 
 But being past help, let words forget it too : 
 Scarcely three minutes ere his eyelids closed, 
 And took eternal leave of this world's light. 
 He wrote this letter, which by oath he boun me 
 To give to her own hands ; that's all my business. 
 
 Yel. You may perform it then ; there she sits. 
 
 Touch, sen. O, with a following look ! 
 
 Yel. Ay, trust me, sir, 
 I think she'll follow him quickly. 
 
 Touch, sen. Here's some gold 
 He willed me to distribute faithfully 
 Amongst your servants. \Gives gold to Servants. 
 
 Yel. 'Las, what doth he mean, sir ? 
 
 Touch, sen. How cheer you, mistress? 
 
 Moll. I must learn of you, sir. 
 
 Touch, sen. Here is a letter from a friend of yours, 
 
 [Giving letter to Moll. 
 And where that fails in satisfaction, 
 I have a sad tongue ready to supply. 
 
 Moll. How does he, ere I look on't? 
 
 Touch, sen. Seldom better ; 
 Has a contented health now, 
 
 Moll. I'm most glad on't. 
 
 Maud. Dead, sir? 
 
 Yel. He is : now, wife, let's but get the girl 
 Upon her legs again, and to qhurch roundly with her. 
 
 Moll. O, sick to death, he tells me : how does he 
 after this ? 
 
 Touch, sen. Faith, feels no pain at all; he's dead, 
 sweet mistress. 
 
250 A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act v. 
 
 Moll. Peace close mine eyes ! \Swoons. 
 
 Yel. The girl ! look to the girl, wife ! 
 
 Maud. Moll, daughter, sweet girl, speak ! look but 
 once up, 
 Thou shalt have all the wishes of thy heart 
 That wealth can purchase ! 
 
 Yel. O, she's gone for ever ! 
 That letter broke her heart. 
 
 Touch, sen. As good now then 
 As let her lie in torment, and then break it. 
 
 Enter Susan. 
 
 Maud. O Susan, she thou lovedst so dear is gone ! 
 
 Susan. O sweet maid ! 
 
 Touch, sen. This is she that helped her still. — 
 I've a reward here for thee. 
 
 Yel. Take her in, 
 Remove her from my sight, our shame and sorrow. 
 
 Touch, sen. Stay, let me help thee, 'tis the last cold 
 kindness 
 I can perform for my sweet brother's sake. 
 
 [Exeunt Touchwood senior, Susan, and 
 Servants, carrying out Moll. 
 
 Yel. All the whole street will hate us, and the world 
 Point me out cruel : it's our best course, wife, 
 After we've given order for the funeral, 
 T' absenl ourselves till she be laid in ground. 
 
 Maud. Where shall we spend that time ! 
 
 Yel. I'll tell thee where, wench : 
 Go to some private church, and -marry Tim 
 To the rich Brecknock gentlewoman. 
 
 Maud. Mass, a match ; 
 We'll not lose all at once, somewhat we'll catch. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
SCENE III.] ^ CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 251 
 
 SCENE III. 
 A Room in Sir Oliver Kix's House. 
 
 Enter Sir Oliver Kix a7id. Servants. 
 
 Sir 01. Ho, my wife's quickened ;^ I'm a man for 
 ever! 
 I think I have bestirred my stumps, i'faith. 
 Run, get your fellows all together instantly, 
 Then to the parish church and ring the bells. 
 
 \st Ser. It shall be done, sir. \Exit. 
 
 Sir 01. Upon my love 
 I charge you, villain, that you make a bonfire 
 Before the door at night. 
 
 2nd Ser. A bonfire, sir ? 
 
 Sir 01. A thwacking one, I charge you. 
 
 2nd Ser. This is monstrous. [Aside, and exit. 
 
 Sir 01. Run, tell a hundred pound out for the gentle- 
 man 
 That gave my wife the drinlc, the first thing you do. 
 
 T,rd Ser. A hundred pounds, sir ? 
 
 Sir 01. A bargain : as our joy grows. 
 We must remember still from whence it flows, 
 Or else we prove ungrateful multipliers : 
 
 \Exit 3rd Servant. 
 The child is comingj and the land comes after ; 
 The news of this will make a poor Sir Walter : 
 I've strook it home, i'faith. 
 
 /^h Ser. That you have, marry, sir ; 
 But will not your worship go to the funeral 
 Of both these lovers ? 
 
 Sir 01. Both ? go both together ? 
 
 i,th Ser. Ay, sir, the gentleman's brother will have 
 it so : 
 'Twill be the pitifull'st sight ! there is such running. 
 Such rumours, and such throngs, a pair of lovers 
 
353 A CliA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act v. 
 
 Had never more spectators, more men's pities, 
 Or women's wet eyes. 
 
 Sir 01. My wife helps the number then. 
 
 \th Ser. There is such drawing out of handkerchers; 
 And those that have no handkerchers lift up aprons. 
 
 Sir 01. Her parents may have joyful hearts at this : 
 I would not have my cruelty so talked on 
 To any child of mine for a monopoly. 
 
 i^h Ser. I believe you, sir. 
 Tis cast^ so, too, that both their coffins meet, 
 Which will be lamentable. 
 
 Sir 01. Come, we'll see't. [Exeimt. 
 
 SCENE IV, 
 
 Near a Church. 
 
 Recorders" dolefidly flaying, enter at one door the coffifi oj 
 Touchwood junior, solemnly decked, his sword upon 
 it, attended by many gentlemen in Mack, among whom 
 are Sir Oliver Kix, Allwit, and Parson, Touch- 
 wood senior being the chief mourner : at the other door 
 the coffin (t/^Moll, adorned with a garlatid of flowers, 
 and epitaphs pinned on it, attended by many matrons 
 and maids, among whom are Lady Kix, Mistress 
 Allwit, and Susan ; the coffins are set down, one 
 right over against the other ; and while all the company 
 seem to weep and mourn, there is a sad song z« the 
 music-room.^ 
 
 Touch, sen. Never could death boast of a richer prize 
 From the first parent; let the world bring forth 
 A pair of truer hearts. To speak but truth 
 
 1 Conlrived. ^ Flageolets. 
 
 3 Collier suggests that one of the boxes of the theatre was appro- 
 priated lo the musicians. 
 
SCENE IV.] A CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 2.s3 
 
 Of this departed gentleman, in a brother 
 
 Might, by hard censure, be called flattery. 
 
 Which makes me rather silent in his right 
 
 Than so to be delivered to the thoughts 
 
 Of any envious hearer, starved in virtue. 
 
 And therefore pining to hear others thrive ; 
 
 But for this maid, whom envy cannot hurt 
 
 With all her poisons, having left to ages 
 
 The true, chaste monument of her living name, 
 
 Which no time can deface, I say of her 
 
 The full truth freely, without fear of censure : 
 
 What nature could there shrine, that might redeem 
 
 Perfection home to woman, but in her 
 
 Was fully glorious ? beauty set in goodness 
 
 Speaks what she was ; that jewel so infixed. 
 
 There was no want of anything of life 
 
 To make these virtuous precedents man and wife, 
 
 Allwif. Great pity of their deaths ! 
 
 \st Mour. Never more pity ! 
 
 Lady Kix. It makes a hundred weeping eyes, svveet 
 gossip. 
 
 Touch sen. I cannot think there's any one amongst 
 you 
 In this full fair assembly, maid, man, or wife. 
 Whose heart would not have sprung with joy and glad- 
 ness 
 To have seen their marriage-day. 
 
 2nd Mour. It would have made 
 A thousand joyful hearts. 
 
 Touch, sen. Up then apace. 
 And take your fortunes, make these joyful hearts ; 
 Here's none but friends. 
 
 [Moll and Touchwood /k/zw?- rise out of their coffins. 
 
 All. Alive, sir ? O sweet, dear couple ! 
 
 Touch, sen. Nay, do not hinder 'em now, stand from 
 about 'em ;' 
 If she be caught again, and have this time. 
 
254 ^ CHA STE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act v. 
 
 I'll ne'er plot furlher for 'enij nor this honest chamber- 
 
 inaid, 
 That helped all at a push. 
 
 Touch, jun. Good sir, apace. 
 
 Parson. Hands join now, but hearts for ever, 
 
 [Moll and Tovckwood Junior Join hands. 
 Which no parent's mood shall sever. 
 You shall forsake all widows, wives, and maids — 
 You lords, knights, gentlemen, and men of trades ; — 
 And if in haste any article misses. 
 Go interline it with a brace of kisses. 
 
 Touch, sen. Here's a thing trolled nimbly. — Give you 
 joy, brother ; 
 Were't not better thou shouldst have her than the maid 
 should die ? 
 
 Mis. All. To you, sweet mistress bride. 
 
 All. Joy, joy to you both. 
 
 Touch, sen. Here be your wedding-sheets you brought 
 along with you ; 
 You may both go to bed when you please too. 
 
 Touch Jun. My joy wants utterance. 
 
 Touch, sen. Utter all at night 
 Then, brother. 
 
 Moll. I am silent with delight. 
 
 Touch, sen. Sister, delight will silence any woman ; 
 But you'll find your tongue again 'mong maid servants. 
 Now you keep house, sister. 
 
 2nd Mour. Never was hour so filled with joy and 
 wonder. 
 
 Toi{ch. sen. To tell you the full story of this chamber- 
 maid. 
 And of her kindness in this business to us, 
 'Twould ask an hour's discourse ; in brief, 'twas she 
 That wrought it to this purpose cunningly. 
 
 yd Mour. We shall all love her for't. 
 
 i,th Mour. See, who comes here now ! 
 
SCENE IV.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 255 
 
 Enter Yellowhammer and Maudlin. 
 
 Touch, sen. A storm, a storm ! but we are sheltered 
 for it. 
 
 Yel. I will prevent^ you all, and mock you thus,- 
 You. and your expectations : I stand happy, 
 Both in your lives, and your hearts' combination. 
 
 Touch, sen. Here's a strange day again 1 
 
 YeL The knight's proved villain ; 
 All's come out now, his niece an arrant baggage ; 
 My poor boy Tim is cast away this morning, 
 Even before breakfast, married a whore 
 Next to his heart. 
 
 Mourners. A whore ! 
 
 Yel. His niece, forsooth. 
 
 Allwit. I think we rid our hands in good time of him. 
 
 Mis. All. I knew he was past the best when I gave 
 him over, — 
 What is become of him, pray, sir ? 
 
 Yel. Who, the knight? 
 He lies i' th' Knights' ward \ '■ — now your belly, lady, 
 
 [To Lady Kix. 
 Begins to blossom, there's no peace for him, 
 His creditors are so greedy. 
 
 Sir or. Master Touchwood, 
 Hear'st thou this news ? I'm so endeared to thee 
 For my wife's fruitfulness, that I charge you both, 
 Your wife and thee, to live no more asunder 
 For the world's frowns ; I've purse, and bed, and board 
 
 for you : 
 Be not afraid to go to your business roundly ; 
 Get children, and I'll keep them. 
 
 Touch, sen. Say you so, sir? 
 
 Sir 01. Prove me with three at a birth, an thou dar'st 
 
 now. 
 
 ^ Anlicipate. 
 
 2 A ward in the prison. 
 
2S6 A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. [act v. 
 
 Touch, sen. Take heed how you dare a man, while you 
 live, sir, 
 That has good skill at his weapon. 
 Sir 01. 'Foot, I dare you, sir ! 
 
 Enter Tim, Welshwoman, and Tutor. 
 
 Yel. Look, gentlemen, if e'er you saw the picture 
 Of the unfortunate marriage, yonder 'tis. 
 
 Welsh. Nay, good sweet Tim 
 
 Tim. Come from the university 
 To marry a whore in London, with my tutor too ! 
 
 tempora ! O mores ! 
 
 Tutor. Prithee, Tim, be patient. 
 
 Tim. I bought a jade at Cambridge ; 
 I'll let her out to execution, tutor, 
 For eighteen pence a-day, or Brainford' horse-races ; 
 She'll serve to carry seven miles out of town well. 
 Where be these mountains ? I was promised rnountains, 
 But there's such a mist, I can see none of 'em. 
 What are become of those two thousand runts ? 
 Let's have a bout with them in the meantime ; 
 A vengeance runt thee ! 
 
 Maud. Good sweet Tim, have patience. 
 
 Tim. Fleeter r si nequeo super os, Acheronta movebo, 
 mother. 
 
 Maud. I think you have married her in logic, Tim. 
 You told me once by logic you would prove 
 A whore an honest woman ; prove her so, Tira, 
 And take her for thy labour. 
 
 Tim. Troth, I thank you : 
 
 1 grant you, I may prove another man's wife so. 
 But not mine own. 
 
 Maud. There's no remedy now, Tim ; 
 You must prove her so as well as you may. 
 Tim. Why then 
 
 1 Brentford. -^ Virg. ^n. vii. 312. 
 
SCENE IV.] A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 257 
 
 • 
 
 My tutor and I will about her as well as we can : 
 Uxor non est merdrix ergo fallens. 
 
 IVelsk. Sir, if your logic cannot prove me honest, 
 There's a thing called marriage, and that makes me honest. 
 
 Maud. O, there's a trick beyond your logic, Tim ! 
 
 Tim. I perceive then a woman may be honest 
 According to the English print, when she's 
 A whore in the Latin ; so much for marriage and logic : 
 I'll love her for her wit, I'll pick out my runts there ; 
 And for my mountains, I'll mount upon ^ 
 
 Yel. So fortune seldom deals two marriages 
 With one hand, and both lucky ; the best is. 
 One feast will serve them both : marry, for room, 
 I'll have the dinner kept in Goldsmiths' Hall, 
 To which, kind gallants, I invite you all. , 
 
 \ExeUnt. 
 
 ' There is a similar blank in the old edition. 
 
 Mid. 
 
WOSME^ 'BEWcA'^E WOmEU^. 
 
HE 'tragedy of Women beware Women 
 was not published till 1657, thirty years 
 after Middleton's death. It appeared 
 with More Dissem-blers besides Wom.en, 
 in a volume entitled Two New Playes. 
 The following address, by Humphrey 
 Moseley, the publisher, is prefixed to the volume : 
 
 "To THE Reader. 
 "When these amongst others of Mr. Thomas Middle- 
 ton's excellent poems came to my hands, I was not a. little 
 confident but that his name would prove as great an 
 inducement for thee to read as me to print them ; since 
 those issues of his brain that have already seen the sun 
 have by their worth gained themselves a free entertainment 
 amongst all that are ingenious : and I am most certain 
 that these will no way lessen his reputation nor hinder his 
 admission to any noble and recreative spirits. All that I 
 require at thy hands is to continue the author in his 
 deserved esteem, and to accept of my endeavours, which 
 have ever been to please thee. Farewell." 
 
 Middleton was indebted to a novel called Hy^poUto and 
 Isabella, translated in 1628. 
 
UPON THE TRAGEDY OF MY FAMILIAR 
 ACQUAINTANCE, THO. MIDDLETON. 
 
 Women beware Women; 'tis a true text 
 
 Never to be forgot j drabs of state vext 
 
 Have plots, poisons, mischiefs that seldom miss, 
 
 To murder virtue with a venom-kiss. 
 
 Witness this worthy tragedy, exprest 
 
 By him that well deserved among the best 
 
 Of poets in his time :* he knew the rage. 
 
 Madness of women crossed, and for the stage 
 
 Fitted their humours ; hell-bred malice, strife 
 
 Acted in state, presented to the life. 
 
 I that have seen't can say, having just cause, 
 
 Never came tragedy off with more applause. 
 
 Nath. Richards.' 
 
 ' Richards, wlio belonged to Caius College, Cambridge, wrote the 
 tragedy of Messalina, the Roman Empress, 1640, and Poems, 
 Sacred and Satyricall, 1 64 1. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONJE. 
 
 Duke of Florence. 
 
 Lord Cardinal, brother of the Duke. 
 
 Fabricio, father of Isabella. 
 
 HIPPOLITO, brother of Fabricio. 
 
 GuARDlANO, uncle of the Ward. 
 
 The Ward, a rich young heir. 
 
 Leantio, a factor,^ husband of Bianca. 
 
 SORDIDO, servant of the Ward. 
 
 Cardinals, Knights, States ^ of Florence, Citizens, &c. 
 
 LiviA, sister of Fabricio and Hippolito. 
 Isabella, daughter of Fabricio, 
 BlANCA, wife of Leantio. 
 Mother of Leantio. 
 Ladies. 
 
 Scene— Fl orence. 
 
 1 A merchant's agent or clerk. ^ Nobles. 
 
wos^{E^ 'bewqAt^e womE^. 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 An outer Room in the House of Leantio's Mother. 
 
 Enter Leantio, Bianca, and Mother. 
 
 \ OTH. Thy sight was never yet more pre- 
 cious to me ; 
 Welcome with all th' affection of a 
 
 mother, 
 That comfort can express from natural 
 
 love ! 
 Since thy birth-joy — a mother's chiefest 
 gladness, 
 After sh'as undergone her curse of sorrows — 
 Thou wast not more dear to me than this hour 
 Presents thee to my heart : welcome again ! 
 
 Lean. 'Las, poor affectionate soul, how her joys speak 
 to me ! 
 I have observ'd it often, and I know it is 
 The fortune commonly of knavish children 
 To have the lovings't mothers. \Aside. 
 
 Moth. What's this gentlewoman ? 
 
264 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [act I. 
 
 Lean. O, you have named the most unvaluedst^ pur- 
 chase 
 That youth of man had ever knowledge of ! 
 As often as I look upon that treasure, 
 And know it to be mine — t here lies the blessing — 
 It joys me that I ever was ordained 
 To have a being, and to live 'mongst men ; 
 Which is a fearful living, and a poor one, 
 Let a man truly think on't : 
 To have the toil and griefs of fourscore years 
 Put up in a white sheet, tied with two knots ; 
 Methinks it should strike earthquakes in adulterers. 
 When even the very sheets they commit sin in 
 May prove, for aught they know, all their last garments. 
 
 what a mark were there for women then ! 
 But beauty, able to content a conqueror 
 
 Whom earth could scarce content, keeps me in compass : 
 
 1 find no wish in me bent sinfully 
 
 To this man's sister, or to that man's wife ; 
 
 In love's name let 'em keep their honesties, 
 
 And cleave to their own husbands, — 'tis their duties : 
 
 Now when I go to church I can pray handsomely. 
 
 Nor come like gallants only to see faces. 
 
 As if lust went to market still on Sundays. 
 
 I must confess I'm guilty of one sin, mother. 
 
 More than I brought into the world with me, 
 
 But that I glory in ; 'tis theft, but noble 
 
 As ever greatness yet shot up withal. 
 
 Moth. How's that ? 
 
 Lean. Never to be repented, mother, 
 Though sin be death ; I had died, if I had not sinned ; 
 And here's my masterpiece ; do you now behold her ! 
 Look on her well, she's mine ; look on her better ; 
 Now say if't be not the best piece of theft 
 That ever was committed ? and I've my pardon for't, — 
 'Tis sealed from Heaven by marriage. 
 ^ Most invaluable. 
 
SCENE I.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, ?6s 
 
 Moth. Married to her ! 
 
 Lean. You must keep counsel, mother, I'm undone 
 else; 
 If it be known, I've lost her ; do but think now 
 What that loss is,— life's but a trifle to't. 
 From Venice, her consent and I have brought her 
 From parents great in wealth, more now in rage ; 
 But let storms spend their furies ; now we've got 
 A shelter o'er our quiet innocent loves, 
 We are contented : little money sh'as brought me \ 
 View but her face, you may see all her dowry, 
 Save that which lies locked up in hidden virtues, 
 Like jewels kept in cabinets. 
 
 Moth. You're to blame. 
 If your obedience will give way to a check, 
 To wrong such a perfection. 
 
 Lean. How? 
 
 Moth. Such a creature. 
 To draw her from her fortune, which, no doubt, 
 At the full time might have proved rich and noble ; 
 You know not what you've done ; my life can give you 
 But little helps, and my death lesser hopes ; 
 And hitherto your own means has but made shift 
 To keep you single, and that hardly too : 
 What ableness have you to do her right then 
 In maintenance fitting her birth and virtues ? 
 Which every woman of necessity looks for. 
 And most to go above it, not confined 
 By their conditions, virtues, bloods, or births. 
 But flowing to affections, wills, and humours. 
 
 Lean. Speak low, sweet mother; you're able to spoil 
 as many 
 As come within the hearing ; if it be not 
 Your fortune to mar all, I have much marvel. 
 I pray do not you teach her to rebel, 
 When she is in a good way to obedience ; 
 To rise with other women in commotion 
 
266 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [act i. 
 
 Against their husbands for six gowns a-year, 
 
 And so maintain their cause, when they're once up, 
 
 111 all things else that require cost enough. 
 
 They're all of 'em a kind of spirits soon raised, 
 
 But not so soon laid, mother ; as, for example, 
 
 A woman's belly is got up in a trice, — r 
 
 A simple charge ere't be laid down again : 
 
 So ever in all their quarrels and their courses ; 
 
 And I'm a proud man I hear nothing of 'em, 
 
 They're very still, I thank my happiness, 
 
 And sound asleep, pray let not your tongue wake 'em : 
 
 If you can but rest quiet, she's contented 
 
 With all conditions that my fortunes bring her to ; 
 
 To keep ckjse, as a wife that loves her husband ; 
 
 To go after the rate of my ability, 
 
 Not the licentious swing of her own will, 
 
 Like some of her old school-fellows ; she intends 
 
 To take out other works in a new sampler. 
 
 And frame the fashion of an honest love. 
 
 Which knows no wants, but, mocking poverty. 
 
 Brings forth more children, to make rich men wonder 
 
 At divine providence, that feeds mouths of infants, 
 
 And sends them none to feed, but stuffs their rooms 
 
 With fruitful bags, their beds with barren wombs. 
 
 Good mother, make not you things worse than they are 
 
 Out of your too much openness ; pray take heed on't. 
 
 Nor imitate the envy of old people. 
 
 That strive to mar good sport because they're perfect : 
 
 I would have you more pitiful to youth, 
 
 Especially to your own flesh and blood. 
 
 I'll prove an excellent husband, here's my hand, 
 
 Lay in provision, follow my business roundly. 
 
 And make you a grandmother in forty weeks. 
 
 Go, pray salute her, bid her welcome cheerfully. 
 
 Moth, [kissing Bianca]. Gentlewoman, thus much is 
 a debt of courtesy. 
 Which fashionable strangers pay each other 
 
SCENE I.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN- 267 
 
 At a kind meeting : then there's more than one 
 Due to the knowledge I have of your nearness ; 
 I'm bold to come again, and now salute you 
 By the name of daughter, which may challenge more 
 Than ordinary respect. 
 
 Lean. Why, this is well now. 
 And I think few mothers of threescore will mend it. 
 
 S^Asidc. 
 
 Moth. What I can bid you welcome to, is mean, 
 But make it all your own ; we're full of wants, 
 And cannot welcome .worth. 
 
 Lean. Now this is scurvy. 
 And spoke as if a woman lacked her teeth ; 
 These old folks talk of nothing but defects, 
 Because they grow so full of 'em themselves. {Aside. 
 
 Bian. Kind mother, there is nothing can be wanting 
 To her that does enjoy all her desires : 
 Heaven send a quiet peace with this man's love, 
 And I'm as rich as virtue can be poor, 
 Which were enough after the rate of mind 
 To erect temples for content placed here. 
 I have forsook friends, fortunes, and ray country, 
 And hourly I rejoice in't. Here's my friends, 
 And few is the good number. — Thy successes, 
 Howe'er they look, I will still name my fortunes ; 
 Hopeful or spiteful, they shall all be welcome : 
 Who invites many guests- has of all sorts. 
 As he that traffics much drinks of all fortunes, 
 Yet they must all be welcome, and used well. 
 I'll call this place the place of my birth now. 
 And rightly too, for here my love was born. 
 And that's the birthday of a woman's joys. 
 You have not bid me welcome since I came. 
 
 Lean. That I did questionless. 
 
 Bian. No, sure — how was't ? 
 I've quite forgot it. 
 
 Lean. Thus. \Kisses her. 
 
268 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [act I. 
 
 Bian. O, sir, 'tis true, 
 Now I remember well ; I've done thee wrong, 
 Pray take 't again, sir. \Kisses him. 
 
 Lean. How many of these wrongs 
 Could I put up in an hour, and turn up the glass 
 For twice as many more ! 
 
 Moth. Will't please you to walk in, daughter? 
 
 Bian. Thanks, sweet mother ; 
 The voice of her that bare me is not more pleasing. 
 
 \Exit with Mother. 
 
 Lean. Though my own care and my rich master's trust 
 Lay their commands both on my factorship. 
 This day and night I'll know no other business 
 But her and her dear welcome. 'Tis bitterness 
 To think upon to-morrow ! that I must leave 
 Her still to the sweet hopes of the week's end ; 
 That pleasure should be so restrained and curbed 
 After the course of a rich work-master. 
 That never pays till Saturday night ! marry, 
 It comes together in a round sum then, 
 And does more good, you'll say. O fair-eyed Florence, 
 Didst thou but know what a most matchless jewel 
 Thou now art mistress of, a pride would take thee. 
 Able to shoot destruction through the bloods 
 Of all thy youthful sons ! but 'tis great policy 
 To keej) choice treasures in obscurest places ; 
 Should we show thieves our wealth, 'twould make 'em 
 
 bolder ; 
 Temptation is a devil will not stick 
 To fasten upon a saint ; take heed of that : 
 The jewel is cased up from all men's eyes; 
 Who could imagine now a gem were kept 
 Of that great value under this plain roof? 
 But how in times of absence ? what assurance 
 Of this restraint then ? Yes, yes, there's one with her : 
 Old inothers know the world ; and such as these, 
 When sons lock chests, are good to look to keys. \Exit. 
 
SCENE 11.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 269 
 
 SCENE II. 
 A Garden attached to Fabricio's House. 
 
 Enter Guardiano, Fabricio, and Livia. 
 
 Guar. What, has your daughter seen him yet? know 
 
 you that ? 
 Fab. No matter, she shall love him. 
 Guar. Nay, let's have fair play ; 
 He has been now my ward some fifteen year. 
 And 'tis my purpose, as time calls upon me. 
 By custom seconded and such moral virtues, 
 To tender him a wife. Now, sir, this wife 
 I'd fain elect out of a daughter of yours; 
 You see my meaning's fair : if now this daughter 
 So tendered, — let me come to your own phrase, sir, — 
 Should offer to refuse him, I were hanselled. — 
 Thus am I fain to calculate all my words 
 For the meridian of a foolish old man, 
 To take his understanding. \Aside?[ — What do you 
 answer, sir ? 
 Fab. I say still, she shall love him. 
 Guar. Yet again ? 
 And shall she have no reason for this love ? 
 
 Fab. Why, do you think that women love with reason ? 
 Guar. I perceive fools are not at all hours foolish. 
 No more than wise men wise. \Aside. 
 
 Fab. I had a wife. 
 She ran mad for me ! she had no reason for't. 
 For aught I could perceive. — What think you, lady 
 sister ? 
 Guar. 'Twas a fit match that, being both out of their 
 wits ; •• 
 A loving wife, it seemed 
 
 She strove to come as near you as she could. \Aside. 
 
 Fab. And if her daughter prove not mad for love 
 too, 
 
270 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [act i. 
 
 She takes not after her ; nor after me, 
 If she prefer reason before my pleasure.^- 
 You're an experienced widow, lady sister, 
 I pray, let your opinion come amongst us. 
 
 Liv. I must offend you then, if truth will do't. 
 And take my niece's part, and call't injustice 
 To force her love to one she never saw : 
 Maids should both see and like, all little enough ; 
 If they love truly after that, 'tis well. 
 Counting the time, she takes one man till death ; 
 That's a hard task, I tell you ; but one may 
 Inquire at three years' end amongst young wives. 
 And mark how the game goes. 
 
 Fab. Why, is not man 
 Tied to the same observance, lady sistelr. 
 And in one woman ? 
 
 Liv. 'Tis enough for him ; 
 Besides, he tastes of many sundry dishes 
 That we poor wretches never lay our lips to, 
 As obedience forsooth, subjection, duty, and such kick- 
 shaws. 
 All of our making, but served in to them ; 
 And if we lick a finger then sometimes, 
 We're not to blame, your best cooks often use it. 
 
 Fab. Thou'rt a sweet lady sister and a witty. 
 
 Liv. A witty ! O the bud of commendation, 
 Fit for a girl of sixteen ! I am blown, man ; 
 I should be wise by this time ; and, for instance, 
 I've buried my two husbands in good fashion. 
 And never mean more to marry. 
 
 Guar. No ! why so, lady ? 
 
 Liv. Because the third shall never bury me : 
 -1 think I'm more than witty. How think you, sir ? 
 
 Fab. I have paid often fees to a counsellor 
 Has had a weaker brain. 
 
 Liv. Then I must tell you 
 Vour money was soon parted. 
 
SCENE II.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 2-]\ 
 
 Guar. Like enow.i 
 
 Liv. Where is my niece ? let her be sent for straight, 
 If you have any hope 'twill prove a wedding ; 
 'Tis fit, i'faith, she should have one sight of him. 
 And slop upon't, and not be joined in haste, 
 As if they went to stock a new-found land. 
 
 Fab. Look out her uncle, and you're sure of her, 
 Those two are ne'er asunder; they've been heard 
 In argument at midnight; moonshine nights 
 Are noondays with them ; they walk out their sleeps, 
 Or rather at those hours appear like those 
 That walk in 'em, for so they did to me. 
 Look you, I told you truth ; they're like a chain, 
 Draw but one link, all follows. 
 
 E?iter HipPOLiTO and Isabella. 
 
 Guar. O affinity, 
 What piece of excellent workmanship art thou ! 
 'Tis work clean wrought, for there's no lust but love in't, 
 And that abundantly ; when in stranger things 
 There is no love at all but what lust brings. 
 
 Fab. On with your mask ! for 'tis your part to see now, 
 And not be seen : go to, make use of your time ; 
 See what you mean to like ; nay, and I charge you. 
 Like what you see : do you hear me ? there's no dally- 
 ing; 
 The gentleman's almost twenty, and 'tis time 
 He were getting lawful heirs, and you a-breeding on 'em. 
 
 Isa. Good father 
 
 Fab. Tell not me of tongues and rumours : 
 You'll say the gentleman is somewhat simple ; 
 The better for a husband, were you wise, 
 For those that marry fools live ladies' lives. 
 
 1 In the old edition : " Light her now, brother,'' which is 
 evidently corrupt. " Like enow " was suggested byBullen; it is 
 difficult to account for "brother," it cannot well be fitted into the 
 following line. 
 
272 WOMMlsr BEWARE WOMEN. [act 1. 
 
 On with the mask ! I'll hear no more : he's rich ; 
 The fool's hid under bushels. 
 
 Liv. Not so hid neither 
 But here's a foul great piece of him, methinks ; 
 What will he be when he comes altogether ? 
 
 Enter the Ward with a trap-stick, and Sordido. 
 
 Ward. Beat him ? 
 I beat him out o' the field with his own cat-stick, 
 Yet gave him the first hand. 
 
 Sor. O strange ! 
 
 Ward. I did it ; 
 Then he set jacksi on me. 
 
 Sor. What, my lady's tailor ? 
 
 Ward. .Ay, and I beat him too. 
 
 Sor. Nay, that's no wonder, 
 He's used to beating. 
 
 Ward. Nay, I tickled him 
 When I came once to my tippings. 
 
 Sor. Now you talk on 'em. 
 There was a poulterer's wife made a great complaint 
 Of you last night 'to your guardianer, that you struck 
 A bump in her child's head as big as an egg. 
 
 Ward. An egg may prove a chicken, then in time 
 The poulterer's wife will get by't : when I am 
 In game, I'm furious ; came my mother's eyes 
 In my way, I would not lose a fair end ; no. 
 Were she alive, but with one tooth in her head, 
 I should venture the striking out of that : 
 I think of nobody when I'm in play, 
 I am so earnest. Goads me, my guardianer ! 
 Prithee, lay up my cat and cat-stick " safe. 
 
 Sor. Where, sir ? i' the chimney-corner ? 
 
 Ward. Chimney-corner ! [cornet, 
 
 Sor. Yes, sir ; your cats are always safe i' the chimney- 
 Unless they burn their coats. 
 
 1 Fellows. ''■ Referring to the game of tip-cat. 
 
SCENE II. J WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. z^ 
 
 Ward. Marry, that I am afraid on ! 
 
 Sor. Why, then, I will bestow your cat i' the gutter, 
 And there she's safe, I'm sure. 
 
 Ward. If I but live 
 To keep a house, I'll make thee a great man, 
 If meat and drink can do't. I can stoop gallantly. 
 And pitch out when I list ; I'm dog at a hole : 
 I mar'l ^ my guardianer does not seek a wife for me ; 
 I protest I'll have a bout with the maids else. 
 Or contract myself at midnight to the larder- woman. 
 In presence of a fool ^ or a sack-posset. 
 
 Guar. Ward ! 
 
 Ward. I feel myself after any exercise 
 Horribly prone : let me but ride, I'm lusty ; 
 A cock-horse, straight, i'faith ! 
 
 Guar. Why, ward, I say ! 
 
 Ward. I'll forswear eating eggs in moonshine nights ; 
 There's ne'er a one I eat but turns into a cock 
 In four-and-twenty hours : if my hot blood 
 Be not took down in time, sure 'twill crow shortly. 
 
 Guar. Do you hear, sir? follow me, I must new- 
 school you. 
 
 Ward. School me ? I scorn that now, I am past 
 schooling : 
 I'm not so base to learn to write and read ; 
 I was born to better fortunes in my cradle. 
 
 \JExeunt Guardiano, the Ward, and Sordido. 
 
 Fab. How do you like him, girl ? this is your husband : 
 Like him, or like him not, wench, you shall have him. 
 And you shall love him. 
 
 Liv. O, soft there, brother ! though you be a justice. 
 Your warrant cannot be served out of your liberty; 
 You may compel, out of the power of father. 
 Things merely harsh to a maid's flesh and blood ; 
 
 1 Marvel. 
 
 2 "A play on the words fool aird fowl is intended. Gf. 3 
 Henry V/., v. 6, 11. iS-zo.^' —Biillen. 
 
 Mid. T 
 
274 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [act i. 
 
 But when you come to love, there the soil alters, 
 You're in another country, where your laws 
 Are no more set by than the cacklings of geese 
 In Rome's great Capitol. 
 
 Fab. Many him she shall then. 
 Let her agree upon love afterwards. \Exit. 
 
 Liv. You speak now, brother, like an honest mortal 
 That walks upon th' earth with a staff; you were up 
 I' the clouds before ; you would command love, 
 And so do most old folks that go without it, — 
 My best and dearest brother, I could dwell here ; 
 There is not such another seal on earth, 
 Where all good parts better express themselves. 
 
 Hip. You'll make me blush anon. 
 
 Liv. 'Tis.but like saying grace before a feast then, 
 And that's most comely ; thou art all a feast, 
 And she that has thee a most happy guest. 
 Prithee, cheer up thy niece with special counsel. \Exit. 
 
 Hip. I would 'twere fit to speak to her what I would ; 
 but 
 'Twas not a thing ordained. Heaven has forbid it ; 
 And 'tis most meet that I should rather perish 
 Than the decree divine receive least blemish. 
 Feed inward, you my sorrows, make no noise. 
 Consume me silent, let me be stark dead 
 Ere the world know I'm sick. You see my honesty ; 
 If you befriend me, so. \Aside. 
 
 Jsa. Marry a fool ! 
 Can there be greater misery to a woman 
 That means to keep her days true to her husband, 
 And know no other man ? so virtue wills it. 
 Why, how can I obey and honour him, 
 But I must needs commit idolatry ? 
 A fool is but the image of a man. 
 And that but ill made neither. O the heartbreakings 
 Of miserable maids, where love's enforced ! 
 TJie best condition is but bad enough ; 
 
SCENE II.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 275 
 
 When women have their choices, commonly 
 They do but buy their thraldoms, and bring great por- 
 tions 
 To men to keep 'em in subjection ; 
 As if a fearful prisoner should bribe 
 The keeper to be good to him, yet lies in still, 
 And glad of a good usage, a good look sometimes. 
 By'r lady, no misery surmounts a woman's ; 
 Men buy their slaves, but women buy t heir m a g.t.ei:s ; 
 Yet honesty and love makes an tnis nappy. 
 And, next to angels', the most blessed estate. 
 That providence, that has made every poison 
 Good for gome use, and sets four warring elements 
 At peace in man, can make a harmony 
 In things that are most strange to human reason. 
 O, but this marriage ! [Ast'de.'] — What are you sad too, 
 
 uncle ? 
 Faith, then there's a whole household down together : 
 Where shall I go to seek my comfort now. 
 When my best friend's distressed? what is't afflicts you, 
 sir? 
 Jli/. Faith, nothing but one grief, that will not leave 
 me, 
 And now 'tis welcome ; every man has something 
 To bring him to his end, and this will serve, 
 Joined with your father's cruelty to you, — 
 That helps it forward. 
 
 Isa. O, be cheered, sweet uncle ! 
 How long has 't been upon you ? I ne'er spied it j 
 What a dull sight have 1 1 how long, I pray, sir ? 
 Ifz/. Since I first saw you, niece, and left Bologna. 
 . Isa. And could you deal so unkindly with my heart, 
 To keep it up so long hid from my pity ? 
 Alas ! how shall I trust your love hereafter ? 
 Have we passed through so many arguments, 
 And missed of that still, the most needful one ? 
 Walked out whole nights together in discourses. 
 
376 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [act i. 
 
 And the main point forgot? we're to blame both ; 
 This is an obstinate, wilful forgetfulness, 
 And faulty on both parts : let's lose no time now ; 
 Begin, good uncle, you that feel 't ; what is it ? 
 
 Hip. You of ail creatures, niece, must never hear on't, 
 'Tis not a thuig ordained for you to know. 
 
 Isa, Not I, sir? all my joys that word cuts off; 
 You made profession once you loved me best ; 
 'Twas but profession. 
 
 Hip. Yes, I do't too truly, 
 And fear I shall be chid for't. Know the worst then ; 
 I love thee dearlier than an uncle can. 
 
 ha. Why, so you ever said, and I believed it. 
 
 Hip. So simple is the goodness of her thoughts, 
 They understand not yet th' unhallowed language 
 Of a near sinner ; I must yet be forced, 
 Though blushes be my venture, to come nearer. — 
 
 \Aside. 
 As a man loves his wife, so love I thee. 
 
 Isa. What's that ? 
 Methought I heard ill news come toward me, 
 Which commonly we understand too soon, 
 Then over-quick at hearing ; I'll prevent it, 
 Though my joys fare the harder, welcome it : 
 It shall ne'er come so near mine ear again. 
 Farewell all friendly solaces and discourses ; 
 I'll learn to live without ye, for your dangers 
 Are greater than your comforts. What's become 
 Of truth in love, if such we cannot trust, 
 When blood, that should be love, is mixed with lust ? 
 
 \Exit. 
 Hip. The worst can be but death, and let it come ; 
 He that lives joyless, every day's his doom. \Exit. 
 
SCENE III.] IVOMElsr BEWARE WOMEN. 277 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Street before the House of Leantio's Mother. 
 
 Enter Leantio. 
 Lean. Mediinks I'm even as dull now at departure, 
 As men observe great gallants the next day- 
 After a revel ; you shall see 'em look 
 Much of my fashion, if you mark 'em well. 
 'Tis even a second hell to part from pleasure 
 When man has got a smack on't : as many holydays 
 Coming together makes your poor heads idle 
 A great while after, and are said to stick 
 Fast in their fingers' ends, — even so does game 
 In a new-married couple ; for the time 
 It spoils all thrift, and Indeed lies a-bed 
 'T invent all the new ways for great expenses. 
 
 [BiANCA and Mother appear above. 
 See an she be not got on purpose now 
 Into the window to look after me ! 
 I've no power to go now, an I should be hanged ; 
 Farewell all business ; I desire no more 
 Than I see yonder : let the goods at key'^ 
 Look to themselves \ why should I toil my youth out ? 
 It is but begging two or three year sooner, 
 And stay with her continually : is't a match ? 
 O, fie, what a religion have I leaped into ! 
 Get out again, for shame ! the man loves best 
 When his care's most, that shows his zeal to love : 
 Fondness is but the idiot to affection. 
 That plays at hot-cockles with rich merchants' wives, 
 Good to make sport withal when the chest's full. 
 And the long warehouse cracks. 'Tis time of day 
 For us to be more wise ; 'tis early with us ; 
 And if they lose the morning of their affairs, 
 They commonly lose the best part of the day ; 
 1 Quay. 
 
278 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [act I. 
 
 Tliose that are wealthy, and have got enough, 
 'Tis after sunset with 'em ; they may rest. 
 Grow fat with ease, banquet, and toy, and play. 
 When such as I enter the heat o' the day. 
 And I'll do't cheerfully. 
 
 Bian. I perceive, sir, 
 You're not gone yet ; I've good hope you'll stay now. 
 ■Lean^ Farewell ; I must not. 
 
 Bian. Come, come, pray return ; 
 To-morrow, adding but a little care more. 
 Will despatch all as well ; believe me 'twill, sir. 
 
 Lean. I could well wish myself where you would have 
 me ; 
 But love that's wanton must be ruled awhile 
 By that that's careful, or all goes to ruin : 
 As fitting is a government in love 
 As in a kingdom ; where 'tis all mere lust, 
 'Tis like an insurrection in the people, 
 That raised in self-will, wars against all reason ; 
 But love that is respective for increase 
 Is like a good king, that keeps all in peace. 
 Once more, farewell. 
 
 Bian. But this one night, I prithee ! 
 
 Lean. Alas, I'm in for twenty, if I stay, 
 And then for forty more ! I've such luck to flesh, 
 I never bought a horse but he bore double. 
 If I stay any longer, I shall turn 
 An everlasting spendthrift : as you love 
 To be maintained well, do not call me again, 
 For then I shall not care which end goes forward. 
 Again, farewell to thee. 
 
 Bian. Since it must, farewell too. \Exit Leantio. 
 
 Moth. Faith, daughter, you're to blame ; you take the 
 course 
 To make him an ill husband, troth you do ; 
 And that disease is catching, I can tell you. 
 Ay, and soon taken by a young man 's blood, 
 And that with little urging. Nay, fie, see now, 
 
SCENE 111.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 279 
 
 What cause have you to weep? would I had no more,' 
 
 That have lived threescore years ! there were a cause, 
 
 An 'twere well thought on. Trust me, you're to blame ; 
 
 His absence cannot last five days at utmost : 
 
 Why should those tears be fetched forth ? cannot love 
 
 Be even as well expressed in a good look. 
 
 But it must see her face still in a fountain ? 
 
 It shows like a country maid dressing her head 
 
 By a dish of water : come, 'tis an old custom 
 
 To weep for love. 
 
 Enter several Boys, several Citizens, and an Apprentice. 
 
 \st Boy, Now they come, now they come ! 
 
 2nd Boy. The duke 
 
 2,rd Boy. The states I' 
 
 xst at How near, boy ? 
 
 \st Boy. I' the next street, sir, hard at hand. 
 
 xst Cit. You, sirrah, get a standing for your mistress. 
 The best in all the city. ' 
 
 Appren. I have't for her, sir ; 
 'Twas a thing I provided for her over-night, 
 'Tis ready at her pleasure. 
 
 xst Cit. Fetch her to't then : 
 Away, sir ; \Exeunt Boys, Citizens, and Apprentice. 
 
 Bian. What's the meaning of this hurry? 
 Can you tell, mother ? 
 
 Moth. What a memory 
 Have I ! I see by that years come upon me : 
 Why, 'tis a yearly custom and solemnity, 
 Religiously observed by the duke and states. 
 To St. Mark's temple, the fifteenth of April ; 
 See, if my dull brains "had not quite forgot it ! 
 'Twas happily questioned of thee ; I had gone down else. 
 Sat like a drone below, and never thought on't. 
 I would not, to be ten years younger again. 
 That you had lost the sight : now you shall see 
 Our duke, a goodly gentleman of his years. 
 
 ' Nobles. 
 
28o WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [ACT I. 
 
 'Bian. Is he old then ? 
 
 Motk. About some fifty-five. 
 
 Bian. That's no great age in man ; he's then at best 
 For wisdom and for judgment. 
 
 Moth. The lord cardinal, 
 His noble brother — there's a comely gentleman, 
 And greater in devotion than in blood. 
 
 Bian. He's worthy to be marked. 
 
 Moth. You shall behold 
 All our chief states of Florence: you came fortunately 
 Against this solemn day. 
 
 Bian. I hope so always. [Music within. 
 
 Moth. I hear 'em near us now : do you stand easily ? 
 
 Bian. Exceeding well, good mother. 
 
 Moth. Take this stool. 
 
 Bian. I need it not, I thank you. 
 
 Moth. Use your will then. 
 
 Enter six Knights bare-headed, then two Cardinals, then 
 the Lord Cardinal, then the Duke : after him the 
 states of Florence by two and two, -with variety of 
 music and S07ig. They pass over the i stage in great 
 pomp and exeunt. 
 
 Moth. How like you, daughter ? 
 
 Bian. 'Tis a noble state ; 
 Methinks my soul could dwell upon the reverence 
 Of such a solemn and most worthy custom. 
 Did not the duke look up ? methought he saw us. 
 
 Moth. That's every one's conceit that sees a duke ; 
 If he look steadfastly, he looks straight at them, 
 When he, perhaps, good, careful gentleman, 
 Never minds any, but the look he casts 
 Is at his own intentions, and his object 
 Only the public good. 
 
 Bian. Most likely so. 
 
 Moth. Come, come, we'll end this argument below. 
 
 \_Exeunt above. 
 
ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 An Apartment in Livia's House. 
 
 Enter Hippolito and Livia. 
 
 IV. A strange affection, brother ! when I 
 think on't, I wonder how thou cam'st by't. 
 Hip. Even as easily [ofitimes 
 
 As man comes by \ destruction, which 
 He wears in his own bosom. 
 Liv. Is the world 
 So populous in women, and creation 
 So prodigal in beauty, and so various, 
 Yet does love turn thy point to thine own blood ? 
 'Tis somewhat too unkindly : must thy eye 
 Dwell evilly on the fairness of thy kindred. 
 And seek not where it should ? it is confined 
 Now in a narrower prison than was made for't ; 
 It is allowed a stranger ; and where bounty 
 Is made the great man's honour, 'tis ill husbandry 
 To spare, and servants shall have small thanks for't; 
 So he Heaven's bounty seems to scorn and mock 
 That spares free means, and spends of his own stock. 
 Hip. Ne'er was man's misery so soon summed up, 
 Coui;.ting how truly. 
 
 Liv. Nay, I love you so. 
 That I shall venture much to keep a change from you 
 
282 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [act il. 
 
 So fearful as this grief will bring upon you ; 
 Faith, it even kills me when I see you faint 
 Under a reprehension, and I'll leave it, 
 Though I know nothing can be better for you. 
 Prithee, sweet brother, let not passion waste 
 The goodness of thy time and of thy fortune : 
 Thou keep'st the treasure of that life I love 
 As dearly as mine own ; and if you think 
 My former words too bitter, which were ministered 
 By truth and zeal, 'tis but a hazarding 
 , Of grace and virtue, and I can bring forth 
 As pleasant fruits as sensuality wishes 
 In all her teeming longings ; this I can do. 
 
 Hip. O, nothing that can make my wishes perfect ! 
 
 Liv. I would that lov.e of yours were pawned to't, 
 brother. 
 And as soon lost that way as I could win ! 
 Sir, I could give as shrewd a lift to chastity 
 As any she that wears a tongue in Florence ;., 
 Sh'ad need be a good horsewoman, and sit fast. 
 Whom my strong argument could not fling at last. 
 Prithee, take courage, man ; though I should counsel 
 Another to despair, yet I am pitiful 
 To thy afflictions, and will venture hard — ■ 
 I will not name for what, it is not handsome ; 
 Find you the proof and praise me. 
 
 Hip. Then I fear me 
 I shall not praise you in haste. 
 
 Liv. This is the comfort. 
 You are not the first, brother, has attempted 
 Things more forbidden than this seems to be. 
 I'll minister all cordials now to you. 
 Because I'll cheer -you up, sir. 
 
 Hip. I'm past hope. 
 
 Liv. Love, thou shalt see me do a strange cure then, 
 As e'er was wrought on a disease so mortal 
 And near akin to shame. When shall you see her ? 
 
SCENE I.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 283 
 
 Hip. Never in comfort more. 
 
 Liv. You're so impatient too ! 
 
 Hip. Will you believe ? death, sh'as forsworn my 
 company, 
 And sealed it with a blush. 
 
 Liv. So, I perceive 
 All lies upon my hands then ; well, the more glory 
 When the' work's finished. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 How now, sir? the news? 
 
 Ser. Madam, your niece, the virtuous Isabella, 
 Is lighted now to see you. 
 
 Liv. That's great fortune ; 
 Sir, your stars bless you simply. — Lead her in. 
 
 \Exit Servant. 
 
 Hip. What's this to me ? 
 
 Liv. Your absence, gentle brother ; 
 I must bestir my wits for you. 
 
 Hip. Ay, to great purpose. \Exit. 
 
 Liv. Beshrew you, would I loved you not so well ! 
 I'll go to bed, and leave this deed undone : 
 I am the fondest where I once affect; 
 The carefull'st of their healths- and of their ease, forsooth. 
 That I look still but slenderly to mine own : 
 I take a course to pity him so much now. 
 That I've none left for modesty and myself. 
 This' 'tis to grow so liberal : you've few sisters 
 That love their brothers' ease 'bove their own honesties ; 
 But if you question my affections. 
 That will be found my fault. 
 
 Enter Isabella. 
 
 Niece, your love's welcome. 
 Alas ! what draws that paleness to thy cheeks ? 
 This enforced marriage towards ? ' 
 Isa. It helps, good aunt, 
 
 1 At hand. 
 
284 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [ACT II. 
 
 Amongst some other griefs ; but those I'll keep 
 Locked up in modest silence, for they're sorrows. 
 Would shame the tongue more than they grieve the 
 thought. 
 
 Liv. Indeed, the ward is simple. 
 
 Isa. Simple ! that were well ; 
 Why, one might make good shift with such a husband, 
 But he's a fool entailed, he halts downright in't. 
 
 Liv. And knowing this, I hope 'tis at your choice 
 To take or refuse, niece. 
 
 Isa. You see it is not. 
 I loathe him more than beauty can hate death. 
 Or age her spiteful neighbour. 
 
 Liv. Let 't appear then. 
 
 Isa. How can I, being born with that obedience 
 That must submit unto a father's will ? 
 If he command, I must of force consent. 
 
 Liv. Alas, poor soul ! be not offended, prithee, 
 If I set by the name of niece awhile, 
 And bring in pity in a stranger fashion ; 
 It lies here in this breast would cross this match. 
 
 Isa. How ! cross it, aunt ? 
 
 Liv. Ay, and give thee more liberty 
 Than thou hast reason yet to apprehend. 
 
 Isa. Sweet aunt, in goodness keep not hid from me 
 What may befriend my life ! 
 
 Liv. Yes, yes, I must ! 
 When I return to reputation. 
 And think upon the solemn vow I made 
 To your dead mother, my most loving sister ; 
 As long as I've her memory 'twixt mine eyelids. 
 Look for no pity now. 
 
 Isa. Kind, sweet, dear aunt 
 
 Liv. No, 'twas a secret I've took' special care of, 
 Delivered by your mother on her death-bed. 
 That's nine years now, and I'll not part from't yet. 
 Though ne'er was fitter time, nor greater cause for't. 
 
SCENE I.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 285 
 
 Isa. As you desire the praises of a virgin 
 
 Liv. Good sorrow, I would do thee any kindness 
 Not wronging secrecy or reputation. 
 
 Isa. Neither of which, as I have hope of fruitfulness, 
 Shall receive wrong from me. 
 
 Liv. Nay, 'twould be your own wrong 
 As much as any's, should it come to that once. 
 
 Isa. I need no better means to work persuasion then. 
 
 Liv. Let it suffice, you may refuse this fool, 
 Or you may take him as you see occasion,- 
 For your advantage ; the best wits will do't ; 
 You've liberty enough in your own will. 
 You cannot be enforced ; there grows the flower. 
 If you could pick it out, makes whole life sweet to you. 
 That which you call your father's command's nothing, 
 Then your obedience must needs be as little : 
 If you can make shift here to taste your happiness. 
 Or pick out aught that likes you, much good do you ; 
 You see your cheer, I'll make you no set dinner. 
 
 Isa. And, trust me, I may starve for all the good 
 I can find yet in this : sweet aunt, deal plainHer. 
 
 Liv. Say I should trust you now upon an oath. 
 And give you, in a secret, that would start you. 
 How am I sure of you in faith and silence ? 
 
 Isa. Equal assurance may I find in mercy 
 As you for that in me ! 
 
 Liv. It shall suffice : 
 Then know, however custom has made good. 
 For reputation's sake, the names of niece 
 And aunt 'twixt you and I, we're nothing less. 
 
 Isa, How's that ? 
 
 Liv. I told you I should start your blood ; 
 You are no more allied to any of us. 
 Save what the courtesy of opinion casts 
 Upon your mother's memory and your name. 
 Than the merest stranger is, or one begot 
 At Naples when the husband lies at Rome ; 
 
286 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [act ii. 
 
 There's so much odds betwixt us. Since your knowledge 
 Wished more instruction, and I have your oath 
 In pledge for silence, it makes me talk the freelier. 
 Did never the report of that famed Spaniard, 
 Marquis of Coria, since your time was ripe 
 For understanding, fill your ear with wonder ? 
 
 Isa. Yes ; what of him ? I've heard his deeds ot 
 honour 
 Often related when we lived in Naples. 
 
 Liv. You heard the praises of your father then. 
 
 Isa. My father ! 
 
 Liv. That was he \ but all the business 
 So carefully and so discreetly carried, 
 That fame received no spot by't, not a blemish ; 
 Your mother was so virary to her end, 
 None knew it but her conscience and her friend, 
 Till penitent confession made it mine, 
 And now my pity yours, it had been long else ; 
 And I hope care and love alike in you. 
 Made good by oath, will see it take no wrong now. 
 How weak his commands now whom you call father ! 
 How vain all his enforcements, your obedience ! 
 And what a largeness in your will and liberty. 
 To take, or to reject, or to do both ! 
 For fools will serve to father wise men's children : 
 All this you've time to think on. O my wench, 
 Nothing o'erthrows our se x b i]lj ^"ndiscreti on ' 
 We might do well else of a brittle people 
 As any under the great canopy : 
 I pray, forget not but to call me aunt still ; 
 Take heed of that, it may be marked in time else : 
 But keep your thoughts to yourself, from all the world, 
 Kindred,or dearest friend; nay, I entreat you. 
 From him that all this while you have called uncle ; 
 And though you love him dearly, as I know 
 His deserts claim as much even from a stranger. 
 Yet let not him know this, I prithee, do not ; 
 
SCENE I,] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 28- 
 
 As ever thou hasf hope of second pity, 
 
 If thou shouldst stand in need on't, do not do't. 
 
 Isa. Believe my oath, I will not. 
 
 Liv. Why, well said. — 
 Who shows more craft t' undo a maidenhead, 
 I'll resign my part to her. [Aside. 
 
 Enter Hippolito; 
 
 She's thine own ; go. 
 
 Hip. Alas, fair flattery cannot cure my sorrows ! 
 
 \Exit Li VI A, 
 
 Isa. Have I passed so much time in ignorance, 
 And never had the means to know myself 
 Till this blessed hour? thanks to her virtuous pity 
 That brought it now to light ; would I had known it 
 But one day sooner ! he had then received 
 In favours, what, poor gentleman, he took 
 In bitter words ; a slight and harsh reward 
 For one of his deserts. [Aside. 
 
 Hip. There seems to me now 
 More anger and distraction in her looks : 
 I'm gone j I'll not endure a second storm ; 
 The memory of the first is not past yet. [Aside. 
 
 Isa. Are you returned, you comforts of my life. 
 In this man's presence ? I will keep you fast now. 
 And sooner part eternally from the world 
 Than my good joys in you. [Aside.] — Prithee, forgive 
 
 me, 
 I did but chide in jest; the best loves use it 
 Sometimes ; it sets an edge upon affection : 
 When we invite our best friends to a feast, 
 'Tis not all sweetmeats that we set before them ; 
 There's somewhat sharp and salt, both to whet appetite 
 And make 'em taste their wine well ; so, methinks, 
 After a friendly, sharp, and savoury chiding, 
 A kiss tastes wondrous well, and full o' the grape ; 
 How think'st thou ? does'tnot? [Kisses kim. 
 
288 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [act ii. 
 
 Hip. 'Tis so excellent, 
 I know not how to praise it, what to say to't ! 
 
 Isa. This marriage shall go forward. 
 
 Hip. With the ward ? 
 Are you in earnest ? 
 
 Isa. 'Twould be ill for us else. 
 
 Hip. For us ! how means she that ? \Aside. 
 
 Isa. Troth, I begin 
 To be so well, methinks, within this hour. 
 For all this match able to kill one's heart, 
 Nothing can pull me down now ; should my father 
 Provide a worse fool yet — which I should think 
 Were a hard thing to compass — I'd have him either ; 
 The worse the better, none can come amiss now, 
 If he want wit enough ; so discretion love me. 
 Desert and judgment, I've content sufficient. 
 She that comes once to be a housekeeper 
 Must not look every day to fare well, sir. 
 Like a young waiting-gentlewoman in service, 
 For she feeds commonly as her lady does. 
 No good bit passes her but she gets a taste on't ; 
 But when she comes to keep, house for herself. 
 She's glad of some choice cates then once a-week. 
 Or twice at most, and glad if she can get 'em ; 
 So must affection learn to fare with thankfulness : 
 Pray, make your love no stranger, sir, that's all, — 
 Though you be one yourself, and know not on't. 
 And I have sworn you must not. \Aside, and exit. 
 
 Hip. This is beyond me ! 
 Never came joys so unexpectedly 
 To meet desires in man : how came she thus ? 
 What has she done to her, can any tell ? 
 'Tis beyond sorcery this, drugs, or love-powders ; 
 Some art that has no name, sure ; strange to me 
 Of all the wonders I e'er met withal 
 Throughout my ten years' travels ; but I'm thankful for't. 
 This marriage now must of necessity forward ; 
 
SCENE II.] WOM^N BEWARE WOMEN. 289 
 
 It is the only veil wit can devise 
 
 To keep our acts hid from sin-piercing eyes. \Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Another Apartment in Livia's House : a chess-board 
 set out. 
 
 Enter LiviA a7id Guardiano. 
 
 Liv. How, sir ? a gentlewoman so young, so fair,^ 
 As you set forth, spied from the widow's window ? 
 
 Guar. She. 
 
 Liv. Our Sunday-dinner woman ? 
 
 Guar. And Thursday-silpper woman, the same still : 
 I know not how she came by her, but I'll swear 
 She's the prime gallant for a face in Florence, 
 And no doubt other parts follow their leader. 
 The duke himself first spied her at the window. 
 Then, in a rapture — as if admiration 
 Were poor when it were single — beckoned me, 
 And pointed to the wonder warily. 
 As one that feared she would draw in her splendour 
 Too soon, if too much gazed at : I ne'er knew him 
 So infinitely taken with a, woman ; 
 Nor can I blame his appetite, or tax 
 His raptures of slight folly ; she's a creature 
 Able to draw a state' from serious business, 
 And itiake it their best piece to do her service. 
 What course shall we devise? has spoke twice now. 
 
 Liv. Twice ? / 
 
 Guar. 'Tis beyond your apprehension 
 How strangely that one look has catched his heart : 
 'T would prove but too much worth in wealth and favour 
 To those should work his peace. 
 
 Mid. ' U 
 
290 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [act 11. 
 
 Liv. And if I do't not, 
 Or at least come as near it — if your art 
 Will take a little pains and second me — 
 As any wench in Florence of my standing, 
 I'll quite give o'er, and shut up shop in cunning. 
 
 Guar. 'Tis for the duke ; and if I fail your purpose, 
 All means- to come by riches or advancement 
 Miss me, and skip me over 1 
 
 Liv. Let the old woman then 
 Be sent for with all speed, then I'll begin. 
 
 Guar. A good conclusion follow, and a sweet one. 
 After this stale beginning with old ware ! 
 Within there ! 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Sir, do you call ? 
 
 Guar. Come near, list hither. [ Whispers. 
 
 Liv. I long myself to see this absolute creature, 
 That wins the heart of love and praise so much. 
 
 Guar. Go, sir, make haste. 
 
 Liv. Say I entreat her company : 
 Do you hear, sir ? 
 
 Ser. Yes, madam. \Exit. 
 
 Liv. That brings her quickly. 
 
 Guar. I would 'twere done ! the duke waits the good 
 hour. 
 And I wait the good fortune that may spring from't. 
 I've had a lucky hand these fifteen year 
 At such court-passage' with three dice in a dish. — 
 
 Enter Fabricio. 
 Signor Fabricio ! 
 
 Fab. O sir, 
 I bring an alteration in my mouth now. 
 
 Guar. An alteration ? — No wise speech, I hope ; 
 He means not to talk wisely, does he, trow ? — \Aside. 
 Good ; what's the change, I pray, sir? 
 1 A game with dice. 
 
SCENE II.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 291 
 
 Fab. A new change. 
 
 Guar. Another yet ? faith, there's enough already. 
 
 Fab. My daughter loves him now. 
 
 Guar. What, does she, sir ? 
 
 Fab. Affects him beyond thought : wlio but the ward, 
 forsooth ? 
 No talk but of the ward ; she would have him 
 To choose 'bove all the men she ever saw : 
 My will goes not so fast as her consent now ; 
 Her duty gets before my command still. 
 
 Guar. Why, then, sir, if you'll have me speak my 
 thoughts, 
 I smell 'twill be a match. 
 
 Fab. Ay, and a sweet young couple, 
 If I have any judgment. 
 
 Guar. Faith, that's little. — \Aside. 
 
 Let her be sent to-morrow, before noon. 
 And handsomely tricked up, for 'bout that time 
 I mean to bring her in, and tender her to him. 
 
 Fab. I warrant you for handsome ; I wijl see 
 Her things laid ready, every one in order, 
 And have some part of her tricked ujd to-night. 
 
 Guar. Why, well said. 
 
 Fab. 'Twas a use her mother had ; 
 When she was invited to an early wedding, 
 She'd dress her head o'er night, sponge up herself. 
 And give her neck three lathers. 
 
 Guar. Ne'er a halter? \Aside. 
 
 Fab. On with her chain of pearl, her ruby bracelets, 
 Lay ready all her tricks and jiggembobs. 
 
 Guar. So must your daughter. 
 
 Fab. I'll about it straight, sir. \_Exit. 
 
 Liv. How he sweats in the foolish zeal of fatherhood, 
 After six ounces an hour, and seems 
 To toil as much as if his cares were wise ones ! 
 
 Guar. You've let his folly blood in the right vein, 
 lady. 
 
292 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act 11. 
 
 Liv. And here comes his sweet son-in-law that shall 
 be; 
 They're both allied in wit before the marriage ; 
 What will they be hereafter, when they're nearer ! 
 Yet they can go no further than the fool ; 
 There's the world's end in both of 'em. 
 
 Enter the Ward and Sordido, one with a shittkcock, the 
 other with a battledoor. 
 
 Guar. Now, young heir. 
 
 Ward. Whaf s the next business after shittlecock now ? 
 
 Guar. To-morrow you shall see the gentlewoman 
 Must be your wife. 
 
 Ward. There's even another thing too, 
 Must be kept up with a pair of battledoors : 
 My wife ! what can she do ? 
 
 Guar. Nay, that's a question you should ask yourself, 
 ward. 
 When you're alone together. 
 
 Ward. That's as I list ; 
 A wife's to be asked anywhere, I hope j 
 I'll ask her in a congregation, 
 If I've a mind to't, and so save a license- 
 My guardianer has no more wit than an herb-woman. 
 That sells away all her sweet herbs and nosegays, 
 And keeps a stinking breath for her own pottage. 
 
 Sor. Let me be at the choosing of your beloved. 
 If you desire a woman of good parts. 
 
 Ward. Thou shalt, sweet Sordido. 
 
 Sor. I have a plaguy guess ; let me alone to see what 
 she is : if I but look upon her — 'way ! I know all the 
 faults to a hair that you may refuse her for. 
 
 Ward. Dost thou ? I prithee, let me hear 'em, 
 Sordido. 
 
 Sor. Well, mark 'em, then ; I have 'em all in 
 rhyme : 
 The wife your guardianer ought to tender 
 
SCENE II.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 293 
 
 Should be pretty, straight, and slender ; 
 
 Her hair not short, her foot not long, 
 
 Her hand not huge, nor too, too loud her tongue ; 
 
 No pearl in eye, nor ruby in her nose, 
 
 No burn or cut but what the catalogue shows ; 
 
 She must have teeth, and that no black ones. 
 
 And kiss most sweet when she does smack once ; 
 
 Her skin must be both white and plumped. 
 
 Her body straight, not hopper-rumped. 
 
 Or wriggle sideways like a crab ; 
 
 She must be neither slut nor drab. 
 
 Nor go too splay-foot with her shoes, 
 
 To make her smock lick up the dews ; 
 
 And two things more, which I forgot to tell ye. 
 
 She neither must have bump in back nor belly : 
 
 These are the faults that will not make her pass. 
 
 Ward. And if I spy not these I'm a rank ass. 
 
 Sor. Nay, more; by right, sir, you should see her 
 naked, 
 For that's the ancient order. 
 
 Ward. See her naked ? 
 That were good sport i'faith : I'll have the books turned 
 
 o'er. 
 And if I find her naked on record, 
 She shall not have a rag on : but stay, stay ; 
 ■ How if she should desire to see me so too ? 
 I were in a sweet case then ; such- a foul skin ! 
 
 Sor. But you've a clean shirt, and that makes amends, 
 sir. 
 
 Ward. I will not see her naked for that trick though. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Sor. Then" take her with all faults with her clothes on, 
 And they may hide a number with a bum-roll.i 
 Faith, choosing of a wench in a huge farthingale 
 Is like the buying of ware under a great pent-house j 
 
 1 Bus'.le. The bum-roll was worn by ladies who could not 
 afFord farthingales. 
 
294 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [ACT ii. 
 
 What with the deceit of one, 
 
 And the false light ^ of th' other, mark my speeches, 
 He may have a diseased wench in's bed, 
 
 And rotten stuff in's breeches. \Exit. 
 
 Guar. It may take handsomely. 
 
 Liv. I see small hindrance. — 
 
 Re-enter Servant, sfwwing in Mother. 
 
 How now? so soon returned? 
 
 Guar. She's come. 
 
 Liv. That's well. — \Exit Servant. 
 
 Widow, come, come, I've a great quarrel to you ; 
 Faith, I must chide you, that you must be sent for ; 
 You make yourself so strange, never come at us. 
 And yet so near a neighbour, and so unkind ; 
 Troth, you're to blame; you cannot.be more welcome 
 To any house in Florence, that I'll tell you. 
 
 Moth. My thanks must needs acknowledge so much, 
 madam. 
 
 Liv. How can you be so strange then ? I sit here 
 Sometimes whole days together without company, 
 When business draws this gentleman from home. 
 And should be happy in society 
 Which I so well affect as that of yours : 
 I know you're alone too ; why should not we. 
 Like two kind neighbours, then, supply the wants 
 Of one another, having 'tongue-discourse, 
 Experience in the world, and such kind helps 
 To laugh down time, and meet age merrily ? 
 
 Moth. Age, madam ! you speak mirth ; 'tis at my 
 door, 
 But a long journey from your ladyship yet. 
 
 Liv. My faith, I'm nine-and-thirty, every stroke, 
 wench ; 
 And 'tis a general observation 
 
 1 An allusion to the darkening of shops by dishonest tradesmen. 
 
SCENE II.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 295 
 
 'Mongst knights — wives or widows we account ourselves 
 Then old, when yoiing men's eyes leave looking at's ; 
 'Tis a true rule amongst us, and ne'er failed yet 
 In any but in one, that I remember ; 
 Indeed, she had a friend at nine-and-forty ; 
 Marry, she paid well for him, and in th' end 
 He kept a quean or two with her own money, 
 That' robbed her of her plate and cut her throat. 
 
 Moth. She had her punishment in this world, madam, 
 And a fair warning to all other women 
 That they live chaste at fifty. 
 
 Liv. Ay, or never, wench. 
 Come, nov/ I have thy company, I'll not part with't 
 Till after, supper. 
 
 Moth. Yes, I must crave pardon, madam. 
 
 Lw. I swear you shall stay supper ; we've no strangers, 
 woman. 
 None but my sojourners and I, this gentleman 
 And the young heir his ward ; you know our company. 
 
 Moth. Some other time I'll make bold with you, 
 madam. 
 
 Guar. Nay, pray stay, widow. 
 
 Liv. Faith, she shall not go : 
 Do you think I'll be forsworn ? 
 
 Moth. 'Tis a great while 
 Till supper-time; I'll take my leave then now, madam, 
 And come again i' th' evening, since your ladyship 
 Will have it so. 
 
 Liv. V th' evening ? by my troth, wench, 
 I'll keep you while I have you : you've great business, 
 
 sure, 
 To sit alone at home ; I wonder strangely 
 What pleasure you take in't ; were't to me now, 
 I should be ever at one neighbour's house 
 Or other all day long : having no charge, 
 Or none to chide you, if you go or stay, 
 Who may live merrier, ay, or more at heart's ease ? 
 
296 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [act ii. 
 
 Come, we'll to chess or draughts; there are an. hundred 
 
 tricks 
 To drive out time till supper, never fear't, wench. 
 
 Moth. I'll but make one step home, and return straight, 
 madam. 
 
 Liv. Come, I'll not trust you ; you use more excuses 
 To your kind friends than ever I knew any. 
 What business can you have, if you be sure 
 You've locked the doors ? and, that being all you have, 
 I know you're careful on't. One afternoon 
 So much to spend here ! say I should entreat you now 
 To lie a night or two, or a week, with me. 
 Or leave your own house for a month together ; 
 It were a kindness that long neighbourhood * 
 And friendship might well hope to prevail in ; 
 Would you deny such a request ? i'faith. 
 Speak truth, and freely. 
 
 Moth. I were then uncivil, madam. 
 
 Liv. Go to then ; set your men ; we'll have whole 
 nights 
 Of mirth together, ere we be much older, wench. 
 
 [LiviA and Mother sit down to the chess-board. 
 
 Moth, hi, good now tell her then, for she will know't ; 
 I've always found her a most friendly lady. \Aside. 
 
 Liv. Why, widow, where's your mind ? 
 
 Moth. Troth, even at home, madam : 
 To tell you' truth, I left a gentlewoman 
 Even sitting all alone, which is uncomfortable, 
 Especially to young bloods. 
 
 Liv. Another excuse ! 
 
 Moth. No; as I hope for health, madam, that's a 
 truth ; 
 Please you to send and see. 
 
 Liv. What gentlewoman ? pish ! 
 
 Moth. Wife to my son, indeed; but not known, 
 madam. 
 To any but yourself, 
 
SCENE II.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 297 
 
 Liv. Now I beshrew you ; 
 Could you be so unkind to her and me, 
 To come and not bring her ? faith, 'tis nqt friendly. 
 
 Moth. I feared to be too bold. 
 
 Liv. Too bold ! O, what's become 
 Of the true hearty love was wont to be 
 'Mongst neighbours in old time ! 
 
 Moth. And she's a stranger, madam. 
 
 Liv. The more should be her welcome : when is 
 courtesy 
 In better practice than when 'tis employed 
 In entertaining strangers? I could chide, i'faith : 
 Leave her behind, poor gentlewoman ! alone too ! 
 Make some amends, and send for her betimes, go. 
 
 Moth. Please you, command one of your servants, 
 madam. 
 
 Liv. Within there ! 
 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Madam. 
 
 Liv. Attend the gentlewoman.! 
 
 Moth. It must be carried wondrous privately 
 From my son's knowledge, he'll break out in storms else. — 
 Hark you, sir. [Whispers the Servant, who then goes out. 
 
 Liv. [to Guar.] Now comes in the heat of your part. 
 
 Guar. True, I know't, lady; and if I be put, 
 May the duke banish me from all employments, 
 Wanton or serious ! 
 
 Liv. So, have you sent, widow ? 
 
 Moth. Yes, madam, he's almost at home by this. 
 
 Liv. And, faith, let me entreat you that henceforward 
 All such unkind faults may be swept from friendship, 
 Which does but dim the lustre ; and think thus m.uch. 
 It is a wrong to me, that have ability 
 
 ' "This is one of those scenes," remarks Lamb, "which has (he 
 air of being an immediate transcript from life. Livia, the 'good 
 neighbour,' is as real a creature as one of Chaucer's chaiaclers. She 
 js such another joUy housewife as the Wi^'e of Bath." 
 
298 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [act n. 
 
 To bid friends welcome, when you keep 'em from me j 
 
 You cannot set greater dishonour near me ; 
 
 For bounty is the credit and the glory 
 
 Of those that have enough. I see you're sorry, 
 
 And the good 'mends is made by't. 
 
 Re-enter Servant, showing in Bianca. 
 
 Moth. Here she is, madam. \Exit Servant. 
 
 Bian. I wonder how she comes to send for me now. 
 
 \Aside. 
 
 Liv. Gentlewoman, you're most welcome ; trust me, 
 you are. 
 As courtesy can make one, or respect 
 Due to the presence of you. 
 
 Bian. I give you thanks, lady. 
 
 Liv. I heard you were alone, and 't had appeared 
 An ill condition in me, though I knew you not. 
 Nor ever saw you — yet humanity 
 
 Thinks every case her own — t' have kept your company 
 Here from you, and left you all solitary : 
 I rather ventured upon boldness then. 
 As the least fault, and wished your presence here ; 
 A thing most happily motioned of that gentleman. 
 Whom I request you, for his care and pity, 
 To honour and reward with your acquaintance; 
 A gentleman that ladies' rights stands for. 
 That's his profession. 
 
 Bian. 'Tis a noble one. 
 And honours my acquaintance. 
 
 Guar. All my intentions 
 Are servants to such mistresses. 
 
 Bian. 'Tis your modesty, 
 It seems, that makes your deserts speak so low, sir. 
 
 Liv. Come, widow. — Look you, lady, here's our busi- 
 ness ; [Fainting to the chess-board. 
 Are we not well employed, think you ? an old quarrel 
 Between us, that will ne'er be at an end. 
 
SCENE II.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 299 
 
 £ian. No ? and, methinks, there's men enough to part 
 3'ou, lady. 
 
 Liv. Ho, but they set us on, let us come off 
 As well as we can, poor souls ; men care no farther. 
 I pray, sit down, forsooth, if you've the patience 
 To look upon two weak and tedious gamesters. 
 
 Guar. Faith, madam, set these by till evening. 
 You'll have enough on't then ; the gentlewoman. 
 Being a stranger, would take more delight 
 To see your rooms and pictures. 
 
 Liv. Marry, good sir, 
 And well remembered ; I beseech you, show 'em her. 
 That will beguile time well ; pray heartily, do, sir, 
 I'll do as much for you : here, take these keys ; 
 
 [Gives keys to Guardiano. 
 Show her the monument too, and that's a thing 
 Every one sees not; you can witness that, widow. 
 
 Moth. And that's worth sight indeed, madarn. 
 
 £ian. Kind lady, 
 I fear I came to be a trouble to you. 
 
 Liv. O, nothing less, forsooth ! 
 
 Bian. And to this courteous gentleman. 
 That wears a kindness in his breast so noble 
 And bounteous to the welcome of a stranger. 
 
 Guar. If you but give acceptance to my service. 
 You do the greatest grace and honour to me 
 That courtesy can merit. 
 
 Bian. I were to blame else. 
 And out of fashion much. I pray you, lead, sir. 
 
 Liv. After a game or two, we're for you, gentlefolks. 
 
 Guar. We wish no better seconds in society 
 Than your discourses, madam, and your partner's there. 
 
 Moth. I thank your praise ; I listened to you, sir, 
 Though, when you spoke, there came a paltry rook 
 Full in my way, and chokes, up all my game. 
 
 \Exeunt Guardiano and Bianca. 
 
 Liv, Alas, poor widow, I shall be too hard for thee ! 
 
300 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [act ii. 
 
 Mat/i. You're cunning at the game, I'll be sworn, 
 madam. 
 
 Liv. It will be found so, ere I give you over. — [Aside. 
 She that can place her man well 
 
 Moth. As you(^, madam. 
 
 Liv. As I ^m|?wench, can never lose her game : 
 Nay, nay, the olack king's mine. 
 
 Moth. Cry you mercy, madam ! 
 
 Liv. And th;s ray queen. 
 
 Moth. I see't now. 
 
 Liv. Here's a duke i 
 Will strike a sure stroke for the game anon ; 
 Your pawn cannot come back to relieve itself. 
 
 Moth. I know that, madam. 
 
 Liv. You play well the whilst : 
 How she belies her skill ! I hold two ducats, 
 I give you check and mate to your white king, 
 Simplicity itself, your saintish king there. 
 
 Moth. Well, ere now, lady, 
 I've seen the fall of subtlety; jest on. 
 
 Liv. Ay, but simplicity receives two for one. 
 
 Moth, What remedy but patience ! 
 
 Enter Guardiano attci Bianca above. 
 
 Bian. Trust me, sir. 
 Mine eye ne'er met with fairer ornaments. 
 
 Guar. Nay, livelier, I'm persuaded neither Florence 
 Nor Venice can produce. 
 
 Bian. Sir, my opinion 
 Takes your part highly. 
 
 Guar. There's a better piece 
 Yet than all these. 
 
 Bian. Not possible, sir ! 
 
 Guar. Believe it, 
 You'll say so when you see't : turn but your eye now, 
 
 1 Re ok. 
 
ScEKfin.] W'OMEN BEWARE WOA-MN. 301 
 
 You're upon't presently. 
 \Draivs a curtain, and discovers the Duke ; then exit.\ 
 
 Bian. O sir ! 
 
 Duke. He's gone, beauty : 
 Pish, look not after him ; he's but a vapour, 
 That, when the sun appears, is seen no more. 
 
 Bian. O, treachery to honour ! 
 
 Duke. Prithee, tremble not; 
 I feel thy breast shake like a turtle panting 
 Under a loving hand that makes much on't : 
 Why art so fearful ? as I'm friend to brightness. 
 There's nothing but respect and honour near thee ; 
 You know me, you have seen me; here's a heart 
 Can witness I have seen thee. 
 
 Bian. The more's my danger. [sweet; 
 
 Duke. The more's thy happiness. Pish, strive not. 
 This strength were excellent employed in love now. 
 But here 'tis spent amiss : strive not to seek 
 Thy liberty, and keep me still in prison ; 
 I'faith, you shall not out till I'm released now ; 
 We'll be both freed together, or stay still by't. 
 So is captivity pleasant. 
 
 Bian. O my lord ! 
 
 Duke. I am not here in vain ; have but the leisure 
 To think on that, and thou'lt be soon resolved : 
 The lifting of thy voice is but like one ' 
 That does exalt his enemy, who, proving high. 
 Lays all the plots to confound him that raised him. 
 Take warning, I beseech thee ; thou seem'st to me 
 A creature so composed of gentleness, 
 And delicate meekness — such as bless the faces 
 Of figures that are drawn for goddesses, 
 And makes art proud to look upon her work — 
 I should be sorry the least force should lay 
 An unkind touch upoii thee. 
 
 Bian. O my extremity ! 
 My lord, what seek you? 
 
302 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [act [I. 
 
 Duke. Love. 
 
 Bian. 'Tis gone already ; 
 I have a husband. 
 
 Duke. That's a single comfoi t ; 
 Take a friend to him. 
 
 Bian. That's a double mischief, 
 Or else there's no i*eligion. 
 
 Duke. Do not tremble 
 At fears of thine own making. 
 
 Bian. Nor, great lord, 
 Make me not bold with death and deeds of ruin, 
 Because they fear not you; me they must fright ; 
 Then am I best in health : should thunder speak. 
 And none regard it, it had lost the name, 
 And were as good be still. I'm not like those 
 That take their soundest sleeps in greatest tempests ; 
 Then wake I most, the weather fearfullest, 
 And call for strength to virtue. 
 
 Duke. Sure, I think 
 Thou know'st the way to please me : I affect 
 A passionate pleading 'bove an easy yielding ; 
 But never pitied any — they deserve none — 
 That will not pity me. I can command. 
 Think upon that ; yet if thou truly knewest 
 The infinite pleasure my affection takes 
 In gentle, fair entreatings, when love's businesses 
 Are carried courteously 'twixt heart and heart. 
 You'd make more haste to please me. 
 
 Bian. Why should you seek, sir. 
 To take away that you can never give ? • 
 
 Duke. But I give better in exchange, — wealth, honour; 
 She that is fortunate in a duke's favour 
 'Lights on a tree that bears all women's wishes : 
 If your own mother saw you pluck fruit there, 
 She would commend your wit, and praise the time 
 Of your nativity ; take hold of glory. 
 Do not I know you've cast away your life 
 
SCENE 11.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 303 
 
 Upon necessities, means merely doubtful 
 To keep you in indifferent health and fashion — 
 A thing I heard too lately, and soon pitied — 
 And can you be so much your beauty's enemy, 
 To kiss away a month or two in wedlock. 
 And weep whole years in wants for ever after?" 
 Come, play the wise wench, and provide for ever; 
 Let storms come when they list, they find thee shel- 
 tered. 
 Should any doubt arise, let nothing trouble thee ; 
 Put trust in our love for the managing 
 Of all to thy heart's peace : we'll walk together, 
 And show a thankful joy for both our fortunes. 
 
 . • \Exeunt Duke and Bianca above. 
 Liv. Did not I say my duke would fetch you o'er, 
 
 widow ? 
 Moth. I think you spoke in earnest when you said it, 
 
 madam. 
 Liv. And my black king makes all the haste he can 
 
 too. 
 Moth. Well, madam, we may meet with him in time 
 
 yet. 
 Liv. I've given thee blind mate twice. 
 Moth. You may see, madam, 
 My eyes begin to fail. 
 Liv. I'll swear they do, wench. 
 
 He-enter Guardiano. 
 
 Guar. 1 can but smile as often as I think on't : 
 How prettily the poor fool was beguiled ! 
 How unexpectedly ! it's a witty age ; 
 Never were finer snares for women's honesties 
 Than are devised in these days ; no spider's web 
 Made of a daintier thread than are now practised 
 To catch love's flesh-fly by the silver wing : 
 Yet, to prepare her stomach by degrees 
 To Cupid's feast, because I saw 'twas queasy, 
 
304 WOMEN BEWARE WOM^N. [ACT il." 
 
 I showed her naked pictures by the way, 
 
 A bit to stay the appetite. Well, advancement, 
 
 I venture hard to find thee ; if thou com'st 
 
 With a greater title set upon thy crest, 
 
 I'll take that first cross patiently, and wait 
 
 Until some other comes greater than that ; 
 
 I'll endure all. {Aside. 
 
 Liv. The game's even at the best now : you may see, 
 widow, 
 How all things draw to an end. 
 
 Moth. Even so do I, madam. 
 
 Liv. I pray, take some of your neighbours along with 
 you. 
 
 Moth. They must be those are almost twice your years 
 then. 
 If they be chose fit matches for my time, madam. 
 
 Liv. Has not my duke bestirred himself? 
 
 Moth. Yes, faith, madam ; 
 Has done me all the mischief in this game. 
 
 Liv. Has showed himself in's kind. 
 
 Moth. In's kind, call you it? 
 I may swear that. 
 
 Liv. Yes, faith, and keep your oath. 
 
 Guar. Hark, list ! there's somebody coming down : 
 'tis she. \Aside. 
 
 Re-enter Bianca. 
 
 Bian. Now bless me from a blasting ! I saw that now. 
 Fearful for any woman's eye to look on ; 
 Infectious mists and mildews hang at's eyes, 
 The weather of a doomsday dwells upon him : 
 Yet since mine honour's leprous, why should I 
 Preserve that fair that caused the leprosy ? 
 Come, poison all at once. \Aside\ — Thou in whose base- 
 ness 
 The bane of virtue broods, I'm bound in soul 
 Eternally to curse thy smooth-browed treachery, 
 
SCENE II.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 305 
 
 That wore the fair veil of a friendly welcome, 
 
 And I a stranger ; think upon't, 'tis worth it ; 
 
 Murders piled up upon a guilty spirit, 
 
 At his last breath will not lie heavier 
 
 Than this betraying act upon thy conscience : 
 
 Beware of offering the first-fruits to sin ; 
 
 His weight is deadly who commits with strumpets, 
 
 After they've been abased, and made for use ; 
 
 If they offend to the death, as wise men know. 
 
 How much more they, then, that first make 'em so ! 
 
 I give thee that to feed on. I'm made bold now, 
 
 I thank thy treachery ; sin and I'm acquainted," 
 
 Nc couple greater ; and I'm like that great one. 
 
 Who, making politic use of a base villain, 
 
 He likes the treason well, but hates the traitor \ 
 
 So I hate thee, slave ! 
 
 Guar. Well, so the duke love me, 
 I fare not much amiss then ; two great feasts 
 Do seldom come together in one day, 
 We must not look for 'em. 
 
 Bian. What, at it still, mother ? 
 
 Mfth. You see we sit by't :■ are you so soon returned ? 
 
 \Lw. So lively and so cheerful ! a good sign that. \Aside. 
 
 \Moth. You have not seen all since, sure ? 
 
 \^ian. That have I, mother, 
 The monument and all : I'm so beholding 
 To this kind, honest, courteous gentleman, 
 Ypu'd little think it, mother ; showed me all, 
 I^ad me from place to place so fashionably ; 
 The kindness of some people, how 't exceeds ! 
 E^ith, I've seen that I httle thought to see 
 1\ the morning when I rose. 
 
 Moth. Nay, so I told you 
 Before you saw't, it would prove worth your sight. — 
 I give you great thanks for my daughter, sir. 
 And all your kindness towards her. 
 
 Mid. X 
 
3o6 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEI. [act ii. 
 
 Guar. O, good widow, 
 Much good may't do her ! — forty weeks hence, i'jith. 
 
 'Aside. 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 Liv. Now, sir? 
 
 Ser. May't please you, madam, to walk in ; 
 Supper's upon the table. 
 
 Liv. Yes, we come. — \Exit Servant. 
 
 Will't please you, gentlewoman? 
 
 Biati. Thanks, virtuous lady. — 
 You're a damned bawd. \Aside to Livia.J— I'll fol'ow 
 
 you, forsooth; 
 Pray, take my mother in ; — an old ass go with you !— 
 
 yAg'de. 
 
 This gentleman and I vow not to part. 
 
 Liv. Then get you both before. 
 
 Bian. There lies his art. 
 
 \Exeunt Bianca and GuARDii^KO. 
 
 Liv. Widow, I'll follow you. \Exit Mother.] Is't to ? 
 " damned bawd ! " 
 Are you so bitter ? 'tis but want of use : 
 Her tender modesty is sea-sick a little, 
 Being not accustomed to the breaking billow 
 Of woman's wavering faith blown with temptations : 
 'Tis but a qualm of honour, 'twill away ; 
 A little bitter for the time, but lasts not : 
 Sin tastes at the first draught like wormwood-water. 
 But drunk again, 'tis nectar ever after. \Ex)t. 
 
ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Room in the House of Leantio's Mother. 
 
 Enter Mother. 
 
 , OTH. I would my son would either keep 
 at home, 
 Or I were in my grave ! 
 She was but one day abroad, but ever 
 
 since 
 She's grown so cutted,^ there's no 
 speaking to her : 
 Whe^er the sight of^reat cheer at my lady's, 
 AncJ, such mean faie at home, work discontent in her, 
 I ]£now not ; but I'm sure she's strangely altered. 
 I'lj' ne'er keep daughter-in-law i' th' house with me 
 A^in, if I had an hundred': when read- 1 of any 
 That agreed long together, but she and her mother 
 Fell out in the first quarter ? nay, sometime 
 A grudging or a scolding the first week,.by'r lady ! 
 So takes the new disease, methinks, in my house : 
 I'm weary of my part ; there's nothing likes her ; 
 I know not how to please her here a' late : 
 And here she comes. 
 
 Enter Bianca. 
 
 Bian. This is the strangest house 
 For all defects as ever gentlewoman 
 IVIade shift withal to pass away her love in : 
 1 Cross, querulous, 
 
3o8 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act iii. 
 
 Why is there not a cushion-cloth of drawn-work, 
 
 Or some fair cut-work pinned up in my bed-chamber, 
 
 A silver and gilt casting-bottle ^ hung by't ? — 
 
 Nay, since I am content to be so kind to you, 
 
 To spare you for a silver basin and ewer. 
 
 Which one of my fashion looks for of duty ; 
 
 She's never offered under where she sleeps. 
 
 Moth. She talks of things here my whole state's not 
 worth. [mother, 
 
 Bian. Never a green silk quilt is there i' th' house, 
 To cast upon my bed ? 
 
 Moth. No, by troth, is there. 
 Nor -orange-tawny neither. 
 
 Bian. Here's a house 
 For a young gentlewoman to be got with child in ! ; 
 
 Moth. Yes, simple though you make it, there has been 
 three 
 Got in a year in't, since you move me to't. 
 And all as sweet-faced children and as lovely 
 As you'll be mother of: I will not spare you : 
 What, cannot children be begot, think_you. 
 Without gilt casting-bottles ? yes, and assw6et ones . 
 The miller's daughter brings forth as white'' boys 
 As she that bathes herself with milk and bean-flour ! ' 
 'Tis an old saying. One may keep good cheer 
 In a mean house ; so may true love affect 
 After the rate of princes in a cottage. 
 
 Bian. Troth, you speak wondrous well for your qld 
 
 house here ; ■ 
 
 'Twill shortly fall down at your feet to thank you. 
 
 Or stoop, when you go to bed, like a good child, 
 
 To ask you blessing. Must I live in want 
 
 ^ A bottle for sprinkling perfumes. " A term of endearment. 
 
 " Middleton refers again to these baths, as the right thing for 
 " a beauty of nineteen," in The Old Law, act ii. sc. 2 : — 
 
 "Alas ! I should be tumbling in cold baths now, 
 Under each armpit a fine bean-flour bag 
 To screw out wmteness when I list." 
 
SCENE I.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 309 
 
 "Because my fortune matched me with your son ? 
 
 Wives do not give away themselves to husbands 
 
 To the end to be quite cast away ; they look 
 
 To be the better used and tendered rather, 
 
 Highlier respected, and maintained the richer ; 
 
 They're well rewarded else for the free gift 
 
 Of their whole life to a husband ! I ask less now 
 
 Than what I had at home when I was a maid, 
 
 And at my father's house ; kept short of that 
 
 Which a wife knows she must have, nay, and will — 
 
 Will, mother, if she be not a fool born ; 
 
 And report went of me, that I could wrangle 
 
 For what I wanted when I was two hours old : 
 
 And, by that copy, this land still I hold : . 
 
 You hear me, mother. \^Exit. 
 
 Moth. Ay, too plain, raethinks ; 
 And were I somewhat deafer when you spake, 
 'Twere ne'er a whit the worse for my quietness. 
 'Tis the most sudden'st, strangest alteration, 
 And the most subtlest, that e'er wit at threescore 
 Was puzzled to find out ; I know no cause for't ; but 
 She's no more like the gentlewoman at first, 
 Than I'm like her that never lay with man yet, — 
 And she's a very young thing, where'er she be. 
 When she first lighted here, I told her then [forsooth, 
 How mean she should find all things ; she was pleased, 
 None better : I laid open all defects to her. 
 She was contented still ; but the devil's in her. 
 Nothing contents her now. To-night my son 
 Promised to be at home ; would he were come once, 
 For I am weary of my charge, and life too ! 
 She'd be served all in silver,, by her good will, 
 By iiight and day ; she hates the name of pewterer 
 More than sick men the noise, or diseased bones 
 That quake at fall o' th' hammer, seeming to have 
 A fellow feeling with't at every blow. 
 What course shall I think on ? she frets me so ! \_Exit. 
 
310 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act ill, 
 
 Enter Leantio. 
 Lean. How near am I now to a happiness 
 That earth exceeds not ! not another like it : 
 The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
 As are the concealed comforts of a man 
 Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air 
 Of blessings when I come but near the house : 
 What a delicious breath marriage sends forth ! 
 The violet-bed's not sweeter. Honest wedlock 
 Is like a bariqueting-house built in a garden, 
 On which the spring's chaste flowers take delight 
 To cast their modest odours ; when base lust, 
 With all her powders, paintings, and best pride, 
 Is but a fair house built by a ditch-side. 
 When I behold a glorious dangerous strumpet, 
 Sparkling in beauty and destruction too, 
 Both at a twinkling, I do liken straight 
 Her beautified body to a goodly temple 
 That's built on vaults where carcasses lie rotting ; 
 And so, by little and little, I shrink back again. 
 And quench desire with a cool meditation ; 
 And I'm as well methinks. Now for a welcome 
 Able to draw men's envies upon man ; 
 A kiss now, that will hang upon my Hp 
 As sweet as morning-dew upon a rose. 
 And full as long; after a five days' fast 
 She'll be so greedy now, and cling about me, 
 I take care how I shall be rid of her : 
 And here't begins. 
 
 Re-enter Bianca and Mother. 
 
 Bian, O sir, you're welcome home ! 
 
 Moth. O, is he come ? I'm glad on't. 
 
 Lean. Is that all ? 
 Why, this is dreadful now as sudden death 
 To some rich man, that flatters all his sins 
 With promise of repentance when he's old. 
 
SCENE I.] WOMEN BE WARE^ WOMEN. 3 1 1 
 
 And dies in the midway before he comes to't. — \Aside. 
 Sure you're not well, Bianca \ how dost, prithee ? 
 
 Bian. I have been better than I am at this time. 
 
 Lean. Alas, I thought so ! 
 
 Bian. Nay, I've been worse too 
 Than now you see me, sir. 
 
 Lean. I'm glad thou mend'st yet, 
 I feel my heart mend too : how came it to thee ? 
 Has anything disliked^ thee in my absence ? 
 
 Bian. No, certain ; I have had the best content 
 That Florence can afford. 
 
 Lean. Thou mak'st the best on't. — 
 Speak, mother ; what's the cause ? you must needs know. 
 
 Moth. Troth, I know none, son; let her speak herself; 
 Unless it be the same gave Lucifer 
 A tumbling cast, — that's pride. 
 
 Bian. Methinks this house stands nothing to my mind ; 
 I'd have some pleasant lodging i' th' high street, sir ; 
 Or if 'twere near the court, sir, that were much better : 
 'Tis a sweet recreation for a gentlewoman 
 To stand in a bay-window and see gallants. 
 
 Lean. Now I've another temper, a mere stranger 
 To that of yours, it seems ; I should delight 
 To see none but yourself. 
 
 Bian. I praise not that ; 
 Too fond is as unseemly as too churlish : 
 I would not have a husband of that proneness 
 To kiss me before company for a world ; 
 Beside, 'tis tedious to see one thing still, sir. 
 Be it the best that ever heart affected ; 
 Nay, were't yourself, whose love had power, you know, 
 To bring me from my friends, I'd not stand thus 
 And gaze upon you always, troth, I could not, sir ; 
 As good be blind and have no use of sight. 
 As look on one thing still : what's, the eye's treasure 
 But change of objects? you are learned, sir, 
 1 Displeased. 
 
312 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act IIR 
 
 And know I speak not ill : 'tis full as virtuous 
 For woman's eye to look on several men, 
 As for her heart, sir, to be fixed on one. 
 
 Lean. Now thou com'st home tome; a kiss for that word. 
 
 Bian. No matter for a kiss, sir ; let it pass ; 
 'Tis but a toy, we'll not so much as mind it ; 
 Let's talk of other business, and forget it. 
 What news now of the pirates? any stirring? 
 Prithee, discourse a little. 
 
 Moth. I'm glad he's here yet. 
 To see her tricks himself; I had lied monstrously 
 If I had told 'em first. \Aside. 
 
 Lean. Speak, what's the humour, sweet. 
 You make your lip so strange ? this was not wont. 
 
 Bian. Is there no kindness betwixt man and wife. 
 Unless they make a pigeon-house of friendship. 
 And be still billing? 'tis the idlest fondness 
 That ever was invented, and 'tis pity 
 It's grown a fashion for poor gentlewomen ; 
 There's many a disease kissed in a year by't. 
 And a French curtsy made to't : alas, sir ! 
 Think of the world, how we shall live ; grow serious ; 
 We have been married a whole fortnight now. 
 
 Lean. How ? a whole fortnight ! why, is that so long ? 
 
 Bian. 'Tis time to leave off dalliance; 'tis a doctrine 
 Of your own teaching, if you be remembered ; 
 And I was bound to obey it. 
 
 Moth. Here's one fits him ; 
 This was well catched, i'faith, son ; like a fellow 
 That rids another country of a plague, 
 And brings it home with him to his own house. 
 
 \Aside. — Knocking within. 
 Who knocks ? 
 
 Lean. Who's there now ? — Withdraw you, Bianca ; 
 Thou art a gem no stranger's eye must see, 
 Howe'er thou'rt pleased now to look dull on me. — • 
 
 \Exit Bianca. 
 
SCENE!.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 313 
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 
 You're welcome, sir ; to whom your business, pray ? 
 
 Mess. To one I see not here now. 
 
 Lean. Who should that be, sir ? 
 
 Mess. A young gentlewoman I was sent to. 
 
 Lean. A young gentlewoman ? 
 
 Mess. Ay, sir, about sixteen : why look you wildly, sir? 
 
 Lean. At your strange error j you've mistook the house, 
 sir? 
 There's none such here, I assure you. 
 
 Mess. I assure you too 
 The man that sent me cannot be mistook. 
 
 Lean. Why, who is't sent you, sir ? 
 
 Mess. The duke. 
 
 Lean. The duke ? 
 
 Mess. Yes ; he entreats her company at a banquet 
 At Lady Livia's house. 
 
 Lean. Troth, shall I tell you, sir, 
 It is the most erroneous business 
 That e'er your honest pains was abused with ; 
 I pray, forgive me if I smile a little, 
 I cannot choose, i'faith, sir, at an error 
 So comical as this, — I mean no harm though : 
 His grace has been most wondrous ill informed : 
 Pray, so return it, sir. What should her name be ? 
 
 Mess. That I shall tell you straight too — Bianca 
 Capello. 
 
 Lean. How, sir ? Bianca ? what do you call th' other. 
 
 Mess. Capello. Sir, it seems you know no such 
 then? 
 
 Lean. Who should this be ? I never heard o' the name. 
 
 Mess. Then 'tis a sure mistake. 
 
 Lean. What if you inquired 
 In the next street, sir ? I saw gallants there 
 In the new houses that are built of late ; 
 Ten to one there you find her. 
 
314 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act in. 
 
 Mess. Nay, no matter ; 
 I will return the mistake, and seek no further. 
 
 Lean. Use your own will and pleasure, sir, you're 
 welcome. \Exit Messenger. 
 
 What shall I think of first? — Come forth, Bianca ! 
 
 Re-enter Bianca. 
 
 Thou art betrayed, I fear me. 
 
 Bian. Betrayed ! how, sir ? 
 
 Lean. The duke knows thee. 
 
 JBiaii. Knows me ! how know you that, sir ? 
 
 Lean. Has got thy name. 
 
 Bian. Ay, and my good name too, 
 That's worse o' the twain. \Aside. 
 
 Lean. How comes this work about ? 
 
 Bian. How should the duke know me ? can you guess, 
 mother ? 
 
 Moth. Not I, with all my wits ; sure we kept house close. 
 
 Lean. Kept close ! not all the locks in Italy 
 Can keep you women so ; you have been gadding. 
 And ventured out at twilight to the court-green yonder, 
 And met the gallant bowlers coming home ; 
 Without your masks too, both of yoUj I'll be hanged else : 
 Thou hast been seen, Bianca, by some stranger ; 
 Never excuse it. 
 
 Bian. I'll not seek the way, sir ; 
 Do you think you've married me to mew me up. 
 Not to be seen ? what would you make of me ? 
 
 Lean. A good wife, nothing else. 
 
 Bian. Why, so are some 
 That are seen every day, else the devil take 'em. 
 
 Lean. No more, then ; I believe all virtuous in thee, 
 Without an argument ; 'twas but thy hard chance 
 To be seen somewhere, there lies all the' mischief : 
 But I've devised a riddance. 
 
 Moth. Now I can tell you, son, 
 The time and place. 
 
SCENE I.] WOMEA^ BEWARE WOMEN. 315 
 
 Lean. When? where? 
 
 Moth. What wits have I ! 
 When you last took your leave, if you remember, 
 You left us both at window. 
 
 Lean. Right, I know that. 
 
 Moth. And not the third part of an hour after, 
 The duke passed by, in a great solemnity. 
 To St. Mark's temple, and, to my apprehension, 
 He looked up twice to the window. 
 
 Lean. O, there quickened 
 The mischief of this hour ! 
 
 £ian. If you call't mischief, 
 It is a thing I fear I am conceived with. [Aside. 
 
 Lean. Looked he up twice, and could you take no 
 warning ? 
 
 Moth. Why, once may do as much harm, son, as a 
 thousand ; 
 Do not you know one spark has fired an house 
 As well as a whole furnace? 
 
 Lean. My heart flames for't : 
 Yet let's be wise, and keep all smothered closely ; 
 I have bethought a means : is the door fast ? 
 
 Moth. I locked it myself after him. 
 
 Lean. You know, mother. 
 At the end of the dark parlour there's a place 
 So artificially contrived for a conveyance. 
 No search could ever find it ] when my father 
 Kept in for manslaughter, it was his sanctuary ; 
 There will I lock my life's best treasure up, 
 Bianca. 
 
 Bian. Would you keep me closer yet ? [sir ; 
 
 Have you the conscience ? you're best e'en choke me up, 
 You make me fearful of your health and wits. 
 You cleave to such wild courses ; what's the matter ? 
 
 Lean. Why, are you so insensible of your danger 
 To ask that now ? the duke himself has sent for you 
 To Lady Livia's to a banquet, forsooth. 
 
3i6 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act iil. 
 
 Bian. Now I beshrew you heartily, has he so ! 
 And you the man would never yet vouchsafe 
 To tell me on't till now ? you show your loyalty 
 And honesty at once ; and so farewell, sir. 
 
 Lean. Bianca, whither now ? 
 
 Bian. Why, to the duke, sir ; 
 You say he sent for me. 
 
 Lean. But thou dost not mean 
 To go, I hope ? 
 
 Bian. No ? I shall prove unmannerly. 
 Rude, and uncivil, mad, and imitate you ! — 
 Come, mother, come, follow his humour no longer ; 
 We shall be all executed for treason shortly. 
 
 Moth. Not I, i'faith ; I'll first obey the duke, 
 And taste of a good banquet ; I'm of thy mind : 
 I'll step but up and fetch two handkerchiefs 
 To pocket up some sweetmeats, and o'ertake thee. 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 Bian. Why, here's an old wench would trot into a 
 bawd now 
 For some dry sucket,' or a colt in march-pane.'^ 
 
 \Aside, and exit. 
 
 Lean. O thou, the ripe time of man's misery, wedlock, 
 When all his thoughts, like overladen trees. 
 Crack with the fruits they bear, in cares, in jealousies ! 
 O, that's a fruit that ripens hastily, 
 After 'tis knit to marriage ! it begins. 
 As soon as the sun shines upon the bride, 
 A little to show colour. Blessed powers, 
 Whence comes this alteration ? the distractions. 
 The fears and doubts it brings, are numberless j 
 And yet the cause I know not. What a peace 
 Has he that never marries ! if he knew 
 The benefit he enjoyed, or had the fortune 1 
 
 '^ Sweatmeat. 
 
 ''■ A composition of almonds, sugar, etc., moulded inlo various 
 shapes. 
 
SCENE I.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 317 
 
 To come and speak with me, he should know then 
 
 Th' infinite wealth he had, and discern rightly 
 
 The greatness of his treasure by my loss : 
 
 Nay, what a quietness has he 'bove mine 
 
 That wears his youth out in a strumpet's arms, 
 
 And never spends more care upon a woman 
 
 Than at the time of lust ; but walks away ; 
 
 And if he find her dead at his return, 
 
 His pity is soon done, — he breaks a sigh 
 
 In many parts, and gives her but a piece on't : 
 
 But all the fears, shames, jealousies, costs and troubles, 
 
 And still renewed cares of a marriage-bed, 
 
 Live in the issue, -when the wife is dead. 
 
 Re-enter Messenger. 
 
 Aless. A good perfection to your thoughts ! 
 
 Lean. The news, sir ? 
 
 Mess. Though you were pleased of late to pin an error 
 on me. 
 You must not shift another in your stead too : 
 The duke has sent me for you. 
 
 Lean. How ! for me, sir ? — 
 I see then 'tis my theft ; we're both betrayed : 
 Well, I'm not the first has stol'n away a maid ; 
 My countrymen have used it. [Aside.] — I'll along with 
 you, sir. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 An Apartment in Livia's House: a Banquet set out. 
 
 Enter Guardiano and the Ward. 
 
 Guar. Take you especial note of such a gentlewoman. 
 She's here on purpose ; I've invited her. 
 Her father, and her uncle, to this banquet ; 
 
3i8 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. ACT ill. 
 
 Mark her behaviour well, it does concern you ; 
 And what her good parts are, as far as time 
 And place can modestly require a knowledge of, 
 Shall be laid open to your understanding. 
 You know I'm both your guardian and your uncle ; 
 My care of you is double, ward and nephew. 
 And I'll express it here. 
 
 Ward. Faith, I should know her 
 Now by her mark among a thousand women ; 
 A little pretty deft and tidy thing, you say ? 
 
 Guar. Right. 
 
 Ward. With a lusty sprouting sprig in her hair ? 
 
 Guar. Thou goest the right way still ; take one mark 
 more, — 
 Thou shalt ne'er find her hand out of her uncle's, 
 Or else his out of hers, if she be near him ; 
 The love of kindred never yet stuck closer 
 Than theirs to one another ] he that weds her, 
 Marries her uncle's heart too. 
 
 Ward. Say you so, sir ? 
 Then I'll be asked i' the church to both of them. 
 
 \Cornets within, 
 
 G\iar. Fall back ; here comes the duke. 
 
 Ward. He brings a gentlewoman, 
 I should fall forward rather. 
 
 Enter the Duke leading in Bianca, Fabricio, Hippolito, 
 LiviA, Mother, Isabella, Gentlemen, and Attendants, 
 
 Duke. Come, Bianca, 
 Of purpose sent into the world to show 
 Perfection once in woman ; I'll believe 
 Henceforward they have every one a soul too, 
 'Gainst all the uncourteous opinions 
 That man's uncivil rudeness ever held of 'em : 
 Glory of Florence, light into mine arras ! 
 
 Pian. Yon comes a grudging man will chide you, sir ; 
 
SCENE II.] OMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 319 
 
 Enter Leantio. 
 
 The storm is now in's heart, and would get nearer, 
 And fall here, if it durst ; it pours down yonder. 
 
 Duke. If that be he, the weather shall soon clear; 
 List, and I'll tell thee how. [ Whispers Bianca. 
 
 Lean. A kissing too ! 
 I see 'tis plain lust now, adultery 'boldened ; 
 What will it prove anon, when 'tis stuffed full 
 Of wine and sweetmeats, being so impudent fasting? 
 
 \Aside. 
 
 Duke. We've heard of your good parts, sir, which we 
 honour 
 With our embrace and love. — Is not the captainship 
 Of Rouans' citadel, since the late deceased 
 Supplied by any yet ? 
 
 Gentkmmi. By none, my lord. [ness 
 
 Duke. Take it, the place is yours then ; and as faithful- 
 And desert grows, our favour shall grow with 't : 
 
 [Leantio kneels. 
 Rise now, the captain of our fort at Rouans. [thanks ! 
 
 Lean, [rising:] The service of whole life give your grace 
 
 Duke. Come, sit, Bianca. 
 
 [Duke, Bianca, &=€., seat themselves. 
 
 Lean. This is some good yet. 
 And more than e'er I looked for ; a fine bit 
 To stay a cuckold's stomach : all preferment 
 That springs from sin and lust it shoots up quickly, 
 As gardeners' crops do in the rotten'st grounds ; 
 So is all means raised from base prostitution 
 Even like a salad growing upon a dunghill. 
 I'm like a thing that never was yet heard of. 
 Half merry and half mad ; much like a fellow 
 That eats his meat with a good appetite, 
 And wears a plague-sore that would fright a country ; 
 Or rather like the barren,^ hardened ass, 
 
 J Stupid. 
 
320 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act in. 
 
 That feeds on thistles till he bleeds again ; 
 
 And such is the condition of my misery. \Aside. 
 
 Liv. Is that your son, widow ? 
 
 Moth. Yes ; did your ladyship 
 Never know that till now ?■ 
 
 Liv. No, trust me, did I, — 
 Nor ever truly felt the power of love 
 And pity to a man, till now I knew him. 
 I have enough to buy me my desires. 
 And yet to spare, that's one good comfort. [Asiiie.] — 
 
 Hark you, 
 Pray, let me speak with you, sir, before you go. 
 
 Zean. With me, lady ? you shall, I'm at your service. — 
 What will she say now, trow ? more goodness yet ? 
 
 [Aside, 
 
 Ward. I see he? now, I'm sure ; the ape's so little, 
 I shall scarce feel her ; I have seen almost 
 As tall as she sold in the fair for tenpence : 
 See how she simpers it, as if marmalade • 
 Would not melt in her mouth ! she might have the 
 
 kindness, i'faith, 
 To send me a gilded bull from her own trencher, 
 A ram, a goat, or somewhat to be nibbling : 
 These women, when they come to sweet things once. 
 They forget all their friends, they grow so greedy. 
 Nay, oftentimes their husbands. 
 
 Duke. Here's a health now, gallants, 
 To the best beauty at this day in Florence. 
 
 £ian. Whoe'er she be, she shall not go unpledged, sir. 
 
 Duke. Nay, you're excused for this. 
 
 JBian. Who, I, my lord ? 
 
 Duke. Yes, by the law of Bacchus ; plead your benefit, 
 You are not bound to pledge your own health, lady. 
 
 Bian. That's a good way, my lord, to keep me dry. 
 
 Duke. Nay, then, I'll not offend Venus so much, 
 Let Bacchus seek his 'mends in another court ; 
 Here's to thyself, Bianca. [Duke and others drink. 
 
SCENE II.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 321 
 
 Bian. Nothing comes 
 More welcome to that name than your grace. 
 
 Lean. So, so ; 
 Here stands the poor thief now that stole the treasure, 
 And he's not thought on. Ours is near kin now 
 To a twin-misery born into the world ; [up. 
 
 First the hard-conscienced worldling, he hoards wealth 
 Then comes the next, and he feasts all upon't ; 
 One's damned for getting, th' other for spending on't. 
 O equal justice, thou hast met my sin 
 With a full weight ! I'm rightly now opprest, 
 All her friends' heavy hearts lie in my breast. \Aside. 
 
 Duke. Methinks there is no spirit 'mongst us, gallants, 
 But what divinely sparkles from the eyes 
 Of bright Bianca ; we sat all in darkness 
 But for that splendour. Who was't told us lately 
 Of a niatch-making right, a marriage-tender ? 
 
 Guar. 'Twas I, my lord. 
 
 Duke. 'Twas you indeed. Where is she ? 
 
 Guar. This is the gentlewoman. 
 
 Fab. My lord, my daughter. 
 
 Duke. Why, here's some stirring yet. 
 
 Fab. She's a dear child to me. 
 
 Duke. That must needs be, you say she is your 
 daughter. 
 
 Fab. Nay, my good lord, dear to my purse, I mean. 
 Beside my person, I ne'er reckoned that. 
 Sh'as the full qualities of a gentlewoman ; 
 I've brought her up to music, dancing, what not, 
 That may commend her sex, and stir her husband. 
 
 Duke. And which is he now ? 
 
 Guar. This young heir, my lord. 
 
 Duke. What is he brought up to ? 
 
 Hip. To cat and trap. \Aside. 
 
 Guar. My lord, he's a great ward, wealthy but simple ; 
 pis part consists in acres. 
 
 Duke. O, wise-acres. 
 
 Mid. Y 
 
322 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act iii. 
 
 Guar. You've spoke him in a word, sir. 
 
 Bian. 'Las, poor gentlewoman ! 
 She's ill-bestead, unless she'as dealt the wiselier. 
 And laid in more provision for her youth ; 
 Fools will not keep in summer. 
 
 Lean. No, nor such wives 
 From whores in winter. \Aside. 
 
 Duke. Yea, the voice too, sir? 
 
 Fab. Ay, and a sweet breast ^ too, my lord, I hope 
 Or I have cast away my money wisely ; 
 She took her pricksong^ earlier my lord. 
 Than any of her kindred ever did ; 
 A rare child, though I say't : but I'd not have 
 The baggage hear so much, 'twould make her swell 
 
 straight. 
 And maids of all things must not be puffed up. 
 
 Duke. Let's turn us to a better banquet, then ; 
 For music bids the soul of man to a feast, 
 And that's indeed a noble entertainment. 
 Worthy Bianca's self : you shall perceive, beauty. 
 Our Florentine damsels are not brought up idly. 
 
 Bian. They're wiser of themselves it seems, my lord. 
 And can take gifts when goodness offers 'em. 
 
 Lean. True, and damnation has taught you that 
 wisdom ; \Music. 
 
 You can take gifts too. O, that music mocks me ! 
 
 \Aside, 
 Liv. I am as dumb to any language now 
 But love's, as one that never learned to speak. 
 I am not yet so old but he may think of me ; 
 My own fault, I've been idle a long time ; 
 But I'll begin the week, and paint to-morrow, 
 So follow my true labour day by day ; 
 I never thrived so well as when I used it. \Aside. 
 
 ' Voice. 
 
 2 " Harmony written or pricked down, in opposition to plain- 
 song, where the descant rested with the will of the singer." , 
 
 Chappell's Popular Music, quoted by BuUen. 
 
SCENE 11.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 323 
 
 Isa. \singsl\ What harder chance can fall to woman, 
 Who v^as born to cleave to some man, 
 Than to bestow her time, youth, beauty. 
 Life's observance, honour, duty, 
 On a thing for no use good 
 But to make physic work, or blood 
 Force fresh in an old lady's cheek ? 
 She that would be 
 Mother of fools, let her compound with me. 
 
 Ward. Here's a tune indeed ! pish, 
 I had rather hear one ballad sung i' the nose now 
 Of the lamentable drowning of fat sheep and oxen. 
 Than all these simpering tunes played upon cat's-guts. 
 And sung by little killings \Aside. 
 
 Fab. How like you her breast now, my lord ? 
 
 Bian. Her breast ? 
 He talks as if his daughter had given suck 
 Before she were married, as her betters have ; 
 The next he praises sure will be her nipples. \Aside. 
 
 Duke. Methinks now such a voice to such a husband 
 Is like a jewel of unvalued worth 
 Hung at a fool's ear. \Aside to Bianca. 
 
 Fab. May it please your grace 
 To give her leave to show another quality ? 
 
 Duke. Marry, as many good ones as you will, sir ; 
 The more the better welcome. 
 
 Lean. But the less 
 The better practised : that soul's black indeed 
 That cannot commend virtue j but who keeps it ? 
 Th' extortioner will say to a sick beggar. 
 Heaven comfort thee ! though he give none himself; 
 This good is common. \Aside. 
 
 Fab. Will it please you now, sir. 
 To entreat your ward to take her by the hand. 
 And lead her in a dance before the duke? 
 
 Guar. That Will I, sir; 'tis needful. — Hark you, nephew. 
 
 [ Whispers Ward. 
 
324 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act m. 
 
 Fab. Nay, you shall see, young heir, what you've for 
 your money, 
 Without fraud or imposture. 
 
 Ward. Dance with her? 
 Not I, sweet guardianer, do not urge my heart to't, 
 'Tis clean against my blood ; dance with a stranger? 
 Let who will do't, I'll not begin first with her. 
 
 Hip. No, fear't not, fool ; sh'as took a better order. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Guar. Why, who shall take her then ? 
 
 Ward. Some other gentleman : 
 Look, there's her uncle, a -fine-timbered reveller, 
 Perhaps he knows the manner of her dancing too ; 
 I'll have him do't before me — I've sworn, guardianer — 
 Then may I learn the better. 
 
 Guar. Thou'lt be an ass still ! 
 
 Ward. Ay, all that, uncle, shall not fool me out : 
 Pish, I stick closer to myself than so. 
 
 Guar. I must entreat you, sir, to take your niece 
 And dance with her ; my ward's a little wilful. 
 He'd have you show him the way. 
 
 Hip. Me, sir? he shall 
 Command it at all hours ; pray, tell him so. 
 
 Guar. I thank you for him ; he has not wit, himself, sir. 
 
 Hip. Come, my life's peace — I've a strange office on't 
 here : 
 'Tis some man's luck to keep the joys he likes 
 Concealed for his own bosom, but my fortune 
 To set 'em out now for another's liking ; 
 Like the mad misery of necessitous man, 
 That parts from his good horse with many praises. 
 And goes on foot himself : need must be obeyed 
 In every action ; it mars man and maid. \Aside. 
 
 [Music. HiPPOLiTO and Isabella dance, making 
 obeisance to the Duke, and to each other, hath 
 before and after the dance. 
 
 Duke. Signer Fabricio, you're a happy father ; 
 
SCENE n.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 325, 
 
 Your cares and pains are fortunate you see, 
 Your cost bears noble fruits. — Hippolito, thanks. 
 
 Fab. Here's some amends for all my charges yet ; 
 She wins both prick and praise' where'er she comes. 
 
 Duke.. How lik'st, Bianca ? 
 
 Bian. All things well, my lord, 
 But this poor gentlewoman's fortune, that's the worst. 
 
 Duke. There is no doubt, Bianca, she'll find leisure 
 To make that good enough ; he's rich and simple. 
 
 Bian. She has the better hope o' th' upper hand, 
 indeed, 
 Which women strive for most. 
 
 Guar. Do't when I bid you, sir. 
 
 Ward. I'll venture but a hornpipe with her, guardianer, 
 Or some such married man's dance. 
 
 Guar. Well, venture something, sir. 
 
 Ward. I have rhyme for what I do. 
 
 Guar. But little reason, I think. 
 
 Ward. Plain men dance the measures,** the cinqua- 
 pace' the gay j 
 Cuckolds dance the hornpipe, and farmers dance the hay;* 
 Your soldiers dance the round, and maidens that grow 
 
 big; 
 Your drunkards, the canaries;' your whore arid bawd, 
 
 the jig. 
 Here's your eight kind of dancers ; he that finds 
 The ninth let him pay the minstrels, 
 
 Duke. O, here he appears once in his own person ; 
 I thought he would have married her by attorney, 
 And lain with her so to. 
 
 Bian. Nay, my kind lord. 
 There's very seldom any found so foolish 
 To give away his part there. 
 
 * " Prick and praise,'' a proverbial expression ; the pride was 
 the point in the centre of the target at arcliery. 
 ' A slow stately dance. 
 
 3 Cinque-pace, a lively Fiench dance of five steps. 
 A rustic dance. ^ A quick dance. 
 
326 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act III, 
 
 Lean. Bitter scoff! 
 Yet I must do't ! with what a cruel pride 
 The glory of her sin strikes by my afflictions ! \Aside. 
 [The Ward and Isabella dance; he ridiculously 
 imitating Hippolito. [band, 
 
 Duke. This thing will make shift, sirs, to make a hus- 
 For aught I see in him. — How think'st, Bianca? 
 
 Bian. Faith, an ill-favoured shift, my lord, methinks ; 
 If he would take some voyage when he's married, 
 Dangerous, or Ibng enough, and scarce be seen 
 Once in nine year together, a wife then 
 Might make indifferent shift to be content with him. 
 
 Duke. A kiss \kisses her\ ; that wit deserves to be made 
 much on. — 
 Come, our caroch ! '^ 
 
 Guar. Stands ready for your grace. 
 
 Duke. My thanks to all your loves. — Come, fair Bianca, 
 We have took special care of you and provided 
 Your lodging near us now. 
 
 Bian. Your love is great, my lord. 
 
 Duke. Once more, our thanks to all. 
 
 Omnes. All blest honours guard you ! 
 
 [Cornets flourishing, 'exeu?it all but Leantio and 
 
 LiVIA. 
 
 Lean. O hast thou left me then, Bianca, utterly ? 
 Bianca, now I miss thee ! O, return. 
 And save the faith of woman ! I ne'er felt 
 The loss of thee till now ; 'tis an affliction 
 Of greater weight than youth was made to bear ; 
 As if a punishment of after-life 
 Were fain upon man here, so new it is 
 To flesh and blood, so strange, so insupportable ; 
 A torment even mistook, as if a body 
 Whose death were drowning, must needs therefore suffer it 
 In scalding oil. [Aside. 
 
 Liv. Sweet sir 
 
 ^ Coach. Fr. carrosse. 
 
scene::.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 327 
 
 Lean. As long as mine eye saw thee, 
 I half enjoyed thee. \Aside. 
 
 Liv. Sir 
 
 Lean. Canst thou forget 
 The dear pains my love took ? how it has watched 
 Whole nights together, in all weathers, for thee. 
 Yet stood in heart more merry than the tempest 
 That sung about mine ears — like dangerous flatterers, 
 That can set all their mischief to sweet tunes — 
 And then received thee, from thy father's window. 
 Into these arms at midnight : when we embraced 
 As if we had been statues only made for't, 
 To show art's life, so silent were our comforts. 
 And kissed as if our lips had grown together ? \Aside. 
 
 Liv. This makes me madder to enjoy him now. \Aside. 
 
 Lean. Canst thou forget all this, and better joys 
 That we met after this, which then new kisses 
 Took pride to praise ? \Aside. 
 
 Liv. I shall grow madder yet. [Aside-I — Sir 
 
 Lean. This cannot be but of some close bawd's work- 
 ing. — [Aside. 
 Cry mercy, lady ! what would you say to me ? 
 My sorrow makes me so unmannerly, 
 So comfort bless me, I had quite forgot you. . 
 
 Liv. Nothing, but even, in pity to that passion,* 
 Would give your grief good counsel. 
 
 Lean. Marry, and welcome, lady ; 
 It never could come better. 
 
 Liv. Then first, sir, 
 To make away all your good thoughts at once of her. 
 Know most assuredly she is a strumpet. 
 
 Lean. Ha! "most assuredly?" speak not a thing 
 So vile so certainly, leave it more doubtful. 
 
 Liv. Then I must leave all truth, and spare my know- 
 ledge 
 A sin which I too lately found and wept for. 
 ' Sorrow. 
 
328 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [ACT lii. 
 
 Lean. Found you it ? 
 
 Liv. Ay, with wet eyes. 
 
 Lean. O perjurious friendship ! [sir. 
 
 Liv. You missed your fortunes when you met with her, 
 Young gentlemen that only love for beauty, 
 They love not wisely ; such a marriage rather 
 Proves the destruction of affection ; 
 It brings on want, and want's the key of whoredom. 
 I think y'had small means with her ? 
 
 Lean. O, not any, lady. 
 
 Liv. Alas, poor gentleman ! what meant'st thou, sir, 
 Quite to undo thyself with thine own kind heart ? 
 Thou art too good and pitiful to woman : 
 Marry, sir, thank thy stars for this blest fortune, 
 That rids 'the summer of thy youth so well 
 From many beggars, that had lain a-sunning 
 In thy beams only else, till thou hadst wasted 
 The whole days of thy life in heat and labour. 
 What would you say now to a creature found 
 As pitiful to you, and, as it were. 
 Even sent on purpose from the whole sex general, 
 To requite all that kindness you have shown to't ? 
 
 Lean. What's that, madam ? 
 
 Liv. Nay, a gentlewoman, and one able 
 To reward "good things, ay, and bears a conscience to't : 
 Couldst thou love such a one, that, blow all fortunes. 
 Would never see thee want ? 
 Nay, more, maintain thee to thine enemy's envy. 
 And shall not spend a care for't, stir a thought. 
 Nor break a sleep ? unless love's music waked thee. 
 No storm of fortune should : look upon me. 
 And know that woman. 
 
 Lean. O my life's wealth, Bianca ! 
 
 Liv. Still with her name ? will nothing wear it out ? 
 
 \Aside. 
 That deep sigh went but for a strumpet, sir. 
 
 Lean. It can go for no other that loves me. 
 
SCENE M.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 329 
 
 Liv. He's vexed in mind : I came too soon to him ; 
 Where's my discretion now, my skill, my judgment ? 
 I'm cunning in all arts but my own love. 
 'Tis as unseasonable to tempt him now 
 So soon, as for a widow to be courted 
 Following her husband's corse, or to make bargain 
 By the grave-side, and take a young man there : 
 Her strange departure stands like a hearse ^ yet 
 Before his eyes, which time will take down shortly. 
 
 \Aside, and exit. 
 - Lean. Is she my wife till death, yet no more mine ? 
 That's a hard measure : then what's marriage good for ? 
 Methinks, by right I should not now be living. 
 And then 'twere all well. What a happiness 
 Had I been made of, had I never seen her ! 
 For nothing makes man's loss grievous to him 
 But knowledge of the worth of what he loses ; 
 For what he never had, he never misses. 
 She's gone for ever, utterly ; there is 
 As much redemption of a soul from hell. 
 As a fair woman's body from his palace. 
 Why should my love last longer than her truth ? 
 What is there good in woman to be loved, 
 When- only that which makes her so has left her ? 
 I cannot love her now, but I must like 
 Her sin and my own shame too, and be guilty 
 Of law's breach with her, and mine own abusing ; 
 All which were monstrous : then my safest course. 
 For health of mind and body, is to turn 
 My heart and hate her, most extremely hate her ; 
 I have no other way : those virtuous powers. 
 Which were chaste witnesses of both our troths, 
 Can witness she breaks first. And I'm rewarded 
 With captainship o' the fort ; a place of credit, 
 
 1 " In imitation of which [cenotaph] our hearses Here in England 
 are set up iu churches, during the continuance of a yeare or the 
 space of certaine monthes.' Weever — cited in Todd's Johnson'.s 
 Diet. V. Hearse." — Dyce. 
 
330 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act ill. 
 
 I must confess, but poor ; my factorship 
 
 Shall not exchange means with't : he that died last in't, 
 
 He was no drunkard, yet he died a beggar 
 
 For ail his thrift : besides, the place not fits me ; 
 
 It suits my resolution, not my breeding. 
 
 Re-enter LrviA. 
 
 Liv. I've tried all ways I can, and have not power 
 To keep from sight of him. [Aside.] — How are you now, 
 
 Zean. I feel a better ease, madam. [sir ? 
 
 Ziv. Thanks to blessedness ! 
 You will do well, I warrant you, fear't not, sir. 
 Join but your own good will to't : he's not wise 
 That loves his pain or sickness, or grows fond 
 Of a disease whose property is to vex him. 
 And spitefully drink his blood up : out upon't sir ! 
 Youth knows no greater loss. I pray, let's walk, sir ; 
 You never saw the beauty of my house yet. 
 Nor how abundantly fortune has blest me 
 In worldly treasure ; trust me, I've enough, sir. 
 To make my friend a rich man in my life, 
 A great man at my death ; yourself will say so. 
 If you want anything, and spare to speak, 
 Troth, I'll condemn you for a wilful man, sir. 
 
 Lean. Why, sure. 
 This can be but the flattery of some dream. 
 
 Liv. Now, by this kiss, my love, my soul, and riches, 
 'Tis all true substance ! \Kisses him. 
 
 Come, you shall see my wealth ; take what you list ; 
 The gallanter you go, the more you please me ': 
 I will allow you too your page and footman. 
 Your race-horses, or any various pleasure 
 Exercised youth delights in ; but to me 
 Only, sir, wear your heart of constant stuff j 
 Do but you tove enough, I'll give enough. 
 
 Lean. Troth, then, I'll love enough, and take enough. 
 Liv. Then we are both pleased enough. \Exeunt, 
 
SCENE ni.] WOMEN BEIVARE WOMEl^. 331 
 
 SCENE III. 
 A Room in Fabricio's House. 
 
 Enter on ojie side Guardiano and Isabella, on the 
 other the Ward and Sordido. 
 
 Guar. Now, nephew, here's the gentlewoman again. 
 
 Ward. Mass, here she's come again ! mark her now, 
 Sordido. 
 
 Guar. This is the maid my love and care has chose 
 Out for your wife, and so I tender her to you ; 
 Yourself has been eye-witness of some qualities 
 That speak a courtly breeding, and are costly : 
 I bring you both to talk together now ; 
 'Tis time you grew familiar in your tongues. 
 To-morrow you join hand, and one ring ties you. 
 And one bed holds you ; if you like the choice. 
 Her father and her friends are i' the next room. 
 And stay to see the contract ere they part : 
 Therefore, despatch, good ward, be sweet and short ; 
 Like her, or like her not, there's but two ways. 
 And one your body, th' other your purse pays. 
 
 Ward. I warrant you, guardianer, I'll not stand all 
 day thrumming. 
 But quickly shoot my bolt at your next coming. 
 
 Guar. Well said : good fortune to your birding then ! 
 
 \Exit. 
 Ward. I never missed mark yet. 
 
 Sor. Troth, I think, master, if the truth were known. 
 You never shot at any but the kitchen wench. 
 And that was a she-woodcock,' a mere innocent,^ 
 That was oft lost and cried' at eight-and-twenty. 
 
 Ward. No more of that meat, Sordido, here's eggs o' 
 the spit now ; 
 We must turn gingerly : draw out the catalogue 
 Of all the faults of women. 
 
 1 Simpleton. ' Idiot, ' Meaning, by the public crier. 
 
332 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act III, 
 
 Sor. How? all the faults? have you so little reason, 
 to think so much paper will lie in my breeches? why, 
 ten carts will not carry it, if you set down but the bawds. 
 All the faults ? pray, let's be content with a few of 'em ; 
 and if they were less, you would find 'era enough, I 
 warrant you : look you, sir. 
 
 Isa. But that I have th' advantage of the fool, 
 As much as woman's heart can wish and joy at. 
 What an infernal torment 'twere to be 
 Thus bought and sold, and turned and pryed into. 
 When, alas. 
 
 The worst bit's too good for him ! and the comfort is, 
 Has but a eater's' place on't, and provides 
 All for another's table : yet how curious 
 The ass is ! like some nice professor on't. 
 That buys up all the daintiest food i' the markets. 
 And seldom licks his lips after a taste on't. \Aside. 
 
 Sor. Now to her, now you've scanned all her parts over. " 
 
 Ward. But at which end shall I begin now, Sordido ? 
 
 Sor. O, ever at a woman's lip, while you live, sir ; do 
 you ask that question ? 
 
 Ward. Methinks, Sordido, sh'as but a crabbed face to 
 begin with. 
 
 Sor. A crabbed face ? that will save money. 
 
 Ward. How? save money, Sordido? 
 
 Sor. Ay, sir; for, having a crabbed face of her own 
 she'll eat the less verjuice^ with her mutton; 'twill save 
 verj uice at year's end, sir. 
 
 Ward. Nay, an your jests begin to be saucy once, I'll 
 make you eat your meat without mustard. 
 
 Sor. And that in some kind is a punishment. 
 
 Ward. Gentlewoman, they say 'tis your pleasure to be 
 my wife, and you shall know shortly whether it be mine 
 or no to be your husband ; and thereupon thus I first 
 
 1 Caterer's. 
 
 ^ Verjuice, a favourite sauce of the day, was made from crab- 
 apples. 
 
SCENE m.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 333 
 
 enter upon you. \Kisses her.'] — O most delicious scent ! 
 methinks it tasted as if a man had stept into a comfit- 
 maker's shop to let a cart go by, all the while I kissed 
 her. — It is reported, gentlewoman, you'll run mad for me, 
 if you have me not. 
 
 Isa. I should be in great danger of my wits, sir, 
 For being so forward. — Should this ass kick backward 
 now ! [Aside: 
 
 Ward. Alas, poor soul ! and is that hair your own ? 
 Isa. My own? yes, sure, sir ; I owe nothing for't. 
 
 Ward. 'Tis a good hearing ; I shall have the less to 
 pay when I have married you. — Look, do her eyes stand 
 well? 
 
 Sor. They cannot stand better than in her head, I 
 think : where would you have them ? and for her nose, 
 'tis of a very good last. 
 
 Ward. I have known as good as that has not lasted a 
 year through. 
 
 Sor. That's in the using of a thing ; will not any strong 
 bridge fall down in time, if we do nothing but beat at the 
 bottom? a nose of buff would not last always, sir, 
 especially if it came into the camp once. 
 
 Ward. But, Sordido, how shall we do to make her 
 laugh, that I may see what teeth she has ? for I'll not 
 bate her a tooth, nor take a black one into the bargain. 
 
 Sor. Why, do but you fall in talk with her, you can- 
 not choose but, one time or other, make her laugh, sir. 
 
 Ward. It shall go hard but I will. — Pray, what qualities 
 have you beside singing and dancing ? can you play at 
 shittlecock, forsooth ? 
 
 Jsa. Ay, and at stool-ball* too, sir ; I've great luck at it. 
 
 Ward. Why, can you catch a ball well ? 
 
 Isa. I have catched two in my lap at one game. 
 
 Ward. What! have you, woman? I must have you 
 learn 
 To play at trap too, then you're full and whole. 
 
 I An old game at which the ball was driven from stool to stool. 
 
334 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act in. 
 
 Isa. Anything that you please to bring me up to, 
 1 shall take pains to practise. 
 
 Ward. 'Twill not do, Sordido ; 
 We shall ne'er get her mouth opened wide enough. 
 
 Sor. No, sir? that's strange; then here's a trick for 
 your learning. 
 
 [Sordido yawns, Isabella yawns also, lut covers 
 her mouth with a handkerchief. 
 Look now, look now ! quick, quick there ! 
 
 Ward. Pox of that scurvy mannerly trick with hand- 
 kerchief ! 
 It hindered me a little, but I'm satisfied : 
 When a fair woman gapes, and stops her mouth so. 
 It shows like a cloth-stopple in a cream-pot : 
 I have fair hope of her teeth now, Sordido. 
 
 Sor. Why, then, you've all well, sir ! for aught I see. 
 She's right and straight enough now as she stands ; 
 They'll commonly lie crooked, that's no matter ; 
 Wise gamesters 
 Never find fault with that, let 'em lie still so. 
 
 Ward. I'd fain mark how she goes, and then I have 
 all ; for of all creatures I cannot abide a splay-footed 
 woman; she's an unlucky thing to meet in a morning; 
 her heels keep together so, as if she were beginning an 
 Irish dance still, and the wriggling of her bum playing 
 the tune to't : but I have bethought a cleanly shift to 
 find it ; dab down as you see me, and peep of one side 
 when her back's towards you — I'll show you the way. 
 
 Sor. And you shall find me apt enough to peep- 
 ing; 
 I have been one of them has seen mad sights 
 Under your scaflfolds. 
 
 Ward. Will't please you walk, forsooth, 
 A turn or two by yourself? you're so pleasing to me, 
 I take delight to view you on both sides. 
 
 Isa. I shall be glad to fetch a walk to your love, 
 
SCENE III.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 335 
 
 'Twill get affection a good stomach, sir, — 
 
 Which I had need have to fall to such coarse victuals. 
 
 \Aside. 
 [Isabella walks while the Ward and Sordido 
 stoop down to look at her. 
 
 Ward. Now go thy ways for a clean-treading wench, 
 As ever man in modesty peeped under ! 
 
 Sor. I see the sweetest sight to please my master ! 
 Never went Frenchman righter upon ropes. 
 Than she on Florentine rushes. 1 
 
 Ward. 'Tis enough, forsooth. 
 
 Isa. And how do you like me now, sir ? 
 
 Ward. Faith, so well, 
 I never mean to part with thee, sweetheart, 
 Under some sixteen children, and all boys. 
 
 Isa. You'll be at simple pains, if you prove kind, 
 And breed 'em all in your teeth.'' 
 
 Ward. Nay by my faith, 
 What serves your belly for- ? 'twould make my cheeks 
 Look like blown bagpipes. 
 
 Re-enter Guardiano. 
 
 Guar. How now, ward and nephew. 
 Gentlewoman and niece ! speak, is it so or not? 
 
 Ward. 'Tis so ; we're both agreed, sir.] 
 
 Guar. In to your kindred then ; 
 There's friends, and wine, and music waits to welcome 
 you. 
 
 Ward. Then I'll be drunk for joy. 
 
 Sor. And I for company j 
 I cannot break my nose in a better action. \Exeunt. 
 
 1 With which the floors used to be strewn. 
 
 2 " In allusion to a superstitious idea, that an affectionate 
 husband had the toothache while his wife was breeding." — ^Editor 
 of 1816. 
 
ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 'QiKSCk's' Lodging at Court. 
 
 Enter BiANCA, attended iy two Ladies. 
 
 [ IAN. How go your watches, ladies ! 
 what's o'clock now ? 
 \st L. By mine, full nine. 
 2nd L. By mine, a quarter past. 
 \st L. I set mine by St. Mark's. 
 2nd L. St. Anthony's, they say, 
 Goes truer. 
 ist L. That's but your opinion, madam. 
 Because you love a gentleman o' the name. 
 2nd L. He's a true gentleman then. 
 ist L. So may he be 
 That comes to me to-night, for aught you know. 
 
 Bian. I'll end this strife straight : I set mine by the 
 sun; 
 I love to set by the best, one shall not then 
 Be troubled to set often. 
 2nd L. You do wisely in't. 
 
 Bian. If I should set my watch, as some girls do. 
 By every clock i' the town, 'twould ne'er go true ; 
 And too much turning of the dial's point. 
 Or tampering with the spring, might in small time 
 Spoil the whole work too ; here it wants of nine now. 
 \st L. It does indeed, forsooth ; mine's nearest trutl^ 
 yet. 
 
SCENE I.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. ■^I'j 
 
 2nd L. Yet I've found her lying with an advocate, 
 which showed 
 Like two false clocks together in one parish. 
 
 Bian. So now I thank you, ladies ; I desire 
 Awhile to be alone. 
 
 1st L. And I am nobody, 
 Melhinks, unless I've one or other with me. — ■ 
 Faith, my desire and hers will ne'er be sisters. 
 
 \Aside. — Exeunt Ladies. 
 
 Bian. How strangely woman's fortune comes about ! 
 This was the farthest way to come to me, 
 All would have judged that knew me born in Venice, 
 And there with many jealous eyes brought up, 
 That never thought they had me sure enough 
 But when they were upon me ; yet my hap 
 To meet it here, so far off from my birth-place. 
 My friends, or kindred ! 'tis not good, in sadness,^ 
 To keep a maid so strict in her young days ; 
 Restraint 
 
 Breeds wandering thoughts, as many fasting days 
 A great desire to see fle;sh stirring again : 
 I'll ne'er use any girl of mine so strictly ; 
 Howe'er they're kept, their fortunes find 'em out ; 
 I see't in me : if they be got in court, 
 I'll ne'er forbid 'em the country ; nor the court. 
 Though they be born i' the country : they will come 
 
 to't, 
 And fetch their falls a thousand mile about, 
 Where one would little think on't. 
 
 Enter Leantio, richly dressed. 
 
 Lean. I long to see how my despiser looks 
 Now she's come here to court : these are her lodgings ; 
 She's simply now advanced : I took her out 
 Of no such window, I remember, first; 
 That was a great deal lower, and less carved. \Aside. 
 
 ' Seriously. 
 Mid. z 
 
338 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [ACT iv.* 
 
 Bian. How now ! what silkworm's this, i' the name of 
 pride ? 
 What, is it he ? 
 
 Lean. A bow i' th' ham to your greatness ; 
 You must have now three legsi I take it, must you not? 
 
 Bian. Then I must take another, I shall want else 
 The service I should have ; you have but two there. 
 
 Lean. You're richly placed. 
 
 Bian. Methinks you're wondrous brave,^ sir. 
 
 Lean. A sumptuous lodging. 
 
 Bian. You've an excellent suit there. 
 
 Lean. A chair of velvet. 
 
 Bian. Is your cloak lined through, sir ? 
 
 L^an, You're very stately here. 
 
 Bian. Faith, something proud, sir. 
 
 Lean. Stay, stay, let's see your cloth-of-silver slippers. 
 
 Bian. Who's your shoemaker ? has' made you a neat 
 boot. 
 
 Lean. Will you have a pair ? the duke will lend you 
 spurs. 
 
 Bian. Yes, when I ride. 
 
 Lean. 'Tis a brave life you lead. 
 
 Bian. I could ne'er see you in such good clothes 
 In my time. 
 
 Lean. In your time ? 
 
 Bian. Sure I think, sir. 
 We both thrive best asunder. 
 
 Lean. You're a whore ! 
 
 Bian. Fear nothing, sir. 
 
 Lean. An impudent, spiteful strumpet ! 
 
 Bian. O, sir, you give me thanks for your captainship ! 
 I thought you had forgot all your good manners. 
 
 Lean. And, to spite thee as much, look there ; there 
 read, [Giving letter. 
 
 Vex, gnaw ; thou shalt find there I'm not love-starved. 
 The world was never yet so cold or pitiless, 
 
 ' Bows, obeisances, ' Finely attired. 
 
SCENE I.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 339. 
 
 But there was ever still more charity found out 
 Than at one proud fool's door; and 'twere hard, faith, 
 If I could not pass that. Read to thy shame there ; 
 A cheerful and a beauteous benefactor too, 
 As e'er erected the good works of love. 
 
 Bian. Lady Livia ! 
 Is't possible ? her worship was my pandress ; 
 She dote, and send, and give, and all to him ! 
 Why, here's a bawd plagued home ! [Asi{fe.] — You're 
 
 simply happy, sir ; 
 Yet I'll not envy you. 
 
 Lean. No, court-saint, not thou ! 
 You keep some friend of a new fashion : 
 There's no harm in your devil, he's a suckling. 
 But he will breed teeth shortly, will he not? 
 
 J5mn. Take heed you play not then too long with 
 
 him. 
 Zean. Yes, and the great one too ; I shall find time 
 To play a hot religious bout with some of you. 
 And, perhaps, drive you and your course of sins 
 To their eternal kennels. I speak softly now, 
 'Tis manners in a noble woman's lodgings. 
 And I well know all my degrees of duty ; 
 But come I to your everlasting parting once, 
 Thunder shall seem soft music to that tempest. 
 
 Bian. 'Twas said last week there would be change of 
 weather. 
 When the moon hung so, and belike you heard it. 
 
 Zean. Why, here's sin made, and ne'er a conscience 
 put to't, — 
 . A monster with all forehead and no eyes ! 
 Why do I talk to thee of sense or virtue, 
 That art as dark as death ? and as much madness 
 To set light before thee, as to lead bHnd folks 
 To see the monuments, which they may smell as soon 
 As they behold, — marry, ofttimes their heads. 
 For want of light, may feel the hardness of 'em ; 
 
340 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [ACT iv. 
 
 So shall thy blind pride my revenge and anger, 
 That canst not see it now ; and it may fall 
 At such an hour when thou least seest of all : 
 So, to an ignorance darker than thy womb 
 I leave thy perjured soul ; a plague will come ! \Exit. 
 Bian. Get you gone first, and then I fear no greater ; 
 Nor thee will I fear long ; I'll have this sauciness 
 Soon banished from these lodgings, and the rooms 
 Perfumed well after the corrupt air it leaves : 
 His breath has made me almost sick, in troth : 
 A poor, base start-up ! life, because has got 
 Fair clothes by foul means, comes to rail and show 'em ! 
 
 Enler the Duke. 
 
 Duke. Who's that ? 
 
 Bian. Cry you mercy, sir ! 
 
 Duke. Prithee, who's that ? 
 
 Bian. The former thing, my lord, to whom you gave 
 The captainship ; he eats his meat with grudging still. 
 
 Duke. Still? 
 
 Bian. He comes vaunting here of his new love, 
 And the new clothes she gave him, Lady Livia j 
 Who but she now his mistress ! 
 
 Duke. Lady Livia ? 
 Be sure of what you say. 
 
 Bian. He showed me her name, sir, 
 In perfumed paper, her vows, her letter, 
 With an intent to spite me ; so his heart said, 
 And his threats made it good ; they were as spiteful 
 As ever malice uttered, and as dangerous, 
 Should his hand follow the copy. 
 
 Duke. But that must not : 
 Do not you vex your mind ; prithee, to bed, go ; 
 All shall be well and quiet. 
 
 Bian. I love peace, sir. 
 
 Duke. And so do all that love; take you no care 
 for't, 
 
SCENE I.] WOMEM BEWARM WOMEN. 341 
 
 It shall be still provided to your hand. — 
 
 \Exit BlANCA. 
 
 Who's near us there ? 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 •^Ser. My lord ? 
 
 Duke. Seek out Hippolito, 
 Brother to Lady Livia, with all speed. 
 
 Ser. He was the last man I saw, my lord. 
 
 Duke. Make haste. — \Exit Servant. 
 
 He is a blood soon stirred ; and as he's quick: 
 To apprehend a wrong, he's bold and sudden 
 In bringing forth a ruin : I know, likewise, 
 The reputation of his sister's honour's 
 As dear to him as life-blood to his heart ; 
 Besides, I'll flatter him with a goodness to her, — 
 Which I now thought on, but ne'er meant to practice, 
 Because I'know her base, — and that wind drives him : 
 The ulcerous reputation feels the poise 
 Of lightest wrongs, as sores are vexed with flies. 
 He comes. — 
 
 Enter Hippolito. 
 
 Hippolito, welcome. 
 
 Hip. My loved lord ! 
 
 Duke. How does that lusty widow, thy kind sister ? 
 Is she not sped yet of a second husband ? 
 A bed-fellow she has, I ask not that, 
 I knov/ she's sped of him. 
 
 Hip. Of him, my lord ? 
 
 Duke. Yes, of a bed-fellow : is the news so strange to 
 you? 
 
 Hip. I hope 'tis so to all. 
 
 Duke. I wish it were, sir. 
 But 'tis confessed too fast : her ignorant pleasures, 
 Only by lust instructed, have received 
 Into their services an impudent boaster, 
 One that does raise his glory from her shame. 
 
342 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act IV. 
 
 And tells the mid-day sun what's done in darkness ; 
 Yet, blinded with her appetite, wastes her wealth, 
 Buys her disgraces at a dearer rate • 
 Than bounteous housekeepers purchase their honour. 
 Nothing sads me so much, as that, in love 
 To thee and to thy blood, I had picked out 
 A" worthy match for her, the great Vincentio, 
 High in our favour and in all men's thoughts. 
 
 Hip. O thou destruction of all happy fortunes, 
 Unsated blood ! Know you the name, my lord, 
 Of her abuser ? 
 
 Duke. One Leantio. 
 
 Ifip. He's a factor. 
 
 Duke. He ne'er made so brave a voyage, 
 By his own talk. 
 
 Hip. The poor old widow's son. 
 I humbly take my leave. 
 
 Duke. I see 'tis done. — \Aside. 
 
 Give her good counsel, make her see her error ; 
 I know she'll hearken to you. 
 
 Hip. Yes, my lord, 
 I make no doubt, as I shall take the course 
 Which she shall never know till it be acted, 
 And when she wakes to honour, then she'll thank me 
 
 for't : 
 I'll imitate the pities of old surgeons 
 To this lost limb, who, ere they show their art, 
 Cast one asleep, then cut the .diseased part ; 
 So, out of love to her I pity most. 
 She shall not feel him going till he's lost j 
 Then she'll commend the cure. \Exit. 
 
 Duke. The great cure's ' past ; 
 I count this done already ; his wrath's sure. 
 And speaks an injury deep : farewell, Leantio, 
 This place will never hear thee murmur more. — 
 
 ^ " Ciire " was sometimes used in the sense of " care." 
 
SCENE I.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 343 
 
 Enter the Cardinal and Servants. 
 Our noble brother, welcome ! 
 
 Car. Set those lights down : 
 Depart till you be called. [Exeunt Servants. 
 
 Duke. There's serious business 
 Fixed in his look ; nay, it inclines a little 
 To the dark colour of a discontentment. — . \Aside. 
 Brother, what is't commands your eye so powerfully ? 
 Speak, you seem lost. 
 
 Car. The thing I look on seems so. 
 To my eyes lost for ever. 
 
 Duke. You look on me. 
 
 Car. What a grief 'tis to a religious feeling. 
 To think a man should have a friend so goodly, 
 So wise, so noble, nay, a duke, a brother. 
 And all this certainly damned ! 
 
 Duke. How ! 
 
 Car. 'Tis no wonder. 
 If your great sin can do't : dare you look up 
 For thinking of a vengeance ? dare you sleep 
 For fear of never waking but to death ? 
 And dedicate unto a strumpet's love 
 The strength of your affections, zeal, and health ? 
 Here you stand now, can you assure your pleasures 
 You shall once more enjoy her, but once more ? 
 Alas, you cannot ! what a misery 'tis then. 
 To be more certain of eternal death 
 Than of a next embrace ! nay, shall I show you 
 How more unfortunate you stand in sin 
 Than the low, private man : all his offences. 
 Like enclosed grounds, keep but about himself, 
 And seldom stretch beyond his own soul's bounds ; 
 And when a man grows miserable, 'tis some comfort 
 When he's no further charged than with himself, 
 'Tis a sweet ease to wretchedness : but, great man. 
 Every sin thou committ'st shows like a flame 
 
344 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act IV. 
 
 Upon a mountain, 'tis seen far about, 
 And, with a big wind made of popular breath, 
 The sparkles fly through cities, here one takes, 
 Another catches there, and in short time 
 Waste all to cinders'; but remember still. 
 What burnt the valleys first came from the hill : 
 Every oifence draws his particular pain, 
 But 'tis example proves the great man's bane. 
 The sins of mean men lie like scattered parcels 
 Of an unperfect bill ; but when such fall, 
 Then comes example, and that sums up all : 
 And this your reason grants ; if men of good lives. 
 Who by their virtuous actions stir up others 
 To noble and religious imitation, 
 Receive the greater glory after death. 
 As sin must needs confess, what may they feel 
 In height of torments and in weight of vengeance, 
 Not only they themselves not doing well. 
 But sets a light up to show men to hell ? 
 Duke. If you have done, I have ; no more, sweet 
 
 brother ! 
 Car. I know time spent in goodness is too tedious ; 
 This had not been a moment's space in lust now : 
 How dare you venture on eternal pain. 
 That cannot bear a minute's reprehension ? 
 Methinks you should endure to hear that talked of 
 Which you so strive to suffer. O, my brother, 
 What were you, if that you were taken now ! 
 My heart weeps blood to think on't ; 'tis a work 
 Of infinite mercy, you can never merit. 
 That yet you are not death-struck, no, not yet ; 
 I dare not stay you long, for fear you should not 
 Have time enough allowed you to repent in : 
 There's but this wall \fointmgto his (5^^] betwixt yoji 
 
 and destruction. 
 When you're at strongest, and but poor thin clay : 
 Think upon't, brother ; can you come so near it 
 
SCENE lO WOMEN BEWARS WOMEN. 345 
 
 For a fair strumpet's love, and fall into 
 
 A torment that knows neither end nor bottom 
 
 For beauty but the deepness of a skin, 
 
 And that not of their own neither ? Is she a thing 
 
 Whom sickness dare not visit, or age look on, 
 
 Or death resist ? does the worm shun her grave ? 
 
 If not, as your soul knows it, why should lust 
 
 Bring man to lasting pain for rotten dust ? 
 
 Duke. Brother of spotless honour, let me weep 
 The first of my repentance in thy bosom, 
 And show the blest fruits of a thankful spirit : 
 And if I e'er keep woman more, unlawfully. 
 May I want penitence at my greatest heed ! 
 And wise men know there is no barren place 
 Threatens more famine than a dearth in grace. 
 
 Car. Why, here's a conversion is at this time, 
 brother, 
 Sung for a hymn in Heaven, and at this instant 
 The powers of darkness groan, makes all hell sorry ; 
 First I praise Heaven, then in my work I glory. 
 Who's there attends without? 
 
 Re-enter Servants. 
 
 \st Ser. My lord ? 
 
 Car. Take up those lights ; there was a thicker dark- 
 ness 
 When they came first. — The peace of a fair soul 
 Keep with my noble brother ! 
 
 Duke. Joys be with you, sir ! 
 
 \Exeunt Cardinal and Servants. 
 She lies alone to-night for't, and must still, 
 Though it be hard to conquer ; but I've vowed 
 Never to know her as a strumpet more, 
 And I must save my oath ; if fury fail not, 
 Her husband dies to-hight, or, at the most, 
 Lives not to see the morning spent to-morrow ; 
 Then will I make her lawfully mine own. 
 
34^ 
 
 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act iv. 
 
 Without this sin and horror. Now I'm chidden, 
 For what I shall enjoy then unforbidden ; 
 And I'll not freeze in stoves : 'tis but a while ; 
 Live like a hopeful bridegroom, chaste from flesh, 
 And pleasure then will seem new, fair, and fresh. 
 
 \Exit 
 
 SCENE II. 
 A Hall in Livia's JETouse. 
 
 Enter Hippolito. 
 
 Hip. The morning so far" wasted, yet his baseness 
 So impudent ! see if the very sun 
 Do not blush at him ! 
 
 Dare he do thus much, and know me alive ? 
 Put case one must be vicious, as I know myself . 
 Monstrously guilty, there's a blind time made for't. 
 He might use only that, — -"'twere conscionable ; 
 Art, silence, closeness, subtlety, and darkness, 
 Are fit for such a business ; but there's no pity 
 To be bestowed on an apparent sinner, 
 An impudent daylight lecher. The great zeal 
 I bear to her advancement in this match 
 With Lord Vincentio, as the duke has wrought it. 
 To the perpetual honour of our house. 
 Puts fire into my blood to purge the air 
 Of this corruption, fear it spread too far, 
 And poison the whole hopes of this fair fortune. 
 I love her good so dearly, that no brother 
 Shall venture farther for a sister's glory 
 Than I for her preferment. 
 
 Enter Leantio and a Page. 
 Lea7i. Once again 
 
SCfiNfili.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 34? 
 
 I'll see that glistering whore, shines like a serpent 
 Now the court sun's upon her. [Aside.] — Page. 
 
 -Page. Anon, sir. 
 
 Zea/i. I'll go in state too. [Aside.] — See the coach be 
 ready. . [Exii Page. 
 
 I'll hurry away presently. 
 
 Ifip.- Yes, you shall hurry, 
 And the devil after you : take that at setting forth ; 
 
 [Sfrikes him. 
 Now, an you'll draw, we're upon equal terms, sir. 
 Thou took'st advantage of my name in honour 
 Upon my sister; I ne'er saw the stroke 
 Come, till I fo.und my reputation bleeding ; 
 And therefore count it I no sin ,to valour 
 To serve thy lust so : now we're of even hand, 
 Take your best course against me. You must die. 
 
 Lean. How close sticks envy to man's happiness ! 
 When I was poor, and little cared for life, 
 I had no such means offered me to die, 
 No man's wrath minded me. — Slave, I turn this to thee, 
 
 [Draws, 
 To call thee to account for a wound lately 
 Of a base stamp upon me. 
 
 Hip. 'Twas most fit 
 For a base metal : come and fetch one now 
 More noble then, for I will use thee fairer 
 Than thou hast done thine own soul, or our honour ; 
 
 [They fight. 
 And there I think 'tis for thee. [Leantio_;^//j-. 
 
 [ Voices within.] Help, help ! O, part 'em ! 
 
 Lean. False wife, I feel now thou'st prayed heartily 
 for me : 
 Rise, strumpet, by my fall ! thy lust may reign now : 
 My heart-string and the marriage-knot that tied thee. 
 Break both together. [Dies. 
 
 Hip. There I heard the sound on't; 
 And never liked string better. 
 
348 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act IV. 
 
 Enter Guardiano, Livia, Isabella, the Ward, and 
 
 SOEDIDO. 
 
 Liv. 'Tis my brother ! 
 Are you hurt, sir? 
 
 Hip. Not anything. 
 
 Liv. Blest fortune ! 
 Shift for thyself: what is he thou hast killed ? 
 
 Hip. Our honour's enemy. 
 
 Guar. Know you this man, lady ? 
 
 Liv. Leantio ! my love's joy ! — Wounds stick upon 
 thee 
 As deadly as thy sins 1 art thou not hurt — ■ 
 The devil take that fortune ! — and he dead ? 
 Drop plagues into thy bowels without voice. 
 Secret and fearful ! — Run for officers : 
 Let him be apprehended with all speed, 
 For fear he 'scape away ; lay hands on him, 
 We cannot be too sure, 'tis wilful murder : 
 You do Heaven's vengeance and the law just service : 
 You know him not as I do ; he's a villain 
 As monstrous as a prodigy and as dreadful. 
 
 Hip. Will you but entertain a noble patience 
 Till you but hear the reason, worthy sister ? 
 
 Liv. The reason ! that's a jest hell falls a-Iaughing at : 
 Is there a reason found for the destruction 
 Of our more lawful loves, and was there none- 
 To kill the black lust 'twixt thy niece and thee. 
 That has kept close so long ? 
 
 Guar. How's that, good madam ? 
 
 Liv. Top true, sir ; there she stands, let her deny't : 
 The deed cries shortly in the midwife's arms, 
 Unless the parent's sins strike it still-born ; 
 And if you be not deaf and ignorant, 
 You'll hear strange notes ere long. — Look upon me, 
 
 wench ; 
 'Twas I betrayed thy honour subtlely to him, 
 
SCENE II.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 345^ 
 
 Under a false tale ; it light upon me now. — 
 His arm has paid me home upon thy breast, 
 My sweet, beloved Leantio ! 
 
 Guar. Was my judgment 
 And care in choice so devilishly abused, 
 So beyond shamefully ? all the world will grin at me. 
 
 Ward. O Sordido, Sordido, I'm damned, I'm damned. 
 
 Sor. Damned ? why, sir ? 
 
 Ward. One of the wicked ; dost not see't ? a cuckold, 
 a plain reprobate cuckold ! 
 
 Sor. Nay, an you be damned for that, be of good 
 cheer, sir, you've gallant company of all professions ; 
 I'll have a wife next Sunday too, because I'll along with 
 you myself. 
 
 Ward. That will be some comfort yet. 
 
 Liv. You, sir, that bear your load of injuries. 
 As I of sorrows, lend me your grieved strength 
 To this sad burden [pointing to the body of Leantio], 
 
 who in life wore actions. 
 Flames were not nimbler : we will talk of things 
 May have the luck to break our hearts together. 
 
 Guar. I'll list to nothing but revenge and anger. 
 Whose counsels I will follow. 
 
 \Exeunt Livia and GuarDiano, with the body oj 
 Leantio. 
 
 Sor. A wife, quoth 'a ? 
 Here's a sweet plum-tree of your guardianer's graffing ! 
 
 Ward. Nay, there's a worse name belongs to this fruit 
 yet, an you Could hit on't, a more open one; for he 
 that marries a whore looks like a fellow bound all his 
 lifetime to a medlar-tree, and that's good stuff; 'tis no 
 sooner ripe but it looks rotten, and so do some queans 
 at nineteen. A pox on't ! I thought there was some 
 knavery a-broach, for something stirred in her belly the 
 first night I lay with her. 
 
 Sor. What, what, sir? 
 
 Ward. This is she brought up so courtly, can sing, 
 
350 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act iv. 
 
 and dance ! — and tumble too, methinks ; I'll never marry 
 wife again that has so many qualities. 
 
 Sor. Indeed, they are seldom good, master ; for likely 
 when they are taught so many, they will have one trick 
 more of their own finding out. Well, give me a wench 
 but with one good quality, to lie with none but her 
 husband, and that's bringing up enough for any woman 
 breathing. 
 
 Ward. This was the fault when she was tendered to 
 me ; you never looked to this. 
 
 Sor. Alas, how would you have me see through a 
 great farthingale, sir ? I cannot peep tlirough a mill- 
 stone, or in the going, to see what's done i' the bottom. 
 
 Ward. Her father praised her breast ; ^ sh'ad the 
 voice, forsooth ! I marvelled she sung so small indeed, 
 being no maid : now I perceive there's a young quirister 
 in her belly, this breeds a singing in my head, I'm sure. 
 
 Sor. 'Tis but the tune of your wife's cinquapace' 
 danced in a feather-bed : faith, go lie down, master; but 
 take heed your horns do not make holes in the pillow- 
 beers.' — I would not batter brows with him for a hogs- 
 head of angels ; * he would prick my skull as full of holes 
 as a scrivener's sand-box. 
 
 \_Aside. — Exeunt Ward and Sordido. 
 
 Isa. Was ever maid so cruelly beguiled. 
 To the confusion of life, soul, and honour, 
 All of one woman's murdering ! I'd fain bring 
 Her name no nearer to my blood than woman, 
 And 'tis too much of that. O, shame and horror ! 
 In that small distance from yon man to me 
 Lies sin enough to make a whole world perish. — 
 
 \Aside, 
 'Tis time we parted, sir, and left the sight 
 Of one another ; nothing can be worse 
 To hurt repentance, for our very eyes 
 
 1 Voice. ^ See note ante, p. 325. 
 
 ? pillow-cases. * Gold coins, 
 
SCENE II.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 351 
 
 Are far more poisonous to religion 
 Than basilisks to them: if any goodness 
 Rest in you, hope of comforts, fear of judgments, 
 My request is, I ne'er may see you more ; 
 And so I turn me from you everlastingly, 
 So is my hope to miss you : but for her 
 That durst so dally with a sin so dangerous. 
 And lay a snare so spitefully for my youth, 
 If the least means but favour my revenge, 
 That I may practice the like cruel cunning 
 Upon her life as she has on mine honour, 
 I'll act it without pity. 
 Hip. Here's a care 
 Of reputation and a sister's fortune . 
 Sweetly rewarded by her ! would a silence. 
 As great as that which keeps among the graves. 
 Had everlastingly chained up her tongue ! 
 My love to her has made mine miserable. 
 
 Re-enter Guardiano and LiviA. 
 
 Guar. If you can but dissemble your heart's griefs 
 now, — 
 Be but a woman so far. 
 
 Liv. Peace j I'll strive, sir. 
 
 Guar. As I can wear my injuries in a smile : 
 Here's an occasion offered, that gives anger 
 Both liberty and safety to perform 
 Things worth the fire it holds, without the fear 
 Of danger or of law ; for mischiefs acted 
 Under the privilege of a marriage-triumph. 
 At the duke's hasty nuptials, will be thought 
 Things merely accidental, all's ^ by chance, 
 Not got of their own natures. 
 
 Liv. I conceive you, sir. 
 Even to a longing for performance o'nt ; 
 
 1 Alias, 
 
352 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [ACT iv. 
 
 And here behold some fruits. — \Kneels to Hippolito and 
 
 Isabella.] — Forgive me both : 
 What I am now, returned to sense and judgment, 
 Is not the same rage and distraction 
 Presented lately to you, — that rude form 
 Is gone for ever; I am now myself, 
 That speaks all peace and friendship, and these tears 
 Are the true springs of hearty, penitent sorrow 
 For those foul wrongs which my forgetful fury 
 Slandered your virtues with : this gentleman 
 Is well resolved^ now. 
 
 Guar. I was never otherways ; 
 I knew, alas, 'twas but your anger spake it, 
 And I ne'er thought, on't more. 
 
 Hip. \raising Livia.] Pray, rise, good sister. 
 
 Isa. Here's even as sweet amends made for a wrong 
 now, 
 As one that gives a wound, and pays the surgeon ; 
 All the smart's nothing, the great loss of blood. 
 Or the time of hindrance : well, I had a mother, 
 I can dissemble too. [Aside.] — What wrongs have 
 
 slipt 
 Through anger's ignorance, aunt, my heart forgives. 
 
 Guar. Why, that's tuneful now ! 
 
 Hip. And what I did, sister. 
 Was all for honour's cause, which time to come 
 Will approve to you. 
 
 Liv. Being awaked to goodness, 
 I understand so much, sir, and praise now 
 The fortune of your arm and of your safety ; 
 For by his death you've rid me of a sin 
 As costly as e'er woman doated on : 
 'T has pleased the duke so weJl too, that behold, sir, 
 
 \Givi7ig paper. 
 Has sent you here your pardon, which I kissed 
 With most affectionate comfort : when 'twas brought, 
 I Satisfied. 
 
SCENE n.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 353 
 
 Then was my fit just past ; it came so well, methought, 
 To glad my heart. 
 
 Hip. I see his grace thinks on me. 
 
 Liv. There's no talk now but of the-preparation 
 For the great marriage. 
 
 Hip. Does he marry her, then ? 
 
 Liv. With all speed, suddenly, as fast as cost 
 Can be laid on with many thousand hands. 
 This gentleman and I had once a purpose 
 To have honoured the first marriage of the duke 
 With an invention of his own ; 'twas ready. 
 The pains well past, most of the charge bestowed on't, 
 • Then came the death of your good mother, niece. 
 And turned the glory of it all to black : 
 'Tis a device would fit these times so well too, 
 Art's treasury not better : if you'll join. 
 It shall be done ; the cost shall be mine. 
 
 Hip. You've my voice first; 'twill well approve my 
 thankfulness 
 For the duke's love and favour. 
 
 Liv. What say you, niece ? 
 
 Lsa. I am content to make one. 
 
 Guar. The plot's full then ; 
 Your pages, madam, will make shift for Cupids. 
 
 Liv. That will they, sir. 
 
 Guar. You'll play your old part Still. 
 
 Liv. What is it ? good troth, I have even forgot it. 
 
 Guar. Why, Juno Pronuba, the marriage goddess. 
 
 Liv. 'Tis right indeed. 
 
 Guar. And you shall play the Nymph, 
 That offers sacrifice to appease her wrath. 
 
 lsa. Sacrifice, good sir ? 
 
 Liv. Must I be appeased then ? 
 
 Guar. That's as you list yourself, as you see causes 
 
 Liv. Methinks 'twould show the more state in her 
 deity 
 To be incensed. 
 
 Mid. A A 
 
354 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [ACT IV. 
 
 Isa. 'Twould; but my sacrifice 
 Shall take a course to appease you ; — or I'll fail in't, 
 And teach a sinful bawd to play a goddess. 
 
 \Aside, and exit. 
 
 Guar. For our parts, we'll not be ambitious, sir : 
 Please you, walk in and see the project drawn, 
 Then take your choice. 
 
 Hip, I weigh not, so I have one. 
 
 \Exeunt Guardiano and Hippolito. 
 
 Liv. How much ado have I to restrain fury 
 From breaking into curses ! O, how painful 'tis 
 To keep great sorrow smothered ! sure, I think 
 'Tis harder to dissemble grief than love. 
 Leantio, here the weight of thy loss lies. 
 Which nothing but destruction can suffice. \Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 Before the Duke's Palace. 
 
 Hautboys. Enter the Duke and Bianca richly attired, 
 attended by Lords, Cardinals, Ladies and others : as 
 they are passing in great state over the stage, enter the 
 Cardinal, meeting them. 
 
 Car. Cease, cease I religious honours done to sin 
 Disparage virtue's reverence, and will pull 
 Heaven's thunder upon Florence : holy ceremonies 
 Were made for sacred uses, not for sinful. 
 Are these the fruits of your repentance, brother ? 
 Better it had been you had never sorrowed, 
 Than to abuse the benefit, and return 
 To worse tlian where sin left you. 
 Vowed you then never to keep strumpet more. 
 And are you now so swift in your desires 
 
SCENE III.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 355 
 
 To knit your honours and your life fast to her ? 
 Is not sin sure enough to wretched man, 
 But he must bind himself in chains to't ! worse ; 
 Must marriage, the immaculate robe of honour, 
 That renders virtue glorious, fair, and fruitful 
 To her great master, be now made the garment 
 Of leprosy and foulness ? Is this penitence 
 To sanctify hot lust ? what is it otherwise 
 Than worship done to devils ? Is this the best 
 Amends that sin can make after her riots ? 
 As if a drunkard, to appease Heaven's wrath. 
 Should offer up his surfeit for a sacrifice : 
 If that be comely, then lust's offerings are 
 On wedlock's sacred altar. 
 
 Duke. Here you're bitter 
 Without cause, brother ; what I vowed I keep, 
 As safe as you your conscience ; and this needs not ; 
 I taste more wrath in't than I do religion. 
 And envy more than goodness : the path now 
 I tread is honest, leads to lawful love, 
 Which virtue in her strictness would not check : 
 I vowed no more to keep a sensual woman ; 
 'Tis done, I mean to make a lawful wife of her. 
 
 Car. He that taught you that craft, 
 Call him not master long, he will undo you ; 
 Grow not too cunning for your soul, good brother : 
 Is it enough to use adulterous thefts, 
 And then take sanctuary in marriage ? 
 I grant, so long as an offender keeps 
 Close in a privileged temple, his life's safe ; 
 But if he ever venture to come out, 
 And so be taken, then he surely dies for't : 
 So now you're safe ; but when you leave this body, 
 Man's only privileged temple upon earth, 
 In which the guilty soul takes sanctuary, 
 Then you'llperceive what wrongs chaste vows endure 
 AVhen lust usurps the bed that should be pure. 
 
. 356 WOMEN BETVAkE WOMEN. [ACT IV. 
 
 Biaii. Sir, I have read you over all this while 
 In silence, and I find great knowledge in you 
 And severe learning ; yet, 'mongst all your virtues 
 I see not charity written, which some call 
 The first-born of religion, and I wonder 
 I cannot see't in yours : believe it, sir, 
 There is no virtue can be sooner missed. 
 Or later welcomed ; it begins the rest, 
 And sets 'em all in order : Heaven and angels 
 Take great delight in a converted sinner ; 
 Why should you then, a servant and professor. 
 Differ so much from them ? If every woman 
 That commits evil should be therefore kept 
 Back in desires of goodness, how should virtue 
 Be known and honoured ? From a man that's blind, 
 To take a burning taper 'tis no wrong, 
 He never misses it; but to take light 
 From one that sees, that's injury and spite. 
 Pray, whether is religion better served, 
 When lives that are licentious are made honest. 
 Than when they still run through a sinful blood ? 
 'Tis nothing virtue's temples to deface ; 
 But build the ruins, there's a work of grace ! 
 
 Duke. I kiss thee for that spirit ; thou'st praised thy wit 
 A modest way. — On, on, there ! 
 
 \_Hautboys. Exeunt all except the Cardinal. 
 
 Car. Lust is bold, 
 And will have vengeance speak ere't be controlled. 
 
 \Exit. 
 
ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A great Hall in the Duke's Palace. 
 
 Enter Guardiano and the Ward. 
 
 UAR. Speak, hast thou any sense of 
 thy abuse ? 
 Dost thou know what wrong's done 
 
 thee? 
 Ward. I were an ass else ; 
 I cannot wash my face but I am feel- 
 ing on't. 
 
 Guar. Here, take this caltrop* then \giving caltrop\, 
 convey it secretly 
 Into the place I showed you : look you, sir, 
 This is the trap-door to't. 
 
 Ward. I know't of old, uncle, since the last triumph ;' 
 here rose up a devil with one eye, I remember, with a 
 company of fireworks at's tail. 
 
 Guar. Prithee, leave squibbing now; mark me, and 
 fail not j 
 But when thou hear'st me give a stamp, down with't, 
 The villain's caught then. 
 
 Ward. If I miss you, hang me : I love to catch a vil- 
 lain, and your stamp' shall go current I warrant you. But 
 how shall I rise up and let him down too all at one hole ? 
 that will be a horrible puzzle. You know I have a part 
 in't, I play Slander. 
 
 1 An instrument having four iron spikes used to impede cavalry. 
 ' Show. " Halfpenny, 
 
358 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [act v. 
 
 Guar. True, but never make you ready for't. 
 
 Ward. No ? my clothes are bought and all, and a foul 
 fiend's head, with a long, contumelious tongue i' the chaps 
 on't, a very fit shape for Slander i' th' out-parishes. 
 
 Guar. It shall not come so far; thou understand'st 
 it not. 
 
 Ward. O, O ! 
 
 Guar. He shall lie deep enough ere that time, 
 And stick first upon those. 
 
 Ward. Now I conceive you, guardianer. 
 
 Guar. Away ! 
 List to the privy stamp, that's all thy part. 
 
 Ward. Stamp my horns in a mortar, if J. miss you, and 
 give the powder in white wine to sick cuckolds, a very 
 present remedy for the headache. \Exit. 
 
 Guar. If this should any way miscarry now — 
 As, if the fool be nimble enough, 'tis certain — 
 The pages, that present the swift-winged Cupids, 
 Are taught to hit him with their shafts of love, 
 Fitting his part, which I have cunningly poisoned : 
 He cannot 'scape my fury ; and those ills 
 Will be laid all on fortune, not our wills ; 
 That's all the sport on't : for who will imagine 
 That, at the celebration of this night, 
 Any mischance that haps can flow from spite ? \Exit. 
 
 Flourish. Enter above Duke, Bianca, Lord Cardinal, 
 Fabricio, other Cardinals, and Lords aitd Ladies in 
 state. 
 
 Duke. Now, our fair duchess, your delight shall witness 
 How you're beloved and honoured ; all the glories 
 Bestowed upon the gladness of this night 
 Are done for your bright sake. 
 
 Bian. I am the more 
 In debt, my lord, to love and courtesies 
 That offer up themselves so bounteously 
 To do me honoured grace, without my merit. 
 
SCENE I.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 359 
 
 Duke. A goodness set in greatness ; how it sparkles 
 Afar off, like pure diamonds set in gold ! 
 How perfect ray desires were, might I witness 
 But a fair noble peace 'twixt your two spirits ! 
 The reconcilement would be more sweet to me 
 Than longer life to him that fears to die. — 
 Good sir — 
 
 Car. I profess peace, and am content. 
 
 Duke. I'll see the seal upon't, and then 'tis firm. 
 
 Car. You shall have all you wish. \Kisses Bianca. 
 
 Duke. I've all indeed now. [riie ; 
 
 Bian. But I've made surer work ; this shall not blind 
 He that begins so early to reprove, 
 Quickly rid him, or look for little love : 
 Beware a brother's envy ; he's next heir too. 
 Cardinal, you die this night ; the plot's laid surely ; 
 In time of sports death may steal in securely. 
 Then 'tis least thought on ; 
 For he that's most religious, holy friend, 
 Does not at all hours think upon his end ; 
 He has his times of frailty, and his thoughts 
 Their transportations too through flesh and blood. 
 For all his zeal, his learning, and his light. 
 As well as we, poor soul, that sin by night. \Aside. 
 
 Duke \looking at a paper?^ What's this, Fabricio ? 
 
 Fah. Marry, my lord, the model 
 Of what's presented. 
 
 Duke. O, we thank their loves. — 
 Sweet duchess, take your seat ; list to the argument. 
 
 \Reads. 
 
 There is a Nymph that haunts the woods and springs, 
 In love with two at once, and they with her ; 
 
 Equal it runs ; but, to decide these things, 
 The cause to mighty Juno they refer, 
 
 She being the marriage-goddess : the two lovers 
 They offer sighs, the Nymph a sacrifice, 
 
 All to please Juno, who by signs discovers , 
 How the event shall be ; so that strife dies : 
 
36o WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, [act v. 
 
 Then springs a second ; for the man refused 
 Grows discontent, and, out of love abused, 
 He raises Slander up, like a black fiend, 
 To disgrace th' other, which pays him i' the end. 
 
 Bian. Iii troth, my lord, a pretty, pleasing argument, 
 And fits th' occasion well : envy and slander 
 Are things soon raised against two faithful lovers ; ' 
 But comfort is, they're not long unrewarded. \Music. 
 
 Duke. This music shows they're upon entrance now. 
 
 Biaii. Then enter all my wishes. \Aside. 
 
 Enter Hymen in a yellow robe, Ganymede in a blue robe 
 powdered with stars, and Hebe in a white robe with 
 golden stars, each bearing a covered cuf : they dance 
 a short dance, and then make obeisance to the 
 Duke, Qfc: 
 
 Hym, To thee, fair bride, Hymen offers up 
 Of nuptial joys this the celestial cup ; 
 Taste it, and thou shalt ever find 
 Love in thy bed, peace in thy mind. 
 
 Bian. We'll taste you, sure ; 'twere pity to disgrace 
 So pretty a beginning. 
 
 \Takes cup from Hymen, and drinks. 
 Duke. 'Twas spoke nobly. 
 
 Gan. Two cups of nectar have we begged from Jove ; 
 Hebe, give that to innocence, I this to love : 
 Take heed of stumbling more, look to your way ; 
 Remember still the Via Lac tea. 
 
 [Ganymede and Hebe respectively offer their cups 
 to the Duke and Cardinal, who drink. 
 Hebe. Well, Ganymede, you've more faults, though not 
 so known ; 
 I spilled one cup, but you've filched many a one. 
 
 Hym. No more ; forbear for Hymen's sake ; 
 In love we met, and so let's part. 
 
 {Exeunt Hymen, Ganymede, and Hebe. 
 
 Duke. But, soft; here's no such persons in the argu- 
 ment 
 
SCENE I.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 361 
 
 As these three, Hymen, Hebe, Ganymede j 
 The actors that this model here discovers 
 Are only four, — Juno, a Nymph, two lovers. 
 
 Bian. This is some anteraasque ' belike, my lord, 
 To entertain time. — Now my peace is perfect. 
 Let sports come on apace. [Aside.] — Now is their time, 
 my lord : [M«stc, 
 
 Hark you ! you hear from 'em. 
 
 Duke. The Nymph indeed ! 
 
 Enter two Nymphs bearing tapers lighted; then Isa- 
 bella as a Nymph, dressed with flowers and gar- 
 lands, carrying a censer with fire in it: they set 
 the censer and ta;pers on Juno's altar with much 
 reverence, singing this ditty in parts : 
 
 Juno, nuptial goddess, 
 Thou that rul'st o'er coupled bodies, 
 Tiest man to woman, never to forsake her, 
 Thou only powerful marriage-maker, 
 Pity this amazed affection ! 
 
 I love both, and both love me ; 
 Nor know I where to give rejection. 
 
 My heart likes so equally, 
 Till thou sett'st right my peace of life, 
 And with thy power conclude this strife. 
 
 Isa. Now, with my thanks, depart you to the springs, 
 I to these wells of love. [Exeunt the two Nymphs.]— 
 
 Thou sacred goddess 
 And queen of nuptials, daughter to great Saturn, 
 Sister and wife to Jove, imperial Juno, 
 Pity this passionate conflict in my breast, 
 This tedious war 'twixt two affections ; 
 Crown me with victory, and my heart's at peace ! 
 
 Enter Hippolito and Guardiano as Shepherds. 
 
 Hip. Make me that happy man, thou mighty goddess ! 
 Guar. But I live most in hope, if truest love 
 Merit the greatest comfort. 
 
 1 A burlesque interlude in Ihe masque. 
 
362 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [act v. 
 
 Isa. I love both 
 With such an even and fair affection, 
 I know not which to speak for, which to wish for, 
 Till thou, great arbitress 'twixt lovers' hearts, 
 By thy auspicious grace design the man ; 
 Which pity I implore ! 
 
 Hi;p. and Guar. We all implore it ! 
 
 Isa. And after sighs — contrition's truest odours — 
 I offer to thy powerful deity 
 
 This precious incense \waving the censer] ; may it ascend 
 peacefully ! — 
 
 (And if it keep true touch, my good aunt Juno, 
 
 'Twill try your immortality ere't be long : 
 
 I fear you'll ne'er get so nigh Heaven again, 
 
 When you're once down.) [Aside. 
 
 [LiviA descends as Juno, attended by Pages as 
 Cupids. 
 
 Liv. Though you and your affections 
 Seem all as dark to our illustrious brightness 
 As night's inheritance, hell, we pity you, 
 And your requests are granted. You ask signs. 
 They shall be given you ; we'll be gracious to you : 
 He of those twain which we determine for you, 
 Love's arrows shall wound twice ; the latter wound 
 Betokens love in age ; for so are all 
 Whose love continues firmly all their lifetime 
 Twice wounded at their marriage, else affection 
 Dies when youth ends. — 
 
 (This savour overcomes me !) \_Aside. 
 Now, for a sign of wealth and golden days, 
 Bright-eyed prosperity — which all couples love. 
 Ay, and makes love — take that ; our brother Jove 
 Never denies us of his burning treasure 
 To express bounty. [Isabella falls down and dies. 
 
 Duke. She falls down upon't ; 
 What's the conceit of that ? 
 
 Fab. As o'erjoyed belike : 
 Too much prosperity o'erjoys us all, 
 And she has her lapful, it seems, my lord. 
 
SCENE I.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN, 363 
 
 Duke. This swerves a little from the argument though : 
 
 Look you, my lords. [Showing paper. 
 
 Guar. All's fast: now comes my part to tole,' him 
 
 hither ; 
 
 Then, with a stamp given, he's despatched as cunningly. 
 
 \Aside. 
 
 Hip. {raising the body of Isa.] Stark dead ! O 
 
 treachery ! cruelly made away ! 
 
 [GuARDiANO stamps, and falls through a trap-door. 
 
 How's that ? 
 
 Fab. Look, there's one of the lovers dropped away too ! 
 
 Duke. Why, sure, this plot's drawn false; here's no 
 
 such thing. 
 Liv. O, I am sick to the death ! let me down quickly. 
 This fume is deadly ; O, 't has poison'd me ! 
 My subtlety is sped, her art has quitted me ; 
 My own ambition pulls me down to ruin. 
 
 [Falls down and dies. 
 Hip. Nay, then, I kiss thy cold lips, and applaud 
 This thy revenge in death. [Kisses the body of Isabella. 
 Fab. Look, Juno's down too ! 
 
 [Cupids shoot at Hippolito. 
 What makes she there ? her pride should keep aloft : 
 She was wont to scorn the earth in other shows ; 
 Methinks her peacock's feathers are much pulled. 
 
 Hip. O, death runs through my blood in a wild 
 flame too ! 
 Plague of those Cupids ! some lay hold on 'em. 
 Let 'em not escape ; they've spoiled me, the shaft's deadly. 
 Duke. I've lost myself in this quite. 
 Hip. My great lords, 
 We're all confounded. 
 Duke. How? 
 Hip. Dead J and I worse. 
 Fab. Dead ! my girl dead ? I hope 
 My sister Juno has not served me so. 
 1 Allure. 
 
364 WOMEN PEWARE WOMEN. [ACT V, 
 
 Hip. Lust and forgetfulness has been amongst us, 
 And we are brought to nothing : some blest charity 
 Lend, me the speeding pity of his sword, 
 To quench this fire in blood ! Leantio's death 
 Has brought all this upon us — now I taste it— 
 And made us lay plots to confound each other ; 
 Th' event so proves it ; and man's understanding 
 Is riper at his fall than all his lifetime. --, 
 She, in a madness for her lover's death, 
 -JLexealed a fearful lust in our near bloods. 
 For which I'm "punished dreadfully and unlocked 
 
 for; 
 Proved her own ruin too ; vengeance met vengeance, 
 Like a set match, as if the plagues of sin 
 Had been agreed to meet here altogether : 
 But how her fawning partner fell I reach not, 
 Unless caught by some springe of his own setting, — 
 For, on my pain, he never dreamed of dying ; 
 The plot was all his own, and he had cunning 
 Enough to save himself: but 'tis the property 
 Of guilty deeds to draw your wise men downward : 
 Therefore the wonder ceases. O, this torment ! 
 Duke. Our guard below there ! 
 
 Enter a Lord with a Guard. 
 
 Lord. My lord ? 
 
 Hip. Run and meet death then, 
 And cut off time and pain ! \Runs on a sword and dies. 
 
 Lord. Behold, my lord, 
 Has run his breast upon a weapon's point ! 
 
 Duke. Upon the first night of our nuptial honours 
 Destruction play her triumph, and great mischiefs 
 Mask in expected pleasures ! 'tis prodigious ! 
 They're things most fearfully ominous ; I like 'em not. — 
 Remove these ruined bodies from our eyes. 
 
 [75^1? Guard removes the bodies of Isabella, 
 LiviA, and Hippolito, 
 
SCENE!.] WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 365 
 
 Bian. Not yet, no change ? when falls he to the 
 earth ? [Aside. 
 
 Lord. Please but your excellence to peruse that paper, 
 
 \Gives paper to the Duke. 
 Which is a brief confession from the heart 
 Of him that fell first, ere his soul departed ; 
 And there the darkness of these deeds speaks plainly, 
 'Tis the full scope, the manner, and intent : 
 His ward, that ignorantly let him down. 
 Fear put to present flight at the voice of him. 
 
 Bian. Not yet ? \Aside. 
 
 Duke. Read, read, for I am lost in sight and strength ! 
 
 \Falh. 
 
 Car. My noble brother ! 
 
 Bian. O, the curse of wretchedness 1 
 My deadly hand is fall'n upon my lord : 
 Destruction, take me to thee ! give me way; 
 The pains and plagues of a lost soul upon him 
 That hinders me a moment ! 
 
 Duke. My heart swells bigger yet ; help here, break't 
 ope I 
 My breast flies open next. [Dies. 
 
 Bian. O, with the poison 
 That was prepared for thee ! thee, cardinal, 
 'Twas meant for thee. 
 
 Car. Poor prince ! 
 
 Bian. Accursbd error I 
 Give me thy last breath, thou infected bosom. 
 And wrap two spirits in one poisoned vapour ! 
 Thus, thus, reward thy murderer, and turn death 
 
 [Kisses the body of the Duke. 
 Into a parting kiss ! my soul stands ready at my lips. 
 Even vexed to stay one minute after thee. 
 
 Car. The greatest sorrow and astonishment 
 That ever struck the general peace of Florence 
 Dwells in this hour. 
 
 Bian. So, my desires are satisfied, 
 
366 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. [act V. 
 
 I feel death's power within me : 
 
 Thou hast prevailed in something, cursfed poison ; 
 
 Though thy chief force was spent in my lord's bosom; 
 
 But my deformity in spirit's more foul, 
 
 A blemished face best fits a leprous soul. 
 
 What make I here ? these are all strangers to me, 
 
 Not known but by their malice now thou'rt gone. 
 
 Nor do I seek their pities. 
 
 [Drinks from the poisoned cup. ^ 
 
 Car. O restrain 
 Her ignorant, wilful hand ! 
 
 JBian. Now do ; 'tis done. 
 Leantio, now I feel the breach of marriage 
 At my heart-breaking. O, the deadly snares 
 That women set for women, without pity 
 Either to soul or honour ! learn by me 
 To know your foes : in this belief I die, — 
 Like our own sex we have no enemy. 
 
 Lord. See, my lord. 
 What shift sh'as made to be her own destruction ! 
 
 Bian. Pride, greatness, honour, beauty, youth, ambi- 
 tion, 
 You must all down together, there's no help for't : 
 Yet this m'y gladness is, that I remove 
 Tasting the same death in a cup of love. [Dies. 
 
 Car. Sin, what thou art, these ruins show too piteously ; 
 Two kings on one throne cannot sit together. 
 But one must needs down, for his title's wrong ; 
 So where lust reigns, that prince cannot reign long. 
 
 \£xeunt omens 
 
 1 " Which she had prepared for the Cardinal and which Ganymede 
 had by mistake presented to the duke." — Dyce. 
 
THE STAUHJSH GITSY. 
 
HE Sfanish Gzjisy, written by Middleton 
 and William Rowley, was acted at court 
 in 1623 and 1624. It was published for 
 the first time in 1653 and again in 1661. 
 The story of Roderigo and Clara is 
 taken directly from a novel by Cer- 
 vantes, La Fuerze de la Sangre ; the 
 gipsy portions of the play were suggested by ariother novel 
 by Cervantes, La Gitanilla, which has furnished hints for 
 so many later plays and novels. 
 
 Mid. 
 
two old Dons. 
 
 Fernando de Azevida, corregidor of Madrid. 
 
 Pedro de Cortes, 
 
 Francisco de Carcomo, 
 
 RODERIGO, son of Fernando. 
 
 Louis de Castro. 
 
 Diego, his friend. 
 
 John, son of Francisco. 
 
 SANCHO, a foolish gentleman and ward to Pedro. 
 
 Soto, a merry fellow, his man. 
 
 Alvarez de Castilla, an old lord disguised as the father 
 
 of the gipsies. 
 Carlo, -j 
 
 Antonio, > disguised as gipsies. 
 
 and others, ) 
 Servants. ■' 
 
 Maria, wife of Pedro. 
 
 Clara, their daughter. 
 
 Guiamara, wife of Alvarez and sister to Fernando, dis- 
 guised as the mother of the gipsies, and called by the 
 name of Eugenia. 
 
 Constanza, daughter of Fernando, disguised as a young 
 Spanish gipsy, and called by the name of Pretiosa. 
 
 Christiana, a gentlewoman disguised as a gipsy. 
 
 Cardochia, a young hostess to the gipsies. 
 
 Scene— Madrid and its neighbourhood. 
 
THE STA{?<^ISH QITSY. 
 
 o>&io- 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 The Neighbourhood of Madrid. 
 
 Enter Roderigo, Louis, and Diego. 
 
 GUIS. Roderigo ! 
 Diego. Art mad ? 
 
 Rod. Yes, not so much with wine : it's 
 as rare to see a Spaniard a drunkard as 
 a German sober, an Italian no whore- 
 monger, an Englishman to pay his 
 debts. I am no borachio ; ' sack, malaga, nor canary- 
 breeds the calenture ^ in my brains ; mine eye mads me, 
 not my cups. 
 
 Louis. What wouldst have us do ? 
 Rod. Do? 
 
 Diego. So far as 'tis fit for gentlemen we'll venture. 
 Rod. I ask no more. I ha' seen a thing has bewitched 
 me j a delicate body, but this in the waist {showing the 
 size by a sign] ; foot and leg tempting ; the face I had 
 only a glimpse of, but the fruit must needs be delicious, 
 the tree being so beautiful. 
 
 1 Drunkard. Literally a Spanish term for a vessel made of skins 
 in whicli wine is kept. 
 ' Sun-stroke, delirium. 
 
372 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [acti. 
 
 Louis. Prithee, to the point. 
 
 Rod. Here 'tis : an old gentleman — no matter who he 
 is — an old gentlewoman — I ha' nothing to do with her — 
 but a young creature that follows them, daughter or ser- 
 vant, or whatsoever she be, her I must have : they are 
 coming this way : shall I have her ? I must have her. 
 
 Diego. How, how ? 
 
 Louis. Thou speakest impossibilities. 
 
 Rod. Easy, easy, easy ! I'll seize the young girl ; stop 
 you the old man ; stay you the old woman. 
 
 Louis. How then ? 
 
 Rod. I'll fly off with the young bird, that's all; many 
 of our Spanish gallants act these merry parts every night. 
 They are weak and old, we young and sprightly : will 
 you assist me ? 
 
 Louis. Troth, Roderigo, anything in the way of 
 honour. 
 
 Rod. For a wench, man, any course is honourable. 
 
 Louis. Nay, not any ; her father, if he be her father, 
 may be noble. 
 
 Rod. I am as noble. 
 
 Louis. Would the adventure were so ! 
 
 Rod. Stand close, they come. 
 
 E7iter Pedro, Maria, and Clara. 
 
 Fed. 'Tis late ; would we were in Madrill ! ' 
 Mar. Go faster, my lord. 
 Fed. Clara, keep close. 
 
 [Louis and Diego hold Pedro and Maria, while 
 Roderigo seizes Clara. 
 Cla. Help, help, help ! 
 Rod. Are you crying out ? I'll be your midwife. 
 
 \Exit, bearing off Ci.\-R A. 
 Fed. What mean you, gentlemen ? 
 Mar. Villains ! thieves ! murderers ! 
 
 ' Madrid. 
 
SCENE II.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 373 
 
 Fed. Do you not know me ? I am De Cortes, 
 Pedro de Cortes. 
 
 Louis. De Cortes ? — Diego, come away. 
 
 \Exit with Diego. 
 
 Ped. Clara ! — where is my daughter ? 
 
 Mar. Clara ! — these villains 
 Have robbed us of our comfort, and will, I fear. 
 Her of her honour. 
 
 Ped. This had not wont to be 
 Our Spanish fashion ; but now our gallants, 
 Our gentry, our young dons, heated with wine, — 
 A fire our countrymen do seldom sit at, — 
 Commit these outrages. — Clara ! — Maria, 
 Let's homeward ; I will raise Madrill to find 
 These traitors to all goodness. — -Clara ! 
 
 Mar. Clara ! \_Exeitnt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 Another Place in the Neighbourhood of Madrid. 
 
 E7iter Louis and Diego. 
 
 Louis. O Diego, I am lost, I am mad ! 
 
 Diego. So we are all. 
 
 Louis. 'Tis not with wine ; I'm drunk with too much 
 horror. 
 Inflamed with rage, to see us two made bawds 
 To Roderigo's lust : did not the old man 
 Name De Cortes, Pedro de Cortes ? 
 
 Diego. Sure he did. 
 
 Louis. O Diego, as thou lov'st me, nay, on the forfeit 
 Of thine own life or mine, seal up thy lips. 
 Let 'em not name De Cortes ! stay, stay, stay ! 
 Roderigo has into his father's house 
 A passage through a garden 
 
374 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act-i. 
 
 Diego. Yes, my lord. 
 
 Louis. Thither I must, find Roderigo out, 
 And check him, check him home : if he but dare — 
 No more ! — Diego, along ! my soul does fight 
 A thousand battles blacker than this night. \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE in. 
 A Bed-chamber in Fernando's House. 
 
 Roderigo and Clara discovered. 
 
 Cla. Though the black veil of night hath overclouded 
 The world in darkness, yet ere many hours 
 The sun will rise again, and then this act 
 Of my dishonour will appear before you 
 More black than is the canopy that shrouds it : 
 What are you, pray ? what are you ? 
 
 Rod. Husht — a friend, a friend. 
 
 Cla. A friend ? be then a gentle ravisher, 
 An honourable villain : as you have 
 Disrobed my youth of nature's goodliest portion, 
 My virgin purity, so with your sword 
 Let out that blood which is infected now 
 By your soul-staining lust. 
 
 Rod. Pish! 
 
 Cla. Are you noble ? 
 I know you then will marry me ; say ! 
 
 Rod. Umh. 
 
 Cla. Not speak to me ? are wanton devils dumb ? 
 How are so many harmless virgins wrought 
 By falsehood of prevailing words to yield 
 Too easy forfeits of their shames and liberty, 
 If every orator of folly plead 
 In silence, like this untongued piece of violence ? 
 You shall not from me. {Holding him. 
 
SCENE II.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 375 
 
 Rod. Phew ! — no more. 
 
 Cla. You shall not : 
 Who'er you are, disease of nature's sloth, 
 Birth of some monstrous sin, or scourge of virtue, 
 Heaven's wrath and mankind's burden, I will hold you; 
 I will : be rough, and therein merciful, 
 I will not loose my hold else. 
 
 Rod. There; 'tis gold. \Offers money. 
 
 Cla. Gold ? why, alas ! for what ? the hire of pleasure 
 Perhaps is payment, mine is misery j 
 I need no wages for a ruined name, 
 More than a bleeding heart. 
 
 Rod. Nay, then, you're troublesome ; 
 I'll lock you safe enough. \Shakes her off, and exit. 
 
 Cla. They cannot fear 
 Whom grief hath armed with hate and scorn of life. 
 Revenge, I kneel to thee ! alas ! 'gainst whom ? 
 By what name shall I pull confusion down 
 From justice on his head that hath betrayed me ? 
 I know not where I am : up, I beseech thee, 
 Thou lady regent of the air, the moon. 
 And lead me by thy light to some brave vengeance ! 
 It is a chamber sure ; the guilty bed, 
 Sad evidence against my loss of honour, 
 Assures so much. What's here, a window-curtain ? 
 O Heaven, the stars appear too : ha, a chamber, 
 A goodly one ? dwells rape in such a paradise ? 
 Help me, my quickened senses ! 'tis a garden 
 To which this window guides the covetous prospect, 
 A large one and a fair one ; in the midst 
 A curious alabaster fountain stands, 
 Framed like — ^like what ? no matter — swift, remembrance ! 
 Rich furniture within too ? and what's this ? 
 A precious crucifix ! I have enough. 
 
 [Takes the crucifix, and conceals it in her 
 bosom. 
 Assist me, O you powers that guard the innocent 1 
 
2,^6 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act i. 
 
 Re-eiiter Roderigo. 
 
 Rod. Now. 
 
 Cla. Welcome, if you come armed in destruction : 
 I am prepared to die. 
 
 Rod. Tell me your name, 
 And what you are. 
 
 Cla. You urge me to a sin 
 As cruel as your lust; I dare not grant it. 
 Think on the violence of my defame ; 
 And if you mean to write upon my grave 
 An epitaph of peace, forbear to question 
 Or whence or who I am. I know the heat 
 Of your desires is, after the performance 
 Of such a hellish act, by this time drowned 
 In cooler streams of penance;' and for my part, 
 I have washed off the leprosy that cleaves 
 To my just shame in true and honest tears ; 
 I must not leave a mention of my wrongs, 
 The stain of my unspotted birth, to memory ; 
 Let it lie buried with me in the dust ; 
 That never time hereafter may report . 
 How such a one as you have made me live. 
 Be resolute, and do not stagger; do not, 
 For I am nothing. 
 
 Rod. Sweet, let me enjoy thee 
 Now with a free allowance. 
 
 Cla. Ha, enjoy me ? 
 Insufferable villain ! 
 
 Rod. Peace, speak low ; 
 I mean no second force ; and since I find 
 Such goodness in an unknown frame of virtue, 
 Forgive my foul attempt, which I shall grieve for 
 So heartily, that could you be yourself 
 Eye-witness to my constant vowed repentance. 
 Trust me, you'd pity me. 
 
 1 Penitence. 
 
SCENE III.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 377 
 
 Cla. Sir, you can speak now. 
 
 Rod. So much I am the executioner 
 Of mine own trespass, that I have no heart 
 Nor reason to disclose my name or quality ; 
 You must excuse me that ; but, trust me, fair one, 
 Were this ill deed undone, this deed of wickedness, 
 I would be proud to court your love like him 
 Whom my first birth presented to the world. 
 This for your satisfaction : what remains, 
 That you can challenge as a service from me, 
 I both expect and beg it. 
 
 Cla. First, that you swear, 
 Neither in riot of your mirth, in passion , 
 Of friendship, or in folly of discourse. 
 To speak of wrongs done to a ravis-hed maid. 
 
 Rod. As I love truth, I swear ! 
 
 Cla. Next, that you lead me 
 Near to the place you met me, and there leave me 
 To my last fortunes, ere the morning rise. 
 
 Rod. Say more. 
 
 Cla. Live a new man : if e'er you marry — 
 O me, my heart's a-breaking — but if e'er 
 You marry, in a constant love to her 
 That shall be then your wife, redeem the fault 
 Of my undoing. I am lost for ever : 
 Pray, use no more words. 
 
 Rod. You must give me leave 
 To veil you close. 
 
 Cla. Do what you will ; no time 
 Can ransom me from sorrows or dishonours. 
 
 [RoDERiGO throws a veil over her. 
 Shall we now go ? 
 
 Rod. My shame may live without me. 
 But in my soul I bear my guilt about me. 
 Lend me your hand ; now follow. \_Exeunt. 
 
378 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act i. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Before Fernando's House. 
 
 Enter Louis, Diego, and Servant. 
 
 Louis. Not yet come in, not yet? 
 
 Ser. No, I'll assure your lordship ; I've seldom known 
 him 
 Keep out so long ; my lord usually observes 
 More seasonable hours. 
 
 Louis. What time of night is't ? 
 
 Ser. On the stroke of three. 
 
 Louis. The stroke of three ? 'tis wondrous strange ! 
 Dost hear ? 
 
 Ser. My lord ? 
 
 Louis. Ere six I will be here again ; 
 Tell thy lord so ; ere six ; 'a must not sleep ; 
 Or if 'a do, I shall be bold to wake him ; 
 Be sure thou tell'st him, do. 
 
 Ser. My lord, I shall. [Enters the house. 
 
 Louis. Diego, 
 Walk thou the street that leads about the Prado ; 
 I'll round the west part of the city : meet me 
 At the Inquisition-chapel ; if we miss him, 
 We'll both back to his lodgings. 
 
 Diego. At the chapel ? 
 
 Louis. Ay, there we'll meet. 
 
 Diego. Agreed, I this way. 
 
 \Exit Louis : as Diego is going out, 
 
 Enter John reading. 
 
 John. She is not noble, true ; wise nature meant 
 Affection should ennoble her descent. 
 For love and beauty keeps as rich a seat 
 Of sweetness in the mean-born as the great. 
 I am resolved. [Exit 
 
SCENE v.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 379 
 
 Diego. 'Tis Roderigo certainly, 
 Yet his voice makes me doubt ; but I'll o'erhear him. 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 A Street. 
 
 Enter Louis. 
 
 Louis. That I, I, only I should be the man 
 Made accessary and a party both 
 To mine own torment, at a time so near 
 The birth of all those comforts I have travailed with 
 So many, many hours of hopes and fears ; 
 Now at the instant — 
 
 Enter Roderigo. 
 
 Ha ! stand ! thy name, 
 Truly and speedily. 
 
 Rod. Don Louis? 
 
 Louis. The same ; 
 But who art thou ? speak ! 
 
 Rod. Roderigo. 
 
 Louis. Tell me, 
 As you're a noble gentleman, as ever 
 You hope to be enrolled amongst the virtuous. 
 As you love goodness, as you wish t' inherit 
 The blessedness and fellowship of angels, 
 As you're my friend, as you are Roderigo, 
 As you are anything that would deserve 
 A worthy name, where have you been to-night ? 
 O, how have you disposed of that fair creature 
 Whom you led captive from me ? speak, O speak ! 
 Where, how, when, in what usage have you left her ? 
 Truth, I require all truth. 
 
 Rod. Though I might question 
 
58o THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act i. 
 
 The strangeness of your importunity, 
 Yet, 'cause I note distraction in the height 
 Of curiosity, I will be plain 
 And brief. 
 
 Louis. I thank you, sir. 
 
 Rod. Instead of feeding 
 Too wantonly upon so rich a banquet, 
 I found, even in that beauty that invited me, 
 Such a commanding majesty of chaste 
 And humbly glorious virtue, that it did not 
 More check my rash attempt than draw to ebb 
 The float' of those desires, which in an instant 
 Were cooled in their own streams of shame and folly. 
 
 Louis. Now all increase of honours 
 Fall in full showers on the, Roderigo, 
 The best man living ! 
 
 Rod. You are much transported 
 With this discourse, methinks. 
 
 ImuIs. Yes, I am. 
 She told ye her name too ? 
 
 Rod. I could not urge it 
 By any importunity. 
 
 Louis. Better still ! 
 Where did you leave her? 
 
 Rod. Where I found her ; farther 
 She would by no means grant me to wait on her : 
 O, Louis, I am lost ! 
 
 Louis This self-same lady 
 Was she to whom I have been long a suitor. 
 And shortly hope to marry. 
 
 Rod. She your mistress, then ? Louis, since friend- 
 ship 
 And noble honesty conjure our loves 
 To a contiiiued league, here I unclasp 
 The secrets of my heart. O, I have had 
 A glimpse of such a creature, that deserves 
 
 1 Flood. 
 
SCENE v.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 381 
 
 A temple ! if thou 16v'st her — and I blame thee not, 
 
 For who can look on her, and not give up 
 
 His life unto her service ? — if thou lov'st her. 
 
 For pity's sake conceal her ; let me not 
 
 As much as know her name, there's a temptation in't 
 
 Let me not know her dwelling, birth, or quahty. 
 
 Or anything that she calls hers, but thee ; 
 
 In thee, my friend, I'll see her ; and t' avoid 
 
 The surfeits and those rareties that tempt me, 
 
 So much I prize the happiness of friendship, 
 
 That I will leave the city 
 
 Louis. Leave it? 
 
 Rod. Speed me 
 For Salamanca ; court my studies now , 
 For physic 'gainst infection of the mind. 
 
 Louis. You do amaze me. 
 
 Rod. Here to live, and live 
 Without her, is impossible and wretched. 
 For Heaven's sake, never tell her what I was, 
 Or that you knew me ! and when I find that absence 
 Hath lost her to my memory, I'll dare 
 To see ye again. Meantime, the cause that draws me 
 From hence shall be to all the world untold ; 
 No friend but thou alone, for whose sake only 
 I undertake this voluntary "exile. 
 Shall be partaker of my griefs : thy hand, 
 Farewell ; and all the pleasures, joys, contents, 
 That bless a constant lover, henceforth crown thee 
 A happy bridegroom ! 
 
 Louis. You have conquered friendship 
 Beyond example. 
 
 Enter Diego. 
 
 Diego. Ha, ha, ha ! some one 
 That hath slept well to-night, should a' but see me 
 Thus merry by myself, might justly think 
 I were not well in my wits. 
 
382 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act i. 
 
 Louis. Diego ? 
 
 Diego. Yes, 
 'Tis I, and I have had a fine fegary/ 
 The rarest wild-goose chase ! 
 
 Louis. 'T had made thee melancholy. 
 
 Diego. Don Roderigo here ? 'tis well you met him ; 
 For though I missed him, yet I met an accident 
 Has almost made me burst with laughter. 
 
 Louis. How so ? 
 
 Diego. I'll tell you : as we parted, I perceived . 
 A walking thing before me, strangely tickled 
 With rare conceited raptures ; him I dogged 
 Supposing 't had been Roderigo landed 
 From his new pinnace, deep in contemplation 
 Of the sweet voyage he stole to-night. 
 
 Rod. You're pleasant. 
 
 Louis. Prithee, who was't? 
 
 Rod. Not I. 
 
 Diego. You're i' the right, not you indeed ; 
 For 'twas that noble gentleman Don John, 
 Son to the Count Francisco de Carcomo. 
 
 Louis. In love, it seems ? 
 
 Diego. Yes, peppered, on my life ; 
 Much good may't do him ; I'd not be so lined 
 For my cap full of double pistolets. 
 
 Louis. What should his mistress be ? 
 
 Diego. That's yet a riddle 
 Beyond my resolution ; but of late 
 I have observed him oft to frequent the sports 
 The gipsies newly come to th' city present. 
 
 Louis. It is said there is a creature with 'em, 
 Though young of years, yet of such absolute beauty. 
 Dexterity of wit, and general qualities, 
 That Spain reports her not without admiration. 
 
 Diego. Have you seen her ? 
 
 Louis. Never. 
 
 "■ Vagary. 
 
SCENE v.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 383 
 
 Dtego. Nor you, my lord ? 
 
 Rod. I not remember. 
 
 Diego. Why, then, you never saw the prettiest toy 
 That ever sang or danced. 
 
 Louis. Is she a gipsy ? 
 
 Diego. In her condition, not in her complexion : 
 I tell you once more, 'tis a spark of beauty 
 Able to set a world at gaze ; the sweetest, 
 The wittiest rogue ! shall's see 'em ? they've fine gambols, 
 Are mightily frequented ; court and city 
 Flock to 'em, but the country does 'em worship : 
 This little ape gets money by the sack-full. 
 It trolls upon her. 
 
 Louis. Will ye with us, friend ? 
 
 Rod. You know my other projects ; sights to me 
 Are but vexations. 
 
 Louis, O, you must be merry 1 — 
 Diego, we'll to th' gipsies. - 
 
 Diego. Best take heed 
 You be not snapped. 
 
 Louis. How snapped ? 
 
 Diego. By that little fairy ; 
 'T has a shrewd tempting face and a notable tongue. 
 
 Louis. I fear not either. 
 
 Diego. Go, then. 
 
 Louis. Will you with us ? 
 
 Rod. I'll come after. — [Exeunt Louis and Diego. 
 Pleasure and youth like smiling evils woo us 
 To taste new follies ; tasted, they undo us. [Exit. 
 
ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Room in an Inn. 
 
 Enter Alvarez, Carlo, and Antonio, disguised as 
 gipsies. 
 
 ) LV. Come, my brave boys ! the tailor's 
 shears has cut us into shapes fitting 
 our trades. 
 
 Car. A trade free as a mason's. 
 Ant. A trade brave as a courtier's ; 
 for some of them do but shark, and so 
 do we. 
 
 Alv. Gipsies, but no tanned ones ; no red-ochre rascals 
 umbered with soot and bacon as the English gipsies are, 
 that sally out upon pullen,^ lie in ambuscado for a rope 
 of onions, as if they were Welsh freebooters ; no, our 
 stile has higher steps to climb over, Spanish gipsies, 
 noble gipsies. 
 
 Car. I never knew nobility in baseness. 
 Alv. Baseness ? the arts of Cocoquismo and Germania,- 
 used by our Spanish pickaroes' — I mean filching, foist- 
 
 • Poultry. 
 
 2 "Alvarez proceeds to explain his meaning; but I may just 
 observe that Cocoquismo should perhaps be Cocoquismo, formed 
 from the Spanish coco, a pickpoclcet (unless indeed it has some 
 aiffinity with the phrase hacer cocos, to wheedle), and that Germania 
 signifies, in that language, the jargon of the gipsies. See Neuman's 
 Sj>an. and Engl. Diet, in vv." — JDyce. 
 
 ' Rogues. 
 
SCENE 1.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 385 
 
 ing,' nimming, jilting — we defy-j none in our college 
 shall study 'em ! such graduates we degrade. 
 
 Ant. I am glad Spain has an honest company. 
 
 Alv. We'll entertain no mountebanking stroll, 
 No piper, fiddler, tumbler through small hoops, 
 No ape-carrier, baboon-bearer ; 
 We must have nothing stale, trivial, or base : 
 Am I your major-domo, your teniente,'' 
 Your captain, your commander ? 
 
 Ant. Who but you ? 
 
 Ahi. So then : now being entered Madrill, the en- 
 chanted circle of Spain, have a care to your new lessons. 
 
 , ■ { We hsten. 
 Ant. ) . 
 
 Alv. Plough deep furrows, to catch deep root in th' 
 opinion of the best grandoes, dukes, marquesses, condes, 
 and other titulados j show your sports to none but them : 
 what can you do with three or four fools in a dish, and 
 a blockhead cut into sippets ? 
 
 Ant. Scurvy meat ! 
 
 Alv. The Lacedemonians threw their beards over their 
 shoulders, to observe what men did behind them as well 
 as before ; you must do't. 
 
 Car. We shall never do't. 
 
 Ant. Our muzzles are too short. 
 
 Alv. Be not English gipsies, in whose conipany'a man's 
 not sure of the ears of his head, they so pilfer ! no such 
 angling; what you pull to land catch fair: there is no 
 iron so foul but may be gilded; and our gipsy profession, 
 how base soever in show, may acquire commendations. 
 
 Car. Gipsies, and yet pick no pockets ? 
 
 Alv. Infamous and roguy ! so handle your webs, that 
 they never come to be woven in the loom of justice : 
 take anything that's given you, purses, knives, hand- 
 kerchers, rosaries, tweezers, any toy, any money ! refuse 
 
 1 Pocket-picking. ' Renounce. ' Lieutenant. {Span.) 
 Mid. C C 
 
386 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act il. 
 
 not a maravedi, ' a blank : ^ feather by feather birds build 
 nests, grain pecked up after grain makes pullen fat. 
 
 Ant. The best is, we Spaniards are no great feeders. 
 
 Alv. If one city cannot maintain us, away to another ! 
 our horses must have wings. Does Madrill yield no 
 money? Seville shall ; is Seville closefisted ? Valladoly 
 is open ; so Cordova, so Toledo. Do not our Spanish 
 wines please us ? Italian can then, French can. Prefer- 
 ment's bow is hard to draw, set all your strengths to it ; 
 what you get, keep ; all the world is a second Rochelle ; ' 
 make all sure, for you must not look to have your dinner 
 served in with trumpets. 
 
 Car. No, no, sack-buts shall serve us. 
 
 Alv. When 3'ou have money, hide it ; sell all our horses 
 but one. 
 
 Ant. Why one ? 
 
 Alv. 'Tis enough to carry our apparel and trinkets, 
 and the less our ambler eats, our cheer is the better. 
 None be sluttish, none thievish, none lazy ; all bees, no 
 drones, and our hives shall yield us honey. 
 
 Enter Guiamara, Constanza, Christiana, disguised 
 as gipsies, and Cardochia. 
 
 Const. See, father, how I'm fitted ; how do you like 
 This our new stock of clothes ? 
 
 Alv. My sweet girl, excellent. — 
 See their old robes be safe. 
 
 Card. That, sir, I'll look to : 
 Whilst in my house you lie, what thief soever 
 Lays hands upon your goods, call but to me, 
 I'll make thee satisfaction. 
 
 Alv. Thanks, good hostess ! 
 
 ^ A small Spanish copper coin. 
 
 " A small silver coin with an alloy of baser metal. 
 
 * "Rochelle was a general asylum for those persecuted Protes- 
 tants who knew not where to go ; and Alvarez intimates that the 
 whole world was equally open to people who had no settled home." 
 —Editor of 1816. 
 
SCENE I.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 387 
 
 Card. People already throng into the inn, 
 And call for you into their private rooms. 
 
 Alv. No chamber-comedies : hostess, ply you your 
 tide ; flow let 'em to a full sea, but we'll show no pastime 
 till after dinner, and that in a full ring of good people, the 
 best, the noblest ; no closet-sweetmeats, j^ray tell 'em soi 
 
 Card. I shall. \Exit. 
 
 Alv. How old is Pretiosa ? 
 
 Gui. Twelve and upwards. 
 
 Const. I am in my teens, assure you, mother ; as little 
 as I am, I have been taken for an elephant, castles and 
 lordships offered to be set upon me, if I would bear 'era : 
 why, your smallest clocks are the prettiest things to carry 
 about gentlemen. 
 
 Gui. Nay, child, thou wilt be tempted. 
 
 Const. Tempted ? though I am no mark in respect of 
 a huge butt, yet I can tell you great bubbers ' have shot 
 at me, and shot golden arrows, but I myself gave aim, 
 thus, — wide, four bows; short, three and a half: they 
 that crack me shall find me as hard as a nut of Gahcia; 
 a parrot I am, but my teeth too tender to crack a wanton's 
 almond. 
 
 Alv. Thou art my noble girl : a many dons 
 Will not believe but that thou art a boy 
 In woman's clothes '; and to try that conclusion, 
 To see if thou be'st alcumy ^ or no. 
 They'll throw down gold in musses ; ' but, Pretiosa, 
 Let these proud sakers * and gerfalcons fly. 
 Do not thou move a wing ; be to thyself 
 Thyself, and not a changeling. 
 
 Const How ? not a changeling ? 
 Yes, father, I will play the changeling ; 
 
 1 "A vulgarised form of bibbers, Constanza having used the word 
 ■butt in the double sense oimark and liquor-vessel." — Dyce. 
 
 * Alloved metal. 
 
 3 To be scrambled for. There was a children's game called 
 muss. 
 
 * The peregrine hawk. 
 
388 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act ii. 
 
 I'll change m3'self into a thousand shapes, 
 
 To court our brave spectators ; I'll change my postures 
 
 Into a thousand different variations, 
 
 To draw even ladies' eyes to follow mine ; 
 
 I'll change my voice into a thousand tones. 
 
 To chain attention : not a changeling, father ? 
 
 None but myself shall play the changeling. 
 
 Alv. Do what thou wilt, Pretiosa. \A. knocking within. 
 What noise is this ? 
 
 Re-enter Cardochia. 
 
 Card. Here's gentlemen swear all the oaths in Spain 
 they have seen you, must see you, and will see you. 
 Alv. To drown this noise let 'em enter. \Exit Card. 
 
 Enter Sancho and Soto. 
 
 San. Is your playhouse an inn, a gentleman cannot 
 see you without crumpling his taffeta cloak? 
 
 Soto. Nay, more than a gentleman, his man being a 
 diminutive don too. 
 
 San. Is this the little ape does the fine tricks ? 
 
 Const. Come aloft, Jack little ape ! 
 
 Sa7i. Would my jack might come aloft ! please you 
 to set the watermill with the ivory cogs in't a-grinding 
 my handful of purging comfits. {Offers comfits. 
 
 Soto. My master desires to have you loose from your 
 company. 
 
 Const. Am I pigeon, think you, to be caught with 
 cummin-seeds ? a fly to glue my wings to sweetmeats, 
 and so be ta'en? 
 
 San. When do your gambols begin ? 
 
 Alv. Not till we ha' dined. 
 
 San. 'Foot, then your bellies will be so full, you'll be 
 able to do nothing. — Soto, prithee, set a good face on't, 
 for I cannot, and give the little monkey that letter. 
 
 Soto. Walk off and hum to yourself. [Sancho retires. \ 
 
SCENE I.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 389 
 
 — I dedicate, sweet Destiny, into whose hand every 
 Spaniard desires to put a distaff, these lines of love. 
 
 \Offering a paper to Constanza. 
 
 Gui. What love ? what's the matter ? 
 
 Soto. Grave Mother Bumby,^ the mark's out a' your 
 mouth. 
 
 Alv. What's the paper ? from whom comes it ? 
 
 Soto. The ' commodity, wrapped up in the paper are 
 verses ; the warming-pan that puts heat into 'em, yon 
 fire-brained bastard of Helicon. 
 
 San. Hum, hum. 
 
 Alv. What's your master's name ? 
 
 Soto. His name is Don Tomazo Portacareco, nuncle 
 to young Don Hortado de Mendonza, cousin-german to 
 the Conde de Tindilla, and natural brother to Francisco 
 de Bavadilla, one of the commendadors of Alcantara, a 
 gentleman of long standing. 
 
 Alv. And of as long a style. 
 
 Const. Verses? I love good ones ; let me-see 'em. 
 
 \Taking paper. 
 
 San. \advancing.\ Good ones ? if they were not good 
 ones, they should not come from me ; at the name of 
 verses I can stand on no ground. 
 
 Const. Here's gold too ! whose is this ? 
 
 San. Whose but yours ? If there be any fault in the 
 verses, I can mend it extempore ; for a stitch in a man's 
 stocking not taken up in time, ravels out all the rest. 
 
 Soto. Botcherly poetry, botcherly ! [Aside. 
 
 Const. Verses and gold ! these then are golden 
 verses. 
 
 San. Had every verse a pearl in the eye, it should be 
 thine. 
 
 Const. A pearl in mine eye ! '^ I thank you for that ; do 
 you wish me bUnd ? 
 
 • A fortune-teller frequently alluded to; Lyly wrote a play called 
 Mother Bonibie. 
 
 Referring to a disease of the eye. 
 
390 TIIE SPANISH GIPSY. [act ii. 
 
 San. Ay, by this light do I, that you may look upoii 
 nobody's rhymes but mine. 
 
 Const. I should be blind indeed then. 
 Alv. Pray, sir, read your verses. 
 San. Shall I sing 'em or say 'em ? 
 Alv. Which you can best. 
 
 Soto. Both scurvily. \Aside. 
 
 San. I'll set out a throat then. 
 
 Soto. Do, master, and I'll run division behind your 
 back. 
 
 San. \_sings.\ O that I were a bee to sing 
 Hum, buz, buz, hum ! I first would bring 
 Home honey to your hive, and there leave my sting. 
 Soto. \sings\ He maunders. 
 San. \sings.'\ O that I were a goose, to feed 
 At your barn door ! such corn I need, 
 Nor would I bite, but goslings breed. 
 Soto. \sings^ And ganders. 
 San. \_sings?^ O that I were your needle's eye ! 
 How through your linen would I fly. 
 And never leave one stitch awry ! 
 Soto. \singsl\ He'll touse ye. 
 San. \sings?\ O would I were one of your hairs. 
 That you might comb out all my cares. 
 And kill the nits of my despairs ! 
 Soto. \sings?\ O lousy ! 
 San. How ? lousy ? can rhymes be lousy ? 
 Const. No, no, they're excellent. 
 Alv. But are these all your own ? 
 San. Mine own? would I might never see ink drop- 
 out of the nose of any goose-quill more, if velvet cloaks, 
 have not clapped me for 'em ! Do you like 'em ? 
 
 Const. Past all compare ? 
 They shall be writ out : when you've as good or better. 
 For these and those, pray, book me down your debtor : 
 Your paper is long-lived, having two souls, 
 Verses and gold. 
 
SCENE I.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 391 
 
 San. Would both those were in thy pretty little body, 
 sweet gipsy ! 
 
 Const. A pistolet and this paper ? 'twould choke me. 
 
 Soio. No more than -a bribe does a constable : the 
 verses will easily into your head, then buy what you like 
 with the gold, and put it into your belly. I hope I ha' 
 chawed a good reason for you. 
 
 San. Will you chaw my jennet ready, sir ? 
 
 Soto. And eat him down, if you say the word. \£xit. 
 
 San. Now the coxcomb my man is gone, because 
 you're but a country company of strolls, I think your 
 stock is threadbare j here, mend it with this cloak. 
 
 [Giving his cloak. 
 
 Alv. What do you mean, sir? 
 
 San. This scarf, this feather, and this hat. 
 
 [Giving his scarf, &'C. 
 
 Alv. Dear signor ! 
 
 San. If they be never so dear : — pox o' this hot ruff ! 
 little gipsy, wear thou that. [Giving his ruff. 
 
 Alv. Your meaning, sir ? 
 
 San. My meaning is, not to be an ass, to carry a burden 
 when I need not. If you show your ganibols forty leagues 
 hence, I'll gallop to 'em. — Farewell, old greybeard; — 
 adieu, mother mumble-crust j — to-morrow, my little wart 
 of beauty. [Exit. 
 
 Enter behind John, muffled. 
 
 Alv. So, harvest will come in ; such sunshine days 
 Will bring in golden sheaves, our markets raise : 
 Away to your task. 
 
 [Exeunt KisvAKEZ, Christiana, Carlo, and Antonio; 
 and as Guiamara and Constanza are going out, 
 ]oiiNj>ulls the latter back. 
 Const. Mother ! grandmother ! 
 John. Two rows of kindred in one mouth ? 
 Gui. Be not uncivil, sir ; thus have you used her 
 thrice. 
 
392 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act ii. 
 
 i 
 Joh7i. Thrice ? three thousand more : may I not use 
 mine own ? 
 
 Co7ist. Your own ! by what tenure ? 
 John. Cupid entails this land upon me ; I have wooed 
 thee, thou art coy : by this air, I am a bull of Tarifa, 
 wild, mad for thee ! you trowed I was some copper coin ; 
 I am a knight of Spain ; Don Francisco de Carcomo my 
 father, I Don John his son ; this paper tells you more. 
 {Gives paper.\ — Grumble not, old granam ;• here's gold 
 \gives money] ; for I must, by this white hand, marry this 
 cherry-lipped, sweet-mouthed villain. 
 
 Const. There's a thing called quando. 
 John. Instantly. 
 
 Gtci. Art thou so willing ? 
 John. Peace, threescore and five ! 
 
 Const. Marry me ? eat a chicken ere it be out o' th' 
 shell ? I'll wear no shackles ; liberty is sweet ; that I 
 have, that I'll hold. Marry me ? can gold and lead mix 
 together ? a diamond and a button of crystal fit one 
 ring ? You are too high for me, I am too low ; you too 
 great, I too little. 
 
 Qui. I pray, leave her, sir, and take your gold again. 
 
 Const. Or if you doat, as you say, let me try you do 
 this. 
 
 John. Anything ; kill the great Turk, pluck out the 
 Mogul's eye-teeth ; in earnest, Pretiosa, anything ! 
 
 Const. Your task is soon set down ; turn gipsy for two 
 years, be one of us ; if in that time you mislike not me 
 nor I you, here's my hand : farewell. \Exit. 
 
 Qui. There's enough for your gold. — Witty child ! 
 
 \Aside, and exit. 
 
 John. Turn gipsy for two years ? a capering trade ; 
 And I in Ih' end may keep a dancing-school, 
 Having served for it \ gipsy I must turn. 
 O beauty, the sun's fires cannot so burn ! \Exit. 
 
 «3 =^^B<K®3S^3^S='*-> ■ 
 
SCENE II.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 393 
 
 SCENE II. 
 A Room in the House of Pedro. 
 
 Enter Clara. 
 
 Cla. I have offended ; yet, O Heaven, thou know'st 
 How much I have abhorred, even from .my birth, 
 A thought that tended to immodest folly ! 
 Yet I have fallen ; thoughts with disgraces strive, 
 And thus I live, and thus I die alive. 
 
 Enter Pedro and Maria. 
 
 Fed. Fie, Clara, thou dost court calamity too much. 
 
 Mar. Yes, girl, thou dost. 
 
 Fed. Why should we fret our eyes out with our tears. 
 Weary Heaven with complaints ? 'tis fruitless, childish 
 Impatience ; for when mischief hath wound up 
 The full weight of the ravisher's foul life 
 To an equal height of ripe iniquity, 
 The poise will, by degrees, sink down his soul 
 To a much lower, much more lasting ruin 
 Than our joint wrongs can challenge. 
 
 Mar. Darkness itself 
 Will change night's sable brow into a sunbeam 
 For a discovery ; and be thou sure, 
 Whenever we can learn what monster 'twas 
 Hath robbed thee of the jewel held so precious. 
 Our vengeance shall be noble. 
 
 Fed. Royal, anything : 
 Till then let's live securely ; to proclaim 
 Our sadness were mere vanity. 
 
 Cla. 'A needs not ; 
 I'll study to be merry. 
 
 Fed. We are punished, 
 Maria, justly ; covetousness to match 
 Our daughter to that matchless piece of ignorance, 
 Our foolish ward, hath drawn this curse upon us. 
 
394 THE SPANISH GIPSY, [act ii. 
 
 Mar. I fear it has. 
 Fed. Off with this face of grief : 
 Here comes Don Louis. 
 
 Enter Louis and Diego. 
 
 Noble Sir. 
 
 Louis. My lord, 
 I trust I have your and your lady's leave 
 T' exchange a word with your fair daughter. 
 
 Fed. Leave 
 And welcome. — Hark, Maria. — Your ear too. 
 
 Diego. Mine, my lord ? 
 
 Louis. Dear Clara, I have often sued for love, 
 And now desire you would at last be pleased 
 To style me yours. 
 
 Cla. Mine eyes ne'er saw that gentleman 
 Whom I more nobly in my heart respected 
 Than I have you, yet you must, sir, excuse me, 
 If I resolve to use awhile that freedom 
 My younger days allow. 
 
 Louis. But shall I hope ? 
 
 Cla. You will do injury to better fortunes. 
 To your own merit, greatness, and advancement. 
 Which I beseech you not to slack. 
 
 Louis. Then hear me ; 
 If ever I embrace another choice, 
 Until I know you elsewhere matched, may all 
 The chief of my desires find scorn and ruin ! 
 
 Cla. O me ! 
 
 Louis. Why sigh you, lady ? 
 
 Cla. 'Deed, my lord, 
 I am not well. 
 
 Louis. Then all discourse is tedious ; 
 I'll choose some fitter time \ till when, fair Clara ' 
 
 Cla. You shall not be unwelcome hither, sir ; 
 That's all that I dare promise. 
 
 Louis. Diego. 
 
SCENE II.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 395 
 
 Diego. My lord ? 
 
 Louis. What says Don Pedro ? 
 
 Diego. He'll go with you. 
 
 Louis. Leave us. — \Exit Diego, 
 
 Shall I, my lord, entreat your privacy ? 
 
 Ped. Withdraw, Maria ; we'll follow presently. 
 
 [Exeunt Maria and Clara. 
 
 Louis. The great corregidor, whose politic stream 
 Of popularity glides on the shore 
 Of every vulgar praise, hath often urged me 
 To be a suitor to his Catholic Majesty 
 For a repeal from banishment for him 
 Who slew my father ; compliments in vows 
 And strange well-studied -promises of friendship j 
 But what is new to me, still as he courts 
 Assistance for Alvarez, my grand enemy. 
 Still he protests how ignorant he is 
 Whether Alvarez be alive or dead. 
 To-morrow is the day we have appointed 
 For meeting, at the Lord Francisco's house, 
 The Earl of Carcomo ; now, my good lord, 
 Thesum of my request is, you will please 
 To lend your presence there, and witness wherein 
 Our joint accord consists. 
 
 Ped. You shall command it. 
 
 Louis. But first, as you are noble, I beseech you 
 Help me with your advice what you conceive 
 Of great Fernando's importunity, 
 Or whether you imagine that Alvarez 
 Survive or not ? 
 
 Ped, It is a question, sir, 
 Beyond my resolution : I remember 
 The difference betwixt your noble father 
 And Conde de Alvarez ; how it sprung 
 From a mere trifle first, a cast ' of hawks. 
 Whose made the swifter flight, whose could mount highest, 
 1 A couple. 
 
396 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act ii. 
 
 Lie longest on the wing : from change of words 
 
 Their controversy grew to blows, from blows 
 
 To parties, thence to faction ; and, in short, 
 
 I well remember how our streets were frighted 
 
 With brawls, whose end was blood; till, when no friends 
 
 Could mediate their discords, by the king 
 
 A reconciliation was enforced. 
 
 Death threatened to the first occasioner 
 
 Of breach, besides the confiscation 
 
 Of lands and honours : yet at last they met 
 
 Again ; again they drew to sides, renewed 
 
 Their ancient quarrel ; in which dismal uproar 
 
 Your father hand to hand fell by Alvarez : 
 
 Alvarez fled ; and after him the doom 
 
 Of exile was sent out : he, as report 
 
 Was bold to voice, retired himself to Rhodes j 
 
 His lands and honours by the king bestowed 
 
 On you, but then an infant. 
 
 Louis. Ha, an infant ? 
 
 Fed. His wife, the sister to the corregidor, 
 With a young daughter, and some few that followed 
 
 her. 
 By stealth were shipped for Rhodes, and by a storm 
 Shipwrecked at sea : but for the banished Conde, 
 'Twas never yet known what became of him : 
 Here's all I can inform you. 
 
 Louis. A repeal ? 
 Yes, I will sue for't, beg for't, buy it, anything 
 That may by possibility of friends 
 Or money, I'll attempt. 
 
 Fed. 'Tis a brave charity. 
 
 Louis. Alas ! poor lady, I could mourn for her ! 
 Her loss was usury more than I covet ; 
 But for the man, I'd sell my patrimony 
 For his repeal, and run about the world 
 To find him out ; there is no peace can dwell 
 About my father's tomb, till I have sa'crified 
 
SCENE n.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 397 
 
 Some portion of revenge to his wronged ashes. 
 
 You will along with me ? 
 
 Fed. You need not question it. [furies 
 
 Louis. I have strange thoughts about me : two such 
 
 Revel amidst my joys as well may move 
 
 Distraction in a saint^ vengeance and love. 
 
 I'll follow, sir. 
 
 Ped. Pray, lead the way, you know it. — \jExit Louis. 
 
 Enter Sancho without his cloak, hat, &^c., and Soto. 
 
 How now ? from whence come you, sir ? 
 
 San. From flaying myself, sir. 
 
 Soto. From playing with fencers, sir ; and they have 
 beat him out of his clothes, sir. 
 
 Ped. Cloak, band, rapier, all los.t at dice ? 
 
 Sa7i. ■ Nor cards neither. 
 
 Soto. This was one of my master's dog-days, and he 
 would not sweat too much. 
 
 San. It was mine own goose, and I laid the giblets 
 upon another coxcomb's trencher : you are my guardian, 
 best beg me for a fool ' now. 
 
 Soto. He that begs one begs t'other. \Aside. 
 
 Ped. Does any gentleman give away his things thus ? 
 
 San. Yes, and gentlewomen give away their things too. 
 
 Soto. To gulls sometimes, and are cony-catched for 
 their labour. 
 
 Ped. Wilt thou ever play the coxcomb ? 
 
 San. If no other parts be given me, what would you 
 have me do ? 
 
 Ped. Thy father was as brave a Spaniard 
 As ever spake the haut ^ Castilian tongue. 
 
 San. Put me in clothes, I'll be as brave '^ as he. 
 
 Ped. This is the ninth time thou hast played the ass. 
 Flinging away thy trappings and thy cloth 
 To cover others, and go naked thyself. 
 
 1 i.e. A lunatic. See note ante, p. 150. ^ Haughty. (Fr. haut.) 
 3 A play upon the word which means finely attired as well as " 
 valiant. 
 
398 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act li. 
 
 San. I'll make 'em up ten, because I'll be even with you. 
 
 Fed. Once more your broken walls shall have new 
 hangings. 
 
 Soto. To be well hung is all our desire. 
 
 Fed. And what course take you next ? 
 
 San. What course ? why, my man Soto and I will go 
 make some maps. 
 
 Fed. What maps ? 
 
 Soto. Not such maps ' as you wash houses with, but 
 maps of countries. 
 
 San. I have an uncle in Seville, I'll go see him ; an 
 aunt in Siena in Italy, I'll go see her. 
 
 Soto. A cousin of mine in Rome, I'll go to him with a 
 mortar. 
 
 San. There's a courtesan in Venice, I'll go tickle her. 
 
 Soto. Another in England, I'll go tackle her. 
 
 Fed. So, so I and where's the money to do all this ? 
 
 San. If my woods, being cut down, cannot fill this 
 pocket, cut 'em into trapsticks. 
 
 Soto. And if his acres, being sold for a maravedi a 
 turf for larks in cages, cannot fill this pocket, give 'em to 
 gold-finders.' 
 
 Fed. You'll gallop both to the gallows; so fare you 
 well; \Exit. 
 
 San. And be hanged you ! new clothes, you'd best. 
 
 Soto. Four cloaks, that you may give away three, and 
 keep one. [gipsies. 
 
 San. We'll live as merrily as beggars ; let's both turn 
 
 Soto. By any means j if they cog,* we'll lie ; if they 
 toss, we'll tumble. 
 
 San. Both in a belly, rather than fail. 
 
 Soto. Come, then, we'll be gipsified. 
 
 San. And tipsified too. [gambols, 
 
 Soto. And we will show such tricks and such rare 
 As shall put down the elephant and camels. [Exeunt. 
 
 1 Mops. 2 ^ gap resembling a mortar in shape. ■ 
 
 2 A jocular term for a cleanser of cesspools. * Cheat. 
 
ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Street. 
 
 Enter Roderigo disguised as an Italian. 
 
 OD. A thousand stings are in me : 0, 
 what vile prisons 
 Make we our bodies to our immortal 
 
 souls ! 
 Brave tenants to bad houses ; 'tis a 
 
 dear rent 
 They pay for naughty lodging : the 
 soul, the mistress ; 
 The body, the caroch ^ that carries her ; 
 Sins the swift wheels that hurry her away ; 
 Our will, the coachman rashly driving on. 
 Till coach and carriage both are quite o'erthrown. 
 My body yet 'scapes bruises ; that known thief 
 Is not yet called to th' bar ; there's no true sense 
 Of pain but what the law of conscience 
 Condemns us to ; I feel that. Who would lose 
 A kingdom for a cottage ? an estate 
 Of perpetuity for a man's life 
 For annuity of that life, pleasure ? a spark 
 To those celestial fires that burn about us ; 
 A painted star to that bright firmament 
 Of constellations which each night are set 
 Lighting our way ; yet thither how few get ! 
 1 Coach. 
 
400 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act hi. 
 
 How many thousand in Madrill drink off 
 
 The cup of lust, and laughing, in one month, 
 
 Not whining as I do ! Should this sad lady 
 
 Now meet me, do I know her ? should this temple, 
 
 By me profaned, lie in the ruins here, 
 
 The pieces would scarce show her me : would they did ! 
 
 She's mistress to Don Louis ; by his steps, 
 
 And this disguise, I'll find her. To Salamanca 
 
 Thy father thinks thou'rt gone ; no, close here stay ; 
 
 Where'er thou travell'st, scorpions stop thy way. 
 
 Who are these ? 
 
 Enter Sancho and Soto disguised as Gipsies. 
 
 San. Soto, how do I show ? 
 
 Soto. Like a rusty armour new scoured ; but, master, 
 how show I ? 
 
 San. Like an ass with a new piebald saddle on his 
 back. 
 
 Solo. If the devil were a tailor, he would scarce know 
 us in these gaberdines.' 
 
 San. If a tailor were the devil, I'd not give a louse for 
 him, if he should bring up this fashion amongst gentle- 
 men, and make it common. 
 
 Rod. The freshness of the morning be upon you both ! 
 
 San. The saltness of the evening be upon you single ! 
 
 Rod. Be not displeased, that I abruptly thus 
 Break in upon your favours; your strange habits 
 Invite me with desire to understand 
 Both what you are and whence, because no country — 
 And I have measured some — shows me your like. 
 
 Soto. Our like ? • no, we should be sorry we or our 
 clothes should be like fish, new, stale, and stinking in 
 three days. 
 
 San. If you ask whence we are, we are Egyptian 
 Spaniards ; if what we are, ut, re, mi, fa, sol, jugglers, 
 tumblers, anything, anywhere, everywhere. 
 ' Coarse upper garments. 
 
SCENE I.] THE SPANISH GIPSY._ 401 
 
 Hod. A good fate hither leads me by the hand. — 
 
 [Aside. 
 Your quality I love ; the scenical school 
 Has been my tutor long in Italy, 
 For that's my country j there have I put on 
 Sometimes the shape of a comedian, 
 And now and then some other. 
 
 San. A player ! a brother of the tiring house ! ' 
 
 Sofo. A bird of the same feather ! 
 
 San. Welcome ! wu't turn gipsy ? 
 
 J?od. I can nor dance nor sing ; but if my pen 
 From my invention can strike music-tunes, 
 My head and brains are yours. - 
 
 Soio. A calf's head and brains were better for my 
 stomach. 
 
 San. A rib of poetry ! 
 
 Sofo. A modicum of the Muses ! a horse-shoe of 
 Helicon ! 
 
 San. A magpie of Parnassus ! welcome again ! I am 
 a firebrand of Phoebus myself; we'll invoke together, so 
 you will not steal my plot. 
 
 £od. 'Tis not my fashion. 
 
 San. But now-a-days 'tis all the fashion. 
 
 Sofo. What was the last thing you -writ? a comedy? 
 
 Jiod. No ! 'twas a sad, too sad a tragedy. 
 Under these eaves I'll shelter me. 
 
 San. See, here comes our company ; do our tops spin 
 as you would have 'em ? 
 
 Sofo. If not, whip us round. 
 
 £:nfer Alvarez, Guiamara, Constanza, Christiana, 
 Carlo, Antonio, and ofhers, disguised as before. 
 
 San. I sent you a letter to tell you we were upon a 
 march. 
 
 Alv. And you are welcome. — Yet these fools will 
 
 trouble us ! \Aside. 
 
 J Thealrical dressing-room. 
 Mid, ■ ""' DD 
 
402 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act hi. 
 
 Gui. Rich fools shall buy our trouble. 
 
 San. Hang lands ! it's nothing but trees, stones, and 
 dirt. Old father, I have gold to keep up our stock. 
 Precious Pretiosa, for whose sake I have thus transformed 
 myself out of a gentleman into a gipsy, thou shalt not 
 want sweet rhymes, my little musk-cat ; for besides my- 
 self, here's an Italian poet, on whom I pray throw your 
 welcomes. 
 
 Alv., Gui., &'c. He's welcome ! 
 
 Const. Sir, you're most welcome ; I love a poet. 
 So he writes chastely; if your pen can sell me 
 Any smooth quaint romances, which I may sing, 
 You shall have bays and silver. 
 
 Rod. Pretty heart, no selling; 
 What comes from me is free. 
 
 San. And me too. 
 
 Alv. We shall be glad to use you, sir : our sports 
 Must be an orchard, bearing several trees, 
 And fruits of several taste ; one pleasure dulls. 
 A time may come when we, besides these pastimes, 
 May from the grandoes and the dons of Spain 
 Have leave to try our skill even on the stage, 
 And then your wits may help us. 
 
 Sati. And mine too. 
 
 Rod. They are your servants. 
 
 Const. Trip softly through the streets till we arrive. 
 You know at whose house, father. 
 
 San. \_sings?[ 
 
 Trip it, gipsies, trip it fine, 
 
 Show tricks and lofty capers ; 
 At threading needles we repine, 
 
 And leaping over rapiers : 
 Pindy-pandy rascal toys ! 
 
 We scorn cutting purses ; 
 Though we live by making noise, 
 
 For cheating none can curse us. 
 
SCENE II.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 403 
 
 Over high ways, over low, 
 
 And over stones and gravel, 
 Though we trip it on the toe. 
 
 And thus for silver travel ; 
 Though our dances waste our backs, 
 
 At night fat capons mend them, 
 Eggs well brewed in buttered sack, 
 
 Our wenches say befriend them. 
 
 O that all the world were mad ! 
 
 Then should we have fine dancing ; 
 Hobby-horses would be had, 
 
 And brave girls keep a-prancing ; 
 Beggars would on cock-horse ride, 
 
 And boobies fall a-roaring, 
 And cuckolds, though no horns be spied. 
 
 Be one another goring. 
 
 Welcome, poet, to our ging ! ^ 
 
 Make rhymes, we'll give thee reason ; 
 Canary bees thy brains shall sting, 
 
 MuU-sack did ne'er speak treason ; 
 Peter-see-me ^ shall wash thy noul ' 
 
 And malaga glasses fox* thee ; 
 If, poet, thou toss not bowl for bowl, 
 
 Thou shalt not kiss a doxy. \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 A Garden iehnging to Francisco's House. 
 
 Enter Fernando, Francisco, John, Pedro, Maria, 
 Louis, and Diego. 
 
 Fer. Louis de Castro, since you circled are 
 In such a golden ring of worthy friends, 
 
 1 Gang. ^ i.e. Pedro Ximenes, a sweet Spanish wine. 
 
 3 Noddle. * Intoxicate. 
 
404 THE' SPANISH GIPSY. [act in. 
 
 Pray, let me question you about that business 
 You and I last conferred on. 
 
 Louis. My lord, I wish it. 
 
 Fer. Then, gentlemen, though you all know this man, 
 Yet now look on him well, and you shall find 
 Such mines of Spanish honour in his bosom 
 As but in few are treasured. 
 
 Louis. O, my good lord 
 
 Fer. He's son to that De Cas.tro o'er whose tomb 
 Fame stands writing a book, which will take up 
 The age of time to fill it with the stories 
 Of his great acts, and that his honoured father 
 Fell in the quarrel of those families. 
 His own and Don Alvarez de Castillas. 
 
 Fran. The volumes of those quarrels is too large 
 And too wide printed in our memory. 
 
 Louis. Would it had ne'er come forth ! 
 
 Fran., Fed., &=€. So wish we all. 
 
 Fer. But here's a son as matchless as the father, 
 For his mind's bravery ; he lets blood his spleen. 
 Tears out the leaf in which the picture stands 
 Of slain De Castro, casts a hill of sand 
 On all revenge, and stifles it. 
 
 Fran., Fed., &^c. 'Tis done nobly! 
 
 Fer. For I by him am courted to solicit 
 The king for the repeal of poor Alvarez, 
 Who lives a banished man, some say, in Naples. 
 
 Fed. Some say in Aragon. 
 
 Louis. No matter where ; 
 That paper folds in it my hand and heart. 
 Petitioning the royalty of Spain 
 To free the good old man, and call him home : 
 But -what hope hath your lordship that these beams 
 Of grace shall shine upon me ? 
 
 Fer. The word royal. 
 
 Fran., Fed., &>€. And that's enough. 
 
 Louis. Then since this sluice is drawn up to increase 
 
SCENE 11.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 405 
 
 The stream, with pardon of these honoured friends 
 Let me set ope another, and that's this ; 
 That you, my lord Don Pedro, and this lady 
 Your noble wife, would in this fair assembly, 
 If still you hold me tenant to your favour, 
 Repeat the promise you so oft have made me, 
 Touching the beauteous Clara for my wife. 
 
 Fed. What I possess in her, before these lords 
 I freely once more give you. 
 
 Mar. And what's mine. 
 To you, as right heir to it, I resign. 
 
 Fer., Fran., &=€. What would you more? [head. 
 
 Louis: What would I more? the tree bows down his 
 Gently to have me touch it, but when I offer 
 To pluck the fruit, the top branch grows so high 
 To mock my reaching hand, up it does fly ; 
 I have the mother's smile, the daughter's frown. 
 
 Fran., Fed., ^fc. O, you must woo hard ! 
 
 Fer. Woo her well ; she's thine own. 
 
 John. That law holds not 'mongst gipsies ; I shoot hard, 
 And am wide off from the mark. {Aside. 
 
 \Flourish within. 
 
 Fer. Is this, my lord, your music ? 
 
 Fran. None of mine. 
 
 Enter Soto disguised as before, with a cornet in his hand. 
 
 Soto. A crew of gipsies with desire 
 To show their sports are at your gates a-fire. 
 
 Fran. How, how, my gates a-fire, knave ? 
 
 lohn. Art panting ? I am a-fire I'm sure ! \Aside. 
 
 Fer. What are the things they do ? 
 
 Soto. They frisk, they caper, dance and sing. 
 Tell fortunes too, which is a very fine thing ; 
 They tumble — how ? not up and down, 
 As tumblers do, but from town to town : 
 Antics they have and gipsy-masquing, 
 And toys which you may have for asking : 
 
4o6 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act HI. 
 
 They come to devour nor wine nor good cheer, 
 
 But to earn money, if any be here ; 
 
 But being asked, as I suppose. 
 
 Your answer will be, in your t'other hose ; 
 
 For there's not a gipsy amongst 'em that begs. 
 
 But gets his living by his tongue and legs. 
 
 If therefore you please, dons, they shall come in : 
 
 Now I have ended, let them begin. 
 
 Fer., Fed., ^^c. Ay, ay, by any means. 
 
 Fran. But, fellow, bring you music along with you too ? 
 
 Soto. Yes, my lord, both loud music- and still music ; 
 the loud is that which you have heard, and the still is 
 that which no man can hear. [Exit. 
 
 Fer. A fine knave ! 
 
 Fran. There's report of a fair gipsy, 
 A pretty little toy, whom all our gallants 
 In Madrill flock to look on : this she, trow ? 
 
 John. Yes, .sure 'tis she — I should be sorry else. 
 
 \Aside. 
 
 Enter Alvarez, Guiamara, Constanza, Christiana, 
 Carlo, Antonio, Roderigo, Sancho, Soto, and 
 others, disguised, as before, with the following Song: 
 
 Come, follow your leader, follow ; 
 Our convoy be Mars and Apollo ! 
 The van comes brave up here ; 
 {Answer.) — As hotly comes the rear : 
 
 Chorus. Our knackers are the fifes and 
 drums, 
 
 Sa, sa, the gipsies' army comes ! 
 
 Horsemen we need not fear. 
 There's none but footmen here ; 
 The horse sure charge without ; 
 Or if they wheel about, 
 
 Our knackers are the shot that fly. 
 
 Pit-a-pat rattling in the sky. 
 
SCENE n.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 407 
 
 If once the great ordnance play, 
 
 That's laughing, yet run not away, 
 
 But stand the push of pike, 
 
 Scorn can but basely strike ; 
 
 Then let our armies join and sing, ' 
 And pit-a-pat make our knackers ring. 
 
 Arm, arm 1 what bands are those ? 
 
 They cannot be sure our foes ; 
 
 We'll not draw up our force. 
 
 Nor muster any horse ; 
 
 For since they pleased to view our sight, 
 Let's this way, this way give delight. 
 
 A council of war let's call, 
 
 Look either to stand or fall ; 
 
 If our weak army stands, 
 
 Thank all these noble hands ; 
 
 Whose gates of love being open thrown. 
 We enter, and then the town's our own. 
 
 JFer. A very dainty thing ! 
 
 Fran. A handsome creature ! 
 
 Fed. Look what a pretty pit there's in her chin ! 
 
 John. Pit ? 'tis a grave to bury lovers in. 
 
 Rod. My father ? disguise guard me ! \Aside. 
 
 San. Soto, there's De Cortes my guardian, but he 
 smells not us. 
 
 Soto. Peace, brother gipsy. — Would any one here 
 know his fortune ? 
 
 Fer,, Fran., Q^c. Good fortunes all of us ! 
 
 Fed. 'Tis I, sir, needs a good one : come, sir, what's 
 mine? 
 
 Mar. Mine and ftiy husband's fortunes keep together ; 
 Who is't tells mine ? 
 
 San. I, I ; hold up, madam ; fear not your pocket, for 
 I ha' but two hands. {Examining her hands. 
 
4o8 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act hi. 
 
 You are sad, or mad, or glad, 
 For a couple of cocks that cannot be had ; 
 Yet when abroad they have picked store of grain. 
 Doodle-doo they will cry on your dunghills again. 
 Mar. Indeed I miss an idle gentleman, 
 And a thing of his a fool, but neither sad 
 Nor mad for them : would that were all the lead 
 laying at my heart ! 
 Fed. \while Soto examines his hand.'\ What look'st 
 
 thou on so long ? 
 Soto. So long ! do you think good fortunes are fresh 
 herrings, to come in shoals ? bad fortunes are like 
 mackerel at midsummer: you have had a sore loss of late. 
 Fed. I have indeed ; what is't ? 
 Soto. I wonder it makes you not mad, for — ■ 
 
 Through a gap in your ground thence late have 
 
 been stole 
 A very fine ass and a very fine foal ; 
 Take heed, for I speak not by habs and by nabs 
 Ere long you'll be horribly troubled with scabs. 
 Fed. I am now so ; go, silly fool. 
 Soto. I ha' gi'n't him. [Aside. 
 
 San. O Soto, that ass and foal fattens me ! 
 Fer. The mother of the gipsies, what can she do ? 
 I'll have a bout with her. 
 John. I with the gipsy daughter. 
 Fran. To her, boy. 
 Gui. [examining Fernando's ha}id.'\ 
 From you went a dove away. 
 
 Which ere this had been more white 
 Than the silver robe of day ; 
 
 Her eyes, the moon has none so bright. 
 Sate she now upon your hand, 
 
 Not the crown of Spain could buy it ; 
 But 'tis flown to such a land, 
 Never more shall you come nigh it : 
 
 ' At random. 
 
SCENE 11.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. • 409 
 
 Ha ! yes, if palmistry tell true, 
 This dove again may fly to you. 
 Fer. Thou art a lying witch ; I'll hear no more. 
 San. If you be so hot, sir, we can cool you with a 
 song. 
 
 Soto. And when that song's done, we'll heat you again 
 with a dance. 
 
 Louis. Stay, dear sir ; send for Clara, let her know her 
 fortune. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis too well known. 
 Louis. 'Twill make her 
 Merry to be in this brave company. 
 Fed. Good Diego, fetch her. \Exit Diego. 
 
 Fran. What's that old man ? has he cunning too ? 
 Gui., Car., ^'c. More than all we ! 
 Louis. Has he ? I'll try his spectacles. 
 Fer. Ha ! Roderigo there ? the scholar 
 That went to Salamanca takes his degrees 
 I' th' school of gipsies ? let the fish alone, 
 Give him line: this is the dove — the dove? — the raven 
 That beldam mocked me with. \Aside. 
 
 Louis, \while Alvarez examines his hand^ What 
 worms pick you out there now ? 
 Alv. This: . 
 
 When this line the other crosses, 
 Art tells me 'tis a book of losses : — 
 Bend your hand thus : — O, here I find 
 You have lost a ship in a great wind. 
 Louis. Lying rogue, I ne'er had any. 
 Alv. Hark, as I gather. 
 That great ship was De Castro called, your father. 
 Louis. And I must hew that rock that split him. 
 
 Alv. Nay, an you threaten \Iietires. 
 
 Fran. And what's, Don John, thy fortune ? 
 Thou'rt long fumbling at it. 
 John. She tells me tales of the moon, sir. 
 Const. And now 'tis come to the sun, sir. 
 
410 THP SPANISH GIPSY. [act hi. 
 
 \To Fran.] Ypur son would ride, the youth would run, 
 The youth would sail, the youth would fly ; 
 He's tying a knot will ne'er be done. 
 
 He shoots, and yet has ne'er an eye : 
 You have two, 'twere good you lent him one, 
 And a heart too, for he has none. 
 Fran. Hoyday ! lend one of mine eyes ? 
 San. They giye us nothing ; we'd best put on a bold 
 face and ask it. 
 
 [^/w^j-.] Now that from the hive 
 
 You gathered have the honey. 
 Our bees but poorly thrive 
 
 Unless the banks be sunny ; 
 Then let your sun and moon. 
 Your gold and silver shine, 
 My thanks shall humming fly to you, 
 
 Chorus. And mine, and mine, and mine. 
 [Fean., Fer., i^c, give money. 
 Alv. [j/^^j-.] See, see, you gipsy toys, 
 
 You mad girls, you merry boys, 
 A boon voyage we have made, 
 Loud peals must then be had ; 
 If I a gipsy be, 
 A crack-rope I'm for thee : 
 O, here's a golden ring ! 
 Such clappers please a king, 
 
 Chorus. Such clappers please a king. 
 Alv. \swgs?^ You pleased may pass away ; 
 Then let your bell-ropes stay ; 
 Now chime, 'tis holyday, 
 
 Chorus. Now chime, 'tis holyday. 
 
 Co7ist. No more of this, pray, father; fall to your 
 dancing. [Const., Car., ^-'c, dance. 
 
 Louis. Clara will come too late now. 
 
 Fer. 'Tis great pity. 
 Besides your songs, dances, and other pastimes, 
 
SCENE II.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 411 
 
 You do not, as our Spanish actors do, 
 Make trial of a stage. 
 
 Alv. We are, sir, about it ; 
 So please your high authority to sign us 
 Some warrant to confirm us. 
 
 Per. My hand shall do't. 
 And bring the best in Spain to see your sports. 
 
 Alv. Which is set off, this gentleman, a scholar 
 
 Rod. Pox on you ! \Asidc. 
 
 Alv. Will write for us. 
 
 Fer. A Spaniard, sir ? 
 
 Rod. No, my lord, an Italian. 
 
 Fer. Denies 
 His country too ? my son sings gipsy-ballads ! [Aside, 
 Keep as you are, we'll see your poet's vein. 
 And yours for playing : time is not ill spent 
 That's thus laid out in harmless merriment. 
 
 \Exeunt Alvarez, Guiamara, Constanza, 
 Christiana, Carlo, Antonio, Roderigo, 
 Sancho, Soto, and others dancing. 
 
 Fed. My lord of Carcomo, for this entertainment 
 You shall command our loves. 
 
 Fran. You're nobly welcome. 
 
 Fed. The evening grows upon us : lords, to all 
 A happy time of day. 
 
 Fer. The like to you, Don Pedro. 
 
 Louis. To my heart's sole lady 
 Pray let my service humbly be remembered ; 
 We only missed her presence. 
 
 Mar. I shall truly 
 Report your worthy love. \Exeunt Pedro and Maria. 
 
 Fer. You shall no further ; 
 Indeed, my lords, you shall not. 
 
 Fran. With your favour, 
 We will attend you home.^ 
 
 • Dyce suggests that the scene here changes to the neighbour- 
 hood of Femando's house. 
 
412 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act in. 
 
 Re-enter Diego. 
 
 Diego. Where's Don Pedro ? — 
 
 sir! 
 
 Louis. Why, what's the matter ? 
 
 Diego. The Lady Clara, 
 Passing near to my lord corregidor's house, 
 Met with a strange mischance. 
 
 Fer. How ? what mischance ? 
 ' Diego. The jester that so late arrived at court, 
 And there was welcome for his country's sake, 
 By importunity of some friends, it seems, 
 Had borrowed from the gentleman of your horse 
 The backing of your mettled Barbary ; 
 On which being mounted, whilst a number gazed 
 To hear what jests he could perform on horseback, 
 The headstrong beast, unused to such a rider, 
 Bears the press of people on before him ; 
 With which throng the Lady Clara meeting, 
 Fainted, and there fell down, not bruised, I hope, 
 But frighted and entranced. 
 
 Louis. Ill-destined mischief! 
 
 Fer. Where have you left her ? 
 
 Diego. At your house, my lord ; 
 A servant coming forth, and knowing who 
 The lady was, conveyed her to a chamber; 
 A surgeon, too, is sent for. 
 
 Fer. Had she been my daughter, 
 My care could not be greater than it shall be 
 For her recure. 
 
 Louis. But if she miscarry, 
 
 1 am the most unhappy man that lives. \Exit. 
 Fer. Diego, coast about the fields. 
 
 And overtake Don Pedro and his wife ; 
 They newly parted from us. 
 
 Diego. I'll run speedily. \Exit. 
 
 Fer. A strange mischance : but what I have, my Lord 
 
SCENE II.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 413 
 
 Francisco, this day noted, I may tell you ; 
 An accident of merriment and wonder. 
 
 Fran. Indeed, my lord ! 
 
 Fer. I have not thoughts enough 
 About me to imagine what th' event 
 Can come to ; 'tis indeed about my son ; 
 Hereafter you may counsel me. 
 
 Fran, Most gladly. — 
 
 Re-enter Louis. 
 How fares the lady ? ' 
 
 Louis. Callfed back to life. 
 But full of sadness. 
 
 Fer. Talks she nothing ? 
 
 Louis. Nothing; 
 For when the women that attend on her 
 Demanded how she did, she turned about, 
 And answered with a sigh : when I came near, 
 And by the love I bore her begged a word 
 Of hope to comfort me in her well-doing. 
 Before she would reply, from her fair eyes 
 She greets me with a bracelet of her tears, 
 Then wished me not to doubt; she was too well ; 
 Entreats that she may sleep without disturbance 
 Or company until her father came : 
 And thus I left her. 
 
 Fran. Sir, she's past the worst ; 
 Young maids are oft so troubled. 
 
 Fer. Here come they 
 You talk of. — 
 
 Re-enter Pedro and Maria. 
 
 Sir, your daughter, for your comfort, 
 Is now upon amendment. 
 
 Mar. O, my lord, 
 You speak an angel's voice ! 
 
 Fer. Pray, in and visit her; 
 
414 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act hi. 
 
 I'll follow instantly. [Exeunt Pedro and Maria.] — 
 
 You shall not part 
 Without a cup of wine, my lord. 
 
 Fra. 'Tis now 
 Too troublesome a time. — Which way take you, 
 Don Louis? 
 
 Louis. No matter which ; for till I hear 
 My Clara be recovered, I am nothing. — • 
 My lord corregidor, I am your servant 
 For this free entertainment. 
 
 Fer. You have conquered me 
 In noble courtesy. 
 
 Louis. O, that no art 
 But love itself can cure a love-sick heart ! [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 A Room in Fernando's House. 
 
 Clara discovered seated in a chair, Pedro and Maria 
 standing by. 
 
 Mar. Clara, hope of mine age ! 
 
 Fed. Soul of my comfort ! 
 Kill us not both at once : why dost thou speed 
 Thine eye in such a progress 'bout these walls ? 
 
 Cla. Yon large window 
 Yields some fair prospect ; good my lord, look out 
 And tell me what you see there. 
 
 Fed. Easy suit : 
 Clara, it overviews a spacious garden. 
 Amidst which stands an alabaster fountain, 
 A goodly one. 
 
 Cla. Indeed, my lord ! 
 
 Mar. Thy griefs grow wild, 
 
SCENE III.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 415 
 
 And will mislead thy judgment tlirough thy weakness, 
 If thou obey thy weakness. 
 
 Cla. Who owns these glorious buildings ? 
 
 Fed. Don Fernando 
 De Azevida, the corregidor 
 Of Madrill, a true noble gentleman. 
 
 Cla. May I not see him ? - 
 
 Mar. See him, Clara ? why ? 
 
 Cla. A truly noble gentleman, you said, sir ? 
 
 Fed. I did : lo, here he comes in person. — 
 
 Enter Fernando. 
 
 We are. 
 My lord, your servants. 
 
 Fer. Good, no compHment. — 
 Young lady, there attends below a surgeon 
 Of worthy fame and practice ; is't your pleasure 
 To be his patient ? 
 
 Cla. With your favour, sir. 
 May I impart some few but needful words 
 Of secrecy to you, to you yourself. 
 None but yourself? 
 
 Fer. You may. 
 
 Fed. Must I not hear 'em ? 
 
 Mar. Nor I ? 
 
 Cla. O yes. — Pray, sit, my lord. 
 
 Fer. Say on. 
 
 Cla. You have been married ? 
 
 Fer. To a wife, young lady. 
 Who, while the Heavens did lend her me, was fruitful 
 In all those virtues which styles woman good. 
 
 Cla. And you had children by her ? 
 
 Fer. Had, 'tis true; 
 Now have but one, a son, and he yet lives ; 
 The daughter, as if in her birth the mother 
 Had perfected the errand she was sent for 
 Into the world, from that hour took h^r life 
 
4i6 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act hi, 
 
 In which the other that gave it her lost hers ; 
 Yet shortly she unhappily, but fatally, 
 Perished at sea. 
 Cla. Sad story ! 
 Fer. Roderigo, 
 
 My son 
 
 Cla. How is he called, sir ? 
 Fer. Roderigo ; 
 He lives at Salamanca ; and I fear 
 That neither time, persuasions, nor his fortunes. 
 Can draw him thence. 
 
 Cla. My lord, d'ye know this crucifix P^ 
 
 l^Showing the crucifix. 
 Fer. You drive me to amazement ! 'twas my son's, 
 A legacy bequeathed him from his mother 
 Upon her deathbed, dear to him as life ; 
 On earth there cannot be another treasure 
 He values at like rate as he does this. 
 Cla, O, then I am a cast-away ! 
 Mar. How's that ? 
 Fed. Alas ! she will grow frantic ! 
 Cla. In my bosom, 
 Next to my heart, my lord, I have laid up, 
 In bloody characters, a tale of horror. 
 Pray, read the paper ; and if there you find 
 
 [Giving ajiaper. 
 Ought that concerns a maid undone and miserable. 
 Made so by one^ of yours, call back the piety 
 Of nature to the goodness of a judge, 
 An upright judge, not of a partial father; 
 For do not wonder that I live to suffer 
 Such a full weight of wrongs, but wonder rather 
 That I have lived to speak them : thou, great man, 
 Yet read, read on, and as thou readst consider 
 
 1 It will be remembered that Clara had concealed on her person 
 the crucifix she found in the room to which Roderigo had conveyed 
 her. See o«fe, p. 375. 2 "Qy. 'son' .'"' — Dyce. 
 
SCENE lii.] THE SPAmSH GIPSY. 41^ 
 
 What I have suffered, what thou ought'st to do, 
 Thine own name, fatherhood, and my dishonour : 
 Be just as Heaven and fate are, that by miracle 
 Have in my weakness wrought a strange discovery : 
 Truth copied from my heart is texted there : 
 Let now my shame be th'roughly understood ; 
 Sins are heard farthest wherr they cry in blood. 
 
 Fer. True, true, they do not cry but holla here ; 
 This is the trumpet of a soul drowned deep 
 In the unfathomed seas of matchless sorrows. 
 I must lock fast the door. \Exit. 
 
 Mar. I have no words 
 To call for vengeance. 
 
 Ped. I am lost in marvel. 
 
 Re-enter Fernando. 
 
 Fer. Sit,' pray sit as you sat before. White paper, 
 This should be innocence ; these letters gules 
 Should be the honest oracles of revenge : 
 What's beauty but a perfect white and red ? 
 Both here well mixed hmn truth so beautiful. 
 That to distrust it, as I am a father. 
 Speaks me as foul as rape hath spoken my son ; 
 'Tis true? 
 , Cla. 'Tis true. 
 
 Fer. Then mark me how I kneel 
 Before the high tribunal of your injuries. \Kneels. 
 
 Thou too, too-much-wronged maid, scorn not nyr tears. 
 For these are tears of rage, not tears of love, — 
 Thou father of this too, too-much-wronged maid, — 
 Thou mother of her counsels and her cares, 
 I do not plead for pity to a villain; 
 O, let him die as he hath Hved, dishonourably. 
 Basely and cursedly ! I plead for pity 
 To my till now untainted blood and honour : 
 
 1 Dyce, following the old eds., prints " Siri"- 
 Mid> E B 
 
4i8 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act III. 
 
 Teach me how I may now be just and cruel, 
 For henceforth I am childless. 
 
 Cla. Pray, sir, rise; 
 You wrong your place and age. 
 
 Fer. [rismg.] Point me my grave 
 In some obscure by-path, where never memory 
 Nor mention of my name may be found out. 
 
 C/a. My lord, I can weep with you, nay, weep for ye, 
 As you for me ; your passions are instructions, 
 And prompt my faltering tongue to beg at least 
 A noble satisfaction, though not revenge. 
 
 Fer. Speak that again. 
 
 Cla. Can you procure no balm 
 To heal a wounded name ? 
 
 Fer, O, thou'rt as fair 
 In mercy as in beauty ! wilt thou live. 
 And I'll be thy physician ? 
 
 C/a. I'll be yours. 
 
 Fer. Don Pedro, we'll to counsel ; 
 This daughter shall be ours. — Sleep, sleep, young angel. 
 My care shall wake about thee. 
 
 C/a. Heaven is gracious, 
 And I am eased ! 
 
 • Fer. We will be yet more private ; 
 Night curtains o'er the world ; soft dreams rest with 
 
 thee! 
 The best revenge is to reform our crimes. 
 Then time crowns sorrows, sorrows sweeten times. 
 
 [£xeu7!/ a// except Clara, on whom the scene shuts. 
 
ACT THE FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Court before an Inn. 
 
 Alvarez, Guiamaro, Constanza, Christiana, Sancho, 
 Soto, Antonio, Carlo, Roderigo, and others dis- 
 covered disguised, as before. A shout within. Enter- 
 John. 
 
 !LY., Gui., &^c. Welcome, welcome, wel- 
 come ! 
 Soto. More sacks to the mill. 
 San. More thieves to the sacks. 
 Alv. Peace ! 
 
 Const. I give you now my welcome 
 without iioise. 
 John. 'Tis music to me. [Offering to kiss Constanza. 
 Alv., Gut., &=€. O sir ! 
 
 San. You must not be in your mutton before we are 
 out of our veal. [then. 
 
 Soio. Stay for vinegar to your oysters ; no opening till 
 Gui. No kissing till you're sworn. 
 John. Swear me then quickly, 
 1 have brought gold for my admission. [lost. 
 
 Alv. What you bring leave, and what you leave count 
 San. I brought all my teeth, two are struck out ; them 
 I count lost, so must you. 
 
 Soto. I brought all my wits ; half I count lost, so 
 must you. 
 John. To be as you are, I lose father, friends. 
 
420 TliE SPAJ^ISH GIPSY. [aCt IV. 
 
 Birth, fortunes, all the world : what will you do 
 With the beast I rode on hither ? 
 
 San. A beast? is't a mule ? send him to Muly Crag-a- 
 whee in Barbary. 
 
 Soto. Is't an ass ? give it to a lawyer, for in Spain they 
 ride upon none else. 
 
 John. Kill him by any means, lest, being pursued, 
 The beast betray me. 
 
 Soto. He's a beast betrays any man. 
 
 San. Except a bailiff to be pumped. 
 
 John. Pray, bury the carcass and the furniture. 
 
 San. Do, do ; bury the ass's household stuff, and in 
 his skin sew any man that's mad for a woman. 
 
 Alv. Do so then, bury it : now to your oath. 
 
 Gui. All things are ready. 
 
 Alv. \sings.\ Thy best hand lay on this turf of grass, 
 There thy heart lies, vow not to pass 
 From us two years for suri nor snow, 
 For^ hill nor dale, howe'er winds blow; 
 Vow the hard earth to be thy bed. 
 With her green cushions under thy head ; 
 Flower-banks or moss to be thy board. 
 Water thy wine 
 
 San. \sings?[ And drink like a lord. 
 
 Chorus. Kings can have but coronations ; 
 We are as proud of gipsy-fashions : 
 Dance, sing, and in a well-mixed border 
 Close this new brother of our order. 
 
 Alv. \sings^ What we get with us come share, 
 You to get must vow to care ; 
 Nor strike gipsy, nor stand by 
 When strangers strike, but fight, or die ; 
 Our gipsy-wenches are not common. 
 You must not kiss a fellow's leman^ ; 
 
 ' BuUen suggested, " O'er hill, o'er dale, howe'er winds tidw." 
 * Mistress.- 
 
SCENE I.l THE SPANISH GIPSY. 421 
 
 Nor to your own, for one you must, 
 
 In songs send errands of base lust. 
 Chorus. Dance, sing, and in a well-mixed border 
 
 Close this new brother of our order. 
 John. \sings^ On this turf of grass I vow 
 
 Your laws to keep, your laws allow. 
 All. A gipsy ! a gipsy \ a gipsy ! 
 Gtii. \sings?\ Now choose what maid has yet no mate. 
 
 She's yours. 
 .John, \sings^^ Here then fix I my fate. 
 
 \Takes CoNSTANZA hy the hand and off as to kiss her. 
 
 San, Again fall to before you ha' washed ? 
 Soto. Your nose in the manger before the oats are 
 measured, jade so hungry? 
 
 Alv. \sings.] Set foot to foot ; those garlands hold ; 
 Now mark well what more is told. 
 By cross arms, the lover's sign, 
 Vow, as these flowers themselves entwine, 
 Of April's wealth building a throne 
 Round, so your love to one or none ; 
 By those touches of your feet, 
 You must each night embracing meet. 
 Chaste, howe'er disjoined by day ; 
 You the sun with her must play. 
 She to you the marigold, 
 To none but you her leaves unfold; 
 Wake she or sleep, your eyes so charm, 
 Want, woe, nor weather do her harm. 
 . Car. [sings^] This is your market now of kisses. 
 Buy and sell free each other blisses. 
 
 John. Most willingly. 
 
 Chorus. Holydays, high-days, gipsy-fairs, 
 
 When kisses are fairings, and hearts meet in pairs. 
 
 Alv. All ceremonies end here : welcome, brother 
 gipsy ! 
 
422 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act iv. 
 
 San. And the better to instruct thee, mark what a 
 brave life 'tis all the year long. 
 
 \Sings?\ Brave Don, cast your eyes 
 Gn our gipsy fashions : 
 In oiir antic hey-de-guize ' 
 We go beyond all nations \ 
 Plump Dutch 
 At us grutch-, 
 So do English, so do French, 
 He that lopes " 
 On the ropes. 
 Show me such another wench. 
 
 We no camels have to show, 
 
 Nor elephant with growt ^ head ; 
 We can dance, he cannot go, 
 Because the beast is corn-fed ; 
 
 No blind bears 
 
 Shedding tears, 
 For a collier's whipping ; 
 
 Apes nor dogs. 
 
 Quick as frogs. 
 Over cudgels skipping. 
 
 Jack-in-boxes,* nor decoys, 
 
 Puppets, nor such poor things. 
 Nor are we those roaring boys 
 That cozen fools with gilt rings ; 
 For an ocean. 
 Not such a motion ° 
 As the city Nineveh; 
 Dancing, singing. 
 And fine ringing. 
 You these sports shall hear and see. 
 Come now, what shall his name be ? 
 
 1 A rustic dance. 2 Leaps. - 3 Great. 
 
 * Sharpers who substituted empty boxes for boxes containing 
 money. See Deliker's Lanthomand Candlelight, 
 
 * Puppet-show. 
 
SCENE I.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 423 
 
 Const. His name shall now be Andrew. — Friend 
 Andrew, mark me : 
 Two years I am to try you : prove fine gold, 
 The uncracked diamond of my faith shall hold. 
 John. My vows are rocks of adamant. 
 Const. Two years you are to try me : black when I turn 
 May I meet youth and want, old age and scorn ! 
 John. King's diadems shall not buy thee. 
 Car. Do you think 
 You can endure the life, and love it ? 
 John. As usurers doat upon their treasure. 
 Soto. But when your face shall be tanned 
 
 Like a sailor's worky-day hand • 
 
 San. When your feet shall be galled. 
 
 And your noddle be mailed 
 
 Soto. When the woods you nmst forage. 
 And not meet with poor pease-porridge- 
 
 San. Be all to-be-dabbled, yet lie in no sheet 
 
 Soto. With winter's frost, hail, snow, and sleet ; 
 What life vi^ill you say it is then ? 
 John. As now, the sweetest. [you. 
 
 Dtego\withifi.'\ Away! away! the corregidor has sent for 
 San. [smgs.'\ Hence merrily fine to get money ! 
 
 Dry are the fields, the banks are sunny. 
 
 Silver is sweeter far than honey ; 
 Fly like swallows, 
 
 We for our conies must get mallows ; 
 
 Who loves not his dill,^ let him die at the gallows. 
 
 Hence, bonny girls, foot it trimly. 
 
 Smug up your beetle-brows, none look grimly ; 
 
 To show a pretty foot, O 'tis seemly ! 
 
 [Exeunt all except Soto : as he is going out, 
 
 Enter Cardochia, who stays him. 
 Card. Do you hear, you gipsy ? gipsy ! 
 
 1 Another form of " dell," meaning a girl who is slUl a virgin. 
 
424 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act iv, 
 
 Soto. Me? 
 
 Card. There's a young gipsy newly entertained ; 
 Sweet gipsy, call him back for one two words, 
 And here's a jewel for thee. 
 
 Soto. I'll send him. 
 
 Card. What's his name ? 
 
 Soto. Andrew. \Exit. 
 
 Card. A very handsome fellow ; I ha' seen courtiers 
 Jet ^ up and down in their full bravery ,- 
 Yet here's a gipsy worth a drove of 'enj. 
 
 Re-enter John. 
 
 John. With me, sweetheart ? 
 Card. Yoiir name is Andrew ? 
 John. Yes. 
 
 Card. You can tell fortunes, Andrew ? 
 John. I could once. 
 But now I ha' lost that knowledge ; I'm in haste. 
 And cannot stay to tell you yours. 
 Card. I cannot tell yours then ; 
 And 'cause you're in haste, I'm quick ; I am a maid— — 
 John. So, so, a maid quick? 
 Card. Juanna Cardochia, 
 That's mine own name ; I am my mother's heir 
 Here to this house, and tu'o more. 
 John. I buy no lands. 
 
 Card. They shall be given you, with some plate and 
 money, 
 And free possession during life of me,- 
 So the match like you ; for so well I love you. 
 That I, in pity of this trade of gipsying. 
 Being base, idle, and slavish, offer you 
 A state to settle you, my youth and beauty. 
 Desired by some brave Spaniards, so I may call you 
 My husband : shall I, Andrew ? 
 John. 'Las ! pretty soul, 
 
 ' Strut. 2 Finen', 
 
SCENE I.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 425 
 
 Better stars guide you ! may that hand of Cupid 
 Ache, ever shot this ari-ow at your heart ! 
 Sticks there one such indeed ? 
 
 Card. I would there did not, 
 Since you'll not pluck it out. 
 
 John. Good sweet, I cannot ; 
 For marriage, 'tis a law amongst us gipsies 
 We match in our own tribes ; for me to wear you, 
 I should but wear you out. 
 
 Card. I do not care ; 
 Wear what you can out, all my life, my wealth, 
 Ruin me, so you lend me but your love, 
 A little of your love ! 
 
 Joh7i. Would I could give it. 
 For you are worth a world of better men. 
 For your free noble mind ! all my best wishes 
 Stay with you ; I must hence. 
 
 Card. Wear for my sake 
 This jewel. 
 
 John. I'll not rob you, I'll take nothing. 
 Card. Wear it about your neck but one poor moon ; 
 If in that time your eye be as 'tis now, 
 Send my jewel home again, and I protest 
 I'll never more think on you ; deny not this. 
 Put it about your neck. 
 
 John. Well then, 'tis done. \_Puttmg on jewel. 
 
 Card. And vow to keep it there. 
 
 John. By all the goodness 
 I Avish attend your fortunes, I do vow it ! \Exit. 
 
 Card. Scorned ! thou hast tempered poison to kill me 
 Thyself shall drink ; since I cannot enjoy thee, 
 My revenge shall. 
 
 Enter Diego. 
 
 Diego. Where are the gipsies ? 
 Card. Gone. 
 Diego, do you love me? 
 
426 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act iv. 
 
 Diego. Love thee, Juanna ? 
 Is my life mine ? it is but mine so long 
 As it shall do thee service. 
 
 Card. There's a young gipsy newly entertained. 
 
 Diego. A. handsome rascal ; what of him ? 
 
 Card. That slave in obscene language courted me, 
 Drew reals' out, and would have bought my body, 
 Diego, from thee. 
 
 Diego. Is he so itchy ? I'll cure him. 
 
 Card. Thou shalt not touch the villain, I'll spin his 
 fate; 
 Woman strikes sure, fall the blow ne'er so late. 
 
 Diego. Strike on, since thou wilt be a striker.'' 
 
 \E,xeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 A Room in Pernando's House. 
 
 Enter Fernando, Francisco, Pedro, and Louis. 
 
 Fer. See, Don Louis ; an arm. 
 The strongest arm in Spain, to the full length 
 Is stretched to pluck old Count Alvarez home 
 From his sad banishment. 
 
 Louis. With longing eyes. 
 My lord, I expect the man : your lordship's pardon, 
 Some business calls me from you. 
 
 Fer. Prithee, Don Louis, 
 Unless th' occasion be too violent. 
 Stay and be merry with us ; all the gipsies 
 Will be here presently. 
 
 Louis. I'll attend your lordship 
 Before their sports be done. 
 
 1 Spanish coins worth ^bout 2|d. 
 * Cant term for a liberline. 
 
SCENE II.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 427 
 
 Fer. Be your own' carver. \Exit Louis. 
 
 \To Fran.] Not yet shake off these fetters ? I see a son 
 Is heavy when a father carries him 
 On his old heart. 
 
 Fran. Could I set up my rest ' 
 That he were lost, or taken prisoner, 
 I could hold truce with sorrow; but to have him 
 Vanish I know not how, gone none knows whither, 
 'Tis that mads me. 
 
 Fed. You said he sent a letter. 
 
 Fran. A letter ? a mere riddle ; he's gone to seek 
 His fortune in the wars ; what wars have we ? 
 Suppose we had, goes any man to th' field 
 Naked, unfurnished both of arms and money ? 
 
 Fer. Come, come, he's gone a-wenching; we in our 
 youth 
 Ran the self-same bias. 
 
 Enter Diego. 
 
 Diego. The gipsies, my lord, are come. 
 
 Fer. Are they ? let them enter. {Exit Diego. 
 
 My lord De Cortes, send for your wife and daughter ; 
 Good company is good physic : take the pains 
 To seat yourselves in my great chamber. See, 
 They are here. — [Exeunt Francisco and Pedro. 
 
 Enter Alvarez, Guiamara, Constanza, Christiana, 
 John, Roderigo, Antonio, Carlo, Sancho, and 
 SOTO, disguised as before. 
 
 What's your number ? 
 San, The figure of nine casts us all up, my lord. 
 Fer. Nine ? let me see — you are ten, sure. 
 Soto. That's our poet, he stands for a cipher. 
 Fer. Ciphers make numbers : — what plays have you ? 
 
 ' Be sure. 
 
428 THE SPANISH. GIPSY. [ACT ii. 
 
 Alv. Five or six, my lord. 
 
 Fer. It's well so many already. 
 
 Soto. We are promised a very merry tragedy, if all hit 
 right, of Cobby Nobby. 
 
 Fer. St), so ; a merry tragedy ! there is a way 
 Which the Italians and the Frenchmen use. 
 That is, on a word given, or some slight plot, 
 The actors will extempore fashion out 
 Scenes neat and witty. 
 
 Alv. We can do that, my lord ; 
 Please you bestow the subject. 
 
 i%-^. Can you ? — Come hither. 
 You master poet : to save you a labour, 
 Look you, against your coming I projected 
 This comic passage \_producing a paper\ ; your drama, 
 that's the scene 
 
 Rod. Ay, ay, my lord. 
 
 Fer. I lay in our own country, Spain. 
 
 Rod. 'Tis best so. 
 
 Fer. Here's a brave part for this old gipsy ; look .you, 
 The father : read the plot ; this young she-gipsy, 
 This lady : now the son, play him yourself. 
 
 Rod. My lord, I am no player. 
 
 Fer. Pray, at this time. 
 The plot being full, to please my noble friends. 
 Because your brains must into theirs put language. 
 Act thou the son's part ; I'll reward your pains. 
 
 Rod. Protest, my lord- 
 
 Fer, Nay, nay, shake off protesting ; 
 When I was young, sir, I have played myself. 
 
 San. Yourself, my lord ? you were but a poor company 
 then. 
 
 Fer. Yes, full enough, honest fellow, — Will you do it ? 
 
 Rod. I'll venture. 
 
 Fer. I thank you : let this father be a Don 
 Of a brave spirit. — Old gipsy, observe me 
 
 Alv. Yes, my lord. 
 
scfiNi: iv.] TiiE Spanish gips^ . ^ig 
 
 Fer. Play him up high ; not like a pantaloon, 
 But hotly, nobly, checking this his son, 
 Whom make a very rake-hel!, a deboshed ' fellow. 
 This point, I think, will show well. 
 
 Rod. This of the picture ? 
 It will indeed, my lord. 
 
 San. My lord, what part play I ? 
 
 Fer. What parts dost use to play ? 
 
 San. If your lordship has ever a coxcomb, I think I 
 could fit you. 
 
 Fer. I thank your coxcombship. 
 
 Soto. Put a coxcomb upon a lord ! 
 
 Fer. There ^re parts to serve you all ; go, go, make 
 ready. 
 And call for what you want, \ExU. 
 
 Alv. Give me the plot ; our wits are put to trial. 
 What's the son's name ? Lorenzo : that's your part. 
 
 \To RODERIGO. 
 
 Look only you to that j these I'll dispose : 
 
 Old Don Avero, mine ; Hialdo, Lollio, 
 
 Two servants, — you for them. \To Sancho and Soto. 
 
 San. One of the foolish knaves give me ; I'll be 
 Hialdo. 
 
 Soto. And I, Lollio. 
 
 San. Is there a banquet in the play ? we may call for 
 what we will. 
 
 Rod. Yes, here is a banquet. 
 
 San. I'll go, then, and bespeak an ocean of sweetmeats, 
 marmalade, and custards. 
 
 Alv. Make haste to know what you must do. 
 
 San. Do ? call for enough ; and when my belly is full, 
 fill my pockets. 
 
 Soto. To a banquet there must be wine ; fortune's a 
 scurvy whore, if she makes not my head sound like a 
 rattle, and my heels dance the canaries.^ 
 
 • Debauched, 
 
 ^ A brisk lively dance, at times accompanied by castanets. 
 
436 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act IV. 
 
 Ah). So, so ; despatch whilst we employ our brains 
 To set things off to th' life. 
 
 Rod. I'll be straight with you. — 
 
 \_Exeunt all except Roderigo. 
 Why does my father put this trick on me ; 
 Spies he me through my vizard ? if he does, 
 He's not the King of Spain, and 'tis no treason ; 
 If his invention jet upon a stage, 
 Why should not I use action ? A deboshed fellow ! 
 A very rake-hell ! this reflects on me, 
 And I'll retort it : grown a poet, father ? 
 No matter in what strain your play must run, 
 But I shall fit you for a roaring son. \Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 A large Apartment in Fernando's House. 
 
 Enter Fernando, Francisco, Pedro, Diego, Maria, 
 Clara, and Servants. 
 
 Fer. Come, ladies, take your places. [Flourish within?^ 
 This their music? 
 'Tis very handsome : O, I wish this room 
 Were freighted but with pleasures, noble friends. 
 As are to you my welcomes ! — Begin there, masters. 
 
 Sa7i. \within?[ Presently, my lord ; we want but a cold 
 capon for a property. 
 
 Fer. Call, call for one. 
 
 Enter Sancho as Prologue. 
 
 Now they begui, 
 San. Both short and sweet some say is best ; 
 We will not only be sweet, but short : 
 Take you pepper in the nose,i you mar our spott. 
 
 Fer. By no means pepper. 
 
 1 i.e. If you are angry. 
 
SCENE III.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 431 
 
 San. Q!i your love measure us forth but one span ; 
 We do though not the best, the best we can. {Exit. 
 
 Fer. A good honest gipsy ! 
 
 Enter Alvarez {as Avero), and Soto {as Lollio). 
 
 Alv. Slave, where's nny son, Lorenzo ? 
 
 Soto. I have sought hinS, my lord, in all four elements : in 
 earth, my shoes are full of gravel ; in water, I drop at nose 
 with sweating ; in air, wheresoever I heard noise of fiddlers, 
 or the wide mouths of gallon pots roaring ; and in fire, 
 what chimney soever I saw smoking with good cheer, for 
 my master's dinner, as I was in hope. 
 
 Alv. Not yet come home ? before on this old tree 
 Shall grow a branch so blasted, I'll hew it off. 
 And bury it at my foot ! Didst thou inquire 
 At my brother's ? 
 
 Soto. At your sister's. 
 
 Alv. At my wife's father's ? 
 
 Soto. At your uncle's mother's : no such sheep has broke 
 through their hedge ; no such calf as your son sucks or 
 bleats in their ground. 
 
 Alv. I am unblessed to have but one son only. 
 One staff to bear my age up, one taper left 
 To light me to my grave, and that burns dimly ; 
 That leaves me darkling hid in clouds of woe : 
 He that should prop pe is mine overthrow. 
 
 Fer. Well done, old fellow ! is't not ?• 
 Fran., Fed., ^t'c. Yes, yes, my lord. 
 Soto. Here comes his man Hialdo. 
 
 Enter Sancho {as Hialdo). 
 
 Alv. Where's the prodigal your master, sirrah ? 
 
 San. Eating acorns amongst swine, draff amongst hogs, 
 and gnawing bones amongst dogs : has lost all his money 
 at dice, his wits with his money, and his honesty with both ; 
 for he bum-fiddles me, makes the drawers curvet, pitches 
 the plate over the bar, scores up the vintner's name in the 
 Ramhead, flirts his wife under the nose, and bids you with 
 a pox send him more money. 
 
 Alv. Art thou one of his curs to bite me too ? 
 To nail thee to the earth were to do justice. 
 
4ji THE SPANISH CIPSY. [act vi. 
 
 San. Here comes Bucephalus my prancing master ; nail 
 me now who dares. 
 
 Enter Roderigo [as Lorenzo). 
 
 Rod. I sit like an owl in the ivy-bush of a tavern ; Hialdo, 
 I have drawn red wine from the vintner's own hogshead. 
 
 San. Here's two more, pierce them too. 
 
 Rod. Old Don, whom I call father, am I thy son ? if I 
 be, flesh me with gold, fat me with silver ; had I Spain in 
 this hand, and Portugal in this, puff it should fly : where' s 
 the money. I sent for ? 
 I'll tickle you for a rake-hell ! \Aside. 
 
 San. Not a marvedi.^ 
 
 Alv. Thou shalthave none of me. 
 
 Soto. Hold his nose to the grin' stone, my lord. 
 
 Rod. I shall have none ? ' 
 
 Alv. Charge me a case^ of pistols ; 
 What I have built I'll ruin . shall I suffer 
 A slave to set his foot upon my heart ? 
 A son ? a barbarous villain ? or if heaven save thee 
 Now from my justice, yefmy curse pursues thee. 
 
 Rod. Hialdo, carbonado ^ thou the old rogue my father. 
 
 San. Whilst you slice into coUops the rusty gammon his 
 man there. 
 
 Rod. No money ? Can taverns stand without anon, 
 anon ? fiddlers live without scraping ? taffeta * girls look 
 plump without pampering ? If you will not lard me with 
 money, give me a ship, furnish me to sea. 
 
 Alv. To have thee hanged for piracy ? 
 
 San. Trim, tram, hang master, hang man ! 
 
 Rod. Then send me to the West Indies, buy me some 
 office there. 
 
 Alv. To have thy throat cut for thy quarrelling ? 
 
 Rod. Else send me and my ningle* Hialdo to the wars. 
 
 San. A match ; we'll fight dog, fight bear. 
 
 Enter ANTONIO [as Hernando). 
 
 Alv. O dear Hernando, welcome! — Clap wings to your 
 heels, [To SoTO. 
 
 1 A small copper coin. 2 Pair. 
 
 '■"■ i.e. Cut into rashers for broiling. 
 
 * Dainty, nice.j o i.e, Mine ingle — favourite. 
 
SCENE III.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 433 
 
 And pray my worthy friends bestow upon me 
 
 Their present visitation. — \Exit Soto. 
 
 Lorenzo, see the anger of a father ; 
 
 Although it be as loud and quick as thunder, 
 
 Yet 'tis done instantly : cast off thy wildness. 
 
 Be mine, be mine, for I to call thee home 
 
 Have, with my honoured friend here, Don Hernando, 
 
 Provided thee a wife. 
 
 Rod. A wife ! is she handsome ? is she rich ? is she fair .' 
 is she witty ? is she honest ? hang honesty ! has she a sweet 
 face, cherry-cheek, strawberry-lip, white skin, dainty eye, 
 pretty foot, delicate legs, as there's a girl now ? 
 
 Ant. It is a creature both for birth and fortunes. 
 And for most excellent graces of the mind. 
 Few like her are in Spain. 
 
 Rod. When shall I see her ? — 
 Now, father, pray take your curse off. 
 
 Alv. I do : the lady 
 Lives from Madrill very near fourteen leagues. 
 But thou shalt see her picture. 
 
 Rod. That ! that ! most ladies in these days are but very 
 fine pictures. 
 
 Enter Carlo, John, Guiamara, Constanza, and 
 Christiana {as friends <?/ Avero). 
 
 Alv. Ladies, to you first welcome ; my lords, Alonzo, 
 And you worthy marquis, thanks for these honours. — 
 Away you ! \_Exit Sancho. 
 
 To th' cause now of this meeting. My son Lorenzo, 
 Whose wildness you all know, comes now to th' lure. 
 Sits gently ; has called home his wandering thoughts. 
 And now will marry. 
 
 Const. A good wife fate send him ! 
 
 Gut. One staid may settle him. 
 
 Rod. Fly to the mark, sir ; show me the wench, or her 
 face, or anything I may know 'tis a woman fit for me. 
 
 Alv. She is not here herself, but here's her picture. 
 
 {Shows a picture. 
 
 Fer. My Lord De Carcorrio, pray, observe this. 
 Fran. I do, attentively.— Don Pedro, mark it. 
 Mid. r ^ 
 
434 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act iv. 
 
 Re-enter Soto. 
 
 Soto [to John.] If you ha' done your part, yonder's 
 a wench would ha' a bout with you. [£xit. 
 
 John. Me? [Exit. 
 
 Diego. A wench ! [Exit. 
 
 A Iv. Why stand you staring at it ? how do you like her ? 
 
 Rod. Are you in earnest ? 
 
 Alv. Yes, sir, in earnest. 
 
 Rod. I am not so hungry after flesh to make the devil a 
 cuckold. 
 
 Ant. Look not upon the face, but on the goodness 
 That dwells within her. 
 
 Rod. Set fire on the tenement ! 
 
 Alv. She's rich ; nobly descended. 
 
 Rod. Did ever nobility look so scurvily ? 
 
 Alv. I'm sunk in fortunes, she may raise us both. 
 ' Rod. Sink, let her to her.granam! marry a witch ? have 
 you fetched a wife for me out of Lapland ? an old midwife 
 in a velvet hat were a goddess to this : that a red lip ? 
 
 Const. There's a red nose. 
 
 Rod. That a yellow hair ? 
 
 Gui. Why, her teeth may be yellow. 
 
 Rod. Where's the full eye ? 
 
 Chris. She has full blabber-cheeks. 
 
 Alv. Set up thy rest.i her marriest thou or none. 
 
 Rod. None then : were all the water in the world one 
 sea, all kingdoms one mountain, I would climb on all fours 
 up to the top of that hill, and headlong hurl myself into 
 that abyss of waves, ere I would touch the skin of such 
 rough haberdine,2 .for the breath of her picture stinks 
 hither. 
 
 A noise within. Re-enter, in a hurry, John, Diego, 
 
 Sancho, and Soto, with Cardochia. 
 Fer. What tumult's this ? 
 San. Murder, murder, murder ! 
 
 Soto. One of our gipsies is in danger of hanging, 
 hanging ! 
 
 Fed. Who is hurt ? 
 
 1 Make- up your mind. - Salted cod-fish. 
 
SCENE III.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 435 
 
 Diego. 'Tis I, my lord, stabbed by this gipsy. 
 
 John. He struck me first, and I'll not take a blow 
 From any Spaniard breathing. 
 
 J'ed. Are you so brave ? 
 
 Per. Break up your play ; lock all the doors. 
 
 Diego. I faint, my lord. 
 
 Fran. Have him to a surgeon. — 
 
 [Servants remove Diego. 
 How fell they out ? 
 
 Card. O, my good lord, these gipsies when they lodged 
 At my house, I had a jewel from my pocket 
 Stolen by this villain. 
 
 John. 'Tis most false, my lords ; 
 Her own hands gave it me. 
 
 Const. She that calls him villain. 
 Or says he stole 
 
 per. Hoyday ! we hear your scolding. 
 
 Card. And the hurt gentleman finding it in his bosom. 
 For that he stabbed him. 
 
 Fer. Hence with all the gipsies ! 
 
 Fed. Ruffians and thieves j to prison with 'em all ! 
 
 Alv. My lord, we'll leave engagements in plate and 
 money 
 For all our safe forthcomings ; punish not all 
 For one's offence ; we'll prove ourselves no thieves. 
 
 San. O Soto, I make buttons !i 
 
 Soto. Would I could make some, and leave this trade ! 
 
 Fer. Iron him then, let the rest go free ; but stir not 
 One foot out of Madrill. Bring you in your witness. . 
 
 \Exeunt John iri custody of Servants, Alvarez, 
 
 GUIAMARA, CONSTANZA, CHRISTIANA, AntO- 
 
 Nio, Carlo, and Cardochia. 
 Soto. Prick him with a pin, or pinch him by the 
 elbow; anything. 
 
 San. My lord Don Pedro, I am your ward ; we have 
 spent a little money to get a horrible deal of wit, and 
 now I am weary of it. 
 
 ' i.e. I'm in great fear. 
 
436 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act iv. 
 
 Fed. My runaways turned jugglers, fortune-tellers ? 
 
 Soto. No great fortunes. 
 
 Fer. To prison with 'em both : a gentleman play the 
 ass! 
 
 San. If all gentlemen that play the ass should to 
 prison, you must widen your jails. — Come, Soto, I scorn 
 to beg ; set thy foot to mine, and kick at shackles. 
 
 Fer. So so ; away with 'em ! 
 
 Soto. Send all our company after, and we'll play there, 
 and be as merry as you here. 
 
 \Exeunt Sancho and Soto with Servants. 
 
 Fer. Our comedy turned tragical ! Please you, lords, 
 walk : 
 This actor here and I must change a word. 
 And I come to you. 
 
 Fran., Fed., 6^c. Well, my lord, your pleasure. 
 
 [Exeunt all except FernXndo and Roderigo.' 
 
 Fer. Why, couldst thou think in any base disguise 
 To blind my sight ? fathers have eagles' eyes. ' 
 But pray, sir, why was this done ? why, when I thought you 
 Fast locked in Salamanca at your study. 
 Leaped you into a gipsy ? 
 
 Rod. Sir, with your pardon, 
 I shall at fit time to you show cause for all. 
 
 Fer. Meantime, sir, you have got a trade to live by : 
 Best to turn player ; an excellent ruffian, ha ! 
 But know, sir, when I had found you out, I gave you 
 This project of set purpose ; 'tis all myself; 
 What the old gipsy spake must be my language ; 
 Nothing are left me but my offices 
 And thin-faced honours ; and this very creature. 
 By you so scorned, must raise me by your marrying her. 
 
 Rod. You would not build your glory on my ruins ? 
 
 Fer. The rascal has belied the lady, 
 She is not half so bad ; all's one, she's rich. 
 
 Rod. O, will you sell the joys of my full youth 
 To dunghill muck ? seek out some wretch's daughter, 
 
SCENE III.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 437 
 
 Whose soul is lost for gold -then : you're more noble 
 Than t' have your son, the top-branch of your house, 
 Grow in a heap of rubbish : I must marry a thing 
 I, shall be ashamed to own, ashamed to bring her 
 Before a sunbeam. 
 
 Fer. I cannot help it, sir; 
 Resolve upon't, and do't. 
 
 Rod. And do't, and die ! 
 Is there no face in Spain for you to pick out 
 Eut one to fright me? when you sat the play here, 
 There was a beauty, to be lord of which 
 I would against an array throw defiance. 
 
 Fer. She ? alas ! 
 
 Rod. How ? she ! at every hair of hers 
 There hangs a very angel ; this ! I'm ready 
 To drop down looking af it : sir, I beseech you 
 Bury me in this earth \kneels\, on which I'm humbled 
 To beg your blessing on me, for a gipsy, 
 Rather than — O, I know not what to term it ! 
 Pray, what is that young pensive piece of beauty ? 
 Your voice for her ; I eyed her all the scene. 
 
 Fer. I saw you did. 
 
 Rod. Methought 'twas a sweet creature. 
 
 Fer. Well, though my present state stands now on ice, 
 I'll let it crack and fall rather than bar thee 
 Of thy content ; this lady shall go by then. 
 
 Rod. Hang let her theire, or anywhere ! 
 
 Fer. That young lannard,^ 
 Whom you have such a mind to, if you can whistle her 
 To come to fist, make trial ; play the young falconer ; 
 I will nor mar your marriage nor yet make ; 
 Beauty, no wealth, — wealth, ugliness, — which you will take. 
 
 Rod. I thank you, sir. \_Exit Fernando.]— Put on 
 your mask, good madam. \To the picture. 
 
 The sun will spoil your face else. [Exit. 
 
 1 A, species of hawk. 
 
ACT THE FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Room in Fernando's House. 
 
 Fernando, Francisco, Pedro, Roderigo, Clara, and 
 Maria, pass over the stage from church ; as the otheis 
 exeunt, Fernando stays Roderigo. 
 
 ER. Thou hast now the wife of thy 
 desires. 
 Rod. Sir, I have, [life 
 
 And in her e\'ery blessing that makes 
 Loth to be parted with. 
 
 Fer. Noble she is, [beauty, 
 
 And fair; has to enrich her blood and 
 Plenty of wit, discourse, behaviour, carriage. 
 
 Rod. I owe you duty for a double birth, 
 Being in this happiness begot again. 
 Without which I \zA been a man of wretchedness. 
 
 Fer. Then henceforth, boy, learn to obey thy fate ; 
 Tis fallen upon thee ; know it, and embrace it ; 
 'Thy wife's a wanton. 
 Rod. A wanton ? 
 
 Fer. Examine through the progress of thy youth 
 What capital sin, what great one 'tis, for 'tis 
 A great one thou'st committed. 
 Rod. I, a great one ? 
 
 Fer. Else Heaven is not so wrathful to pour on thee 
 A misery so full of bitterness : 
 I am thy father; think on't, and be just ; 
 Come, do not dally. 
 Rod. Pray, my lord 
 
SCENE I.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 439 
 
 Fer. Fool, 'twere 
 Impossible that justice should rain down 
 In such a frightful horror without cause. 
 Sir, I will know it ; rather blush thou didst 
 An act thou dar'st not name, than that it has 
 A name to be known by. 
 
 Rod. Turn from me then, 
 And-as my guilt sighs out this monster, — rape, 
 O, do not lend an ear ? 
 
 Fer. Rape ? fearful ! 
 
 Rod. Hence, 
 Hence springs my due reward. 
 
 Fer. Thou'rt none of mine, 
 Or if thou be'stj thou dost belie the stamp 
 Of thy nativity. 
 
 Rod. Forgive me ! 
 
 Fer. Had she. 
 Poor wronged soul, whoe'er she was, no friend, 
 Nor father, to revenge ? had she no tongue 
 To roar her injuries ? 
 
 Rod. Alas ! I know her not ! 
 
 Fer. Peace ! thou wilt blaze a sin beyond all precedent : 
 Young- man, thou shouldst have married her; the devil 
 Of lust that riots in thy eye should there 
 Have let fall love and pity, not on this stranger - 
 Whom thou hast doted on. 
 
 Rod. O, had I married her, 
 I had been then the happiest man alive ! 
 
 Re-enter Clara, Maria, and 'F'S.T)iLO,from behind the arras. 
 
 Cla. As I the happiest woman, being, married : 
 Look on me, sir. 
 
 Fed. You shall not find a change 
 So full of fears as your most noble father. 
 In his wise trial, urged. 
 
 Mar. Indeed you shall not. 
 The forfeit of her shame shall be her pawn. 
 
440 
 
 7HE SPANISH GIPSY. [act v. 
 
 Rod. Why, pray, d'ye mock my sorrows ? now, O, now. 
 My horrors flow about me! 
 
 Fer. No, thy comforts, 
 Thy blessings, Roderigo. 
 
 Cla. By this crucifix [Showing crucifix. 
 
 You may remember me. 
 
 Rod. Ha ! art thou 
 That lady wronged ? 
 
 Cla. I was, but now am 
 Righted in noble satisfaction. 
 
 Rod. How can I turn mine eyes, and not behold 
 On every side my shame ? 
 
 Fer. No more : hereafter 
 We shall have time to talk at large of all : 
 Love her that's now thine own ; do, Roderigo ; 
 She's far from what I charactered. 
 
 Cla. My care 
 Shall live about me to deserve your love. 
 
 Rod. Excellent Clara ! — Fathers both, and mother, 
 I will redeem my fault. 
 
 Fer., Fed., Mar. Our blessing.s dwell on ye! 
 
 Re-enter Francisco with Louis. 
 
 Louis. Married to Roderigo ? 
 
 Fran. Judge yourself: 
 See where they are. \Exit. 
 
 Louis. Is this your husband, lady ? 
 
 Cla. He is, sir: Heaven's great hand, that on record 
 Fore-points the equal union of all hearts, 
 Long since decreed what this day 4iath been perfected 
 
 Louis. 'Tis well then ; I am free, it seems. 
 
 Cla. Make smooth, 
 My lord, those clouds, which on your brow deliver 
 Emblems of storm ; I will, as far as honour 
 May privilege,- deserve a noble friendship 
 As you from me deserve a worthy memory. 
 
SCENE I.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. ^41 
 
 Louis. Your husband has proved himself a friend to 
 me 
 Trusty and tried ; he's welcome, I may say, 
 From the university. 
 
 Rod. To a new school 
 Of happy knowledge, Louis. 
 
 Louis. Sir, I am 
 Nc c so poor as to put this injury up : 
 The best blood flows within you is the price. 
 
 Rod. Louis, for this time calm your anger; and if 
 I do iiot give you noble satisfaction, 
 Call me to what account you please. 
 
 Louis. So, so. — I come for justice t'ye, 
 And you shall grant it. 
 
 Per. Shall and will. 
 
 Louis, With speed too ; 
 My poor friend bleeds the whiles. 
 
 Fer. You shall yourself, 
 Before we part, receive the satisfaction 
 You come for. — Who attends ? 
 
 Servant \within?\ My lord ? 
 
 Fer. The prisoner ! 
 
 Servant \within?\ He attends your lordship's pleasure. 
 
 Enter Constanza, Guiamara, ««</ Alvarez. 
 
 Louis. What would this girl ? 
 Foh, no tricks \ get you to your cabin, huswife ; 
 We have no ear for ballads. 
 
 Fer. Take her away. 
 
 Cla. A wondrous lovely creature !' 
 
 Const. Noble gentlemen. 
 If a poor maid's, a gipsy-virgin's tears 
 May soften the hard edge of angry justice. 
 Then gi-ant me gracious hearing ; as you're merciful, 
 I beg my husband's life ! 
 
 Fer. Thy husband's, little one? 
 
 Const. Gentle sir, our plighted troths are chronicled 
 
442 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act V. 
 
 In that white book above which notes the secrets 
 Of every thought and heart ; he is my husband, 
 I am his wife. 
 
 Louis. Rather his whore. 
 
 Const. Now, trust me, 
 You're no good man to say so ; I am honest, 
 'Deed, la, I am ; a poor soul, that deserves not 
 Such a bad word : were you a better man 
 Than you are, you do me wrong, 
 
 Louis. The toy grows angry ! 
 
 Cla. And it becomes her sweetly ; troth, my lord, 
 I pity her. 
 
 Rod. I thank you, sweet, 
 
 Louis. Your husband. 
 You'll say, is no thief. 
 
 Const. Upon my conscience. 
 He is not. 
 
 Louis. Dares not strike a man. 
 
 Const. Unworthily 
 He dares not \ but if trod upon, a worm 
 Will turn again. 
 
 Louis. That turning turns your worm 
 Off from the ladder, minion. 
 
 Const. Sir, I hope 
 You're not his judge ; you are too young, too choleric, 
 Too passionate ; the price of life or death 
 Requires a much more grave consideration 
 Than your years warrant : here sit they, like gods, 
 Upon whose heads the reverend badge of time 
 Hath sealed the proof of wisdom ; to these oracles 
 Of riper judgment, lower in my heart \Kneels. 
 
 Than tin my knees, I offer up my suit. 
 My lawful suit, which begs they would be gentle 
 To their own fames, their own immortal stories. 
 O, do not thiiik, rny lords, compassion thrown 
 On a base low estate, on humble people, 
 Less meritorious than if you had favoured 
 
SCENE I.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 443 
 
 The faults of great men ! and indeed great men 
 Have oftentimes great faults : he whom I plead for 
 Is free ; the soul of innocence itself 
 Is not rhore white : will you pity him ? 
 I see it in your eyes, 'tis a sweet sunbeam, 
 Let it shine outj and to adorn your praise, 
 The prayers of the poor shall crown your days, 
 And theirs are sometimes heard. 
 
 Fer. Beshrew the girl. 
 She has almost melted me to tears ! 
 
 Louis. Hence, trifler ! — Call in my friends ! 
 
 Enter John, Diego, Cardochia, and Servants. 
 
 What hope of ease ? 
 
 Diego. Good hope, but still I smart; 
 The worst is in my pain. 
 
 Louis. The price is high 
 Shall buy thy vengeance : to receive a wound 
 By a base villain's hand, it maddens me. 
 
 John. Men subject to th' extremity of law 
 Should carry peace about 'em to their graves .; 
 Else, were you nobler than the blood you boast of, 
 Could any way, my lord, derive you, know 
 I would return sharp answer to your slanders ; 
 But it suffices, I am none of ought 
 Your rage misterras me. 
 
 Louis. None of 'em ? no rascal ? 
 
 John, No rascal ? 
 
 Louis. Nor no thief? 
 
 John. Ask her that's my accuser : could your eyes 
 Pierce through the secrets of her foul desires, 
 You might without a partial judgment look into 
 A woman's lust and malice. 
 ,_ Card. My good lords, 
 What I have articled against this fellow, 
 I justify for truth. 
 
 John. On then, no more ; 
 
444 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [ACT V. 
 
 This being true she says, I have deserved 
 To die. 
 
 ■Fer. We sit not here to bandy words, 
 But minister the law, and that condemns thee 
 For theft unto the gallows. 
 
 Const. O my misery ! 
 Are you all marble-breasted ? are your bosoms 
 Hooped round with steel ? to cast away a man. 
 More worthy life and honours than a thousand 
 Of such as only pray unto the shadow 
 Of abused greatness ! 
 
 John. 'Tis in vain to storm ; 
 My fate is here determined. 
 
 Const. Lost creature, 
 Art thou grown dull too ? is my love so cheap 
 That thou court'st thy destruction 'cause I love 
 
 thee ?— 
 My lords, my lords ! — Speak, Andrew, prithee, now, 
 Be not so cruel to thyself and me ; 
 One word of thine will do't. 
 
 Fer. Away with him ! 
 To-morrow is his day of execution. 
 
 John. Even when you will. 
 
 Const. Stay, man ; thou shalt not go. 
 Here are more women yet. — Sweet madam, speak ! 
 You, lady, you methinks should have some feeling 
 Of tenderness ; you may be touched as I am : 
 Troth, were't your cause, I'd weep with you, and join 
 In earnest suit for one you held so dear; 
 
 Cla. My lord, pray speak in his behalf. 
 
 Rod. I would, 
 But dare not ; 'tis a fault so clear and manifest. 
 
 Louis. Back with him to his dungeon ! 
 
 John. Heaven can tell 
 I sorrow not to die, but to leave her 
 Who whiles I live is my life's comforter. 
 
 \_Exit with Servants. 
 
SCENE I.J THE SPANISH GIPSY. 445 
 
 Card. Now shall I be revenged ! 
 
 \Aside, and exit with Diego. 
 
 Const. O me unhappy ! \Swoons. 
 
 Fer. See, the girl falls ! 
 Some one look to her. 
 
 Cla. 'Las, poor maid ! 
 
 Gui. Pretiosa ! 
 She does recover : mine honourable lord 
 
 Fer. In vain : what is't ? 
 
 Gui. Be pleased to give me private audience ; 
 I will discover something shall advantage 
 The noblest of this land. 
 
 Fer. Well, I will hear thee ; 
 Bring in the girl. 
 
 \_Exeunt Fernando, Maria, Pedro, Clara, 
 RoDERiGo, GuiAMARA, and Constanza: 
 Alvarez stays Louis. 
 
 Louis. Ought with me ; what is't ? 
 I care not for thy company, old ruffian ; 
 Rascal, art impudent? 
 
 Ah. To beg your service. 
 
 Louis. Hang yourself ! 
 
 Alv. By your father's soul, sir, hear me ! 
 
 Louis. Despatch ! 
 
 Alv. First promise me you'll get reprieve 
 For the condemned man, and by my art 
 I'll make you master of what your heart on earth 
 Can wish for or desire. 
 
 Louis. Thou liest ; thou canst not ! 
 
 Alv. Try me. 
 
 Louis. Do that, and then, as I am noble, 
 I will not only give thy friend his life. 
 But royally reward thee, love thee ever. 
 
 Alv. I take your word ; what would you ? 
 
 Louis. If thou mock'st me, 
 'Twere better thou wert damned ! 
 
 Alv. Sir, I am resolute. 
 
44a THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act v. 
 
 Louis. Resolve me, then, whether the Count Alvarez, 
 Who slew my father, be alive or dead? 
 
 Alv. Is this the mighty matter ? the count lives. 
 
 Louis, How? 
 
 Alv. The count lives. 
 
 Louis. fate ! Now tell me where, 
 And be my better genius, 
 
 Alv. I can do't : 
 In Spain 'a lives ; more, not far from Madrill, 
 But in disguise, much altered. 
 
 Louis. Wonderful scholar ! 
 Miracle of artists ! Alvarez living ? 
 And near Madrill too ? now, for Heaven's sake, where ? 
 That's all, and I am thine, 
 
 Alv. Walk off, my'Jord, 
 To the next field, you shall know all. 
 
 Louis. Apace, then ! 
 I listen to thee with a greedy ear : 
 The miserable and the fortunate 
 Are alike in this, they cannot change their fate. \Exmni. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 A Field. 
 
 Enter Alvarez and Louis. 
 
 Alv. Good, good ; you would fain kill him, and 
 revenge 
 Your father's death ? 
 
 Louis. I would. 
 
 Alv. Bravely, or scurvily ? 
 
 Louis. Not basely, for the world ! 
 
 Alv. We are secure. [Produces two swords^ 
 
 Young Louis, two more trusty blades than these 
 Spain has not in her armoury : with this 
 
SCENE II.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 44; 
 
 Alvarez slew thy father ; and this other 
 
 Was that the King of France wore when great Charles 
 
 In a set battle took him prisoner \ 
 
 Both I resign to thee. 
 
 Louis. This is a new mystery. 
 
 Alv. Now see this naked bosom ; turn the points 
 Of either on this bulwark, if thou covet'st, 
 Out of a sprightly youth and manly thirst 
 Of vengeance, blood ; if blood be thy ambition, 
 Tiien call to mind the fatal blow that struck 
 De Castro, thy brave father, to his grave ; 
 Remember who it was that gave that blow. 
 His enemy Alvarez : hear, and be sudden, 
 Behold Alvarez ! 
 
 JLouis. Death, I am deluded ! 
 
 Alv. Thou art incredulous ; as fate is certain, 
 I am the man. 
 
 Louis. Thou that butcher ? 
 
 Alv. Tremble not, young man, trust me, I have wept 
 Religiously to wash off from -my conscience 
 The stain of my offence : twelve years and more. 
 Like to a restless pilgrim I have run 
 From foreign lands to lands to find out death. 
 I'm weary of my life ; give me a sword ; 
 That thou mayst know with what a perfect zeal 
 I honour old De Castro's memory, 
 I'll fight with thee ; I would not have thy hand 
 Dipped in a wilful murder; I could wish 
 For one hour's space I could pluck back from time 
 But thirty of my years, that in my fall 
 Thou might'st deserve report : now if thou conquer'st, 
 Thou canst not triumph j I'm half dead already, 
 Yet I'll not start a foot. 
 
 Louis. Breathes there a spirit 
 In such a heap of age ? 
 
 Alv. O, that I had 
 A son of equal growth with thee, to tug- 
 
448 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [act v. 
 
 For reputation ! by thy father's ashes, 
 I would not kill thee for another Spain, 
 Yet now I'll do my best. Thou art amazed ; 
 Come on. 
 
 Louis. Twelve tedious winters' banishment ? 
 'Twas a long time. 
 
 Ah). Cduld they redeem thy father, 
 Would every age had been twelve ages, Louis, 
 And I for penance every age a-dying ! 
 But 'tis too late to wish. 
 
 Louis. I am o'ercome ; 
 Your nobleness hath conquered me : here ends 
 All strife between our families, and henceforth 
 Acknowledge me for yours. 
 
 Ah). O, thou reviv'st 
 Fresh horrors to my fact ! ' for in thy gentleness 
 I see my sin anew. 
 
 Louis. Our peace is made ; 
 Your life shall be my care : 'twill be glad news 
 To all our noble friends. 
 
 Ah). Since Heaven will have it so, 
 I thank thee, glorious majesty ! My son. 
 For I will call thee so, ere the next morrow 
 Salute the world, thou shalt know stranger mysteries. 
 
 Louis. I have enough to feed on : sir, I'll follow ye. 
 
 \Exeunt, 
 
 SCENE III. 
 A Room in Fernando's House. 
 
 Enter Fernando, Guiamara, and Constanza, 
 
 Fer. Don John, son to the Count of Carcomo ? 
 Woman, take heed thou trifle not. 
 
 ' Guilt. 
 
SCENE III.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 
 
 449 
 
 Gui. Is this, 
 My lord, so strange ? 
 
 Fer. Beauty in youth, and wit 
 To set it forth, I see, transforms the best 
 Into what shape love fancies. 
 
 Const. Will you yet 
 Give me my husband's life ? 
 
 Fer. Why, little one, 
 He is not married to thee. 
 
 Const. In his faith 
 He is ; and faith and troth I hope bind faster 
 Than any other ceremonies can ; 
 Do they not, pray, my lord ? 
 
 Fer. Yes, where the parties 
 Pledged are not too unequal in degree, 
 As he and thou art. 
 
 Const. This is new divinity. 
 
 Gui. My lord, behold this child well : in her face 
 You may observe, by curious insight, something 
 More than belongs to every common birth. 
 
 Fer. True, 'tis a pretty child. 
 
 Gui. The glass of miseiy 
 Is, after many a change of desperate fortune, 
 At length run out : you had a daughter called 
 Constanza ? 
 
 ivr.Ha! 
 
 Gui. A sister, Guiamara^ 
 Wife to the Count Alvarez? 
 
 Fer. Peace, O, peace ! 
 
 Gui. And to that sister's charge you did commit 
 Your infant daughter, in whose birth your wife. 
 Her mother, died ? 
 
 Fer. Woman thou art too cruel ! 
 
 Const. What d'ye mean, granam ? 'las, the nobleman 
 Grows angry ! 
 
 Fer. Not I, indeed I do not : — 
 But why d'ye use me thus? 
 
 Mid. G G 
 
450 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [ACT v. 
 
 Gui. Your child and sister, 
 As you supposed, were drowned ? 
 
 Fer. Drowned ? talking creature ! 
 Supposed ? 
 
 Gui. They live ; Fernando, from my hand. 
 Thy sister's hand, receive thine own Constanza, 
 The sweetest, best child living. 
 
 Const. Do you mock me ? 
 
 Fer. Torment me on ; yet more, more yet, and spare 
 not, 
 My heart is now a-breaking ; now ! 
 
 Gui. O brother! 
 Am I so far removed off from your memory, 
 As that you will not know me ? I expected 
 Another welcome home : look on this casket, 
 
 [Skoiaing casket. 
 The legacy your lady left her daughter. 
 When to her son she gave her crucifix. 
 
 Fer. Right, right ; I know ye now. 
 
 Gni. In all my sorrows. 
 My comfort has been here, she should be yours, 
 Be yours at last. — Constanza, kneel, sweet child, 
 To thy old father. 
 
 Const. How ? my father ? \Kneels. 
 
 Fer. Let not 
 Extremity of joys ravish life from me 
 Too soon, Heaven, I beseech thee ! Thou art my 
 
 sister. 
 My sister Guiamara ! How have mine eyes 
 Been darkened all this while ! 'tis she! 
 
 Gui. 'Tis, brother; 
 And this Constanza, now no more a stranger, 
 No Pretiosa henceforth. 
 
 Fer. My soul's treasure, 
 Live to an age of goodness ; and so thrive 
 Jn all thy ways, that thou mayst die to live ! 
 Const. But must I call you father ? 
 
SCENE III.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 451 
 
 Fer. Thou wilt rob me else 
 Of that felicity, for whose sake only 
 I am ambitious of being young again : 
 Rise, rise, mine own Constanza ! 
 
 Const. \rising^ 'Tis a new name, 
 But 'tis a pretty one ; I may be bold 
 To make a suit t'ye ? 
 
 Fer. Anything. 
 
 Const. O father, 
 And if you be my father, think upon 
 Don John my husband ! without him, alas, 
 I can be nothing ! 
 
 Fer. As I without thee ; 
 Let me alone, Constanza. — Tell me, tell me, 
 Lives yet Alvarez ? 
 
 Gui. In your house. 
 
 Fer. Enough : 
 Cloy me not ; let me by degrees digest 
 My joys. — Within, my Lords Francisco, Pedro ! 
 Come all at once ! I have a world within me ; 
 I am not mortal sure, I am not mortal : 
 
 Enter Francisco, Pedro, Maria, Roderigo, and 
 Clara. 
 
 My honourable lords, partake my blessings ; 
 The Count Alvarez lives here in my house ; 
 Your son, my Lord Francisco, Don John, is 
 The condemned man falsely accused of theft ; 
 This, my Lord Pedro, is my sister Guiamara ; 
 Madam, this is Constanza, mine own child, 
 And I am a wondrous merry man. — Without ! 
 The prisoner ! 
 
 Enter Alvarez, Louis, John, Diego, Sancho, Soto, 
 and Cardochia. 
 
 Louis. Here, free and acquitted. 
 By her whose folly drew her to this error ; 
 
452 THE SPANISH GIPSY. [ACT v. 
 
 And she for satisfaction is assured ' 
 To my wronged friend. 
 
 Card. I crave your pardons ; 
 He whose I am speaks for me. 
 
 Diego. We both beg it ! 
 
 Fer. Excellent ! admirable ! my dear brother ! 
 
 Alv. Never a happy man till now ; young Louis 
 And I are reconciled. 
 
 Louis. For ever, faithfully, 
 Religiously. 
 
 Fran., Fed., 6-=^. My noble lord, most welcome ! 
 
 Alv. To all my heart pays what it owes, due thanks ; 
 Most, most, brave youth, to thee ! 
 
 John. I all this while 
 Stand but a looker-on ; and though my father 
 May justly tax the violence of my passions. 
 Yet if this lady, lady of my life. 
 Must be denied, let me be as I was. 
 And die betimes. 
 
 Const You promised me 
 
 Fer. I did. — 
 My lord of Carcomo, you see their hearts 
 Are joined already, so let our consents 
 To this wished marriage. 
 
 Fran. I forgive thine errors,; 
 Give me thy hand. 
 
 Fer. \to Constanza\ Me thine. — But wilt thou love 
 My daughter, my Constanza? 
 
 JoJiJi. As my bliss. 
 
 Const. I thee as life, youth, beauty, anything 
 That makes life comfortable. 
 
 Fer. Live together 
 One, ever one ! 
 
 Fran., Rod., &^c. And Heaven crown your happi- 
 ness ! 
 
 Fed. Now, sir, how like you a prison ? 
 
 ' AfEanced. 
 
SCENE III.] THE SPANISH GIPSY. 
 
 453 
 
 San. As gallants do a tavern, being stopped for a 
 reckoning, scurvily. 
 
 Soto, Though you caged us up never so close, we sung 
 like cuckoos. 
 
 Fer. Well, well, you be yourself now. 
 
 Sail. Myself? — am I out of my wits, Soto? 
 
 Fer. Here now are none but honourable friends : 
 Will you, to give a farewell to the life 
 You ha' led as gipsies, these being now found none, 
 But noble in their births, altered in fortunes. 
 Give it a merry shaking by the hand. 
 And cry adieu to folly? 
 
 San. We'll shake our hands, and our heels, if you'll 
 give us leave. \A dance. 
 
 Fer. On, brides and bridegrooms ! to your Spanish 
 feasts 
 Invite with bent knees all these noble guests. 
 
 [Exeunt ornnes. 
 
 PRINTED BY J. S. VIRTUE AND CO., LIMITED, CITY ROAD, LONDON. 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 2712.E47 1887a 
 
 V.I 
 
 Thomas Middleton. 
 
 3 1924 013 133 511