Act 5 — THE PLEASANT COMEDY OF THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN OF ABINGTON.

Enter MASTER GOURSEY and his wife, and MASTER BARNES and his wife, with their two sons, and their two servants.

MASTER GOURSEY. Good Master Barnes, this entertain of yours, So full of courtesy and rich delight, Makes me misdoubt my poor ability In quittance of this friendly courtesy.

MR BAR. O Master Goursey, neighbour-amity Is such a jewel of high-reckoned worth, As for the attain of it what would not I Disburse, it is so precious in my thoughts!

MR GOUR. Kind sir, near-dwelling amity indeed Offers the heart's inquiry better view Than love that's seated in a farther soil: As prospectives[209], the[210] nearer that they be, Yield better judgment to the judging eye; Things seen far off are lessened in the eye, When their true shape is seen being hard by.

MR BAR. True, sir, 'tis so; and truly I esteem Mere[211] amity, familiar neighbourhood, The cousin german unto wedded love.

MR GOUR. Ay, sir, there's surely some alliance 'twixt them, For they have both the offspring from the heart: Within the heart's-blood-ocean still are found Jewels of amity and gems of love.

MR BAR. Ay, Master Goursey, I have in my time Seen many shipwrecks of true honesty; But incident such dangers ever are To them that without compass sail so far: Why, what need men to swim, when they may wade?— But leave this talk, enough of this is said: And, Master Goursey, in good faith, sir, welcome;— And, Mistress Goursey, I am much in debt Unto your kindness that would visit me.

MRS GOUR. O Master Barnes, you put me but in mind Of that which I should say; 'tis we that are Indebted to your kindness for this cheer: Which debt that we may repay, I pray let's have Sometimes your company at our homely house.

MRS BAR. That, Mistress Goursey, you shall surely have; He'll[212] be a bold guest, I warrant ye, And bolder too with you than I would have him.

MRS. GOUR. How, do you mean he will be bold with me?

MRS BAR. Why, he will trouble you at home, forsooth, Often call in, and ask ye how ye do; And sit and chat with you all day till night, And all night too,[213] if he might have his will.

MR BAR. Ay, wife, indeed I thank her for her kindness; She hath made me much good cheer passing that way.

MRS BAR. Passing well-done of her, she is a kind wench. I thank ye, Mistress Goursey, for my husband; And if it hap your husband come our way A-hunting or such ordinary sports, I'll do as much for yours as you for mine.

MR GOUR. Pray do, forsooth.—God's Lord, what means the woman? She speaks it scornfully: faith, I care not; Things are well-spoken, if they be well-taken. [Aside.] What, Mistress Barnes, is it not time to part?

MRS BAR. What's a-clock, sirrah?

NICHOLAS. 'Tis but new-struck one.

MR GOUR. I have some business in the town by three.

MR BAR. Till then let's walk into the orchard, sir. What, can you play at tables?

MR GOUR. Yes, I can.

MR BAR. What, shall we have a game?

MR GOUR. And if you please.

MR BAR. I'faith, content; we'll spend an hour so. Sirrah, fetch the tables.[214]

NICH. I will, sir. [Exit.

PHIL. Sirrah Frank, whilst they are playing here, We'll to the green to bowls.

FRAN. Philip, content. Coomes, come hither, sirrah: When our fathers part, call us upon the green. Philip, come, a rubbers[215], and so leave.

PHIL. Come on. [Exeunt PHILIP and FRANCIS.]

COOMES. 'Sbloud, I do not like the humour of these springals; they'll spend all their fathers' good at gaming. But let them trowl the bowls upon the green. I'll trowl the bowls in the buttery by the leave of God and Master Barnes: and his men be good fellows, so it is; if they be not, let them go snick up[216]. [_Exit.

Enter_ NICHOLAS with the tables.

MR BAR. So, set them down. Mistress Goursey, how do you like this game?

MRS GOUR. Well, sir.

MR BAR. Can ye play at it?

MRS GOUR. A little, sir.

MR BAR. Faith, so can my wife.

MR GOUR. Why, then, Master Barnes, and if you please, Our wives shall try the quarrel 'twixt us two, And we'll look on.

MR BAR. I am content. What, women[217], will you play?

MRS GOUR. I care not greatly.

MRS BAR. Nor I, but that I think she'll play me false.

MR GOUR. I'll see she shall not.

MRS BAR. Nay, sir, she will be sure you shall not see; You, of all men, shall not mark her hand; She hath such close conveyance in her play.

MR GOUR. Is she so cunning grown? Come, come, let's see.

MRS GOUR. Yea, Mistress Barnes, will ye not house your jests, But let them roam abroad so carelessly? Faith, if your jealous tongue utter another, I'll cross ye with a jest, and ye were my mother.— Come, shall we play? [Aside.]

MRS BAR. Ay, what shall we play a game?

MRS GOUR. A pound a game.

MR GOUR. How, wife?

MRS GOUR. Faith, husband, not a farthing less.

MR GOUR. It is too much; a shilling were good game.

MRS GOUR. No, we'll be ill-huswives once; You have been oft ill husbands: let's alone.

MR BAR. Wife, will you play so much?

MRS BAR. I would be loth to be so frank a gamester As Mistress Goursey is; and yet for once I'll play a pound a game as well as she.

MR BAR. Go to, you'll have your will [Offer to go from them.

MRS BAR. Come, there's my stake.

MRS GOUR. And there's mine.

MRS BAR. Throw for the dice. Ill luck! then they are yours.

MR BAR. Master Goursey, who says that gaming's bad, When such good angels[218] walk 'twixt every cast?

MR GOUR. This is not noble sport, but royal play.

MR BAR. It must be so, where royals[218] walk so fast.

MRS BAR. Play right, I pray.

MRS GOUR. Why, so I do.

MRS BAR. Where stands your man?

MRS GOUR. In his right place.

MRS BAR. Good faith, I think ye play me foul an ace.

MR BAR. No, wife, she plays ye true.

MRS BAR. Peace, husband, peace; I'll not be judg'd by you.

MRS GOUR. Husband, Master Barnes, pray, both go walk! We cannot play if standers-by do talk.

MR GOUR. Well, to your game; we will not trouble ye. [Go from them.

MRS GOUR. Where stands your man now?

MRS BAR. Doth he not stand right?

MRS GOUR. It stands between the points.

MRS BAR. And that's my spite. But yet methinks the dice runs much uneven. That I throw but deuce-ace and you eleven.

MRS GOUR. And yet you see that I cast down the hill.

MRS BAR. Ay, I beshrew ye, 'tis not with my will.

MRS GOUR. Do ye beshrew me?

MRS BAR. No, I beshrew the dice, That turn you up more at once than me at twice.

MRS GOUR. Well, you shall see them turn for you anon.

MRS BAR. But I care not for them, when your game is done.

MRS GOUR. My game! what game?

MRS BAR. Your game, your game at tables.

MRS GOUR. Well, mistress, well; I have read Aesop's fables, And know your moral meaning well enough.

MRS BAR. Lo, you'll be angry now! here's[219] good stuff.

MR GOUR. How now, women?[220] who hath won the game?

MRS GOUR. Nobody yet.

MR BAR. Your wife's the fairest for't.

MRS BAR. Ay, in your eye.

MRS GOUR. How do you mean?

MRS BAR. He holds you fairer for't than I.

MRS GOUR. For what, forsooth?

MRS BAR. Good gamester, for your game.

MR BAR. Well, try it out; 'tis all but in the bearing[221].

MRS BAR. Nay, if it come to bearing, she'll be best.

MRS GOUR. Why, you're as good a bearer as the rest.

MRS BAR. Nay, that's not so; you bear one man too many.

MRS GOUR. Better do so than bear not any.

MR BAR. Beshrew me, but my wife's jests grow too bitter; Plainer speeches for her were more fitter[222]: Malice lies embowelled in her tongue, And new hatch'd hate makes every jest a wrong. [Aside.]

MRS GOUR. Look ye, mistress, now I hit ye.

MRS BAR. Why, ay, you never use to miss a blot[223], Especially when it stands so fair to hit.

MRS GOUR. How mean ye, Mistress Barnes?

MRS BAR. That Mistress Goursey's in the hitting vein.

MRS GOUR. I hot[224] your man.

MRS BAR. Ay, ay, my man, my man; but, had I known, I would have had my man stood nearer home.

MRS GOUR. Why, had ye kept your man in his right place, I should not then have hit him with an ace.

MRS BAR. Right, by the Lord! a plague upon the bones!

MRS GOUR. And a hot mischief on the curser too!

MR BAR. How now, wife?

MR GOUR. Why, what's the matter, woman?

MRS GOUR. It is no matter; I am—

MRS BAR. Ay, you are—

MRS GOUR. What am I?

MRS BAR. Why, that's as you will be ever.

MRS GOUR. That's every day as good as Barnes's wife.

MRS BAR. And better too: then, what needs all this trouble? A single horse is worse than that bears double.

MR BAR. Wife, go to, have regard to what you say; Let not your words pass forth the verge of reason, But keep within the bounds of modesty; For ill-report doth like a bailiff stand, To pound the straying and the wit-lost tongue, And makes it forfeit into folly's hands. Well, wife, you know it is no honest part To entertain such guests with jests and wrongs: What will the neighbouring country vulgar say, When as they hear that you fell out at dinner? Forsooth, they'll call it a pot-quarrel straight; The best they'll name it is a woman's jangling. Go to, be rul'd, be rul'd.

MRS BAR. God's Lord, be rul'd, be rul'd! What, think ye I have such a baby's wit, To have a rod's correction for my tongue? School infancy! I am of age to speak, And I know when to speak: shall I be chid For such a—

MRS GOUR. What-a? nay, mistress, speak it out; I scorn your stopp'd compares: compare not me To any but your equals, Mistress Barnes.

MR GOUR. Peace, wife, be quiet.

MR BAR. O, persuade, persuade! Wife, Mistress Goursey, shall I win your thoughts To composition of some kind effects? Wife, if you love your credit, leave this strife, And come shake hands with Mistress Goursey here.

MRS BAR. Shall I shake hands? let her go shake her heels; She gets nor hands nor friendship at my hands: And so, sir, while I live, I will take heed, What guests I bid again unto my house.

MR BAR. Impatient woman, will you be so stiff In this absurdness?

MRS BAR. I am impatient now I speak; But, sir, I'll tell you more another time: Go to, I will not take it as I have done. [Exit.

MRS GOUR. Nay, she might stay; I will not long be here To trouble her. Well, Master Barnes, I am sorry that it was our haps to-day, To have our pleasures parted with this fray: I am sorry too for all that is amiss, Especially that you are mov'd in this; But be not so, 'tis but a woman's jar: Their tongues are weapons, words their blows of war; 'Twas but a while we buffeted, you saw, And each of us was willing to withdraw; There was no harm nor bloodshed, you did see: Tush, fear us not, for we shall well agree. I take my leave, sir. Come, kind-hearted man, That speaks his wife so fair—ay, now and then; I know you would not for an hundreth pound, That I should hear your voice's churlish sound; I know you have a far more milder tune Than "Peace, be quiet, wife;" but I have done. Will ye go home? the door directs the way; But, if you will not, my duty is to stay[225].

MR BAR. Ha, ha! why, here's a right woman, is there not? They both have din'd, yet see what stomachs they have!

MR. GOUR. Well, Master Barnes, we cannot do withal[226]: Let us be friends still—

MR BAR. O Master Goursey, the mettle of our minds, Having the temper of true reason in them. Affords[227] a better edge of argument For the maintain of our familiar loves Than the soft leaden wit of women can; Wherefore with all the parts of neighbour-love I [do] impart[228] myself to Master Goursey.

MR GOUR. And with exchange of love I do receive it: Then here we'll part, partners of two curs'd wives.

MR BAR. O, where shall we find a man so bless'd that is not? But come; your business and my home-affairs Makes me deliver that unfriendly word 'Mongst friends—farewell.

MR GOUR. Twenty farewells, sir.

MR BAR. But hark ye, Master Goursey; Look ye persuade at home, as I will do: What, man! we must not always have them foes.

MR GOUR. If I can help it.

MR BAR. God help, God help! Women are even untoward creatures still.

[Exeunt.

Enter PHILIP, FRANCIS, and his BOY, from bowling.

PHIL. Come on, Frank Goursey: you have had good luck To win the game.

FRAN. Why, tell me, is't not good, That never play'd before upon your green?

PHIL. 'Tis good, but that it cost me ten good crowns; That makes it worse.

FRAN. Let it not grieve thee, man; come o'er to us; We will devise some game to make you win Your money back again, sweet Philip.

PHIL. And that shall be ere long, and if I live: But tell me, Francis, what good horses have ye, To hunt this summer?

FRAN. Two or three jades, or so.

PHIL. Be they but jades?

FRAN. No, faith; my wag-string here Did founder one the last time that he rid— The best grey nag that ever I laid my leg over.

BOY. You mean the flea-bitten.

FRAN. Good sir, the same.

BOY. And was the same the best that e'er you rid on?

FRAN. Ay, was it, sir.

BOY. I'faith, it was not, sir.

FRAN. No! where had I one so good?

BOY. One of my colour, and a better too.

FRAN. One of your colour? I ne'er remember him: One of that colour!

BOY. Or of that complexion.

FRAN. What's that ye call complexion in a horse?

BOY. The colour, sir.

FRAN. Set me a colour on your jest, or I will—

BOY. Nay, good sir, hold your hands!

FRAN. What, shall we have it?

BOY. Why, sir, I cannot paint.

FRAN. Well, then, I can; And I shall find a pencil for ye, sir.

BOY. Then I must find the table, if you do.

FRAN. A whoreson, barren, wicked urchin!

BOY. Look how you chafe! you would be angry more, If I should tell it you.

FRAN. Go to, I'll anger ye, and if you do not.

BOY. Why, sir, the horse that I do mean Hath a leg both straight and clean, That hath nor spaven, splint, nor flaw, But is the best that ever ye saw; A pretty rising knee—O knee! It is as round as round may be; The full flank makes the buttock round: This palfrey standeth on no ground, When as my master's on her back, If that he once do say but, tack:[229] And if he prick her, you shall see Her gallop amain, she is so free; And if he give her but a nod, She thinks it is a riding-rod; And if he'll have her softly go, Then she trips it like a doe; She comes so easy with the rein, A twine-thread turns her back again; And truly I did ne'er see yet A horse play proudlier on the bit: My master with good managing Brought her first unto the ring;[230] He likewise taught her to corvet, To run, and suddenly to set; She's cunning in the wild-goose race, Nay, she's apt to every pace; And to prove her colour good, A flea, enamour'd of her blood, Digg'd for channels in her neck, And there made many a crimson speck: I think there's none that use to ride But can her pleasant trot abide; She goes so even upon the way, She will not stumble in a day; And when my master—

FRAN. What do I?

BOY. Nay, nothing, sir.

PHIL. O, fie, Frank, fie! Nay, nay, your reason hath no justice now, I must needs say; persuade him first to speak, Then chide him for it! Tell me, pretty wag, Where stands this prancer, in what inn or stable? Or hath thy master put her out to run, Then in what field, what champion,[231] feeds this courser, This well-pac'd, bonny steed that thou so praisest?

BOY. Faith, sir, I think—

FRAN. Villain, what do ye think?

BOY. I think that you, sir, have been ask'd by many, But yet I never heard that ye told any.

PHIL. Well, boy, then I will add one more to many. And ask thy master where this jennet feeds. Come, Frank, tell me—nay, prythee, tell me, Frank, My good horse-master, tell me—by this light, I will not steal her from thee; if I do, Let me be held a felon to thy love.

FRAN. No, Philip, no.

PHIL. What, wilt thou wear a point[232] but with one tag? Well, Francis, well, I see you are a wag.

Enter COOMES.

COOMES. 'Swounds, where be these timber-turners, these trowl-the-bowls, these green-men, these—

FRAN. What, what, sir?

COOMES. These bowlers, sir.

FRAN. Well, sir, what say you to bowlers?

COOMES. Why, I say they cannot be saved.

FRAN. Your reason, sir?

COOMES. Because they throw away their souls at every mark.

FRAN. Their souls! how mean ye?

PHIL. Sirrah, he means the soul of the bowl.

FRAN. Lord, how his wit holds bias like a bowl!

COOMES. Well, which is the bias?

FRAN. This next to you.

COOMES. Nay, turn it this way, then the bowl goes true.

BOY. Rub, rub!

COOMES. Why rub?

BOY. Why, you overcast the mark, and miss the way.

COOMES. Nay, boy, I use to take the fairest of my play.

PHIL. Dick Coomes, methinks thou art[233] very pleasant: Where[234] got'st thou this merry humour?

COOMES. In your father's cellar, the merriest place in th' house.

PHIL. Then you have been carousing hard?

COOMES. Yes, faith, 'tis our custom, when your father's men and we meet.

PHIL. Thou art very welcome thither, Dick.

COOMES. By God, I thank ye, sir, I thank ye, sir: by God, I have a quart of wine for ye, sir, in any place of the world. There shall not a servingman in Barkshire fight better for ye than I will do, if you have any quarrel in hand: you shall have the maidenhead of my new sword; I paid a quarter's wages for't, by Jesus.

PHIL. O, this meat-failer Dick! How well't has made the apparel of his wit, And brought it into fashion of an honour! Prythee, Dick Coomes, but tell me how thou dost?

COOMES. Faith, sir, like a poor man of service.

PHIL. Or servingman.

COOMES. Indeed, so called by the vulgar.

PHIL. Why, where the devil hadst thou that word?

COOMES. O, sir, you have the most eloquent ale in all the[235] world; our blunt soil affords none such.

FRAN. Philip, leave talking with this drunken fool. Say, sirrah, where's my father?

COOMES. "Marry, I thank ye for my very good cheer,—O Lord, it is not so much worth.—You see I am bold with ye.—Indeed, you are not so bold as welcome; I pray ye, come oft'ner.—Truly, I shall trouble ye." All these ceremonies are despatch'd between them, and they are gone.

FRAN. Are they so?

COOMES. Ay, before God, are they.

FRAN. And wherefore came not you to call me then?

COOMES. Because I was loth to change my game.

FRAN. What game?

COOMES. You were at one sort of bowls as I was at another.

PHIL. Sirrah, he means the butt'ry bowls of beer.

COOMES. By God, sir, we tickled it.

FRAN. Why, what a swearing keeps this drunken ass? Canst thou not say but swear at every word?

PHIL. Peace, do not mar his humour, prythee, Frank.

COOMES. Let him alone; he's a springall; he knows not what belongs to an oath.

FRAN. Sirrah, be quiet, or I do protest—

COOMES. Come, come, what do you protest?

FRAN. By heaven, to crack your crown.

COOMES. To crack my crown! I lay ye a crown of that, lay it down, and ye dare; nay, 'sblood, I'll venture a quarter's wages of that. Crack my crown, quotha!

FRAN. Will ye not yet be quiet? will ye urge me?

COOMES. Urge ye, with a pox! who urges ye? You might have said so much to a clown, or one that had not been o'er the sea to see fashions: I have, I tell ye true; and I know what belongs to a man. Crack my crown, and ye can.

FRAN. And I can, ye rascal!

PHIL. Hold, hair-brain, hold! dost thou not see he's drunk?

COOMES. Nay, let him come: though he be my master's son, I am my master's man, and a man is a man in any ground of England. Come, and he dares, a comes upon his death: I will not budge an inch, no, 'sblood, will I[236] not.

FRAN. Will ye not?

PHIL. Stay, prythee, Frank. Coomes, dost thou hear?

COOMES. Hear me no hears: stand away, I'll trust none of you all. If I have my back against a cartwheel, I would not care if the devil came.

PHIL. Why, ye fool, I am your friend.

COOMES. Fool on your face! I have a wife.

FRAN. She's a whore, then.

COOMES. She's as honest as Nan Lawson.

PHIL. What's she?

COOMES. One of his whores.

PHIL. Why, hath he so many?

COOMES. Ay, as many as there be churches in London.

PHIL. Why, that's a hundred and nine.

BOY. Faith, he lies a hundred.

PHIL. Then thou art a witness to nine.

BOY. No, by God, I'll be witness to none.

COOMES. Now do I stand like the George at Colebrook.

BOY. No, thou stand'st like the Bull at St Alban's.

COOMES. Boy, ye lie—the Horns.[237]

BOY. The bull's bitten; see, how he butts!

PHIL. Coomes, Coomes, put up;[238] my friend and thou art friends.

COOMES. I'll hear him say so first.

PHIL. Frank, prythee, do; be friends, and tell him so.

FRAN. Go to, I am.

BOY. Put up, sir; and ye be a man, put up.

COOMES. I am easily persuaded, boy.

PHIL. Ah, ye mad slave!

COOMES. Come, come, a couple of whoremasters I found ye, and so I leave ye. [Exit.

PHIL. Lo, Frank, dost thou not see he's drunk, That twits thee[239] with thy disposition?

FRAN. What disposition?

PHIL. Nan Lawson, Nan Lawson.

FRAN. Nay, then—

PHIL. Go to, ye wag, 'tis well: If ever ye get a wife, i'faith I'll tell. Sirrah, at home we have a servingman; He is[240] not humour'd bluntly as Coomes is, Yet his condition[241] makes me often merry: I'll tell thee, sirrah, he's a fine neat fellow, A spruce slave; I warrant ye, he will[242] have His cruel garters[243] cross about the knee, His woollen hose as white as th'driven snow, His shoes dry-leather neat, and tied with red ribbons, A nosegay bound with laces in his hat— Bridelaces, sir—and his hat all green[244], Green coverlet for such a grass-green wit. "The goose that grazeth on the green," quoth he, "May I eat on, when you shall buried be!" All proverbs is his speech, he's proverbs all.

FRAN. Why speaks he proverbs?

PHIL. Because he would speak truth, And proverbs, you'll confess, are old-said sooth.

FRAN. I like this well, and one day I will see him: But shall we part?

PHIL. Not yet, I'll bring ye somewhat on your way, And as we go, between your boy and you I'll know where that brave prancer stands at livery.

FRAN. Come, come, you shall not.

PHIL. I'faith, I will.

[Exeunt.

Enter MASTER BARNES and his Wife.

MR BAR. Wife, in my mind to-day you were to blame, Although my patience did not blame ye for it: Methought the rules of love and neighbourhood Did not direct your thoughts; all indiscreet[245] Were your proceedings in the entertain Of them that I invited to my house. Nay, stay, I do not chide, but counsel, wife, And in the mildest manner that I may: You need not view me with a servant's eye, Whose vassal[246] senses tremble at the look Of his displeased master. O my wife, You are myself! when self sees fault in self, Self is sin-obstinate, if self amend not: Indeed, I saw a fault in thee myself, And it hath set a foil upon thy fame, Not as the foil doth grace the diamond.

MRS BAR. What fault, sir, did you see in me to-day?

MR BAR. O, do not set the organ of thy voice On such a grunting key of discontent! Do not deform the beauty of thy tongue With such misshapen answers. Rough wrathful words Are bastards got by rashness in the thoughts: Fair demeanours are virtue's nuptial babes, The offspring of the well-instructed soul; O, let them call thee mother, then, my wife! So seem not barren of good courtesy.

MRS BAR. So; have ye done?

MR BAR. Ay, and I had done well, If you would do what I advise for well.

MRS BAR. What's that?

MR BAR. Which is, that you would be good friends With Mistress Goursey.

MRS BAR. With Mistress Goursey!

MR BAR. Ay, sweet wife.

MRS BAR. Not so, sweet husband.

MR BAR. Could you but show me any grounded cause.

MRS BAR. The grounded cause I ground, because I will not.

MR BAR. Your will hath little reason, then, I think.

MRS BAR. Yes, sir, my reason equalleth my will.

MR BAR. Let's hear your reason, for your will is great.

MRS BAR. Why, for I will not.

MR BAR. Is all your reason "for I will not," wife? Now, by my soul, I held ye for more wise, Discreet, and of more temp'rature in sense, Than in a sullen humour to affect That woman's[247] will—borne, common, scholar phrase: Oft have I heard a timely-married girl, That newly left to call her mother mam, Her father dad: but yesterday come from "That's my good girl, God send thee a good husband!" And now being taught to speak the name of husband, Will, when she would be wanton in her will, If her husband ask'd her why, say "for I will." Have I chid men for[248] [an] unmanly choice, That would not fit their years? have I seen thee Pupil such green young things, and with thy counsel Tutor their wits? and art thou now infected With this disease of imperfection? I blush for thee, ashamed at thy shame.

MRS BAR. A shame on her that makes thee rate me so!

MR BAR. O black-mouth'd rage, thy breath is boisterous, And thou mak'st virtue shake at this high storm! She is[249] of good report; I know thou know'st it.

MRS BAR. She is not, nor I know not, but I know That thou dost love her, therefore think'st her so; Thou bear'st with her, because she bears with thee. Thou may'st be ashamed to stand in her defence: She is a strumpet, and thou art no honest man To stand in her defence against thy wife. If I catch her in my walk, now, by Cock's[250] bones, I'll scratch out both her eyes.

MR BAR. O God!

MRS BAR. Nay, never say "O God" for the matter: Thou art the cause; thou bad'st her to my house, Only to blear the eyes of Goursey, did'st not? But I will send him word, I warrant thee, And ere I sleep too, trust upon it, sir. [Exit.

MR BAR. Methinks this is a mighty fault in her; I could be angry with her: O, if I be so, I shall but put a link unto a torch, And so give greater light to see her fault. I'll rather smother it in melancholy: Nay, wisdom bids me shun that passion; Then I will study for a remedy. I have a daughter,—now, heaven invocate, She be not of like spirit as her mother! If so, she'll be a plague unto her husband, If that he be not patient and discreet, For that I hold the ease of all such trouble. Well, well, I would my daughter had a husband, For I would see how she would demean herself In that estate; it may be, ill enough,— And, so God shall help me, well-remembered now! Frank Goursey is his father's son and heir: A youth that in my heart I have good hope on; My senses say a match, my soul applauds The motion: O, but his lands are great, He will look high; why, I will strain myself To make her dowry equal with his land. Good faith, and 'twere a match, 'twould be a means To make their mothers friends. I'll call my daughter, To see how she's dispos'd to marriage.— Mall, where are ye?

Enter MALL.

MALL. Father, here I am.

MR BAR. Where is your mother?

MALL. I saw her not, forsooth, since you and she Went walking both together to the garden.

MR BAR. Dost thou hear me, girl? I must dispute with thee.

MALL. Father, the question then must not be hard, For I am very weak in argument.

MR BAR. Well, this it is; I say 'tis good to marry.

MALL. And this say I, 'tis not good to marry.

MR BAR. Were it not good, then all men would not marry; But now they do.

MALL. Marry, not all; but it is good to marry.

MR BAR. Is it both good and bad; how can this be?

MALL. Why, it is good to them that marry well; To them that marry ill, no greater hell.

MR BAR. If thou might marry well, wouldst thou agree?

MALL. I cannot tell; heaven must appoint for me.

MR BAR. Wench, I am studying for thy good indeed.

MALL. My hopes and duty wish your thoughts good speed.

MR BAR. But tell me, wench, hast thou a mind to marry?

MALL. This question is too hard for bashfulness; And, father, now ye pose my modesty. I am a maid, and when ye ask me thus, I, like a maid, must blush, look pale and wan, And then look red[251] again; for we change colour, As our thoughts change. With true-fac'd passion Of modest maidenhead I could adorn me, And to your question make a sober cour'sey, And with close-clipp'd civility be silent; Or else say "No, forsooth," or "Ay, forsooth." If I said, "No, forsooth," I lied forsooth: To lie upon myself were deadly sin, Therefore I will speak truth and shame the devil. Father, when first I heard ye name a husband, At that same very time my spirits quickened. Despair before had kill'd them, they were dead: Because it was my hap so long to tarry, I was persuaded I should never marry; And sitting sewing thus upon the ground, I fell in trance of meditation; But coming to myself, "O Lord," said I, "Shall it be so I must I unmarried die?" And, being angry, father, farther, said— "Now, by Saint Anne, I will not die a maid!" Good faith, before I came to this ripe growth, I did accuse the labouring time of sloth; Methought the year did run but slow about, For I thought each year ten I was without. Being fourteen and toward the tother year, Good Lord, thought I, fifteen will ne'er be here! For I have heard my mother say that then Pretty maids were fit for handsome men: Fifteen past, sixteen, and seventeen too, What, thought I, will not this husband do? Will no man marry me? have men forsworn Such beauty and such youth? shall youth be worn As rich men's gowns, more with age than use? Why, then I let restrained fancy loose, And bad it gaze for pleasure; then love swore me To do whate'er my mother did before me; Yet, in good faith, I have been very loth, But now it lies in you to save my oath: If I shall have a husband, get him quickly, For maids that wear cork shoes may step awry.

MR BAR. Believe me, wench, I do not reprehend[252] thee, But for this pleasant answer do commend thee. I must confess, love doth thee mighty wrong, But I will see thee have thy right ere long; I know a young man, whom I hold most fit To have thee both for living and for wit: I will go write about it presently.

MALL. Good father, do. [Exit [BARNES]. O God, methinks I should Wife it as fine as any woman could! I could carry a port to be obeyed, Carry a mastering eye upon my maid, With "Minion, do your business, or I'll make ye," And to all house authority betake me. O God! would I were married! by my troth, But if I be not, I swear I'll keep my oath.

Enter MRS BARNES.

MRS BAR. How now, minion, where have you been gadding?

MALL. Forsooth, my father called me forth to him.

MRS BAR. Your father! and what said he to ye, I pray?

MALL. Nothing, forsooth.

MRS BAR. Nothing! that cannot be; something he said.

MALL. Ay, something that as good as nothing was.

MRS BAR. Come, let me hear that something-nothing, then.

MALL. Nothing but of a husband for me, mother.

MRS BAR. A husband! that was something; but what husband?

MALL. Nay, faith, I know not, mother: would I did!

MRS BAR. Ay, "would ye did!" i'faith, are ye so hasty?

MALL. Hasty, mother! why, how old am I?

MRS BAR. Too young to marry.

MALL. Nay, by the mass, ye lie. Mother, how old were you when you did marry?

MRS BAR. How old soe'er I was, yet you shall tarry.

MALL. Then the worse for me. Hark, mother, hark! The priest forgets that e'er he was a clerk: When you were at my years, I'll hold my life, Your mind was to change maidenhead for wife. Pardon me, mother, I am of your mind, And, by my troth, I take it but by kind.[253]

MRS BAR. Do ye hear, daughter? you shall stay my leisure.

MALL. Do you hear, mother? would you stay from pleasure, When ye have mind to it? Go to, there's no wrong Like this, to let maids lie alone so long: Lying alone they muse but in their beds, How they might lose their long-kept maidenheads. This is the cause there is so many scapes, For women that are wise will not lead apes In hell: I tell ye, mother, I say true; Therefore come husband: maidenhead adieu! [Exit.

MRS BAR. Well, lusty guts, I mean to make ye stay, And set some rubs in your mind's smoothest way[254].

Enter PHILIP.

PHIL. Mother—

MRS BAR. How now, sirrah; where have you been walking?

PHIL. Over the meads, half-way to Milton, mother, To bear my friend, Frank Goursey, company.

MRS BAR. Where's your blue coat[255], your sword and buckler, sir? Get you such like habit for a serving-man, If you will wait upon the brat of Goursey.

PHIL. Mother, that you are mov'd, this makes me wonder; When I departed, I did leave ye friends: What undigested jar hath since betided?

MRS BAR. Such as almost doth choke thy mother, boy, And stifles her with the conceit of it; I am abus'd, my son, by Goursey's wife.

PHIL. By Mistress Goursey.

MRS BAR. Mistress Flirt—yea[256], foul strumpet, Light-a-love, short-heels! Mistress Goursey Call her again, and thou wert better no.

PHIL. O my dear mother, have some patience!

MRS BAR. Ay, sir, have patience, and see your father To rifle up the treasure of my love, And play the spendthrift upon such an harlot! This same will make me have patience, will it not?

PHIL. This same is women's most impatience: Yet, mother, I have often heard ye say, That you have found my father temperate, And ever free from such affections.

MRS BAR. Ay, till[257] my too much love did glut his thoughts, And make him seek for change.

PHIL. O, change your mind! My father bears more cordial love to you.

MRS BAR. Thou liest, thou liest, for he loves Goursey's wife, Not me.

PHIL. Now I swear, mother, you are much to blame; I durst be sworn he loves you as his soul.

MRS BAR. Wilt thou be pampered by affection? Will nature teach thee such vild[258] perjury? Wilt thou be sworn, ay, forsworn,[259] careless boy? And if thou swear't, I say he loves me not.

PHIL. [Mother] he loves[260] ye but too well, I swear, Unless ye knew much better how to use him.

MRS BAR. Doth he so, sir? thou unnatural boy! "Too well," sayest thou? that word shall cost thee[261] somewhat: O monstrous! have I brought thee up to this? "Too well!" O unkind, wicked, and degenerate, Hast thou the heart to say so of thy mother? Well, God will plague thee for't, I warrant thee: Out on thee, villain! fie upon thee, wretch! Out of my sight, out of my sight, I say!

PHIL. This air is pleasant, and doth please me well, And here I will stay.

MRS BAR. Wilt thou, stubborn villain?

Enter MR BARNES.

MR BAR. How now, what's the matter?

MRS BAR. Thou sett'st thy son to scoff and mock at me: Is't not sufficient I am wrong'd of thee, But he must be an agent to abuse me? Must I be subject to my cradle too? O God, O God, amend it! [Exit.

MR BAR. Why, how now, Philip? is this true, my son?

PHIL. Dear father, she is much impatient: Ne'er let that hand assist me in my need, If I more said than that she thought amiss To think that you were so licentious given; And thus much more, when she inferr'd it more, I swore an oath you lov'd her but too well: In that as guilty I do hold myself. Now that I come to more considerate trial, I know my fault: I should have borne with her: Blame me for rashness, then, not for want of duty.

MR BAR. I do absolve thee; and come hither, Philip: I have writ a letter unto Master Goursey, And I will tell thee the contents thereof; But tell me first, think'st thou Frank Goursey loves thee?

PHIL. If that a man devoted to a man, Loyal, religious in love's hallowed vows— If that a man that is sole laboursome To work his own thoughts to his friend's delight, May purchase good opinion with his friend, Then I may say, I have done this so well, That I may think Frank Goursey loves me well.

MR BAR. 'Tis well; and I am much deceived in him, And if he be not sober, wise, and valiant.

PHIL. I hope my father takes me for thus wise, I will not glue myself in love to one That hath not some desert of virtue in him: Whate'er you think of him, believe me, father, He will be answerable to your thoughts In any quality commendable.

MR BAR. Thou cheer'st my hopes in him; and, in good faith, Thou'st[262] made my love complete unto thy friend: Philip, I love him, and I love him so, I could afford him a good wife, I know.

PHIL. Father, a wife!

MR BAR. Philip, a wife.

PHIL. I lay my life—my sister!

MR BAR. Ay, in good faith.

PHIL. Then, father, he shall have her; he shall, I swear.

MR BAR. How canst thou say so, knowing not his mind?

PHIL. All's one for that; I will go to him straight. Father, if you would seek this seven-years'-day, You could not find a fitter match for her; And he shall have her, I swear he shall; He were as good be hanged, as once deny[263] her. I'faith, I'll to him.

MR BAR. Hairbrain, hairbrain, stay! As yet we do not know his father's mind: Why, what will Master Goursey say, my son, If we should motion it without his knowledge? Go to, he's a wise and discreet gentleman, And that expects from me all honest parts; Nor shall he fail his expectation; First I do mean to make him privy to it: Philip, this letter is to that effect.

PHIL. Father, for God's[264] sake, send it quickly, then: I'll call your man. What, Hugh! where's Hugh, there, ho?

MR BAR. Philip, if this would prove a match, It were the only means that could be found To make thy mother friends with Mistress Goursey.

PHIL. How, a match! I'll warrant ye, a match. My sister's fair, Frank Goursey he is rich; Her[265] dowry, too, will be sufficient; Frank's young,[266] and youth is apt to love; And, by my troth, my sister's maidenhead Stands like a game at tennis: if the ball Hit into the hole, or hazard, farewell all:

MR BAR. How now, where's Hugh?

[Enter NICHOLAS.]

PHIL. Why, what doth this proverbial with us? Why, where's Hugh?

MR BAR. Peace, peace.

PHIL. Where's Hugh, I say?

MR BAR. Be not so hasty, Philip.

PHIL. Father, let me alone, I do it but to make myself some sport. This formal fool, your man, speaks nought but proverbs, And speak men what they can to him, he'll answer With some rhyme-rotten sentence or old saying, Such spokes as th'ancient of the parish use, With, "Neighbour, 'tis an old proverb and a true, Goose giblets are good meat, old sack better than new;" Then says another, "Neighbour, that is true;" And when each man hath drunk his gallon round— A penny pot, for that's the old man's gallon— Then doth he lick his lips, and stroke his beard, That's glued together with his slavering drops Of yeasty ale, and when he scarce can trim His gouty fingers, thus he'll phillip it, And with a rotten hem, say, "Ay, my hearts, Merry go sorry! cock and pie, my hearts"! But then their saving penny proverb comes, And that is this, "They that will to the wine, By'r Lady[267] mistress, shall lay their penny to mine." This was one of this penny-father's[268] bastards, For, on my life, he was never[269] begot Without the consent of some great proverb-monger.

MR BAR. O, ye are a wag.

PHIL. Well, now unto my business. 'Swounds, will that mouth, that's made of old-said saws And nothing else, say nothing to us now?

NICH. O Master Philip, forbear; you must not leap over the stile, before you come at it; haste makes waste; soft fire makes sweet malt; not too fast for falling; there's no haste to hang true men.[270]

PHIL. Father, we ha't, ye see, we ha't. Now will I see if my memory will serve for some proverbs too. O—a painted cloth were as well worth a shilling as a thief worth a halter; well, after my hearty commendations, as I was at the making hereof; so it is, that I hope as you speed, so you're sure; a swift horse will tire, but he that trots easily will endure. You have most learnedly proverb'd it, commending the virtue of patience or forbearance, but yet, you know, forbearance is no quittance.

NICH. I promise ye, Master Philip, you have spoken as true as steel.

PHIL. Father, there's a proverb well applied.

NICH. And it seemeth unto me, ay, it seems to me, that you, Master Philip, mock me: do you not know, qui mocat mocabitur? mock age, and see how it will prosper.

PHIL. Why, ye whoreson proverb-book bound up in folio, Have ye no other sense to answer me But every word a proverb? no other English? Well, I'll fulfil a proverb on thee straight.

NICH. What is it, sir?

PHIL. I'll fetch my fist from thine ear.

NICH. Bear witness, he threatens me!

PHIL. That same is the coward's common proverb. But come, come, sirrah, tell me where Hugh is.

NICH. I may, and I will; I need not, except I list; you shall not command me, you give me neither meat, drink, nor wages; I am your father's man, and a man's a man, and a have but a hose on his head; do not misuse me so, do not; for though he that is bound must obey, yet he that will not tarry, may[271] run away—so he may.

MR BAR. Peace, Nick, I'll see he shall use thee well; Go to, peace, sirrah: here, Nick, take this letter, Carry it to him to whom it is directed.

NICH. To whom is it?

MR BAR. Why, read it: canst thou read?

NICH. Forsooth, though none of the best, yet meanly.

MR BAR. Why, dost thou not use it?

NICH. Forsooth, as use makes perfectness, so seldom seen is soon forgotten.

MR BAR. Well-said: but go; it is to Master Goursey.

PHIL. Now, sir, what proverb have ye to deliver a letter?

NICH. What need you to care? who speaks to you? you may speak when ye are spoken to, and keep your wind to cool your pottage. Well, well, you are my master's son, and you look for his land; but they that hope for dead men's shoes may hap go barefoot: take heed, as soon goes the young sheep to the pot as the old. I pray God save my master's life, for seldom comes the better!

PHIL. O, he hath given it me! Farewell, Proverbs.

NICH. Farewell, frost.[272]

PHIL. Shall I fling an old shoe after ye?

NICH. No; you should say, God send fair weather after me!

PHIL. I mean for good luck.

NICH. A good luck on ye! [Exit.

MR BAR. Alas, poor fool! he uses all his wit. Philip, in faith[273] this mirth hath cheered thought, And cosen'd it of his right play of passion. Go after Nick, and, when thou think'st he's there, Go in and urge to that which I have writ: I'll in these meadows make a circling walk, And in my meditation conjure so, As that same[274] fiend of thought, self-eating anger, Shall by my spells of reason[275] vanish quite: Away, and let me hear from thee to-night.

PHIL. To-night! yes, that you shall: but hark ye, father; Look that you my sister waking keep, For Frank, I swear, shall kiss her, ere I sleep.

[Exeunt.

Enter FRANK and BOY.

FRAN. I am very dry with walking o'er the green.— Butler, some beer! Sirrah, call the butler.

BOY. Nay, faith, sir, we must have some smith to give the butler a drench, or cut him in the forehead, for he hath got a horse's disease, namely the staggers; to-night he's a good huswife, he reels all that he wrought to-day; and he were good now to play at dice, for he casts[276] excellent well.

FRAN. How mean'st thou? is he drunk?

BOY. I cannot tell; but I am sure he hath more liquor in him than a whole dicker of hides; he's soak'd throughly, i'faith.

FRAN. Well, go and call him; bid him bring me drink.

BOY. I will, sir. [Exit.

FRAN. My mother pouts, and will look merrily Neither upon my father nor on me: He says she fell out with Mistress Barnes to-day; Then I am sure they'll not be quickly friends. Good Lord, what kind of creatures women are! Their love is lightly[277] won and lightly lost; And then their hate is deadly and extreme: He that doth take a wife betakes himself To all the cares and troubles of the world. Now her disquietness doth grieve my father, Grieves me, and troubles all the house besides. What, shall I have some drink? [Horn sounded within]—How now? a horn! Belike the drunken knave is fall'n asleep, And now the boy doth wake him with his horn.

Enter BOY.

How now, sirrah, where's the butler?

BOY. Marry, sir, where he was even now, asleep; but I wak'd him, and when he wak'd he thought he was in Master Barnes's buttery, for he stretch'd himself thus, and yawning, said, "Nick, honest Nick, fill a fresh bowl of ale; stand to it, Nick, and thou beest a man of God's making, stand to it;" and then I winded my horn, and he's horn-mad.

Enter HODGE.

HOD. Boy, hey! ho, boy! and thou beest a man, draw.—O, here's a blessed moonshine, God be thanked!—Boy, is not this goodly weather for barley?

BOY. Spoken like a right malster, Hodge: but dost thou hear? thou art not drunk?

HOD. No, I scorn that, i'faith.

BOY.[278] But thy fellow Dick Coomes is mightily drunk.

HOD. Drunk! a plague on it, when a man cannot carry his drink well! 'sblood, I'll stand to it.

BOY. Hold, man; see, and thou canst stand first.

HOD. Drunk! he's a beast, and he be drunk; there's no man that is a sober man will be drunk; he's a boy, and he be drunk.

BOY. No, he's a man as thou art.

HOD. Thus 'tis, when a man will not be ruled by his friends: I bad him keep under the lee, but he kept down the weather two bows; I told him he would be taken with a planet, but the wisest of us all may fall.

BOY. True, Hodge. [Boy trips him.

HOD. Whoop! lend me thy hand, Dick, I am fall'n into a well; lend me thy hand, I shall be drowned else.

BOY. Hold fast by the bucket, Hodge.

HOD. A rope on it!

BOY. Ay, there is a rope on it; but where art thou, Hodge?

HOD. In a well; I prythee, draw up.

BOY. Come, give up thy body; wind up, hoist

HOD. I am over head and ears.

BOY. In all, Hodge, in all.

FRAN. How loathsome is this beast-man's shape to me, This mould of reason so unreasonable!— Sirrah, why dost thou trip him down, seeing he's drunk?

BOY. Because, sir, I would have drunkards cheap.[279]

FRAN. How mean ye?

BOY. Why, they say that, when anything hath a fall, it is cheap; and so of drunkards.

FRAN. Go to, help him up: [Knocking without] but, hark, who knocks?

[BOY goes to the door, and returns.]

BOY. Sir, here's one of Master Barnes's men with a letter to my old master.

FRAN. Which of them is it?

BOY. They call him Nicholas, sir.

FRAN. Go, call him in.

[Exit BOY.]

Enter COOMES.

COOMES. By your leave, ho! How now, young master, how is't?

FRAN. Look ye, sirrah, where your fellow lies: He's[280] in a fine taking, is he not?

COOMES. Whoop, Hodge! where art thou, man, where art thou?

HOD. O, in a well.

COOMES. In a well, man! nay, then, thou art deep in understanding.

FRAN. Ay, once to-day you were almost so, sir.

COOMES. Who, I! go to, young master, I do not like this humour in ye, I tell ye true; give every man his due, and give him no more: say I was in such a case! go to, 'tis the greatest indignation that can be offered to a man; and, but a man's more godlier given, you were able to make him swear out his heart-blood. What, though that honest Hodge have cut his finger here, or, as some say, cut a feather: what, though he be mump, misled, blind, or as it were—'tis no consequent to me: you know I have drunk all the ale-houses in Abington dry, and laid the taps on the tables, when I had done: 'sblood, I'll challenge all the true rob-pots in Europe to leap up to the chin in a barrel of beer, and if I cannot drink it down to my foot, ere I leave, and then set the tap in the midst of the house, and then turn a good turn on the toe on it, let me be counted nobody, a pingler,[281]—nay, let me be[282] bound to drink nothing but small-beer seven years after—and I had as lief be hanged.

Enter NICHOLAS.

FRAN. Peace, sir, I must speak with one.— Nicholas, I think, your name is.

NlCH. True as the skin between your brows.

FRAN. Well, how doth thy master?

NlCH. Forsooth, live, and the best doth no better.

FRAN. Where is the letter he hath sent me?

NlCH. Ecce signum! here it is.

FRAN. 'Tis right as Philip said, 'tis a fine fool [Aside]. —This letter is directed to my father; I'll carry it to him. Dick Coomes, make him drink. [Exit.

COOMES. Ay, I'll make him drunk,[283] and he will.

NICH. Not so, Richard; it is good to be merry and wise.

DICK[284] [COOMES]. Well, Nicholas, as thou art Nicholas, welcome; but as thou art Nicholas and a boon companion, ten times welcome. Nicholas, give me thy hand: shall we be merry? and we shall, say but we shall, and let the first word stand.

NICH. Indeed, as long lives the merry man as the sad; an ounce of debt will not pay a pound of care.

COOMES. Nay, a pound of care will not pay an ounce of debt.

NICH. Well, 'tis a good horse never stumbles: but who lies here?

COOMES. 'Tis our Hodge, and I think he lies asleep: you made him drunk at your house to-day; but I'll pepper some of you for't.

NICH. Ay, Richard, I know you'll put a man over the shoes, and if you can; but he's a fool will take more than will do him good.

COOMES. 'Sblood, ye shall take more than will do ye good, or I'll make ye clap under the table.

NICH. Nay, I hope, as I have temperance to forbear drink, so have I patience to endure drink: I'll do as company doth; for when a man doth to Rome come, he must do as there is done.[285]

COOMES. Ha, my resolved Nick, froligozene! Fill the pot, hostess; swouns, you whore! Harry Hook's a rascal. Help me, but carry my fellow Hodge in, and we'll c'rouse[286] it, i'faith.

[Exeunt.

Enter PHILIP.

PHIL. By this, I think, the letter is delivered, And 'twill be shortly time that I step in, And woo their favours for my sister's fortune: And yet I need not; she may do as well, But yet not better, as the case doth stand, Between our mothers; it may make them friends; Nay, I would swear that she would do as well, Were she a stranger to one quality, But they are so acquainted, they'll ne'er part. Why, she will flout the devil, and make blush The boldest face of man that e'er man saw; He that hath best opinion of his wit, And hath his brainpan fraught with bitter jests, Or of his own, or stol'n, or howsoever, Let him stand ne'er so high in his own conceit, Her wit's a sun that melts him down like butter, And makes him sit at table pancake-wise, Flat, flat, God knows, and ne'er a word to say; Yet she'll not leave him then, but like a tyrant She'll persecute the poor wit-beaten man, And so bebang him with dry bobs and scoffs, When he is down, most coward-like, good faith, As I have pitied the poor patient. There came a farmer's son a-wooing to her, A proper man: well-landed too he was, A man that for his wit need not to ask What time a year 'twere good to sow his oats, Nor yet his barley; no, nor when to reap, To plough his fallows, or to fell his trees, Well-experienc'd thus each kind of way; After a two months' labour at the most— And yet 'twas well he held it out so long— He left his love, she had so lac'd his lips He could say nothing to her but "God be with ye!" Why she, when men have din'd and call for cheese, Will straight maintain jests bitter to disgest;[287] And then some one will fall to argument, Who if he over-master her with reason, Then she'll begin to buffet him with mocks. Well, I do doubt Francis hath so much spleen, They'll ne'er agree; but I will moderate. By this time it is time, I think, to enter: This is the house; shall I knock? no; I will not. [Nor] wait, while one comes out to answer [me]:[288] I'll in, and let them be as bold with us. [Exit.

Enter MASTER GOURSEY, reading a letter.

MR GOUR. If that they like, her dowry shall be equal To your son's wealth or possibility: It is a means to make our wives good friends, And to continue friendship 'twixt us two. 'Tis so, indeed: I like this motion, And it hath my consent, because my wife Is sore infected and heart-sick with hate; And I have sought the Galen of advice, Which only tells me this same potion To be most sovereign for her sickness' cure.

Enter FRANK and PHILIP.

Here comes my son, conferring with his friend.— Francis, how do you like your friend's discourse? I know he is persuading to this motion.

FRAN. Father, as matter that befits a friend, But yet not me, that am too young to marry.

MR GOUR. Nay, if thy mind be forward with thy years, The time is lost thou tarriest. Trust me, boy, This match is answerable to thy birth; Her blood and portion give each other grace; These indented lines promise a sum, And I do like the value: if it hap Thy liking to accord to my consent, It is a match. Wilt thou go see the maid?

FRAN. Ne'er trust me, father, the shackles[289] of marriage, Which I do see in others, seem so severe, I dare not put my youngling liberty Under the awe of that instruction; And yet I grant the limits of free youth Going astray are often restrain'd by that. But mistress wedlock, to my scholar-thoughts, Will be too curs'd, I fear: O, should she snip My pleasure-aiming mind, I shall be sad, And swear, when I did marry, I was mad!

MR GOUR. But, boy, let my experience teach thee this— Yet, in good faith, thou speak'st not much amiss— When first thy mother's fame to me did come, Thy grandsire thus then came to me his son, And even my words to thee to me he said, And as to me thou say'st to him I said, But in a greater huff and hotter blood,— I tell ye, on youth's tip-toes then I stood: Says he (good faith, this was his very say), "When I was young, I was but reason's fool, And went to wedding as to wisdom's school; It taught me much, and much I did forget, But, beaten much, by it I got some wit; Though I was shackled from an often scout, Yet I would wanton it, when I was out; 'Twas comfort old acquaintance then to meet, Restrained liberty attain'd is sweet." Thus said my father to thy father[290], son, And thou mayst do this too, as I have done.

PHIL. In faith, good counsel, Frank: what say'st thou to it?

FRAN. Philip, what should I say?

PHIL. Why, either ay or no.

FRAN. O, but which rather?

PHIL. Why, that which was persuaded by thy father.

FRAN. That's ay then[291]. Ay. O, should it fall out ill, Then I, for I am guilty of that ill!— I'll not be guilty. No.

PHIL. What, backward gone!

FRAN. Philip, no whit backward; that is, on.

PHIL. On, then.

FRAN. O, stay!

PHIL. Tush, there is no good luck in this delay. Come, come; late-comers, man, are shent.

FRAN. Heigho, I fear I shall repent! Well, which way, Philip[292]?

PHIL. Why, this way.

FRAN. Canst thou tell, And takest upon thee to be my guide to hell?— But which way, father?

MR GOUR. That way.

FRAN. Ay, you know, You found the way to sorrow long ago. Father, God be wi' ye[293]: you have sent your son To seek on earth an earthly day of doom, Where I shall be adjudged, alack the ruth, To penance for the follies of my youth! Well, I must go; but, by my troth, my mind Is not capable to love [in][294] that kind. O, I have look'd upon this mould of men, As I have done upon a lion's den! Praised I have the gallant beast I saw, Yet wish'd me no acquaintance with his paw: And must I now be grated with them? well, Yet I may hap to prove a Daniel; And, if I do, sure it would make me laugh, To be among wild beasts and yet be safe. Is there a remedy to abate their rage? Yes, many catch them, and put them in a cage. Ay, but how catch them? marry, in your hand Carry me forth a burning firebrand, For with his sparkling shine, old rumour says, A firebrand the swiftest runner frays: This I may do; but, if it prove not so, Then man goes out to seek his adjunct woe. Philip, away! and, father, now adieu! In quest of sorrow I am sent by you.

MR GOUR. Return, the messenger of joy, my son.

FRAN. Seldom in this world such a work is done.

PHIL. Nay, nay, make haste, it will be quickly night.

FRAN. Why, is it not good to woo by candle-light?

PHIL. But, if we make not haste, they'll be a-bed.

FRAN. The better, candles out and curtains spread.

[Exeunt FRANCIS and PHILIP.]

MR GOUR. I know, though that my son's years be not many, Yet he hath wit to woo as well as any. Here comes my wife: I am glad my boy is gone.

Enter MISTRESS GOURSEY.

Ere she came hither. How now, wife? how is't? What, are ye yet in charity and love With Mistress Barnes?

MRS GOUR. With Mistress Barnes! why Mistress[295] Barnes, I pray?

MR GOUR. Because she is your neighbour and—

MRS GOUR. And what? And a jealous, slandering, spiteful quean she is, One that would blur my reputation With her opprobrious malice, if she could; She wrongs her husband, to abuse my fame: 'Tis known that I have lived in honest name All my lifetime, and been your right true wife.

MR GOUR. I entertain no other thought, my wife, And my opinion's sound of your behaviour.

MRS GOUR. And my behaviour is as sound as it; But her ill-speeches seeks to rot my credit, And eat it with the worm of hate and malice.

MR GOUR. Why, then, preserve it you by patience.

MRS GOUR. By patience! would ye have me shame myself, And cosen myself to bear her injuries? Not while her eyes be open, will I yield A word, a letter, a syllable's value. But equal and make even her wrongs to me To her again.

MR GOUR. Then, in good faith, wife, ye are more to blame.

MRS GOUR. Am I to blame, sir? pray, what letter's this? [Snatches the letter.]

MR GOUR. There is a dearth of manners in ye, wife, Rudely to snatch it from me. Give it me.

MRS GOUR. You shall not have it, sir, till I have read it.

MR GOUR. Give me it, then, and I will read it to you.

MRS GOUR. No, no, it shall not need: I am a scholar Good enough to read a letter, sir.

MR GOUR. God's passion, if she know but the contents, She'll seek to cross this match! she shall not read it. [Aside.] Wife, give it me; come, come, give it me.

MRS GOUR. Husband, in very deed, you shall not have it.

MR GOUR. What, will you move me to impatience, then?

MRS GOUR. Tut, tell not me of your impatience; But since you talk, sir, of impatience, You shall not have the letter, by this light, Till I have read it; soul, I'll burn it first!

MR GOUR. Go to, ye move me, wife; give me the letter; In troth, I shall grow angry, if you do not.

MRS GOUR. Grow to the house-top with your anger, sir! Ne'er tell me, I care not thus much for it.

MR GOUR. Well, I can bear enough, but not too much. Come, give it me; 'twere best you be persuaded; By God—ye make me swear—now God forgive me!— Give me, I say, and stand not long upon it; Go to, I am angry at the heart, my very heart.

MRS GOUR. Heart me no hearts! you shall not have it, sir, No, you shall not; ne'er look so big, I will not be afraid at your great looks; You shall not have it, no, you shall not have it.

MR GOUR. Shall I not have it? in troth, I'll try that: Minion, I'll ha''t; shall I not ha''t?—I am loth— Go to, take pausement, be advis'd— In faith, I will; and stand not long upon it— A woman of your years! I am asham'd A couple of so long continuance Should thus—God's foot—I cry God heart'ly mercy!— Go to, ye vex me; and I'll vex ye for it; Before I leave ye, I will make ye glad To tender it on your knees; hear ye, I will, I will. What, worse and worse stomach! true faith, Shall I be cross'd by you in my old age? And where I should have greatest comfort, too, A nurse of you?—nurse in the devil's name!— Go to, mistress; by God's precious deer, If ye delay—

MRS GOUR. Lord, Lord, why, in what a fit Are you in, husband! so enrag'd, so mov'd, And for so slight a cause, to read a letter! Did this letter, love, contain my death, Should you deny my sight of it, I would not Nor see my sorrow nor eschew my danger, But willingly yield me a patient Unto the doom that your displeasure gave. Here is the letter; not for that your incensement [Gives back the letter.] Makes me make offer of it, but your health, Which anger, I do fear, hath craz'd[296], And viper-like hath suck'd away the blood That wont was to be cheerful in this cheek: How pale ye look!

MR GOUR. Pale! Can ye blame me for it? I tell you true, An easy matter could not thus have moved me. Well, this resignment—and so forth—but, woman, This fortnight shall I not forget ye for it.— Ha, ha, I see that roughness can do somewhat! I did not think, good faith, I could have set So sour a face upon it, and to her, My bed-embracer, my right bosom friend. I would not that she should have seen the letter— As poor a man as I am—by my troth, For twenty pound: well, I am glad I have it. [Aside.] Ha, here's ado about a thing of nothing! What, stomach, ha! 'tis happy you're come down. [Exit.

MRS GOUR. Well, crafty[297] fox, I'll hunt ye, by my troth, Deal ye so closely! Well, I see his drift: He would not let me see the letter, lest That I should cross the match; and I will cross it. Dick Coomes!

Enter COOMES.

COOMES. Forsooth.

MRS GOUR. Come hither, Dick; thou art a man I love, And one whom I have much in my regard.

COOMES. I thank ye for it, mistress, I thank ye for it.

MRS GOUR. Nay, here's my hand, I will do very much For thee, if e'er thou stand'st in need of me; Thou shalt not lack, whilst thou hast a day to live, Money, apparel—

COOMES. And sword and bucklers?

MRS GOUR. And sword and bucklers too, my gallant Dick, So thou wilt use but this in my defence. [Pointing to his sword.]

COOMES. This! no, faith, I have no mind to this; break my head, if this break not, if we come to any tough play. Nay, mistress, I had a sword, ay, the flower of Smithfield for a sword, a right fox,[298] i'faith; with that, and a man had come over with a smooth and a sharp stroke, it would have cried twang, and then, when I had doubled my point, trac'd my ground, and had carried my buckler before me like a garden-butt, and then come in with a cross blow, and over the pick[299] of his buckler two ells long, it would have cried twang, twang, metal, metal: but a dog hath his day; 'tis gone, and there are few good ones made now. I see by this dearth of good swords, that[300] dearth of sword-and-buckler fight begins to grow out:[301] I am sorry for it; I shall never see good manhood again, if it be once gone; this poking fight of rapier and dagger will come up then; then a man, a tall[302] man, and a good sword-and-buckler man, will be spitted like a cat or a coney; then a boy will be as good as a man, unless the Lord show mercy unto us; well, I had as lief be hang'd as live to see that day. Well, mistress, what shall I do? what shall I do?

MRS GOUR. Why, this, brave Dick. Thou knowest that Barnes's wife And I am foes: now, man me to her house; And though it be dark, Dick, yet we'll have no light. Lest that thy master should prevent our journey By seeing our depart. Then, when we come, And if that she and I do fall to words, Set in thy foot and quarrel with her men, Draw, fight, strike, hurt, but do not kill the slaves, And make as though thou strookest[303] at a man, And hit her, and thou canst,—a plague upon her!— She hath misus'd me, Dick: wilt thou do this?

COOMES. Yes, mistress, I will strike her men; but God forbid that e'er Dick Coomes should be seen to strike a woman!

MRS GOUR. Why, she is mankind;[304] therefore thou mayest strike her.

COOMES. Mankind! nay, and she have any part of a man, I'll strike her, I warrant.

MRS GOUR. That's my good Dick, that's my sweet Dick!

COOMES. 'Swouns, who would not be a man of valour to have such words of a gentlewoman! one of their words are more to me than twenty of these russet-coats, cheese-cakes, and butter-makers. Well, I thank God, I am none of these cowards; well, and a man have any virtue in him, I see he shall be regarded. [Aside.]

MRS GOUR. Art thou resolved, Dick? wilt thou do this for me? And if thou wilt, here is an earnest-penny Of that rich guerdon I do mean to give thee. [Gives money.]

COOMES. An angel,[305] mistress! let me see. Stand you on my left hand, and let the angel lie on my buckler on my right hand, for fear of losing. Now, here stand I to be tempted. They say, every man hath two spirits attending on him, either good or bad; now, I say, a man hath no other spirits but either his wealth or his wife: now, which is the better of them? Why, that is as they are used; for use neither of them well, and they are both nought. But this is a miracle to me, that gold that is heavy hath the upper, and a woman that is light doth soonest fall, considering that light things aspire, and heavy things soonest go down: but leave these considerations to Sir John;[306] they become a black-coat better than a blue.[307] Well, mistress, I had no mind to-day to quarrel; but a woman is made to be a man's seducer; you say, quarrel?

MRS GOUR. Ay.

COOMES. There speaks an angel: is it good?

MRS GOUR. Ay.

COOMES. Then, I cannot do amiss; the good angel goes with me.

[_Exeunt.

Enter_ SIR RALPH SMITH, his LADY, WILL, [and ATTENDANTS].

SIR RALPH. Come on, my hearts: i'faith, it is ill-luck, To hunt all day, and not kill anything. What sayest thou, lady? art thou weary yet?

LADY. I must not say so, sir.

SIR RALPH. Although thou art!

WILL. And can you blame her, to be forth so long, And see no better sport?

SIR RALPH. Good faith, 'twas very hard.

LADY. No, 'twas not ill, Because, you know, it is not good to kill.

SIR RALPH. Yes, venison, lady.

LADY. No, indeed, nor them; Life is as dear in deer as 'tis in men.

SIR RALPH. But they are kill'd for sport.

LADY. But that's bad play, When they are made to sport their lives away.

SIR RALPH. 'Tis fine to see them run.

LADY. What, out of breath? They run but ill that run themselves to death.

SIR RALPH. They might make, then, less haste, and keep their wind.

LADY. Why, then, they see the hounds brings death behind.

SIR RALPH. Then, 'twere as good for them at first to stay, As to run long, and run their lives away.

LADY. Ay, but the stoutest of you all that's here Would run from death and nimbly scud for fear. Now, by my troth, I pity these poor elves.[308]

SIR RALPH. Well, they have made us but bad sport to-day.

LADY. Yes, 'twas my sport to see them 'scape away.

WILL. I wish that I had been at one buck's fall.

LADY. Out, thou wood-tyrant! thou art worst of all.

WILL. A wood-man,[309] lady, but no tyrant I.

LADY. Yes, tyrant-like thou lov'st to see lives die.

SIR RALPH. Lady, no more: I do not like this luck, To hunt all day, and yet not kill a buck. Well, it is late; but yet I swear I will Stay here all night, but I a buck will kill.

LADY. All night! nay, good Sir Ralph Smith, do not so.

SIR RALPH. Content ye, lady. Will, go fetch my bow: A berry[310] of fair roes I saw to-day Down by the groves, and there I'll take my[311] stand, And shoot at one—God send a lucky hand!

LADY. Will ye not, then, Sir Ralph, go home with me?

SIR RALPH. No, but my men shall bear thee company.— Sirs, man her home. Will, bid the huntsmen couple, And bid them well reward their hounds to-night.— Lady, farewell. Will, haste ye with the bow; I'll stay for thee here by the grove below.

WILL. I will; but 'twill be dark, I shall not see: How shall I see ye, then?

SIR RALPH. Why, halloo to me, and I will answer thee.

WILL. Enough, I will.

SIR RALPH. Farewell. [Exit.

LADY. How willingly dost thou consent to go To fetch thy master that same killing bow!

WILL. Guilty of death I willing am in this, Because 'twas our ill-haps to-day to miss: To hunt, and not to kill, is hunter's sorrow. Come, lady, we'll have venison ere to-morrow.

[Exeunt.

Enter PHILIP, FRANK [and BOY].

PHIL. Come, Frank, now are we hard by the[312] house: But how now? Sad?

FRAN. No, to study how to woo thy sister.

PHIL. How, man? how to woo her! why, no matter how; I am sure thou wilt not he ashamed to woo. Thy cheeks not subject to a childish blush, Thou hast a better warrant by thy wit; I know thy oratory can unfold [A] quick invention, plausible discourse, And set such painted beauty on thy tongue, As it shall ravish every maiden sense; For, Frank, thou art not like the russet youth I told thee of, that went to woo a wench, And being full stuff'd up with fallow wit And meadow-matter, ask'd the pretty maid How they sold corn last market-day with them, Saying, "Indeed, 'twas very dear with [us]." And, do ye hear, ye[313] had not need be so, For she[314] will, Francis, throughly[315] try your wit; Sirrah, she'll bow the metal of your wits, And, if they crack, she will not hold ye current; Nay, she will weigh your wit, as men weigh angels,[316] And, if it lack a grain, she will not change with ye. I cannot speak it but in passion, She is a wicked wench to make a jest; Ah me, how full of flouts and mocks she is!

FRAN. Some aqua-vitae reason to recover This sick discourser! Sound[317] not, prythee, Philip. Tush, tush, I do not think her as thou sayest: Perhaps she's[318] opinion's darling, Philip, Wise in repute, the crow's bird. O my friend, Some judgments slave themselves to small desert, And wondernise the birth of common wit, When their own[319] strangeness do but make that strange, And their ill errors do but make that good: And why should men debase to make that good? Perhaps such admiration wins her wit.

PHIL. Well, I am glad to hear this bold prepare For this encounter. Forward, hardy Frank! Yonder's the window with the candle in't; Belike she's putting on her night attire: I told ye, Frank, 'twas late. Well, I will call her, Marry, softly, that my mother may not hear. Mall, sister Mall!

Enter MALL in the window.

MAL. How now, who's there?

PHIL. 'Tis I.

MAL. 'Tis I! Who I? I, quoth the dog, or what? A Christcross row I?[320]

PHIL. No, sweet pinkany.[321]

MAL. O, is't you, wild-oats?

PHIL. Ay, forsooth, wanton.

MAL. Well said, scapethrift.

FRAN. Philip, be these your usual best salutes? [Aside.]

PHIL. Is this the harmless chiding of that dove? [Aside.]

FRAN. Dove! One of those that draw the queen of love? [Aside.]

MAL. How now? who's that, brother? who's that with ye?

PHIL. A gentleman, my friend.

MAL. By'r lady, he hath a pure wit.

FRAN. How meane your holy judgment?

MAL. O, well put-in, sir!

FRAN. Up, you would say.

MAL. Well climb'd, gentleman! I pray, sir, tell me, do you cart the queen of love?

FRAN. Not cart her, but couch her in your eye, And a fit place for gentle love to lie.

MAL. Ay, but methinks you speak without the book, To place a four[322]-wheel waggon in my look: Where will you have room to have the coachman sit?

FRAN. Nay, that were but small manners, and not fit: His duty is before you bare to stand, Having a lusty whipstock[323] in his hand.

MAL. The place is void; will you provide me one?

FRAN. And if you please, I will supply the room.

MAL. But are ye cunning in the carman's lash? And can ye whistle well?

FRAN. Yes, I can well direct the coach of love.

MAL. Ah, cruel carter! would you whip a dove?

PHIL. Hark ye, sister—

MAL. Nay, but hark ye, brother; Whose white boy[324] is that same? know ye his mother?

PHIL. He is a gentleman of a good house.

MAL. Why, is his house of gold? Is it not made of lime and stone like this?

PHIL. I mean he's well-descended.

MAL. God be thanked! Did he descend some steeple or some ladder?

PHIL. Well, you will still be cross; I tell ye, sister— This gentleman, by all your friends' consent Must be your husband.

MAL. Nay, not all, some sing another note; My mother will say no, I hold a groat. But I thought 'twas somewhat, he would be a carter; He hath been whipping lately some blind bear, And now he would ferk the blind boy here with us.

PHIL. Well, do you hear, you, sister, mistress [that] would have— You that do long for somewhat, I know what— My father told me—go to, I'll tell all, If ye be cross—do you hear me? I have labour'd A year's work in this afternoon for ye: Come from your cloister, votary, chaste nun, Come down and kiss Frank Goursey's mother's son.

MAL. Kiss him, I pray?

PHIL. Go to, stale maidenhead! come down, I say, You seventeen and upward, come, come down; You'll stay till twenty else for your wedding gown.

MAL. Nun, votary, stale maidenhead, seventeen and upward! Here be names! what, nothing else?

FRAN. Yes, or a fair-built steeple without bells.

MAL. Steeple! good people, nay, another cast.

FRAN. Ay, or a well-made ship without a mast.

MAL. Fie, not so big, sir, by one part of four.

FRAN. Why, then, ye are a boat without an oar.

MAL. O well row'd wit! but what's your fare, I pray?

FRAN. Your fair self must be my fairest pay.

MAL. Nay, and you be so dear, I'll choose another.

FRAN. Why, take your first man, wench, and go no further. [Aside.]

PHIL. Peace, Francis. Hark ye, sister, this I say: You know my mind; or answer ay or nay. [Your] wit and judgment hath resolv'd his mind, And he foresees what after he shall find: If such discretion, then, shall govern you, Vow love to him, he'll do the like to you.

MAL. Vow love! who would not love such a comely feature, Nor high nor low, but of the middle stature? A middle man, that's the best size indeed; I like him well: love grant us well to speed!

FRAN. And let me see a woman of that tallness, So slender and of such a middle smallness, So old enough, and in each part so fit, So fair, so kind, endued with so much wit, Of so much wit as it is held a wonder, 'Twere pity to keep love and her asunder; Therefore go up, my joy, call down my bliss; Bid her come seal the bargain with a kiss.

MAL. Frank, Frank, I come through dangers, death, and harms, To make love's patent[325] with my[326] seal of arms.

PHIL. But, sister, softly, lest my mother hear.

MAL. Hush, then; mum, mouse in cheese[327], cat is near. [Exit MAL.

FRAN. Now, in good faith, Philip, this makes me smile, That I have wooed and won in so small while.

PHIL. Francis, indeed my sister, I dare say. Was not determined to say thee nay; For this same tother thing, call'd maiden-head, Hangs by so small a hair or spider's thread, And worn so too[328] with time, it must needs fall, And, like a well-lur'd hawk, she knows her call.

[Enter MALL.]

MAL. Whist, brother, whist! my mother heard me tread, And ask'd, Who's there? I would not answer her; She call'd, A light! and up she's gone to seek me: There when she finds me not, she'll hither come; Therefore dispatch, let it be quickly done. Francis, my love's lease I do let to thee, Date of my life and thine: what sayest thou to me? The ent'ring, fine, or income thou must pay, Are kisses and embraces every day; And quarterly I must receive my rent; You know my mind.

FRAN. I guess at thy intent: Thou shalt not miss a minute of thy time.

MAL. Why, then, sweet Francis, I am only thine.— Brother, bear witness.

PHIL. Do ye deliver this as your deed?

MAL. I do, I do.

PHIL. God send ye both good speed! God's Lord, my mother! Stand aside, And closely too, lest that you be espied.

[Enter MISTRESS BARNES.]

MRS BAR. Who's there?

PHIL. Mother, 'tis I.

MRS BAR. You disobedient ruffian, careless wretch, That said your father lov'd me but too well? I'll think on't, when thou think'st I have forgot it: Who's with thee else?—How now, minion? you! With whom? with him!—Why, what make you here, sir,

[Discovers FRANCIS and MALL.]

And thus late too? what, hath your mother sent ye To cut my throat, that here you be in wait?— Come from him, mistress, and let go his hand.— Will ye not, sir?

FRAN. Stay, Mistress Barnes, or mother—what ye will; She is[329] my wife, and here she shall be still.

MRS BAR. How, sir? your wife! wouldst thou my daughter have? I'll rather have her married to her grave.[330] Go to; be gone, and quickly, or I swear I'll have my men beat ye for staying here.

PHIL. Beat him, mother! as I am true[331] man, They were better beat the devil and his dam.

MRS BAR. What, wilt thou take his part?

PHIL. To do him good, And 'twere to wade hitherto up in blood.

FRAN. God-a-mercy, Philip!—But, mother, hear me.

MRS BAR. Call'st thou me mother? no, thy mother's name Carries about with it reproach and shame. Give me my daughter: ere that she shall wed A strumpet's son, and have her so misled, I'll marry her to a carter; come, I say, Give me her from thee.

FRAN. Mother, not to-day, Nor yet to-morrow, till my life's last morrow Make me leave that which I with leave did borrow: Here I have borrowed love, I'll not denay[332] it.— Thy wedding night's my day, then I'll repay it.— Till then she'll trust me. Wench, is't[333] not so? And if it be, say ay, if not, say no.

MAL. Mother, good mother, hear me! O good God, Now we are even, what, would you make us odd? Now, I beseech ye, for the love of Christ, To give me leave once to do what I list. I am as you were, when you were a maid; Guess by yourself how long you would have stay'd, Might you have had your will: as good begin At first as last, it saves us from much sin; Lying alone, we muse on things and things, And in our minds one thought another brings: This maid's life, mother, is an idle life, Therefore I'll be, ay, I will be a wife; And, mother, do not mistrust[334] my age or power, I am sufficient, I lack ne'er an hour; I had both wit to grant, when he did woo me, And strength to bear whate'er he can do to me.

MRS BAR. Well, bold-face, but I mean to make ye stay. Go to, come from him, or I'll make ye come: Will ye not come?

PHIL. Mother, I pray, forbear; This match is for my sister.

MRS BAR. Villain, 'tis not; Nor she shall not be so match'd now.[335]

PHIL. In troth, she shall, and your unruly hate Shall not rule us; we'll end all this debate By this begun device.

MRS BAR. Ay, end what you begun! Villains, thieves, Give me my daughter! will ye rob me of her?— Help, help! they'll rob me here, they'll rob me here!

Enter MASTER BARNES and his men.

MR BAR. How now? what outcry's here? why, how now, woman?

MRS BAR. Why, Goursey's son, confederate[336] with this boy, This wretch unnatural and undutiful, Seeks hence to steal my daughter: will you suffer it? Shall he, that's son to my arch-enemy, Enjoy her? Have I brought her up to this? O God, he shall not have her, no, he shall not!

MR BAR. I am sorry she knows it. [Aside.]—Hark ye, wife, Let reason moderate your rage a little. If you examine but his birth and living, His wit and good behaviour, you will say, Though that ill-hate make your opinion bad, He doth deserve as good a wife as she.

MRS BAR. Why, will you give consent he shall enjoy her?

MR BAR. Ay, so that thy mind would agree with mine?

MRS BAR. My mind shall ne'er agree to this agreement.

Enter MISTRESS GOURSEY and COOMES.[337]

MR BAR. And yet it shall go forward:—but who's here? What, Mistress Goursey! how knew she of this?

PHIL. Frank, thy mother!

FRAN. 'Sowns, where? a plague upon it! I think the devil is set to cross this match.

MRS GOUR. This is the house, Dick Coomes, and yonder's [th'] light: Let us go near. How now? methinks I see My son stand hand in hand with Barnes his daughter. Why, how now, sirrah? is this time of night For you to be abroad? what have we here? I hope that love hath not thus coupled you.

FRAN. Love, by my troth, mother, love: she loves me, And I love her; then we must needs agree.

MRS BAR. Ay, but I'll keep her sure enough from thee.

MRS GOUR. It shall not need, I'll keep him safe enough; Be sure he shall not graft in such a stock.

MRS BAR. What stock, forsooth? as good a stock as thine: I do not mean that he shall graft in mine.

MRS GOUR. Nor shall he, mistress. Hark, boy; th'art but mad To love the branch that hath a root so bad.

FRAN. Then, mother, I will graft a pippin on a crab.

MRS GOUR. It will not prove well.

FRAN. But I will prove my skill.

MRS BAR. Sir, but you shall not.

FRAN. Mothers both, I will.

MR BAR. Hark, Philip: send away thy sister straight; Let Francis meet her where thou shalt appoint; Let them go several to shun suspicion, And bid them go to Oxford both this night; There to-morrow say that we will meet them, And there determine of their marriage. [Aside.]

PHIL. I will: though it be very late and dark. My sister will endure it for a husband. [Aside.]

MR BAR. Well, then, at Carfax,[338] boy, I mean to meet them. [Aside.]

PHIL. Enough. Exit [MASTER BARNES.] Would they would begin to chide! For I would have them brawling, that meanwhile They may steal hence, to meet where I appoint it. [Aside.] What, mother, will you let this match go forward? Or, Mistress Goursey, will you first agree?

MRS GOUR. Shall I agree first?

PHIL. Ay, why not? come, come.

MRS GOUR. Come from her, son, and if thou lov'st thy mother.

MRS BAR. With the like spell, daughter, I conjure thee.

MRS GOUR. Francis, by fair means let me win thee from her, And I will gild my blessing, gentle son, With store of angels. I would not have thee Check thy good fortune by this cos'ning choice: O, do not thrall thy happy liberty In such a bondage! if thou'lt needs be bound, Be then to better worth; this worthless choice Is not fit for thee.

MRS BAR. Is't not fit for him? wherefore is't not fit? Is he too brave[339] a gentleman, I pray? No, 'tis not fit; she shall not fit his turn: If she were wise, she would be fitter for Three times his better. Minion, go in, or I'll make ye; I'll keep ye safe from him, I warrant ye.

MRS GOUR. Come, Francis, come from her.

FRAN. Mothers, with both hands shove I hate from love, That like an ill-companion would infect The infant mind of our affection: Within this cradle shall this minute's babe Be laid to rest; and thus I'll hug my joy.

MRS GOUR. Wilt thou be obstinate, thou self-will'd boy? Nay, then, perforce I'll part ye, since ye will not.

COOMES. Do ye hear, mistress? pray ye give me leave to talk two or three cold words with my young master.—Hark ye, sir, ye are my master's son, and so forth; and indeed I bear ye some good-will, partly for his sake, and partly for your own; and I do hope you do the like to me,—I should be sorry else. I must needs say ye are a young man; and for mine own part, I have seen the world, and I know what belongs to causes, and the experience that I have, I thank God I have travelled for it.

FRAN. Why, how far have ye travell'd for it?

BOY. From my master's house to the ale-house.

COOMES. How, sir?

BOY. So, sir.

COOMES. Go to. I pray, correct your boy; 'twas ne'er a good world, since a boy would face a man so.

FRAN. Go to. Forward, man.

COOMES. Well, sir, so it is, I would not wish ye to marry without my mistress' consent.

FRAN. And why?

COOMES. Nay, there's ne'er a why but there is a wherefore; I have known some have done the like, and they have danc'd a galliard at beggars'-bush[340] for it.

BOY. At beggars'-bush! Hear him no more, master; he doth bedaub ye with his dirty speech. Do ye hear, sir? how far stands beggars'-bush from your father's house, sir? Why, thou whoreson refuge[341] of a tailor, that wert 'prentice to a tailor half an age, and because, if thou hadst served ten ages thou wouldst prove but a botcher, thou leapst from the shop-board to a blue coat, doth it become thee to use thy terms so? well, thou degree above a hackney, and ten degrees under a page, sew up your lubber lips, or 'tis not your sword and buckler shall keep my poniard from your breast.

COOMES. Do ye hear, sir? this is your boy.

FRAN. How then?

COOMES. You must breech him for it.

FRAN. Must I? how, if I will not?

COOMES. Why, then, 'tis a fine world, when boys keep boys, and know not how to use them.

FRAN. Boy, ye rascal!

MRS GOUR. Strike him, and thou darest.

COOMES. Strike me? alas, he were better strike his father! Sowns, go to, put up your bodkin.[342]

FRAN. Mother, stand by; I'll teach that rascal—

COOMES. Go to, give me good words, or, by God's dines,[343] I'll buckle ye for all your bird-spit.

FRAN. Will you so, sir?

PHIL. Stay, Frank, this pitch of frenzy will defile thee; Meddle not with it: thy unreproved valour Should be high-minded; couch it not so low. Dost hear me? take occasion to slip hence, But secretly, let not thy mother see thee: At the back-side there is a coney-green;[344] Stay there for me, and Mall and I will come to thee. [Aside.]

FRAN. Enough, I will [Aside.] Mother, you do me wrong To be so peremptory in your command, And see that rascal to abuse me so.

COOMES. Rascal! take that and take all! Do ye hear, sir? I do not mean to pocket up this wrong.

Boy. I know why that is.

COOMES. Why?

Boy. Because you have ne'er a pocket.

COM. A whip, sirrah, a whip! But, sir, provide your tools against to-morrow morning; 'tis somewhat dark now, indeed: you know Dawson's close, between the hedge and the pond; 'tis good even ground; I'll meet you there; and I do not, call me cut;[345] and you be a man, show yourself a man; we'll have a bout or two; and so we'll part for that present.

FRAN. Well, sir, well.

NICH. Boy, have they appointed to fight?

BOY. Ay, Nicholas; wilt not thou go see the fray?

NICH. No, indeed; even as they brew, so let them bake. I will not thrust my hand into the flame, and [I] need not; 'tis not good to have an oar in another man's boat; little said is soon amended, and in little meddling cometh great rest; 'tis good sleeping in a whole skin; so a man might come home by Weeping-Cross:[346] no, by lady, a friend is not so soon gotten as lost; blessed are the peace-makers; they that strike with the sword, shall be beaten with the scabbard.

PHIL. Well-said, Proverbs: ne'er another to that purpose?

NICH. Yes, I could have said to you, sir, Take heed is a good reed.[347]

PHIL. Why to me, take heed?

NICH. For happy is he whom other men's harms do make to beware.

PHIL. O, beware, Frank! Slip away, Mall, you know what I told ye. I'll hold our mothers both in talk meanwhile. [Aside.] Mother and Mistress Barnes, methinks you should not stand in hatred so hard one with another.