ACTUS IV., SCÆNA 1.

Oliver. Good meat the belly fills, good wine the brain; Women please men, men pleasure them again: Ka me, ka thee: one thing must rub another: English love Scots, Welshmen love each other. Jus. Tut. You say very right, Sir Oliver, very right; I have't in my noddle, i' faith. That's all the fault Old justices have; when they are at feasts, They will bib[396] hard; they will be fine sunburnt, Sufficient fox'd or columber'd, now and then. Now could I sit in my chair at home, and nod A drunkard to the stocks by virtue of The last statute rarely[397]. Taf. Sir, you are merry. Jus. Tut. I am indeed. Taf. Your supper, sir, was light; But I hope you think you're welcome. Jus. Tut. I do. A light supper; quoth you? pray God it be, Pray God I carry it cleanly, I am sure it lies As heavy in my belly as molt lead; Yet I'll go see my sister Sommerfield. Oliver. So late, good Justice? Jus. Tut. Aye, even so late. Night is the mother of wit, as you may see By poets or rather constables In their examinations at midnight. We'll lie together without marrying, Save the curate's fees[398] and the parish a labour; 'Tis a thriving course. Oliver. That may not be, For excommunications then will flee. Jus. Tut. That's true, they fly indeed like wild geese In flocks, one in the breech of another; But the best is, a small matter stays them. And so farewell. Oliver. Farewell, good Justice Tutchin.

Alas, good gentleman, his brains are crazed, But let that pass. Speak, widow, is't a match? Shall we clap it up? Adri. Nay, if't come to clapping, Good night, i' faith. Mistress, look before you, There's nothing more dangerous to maid or widow Than sudden clappings-up; nothing hath spoiled So many proper ladies as clappings-up. Your shittle-cock, striding from tables to ground, Only to try the strength of the back: Your riding a hunting—ay, though they fall With their heels upward, and lay as if They were taking the height of some high star With a cross-staff; no, nor your jumblings In horselitters, coaches or carouches[399], Have spoiled so many women as clappings-up. Oliver. Why, then, we'll chop it up. Taf. That's not allowed, Unless you were son to a Welsh curate. But faith, sir knight, I have a kind of itching To be a lady; that, I can tell you, wooes, And can persuade with better rhetoric Than oaths, wit, wealth, valour, lands, or person: I have some debts at Court, and, marrying you, I hope the courtiers will not stick to pay me. Oliver. Never fear thy payment. This I will say For courtiers, they'll be sure to pay each other, Howe'er they deal with citizens. Taf. Then here's my hand; I am your wife, condition we be joined Before to-morrow's sun. Oliver. Nay, even to-night, So you be pleas'd. With little warning, widow, We old men can be ready, and thou shalt see, Before the time that chanticleer Shall call, and tell the day is near: When wenches, lying on their backs, Receive with joy their love-stol'n smacks; When maids, awak'd from their first sleep, Deceiv'd with dreams, begin to weep, And think, if dreams such pleasure know, What sport the substance them would show; When a lady 'gins[400] white limbs to spread, Her love but new-stol'n to her bed, His cotton shoes yet scarce put off, And dares not laugh, speak, sneeze, or cough; When precise dames begin to think, Why their gross louring[401] husbands stink; What pleasure 'twere then to enjoy, A nimble vicar or a boy; Before this time thou shalt behold Me quaffing out our bridal bowl[402]. Adri. Then, belike, before the morning sun You will be coupled? Taf. Yes, faith, Adriana. Adri. Well, I will look you shall have a clean smock, Provided that you pay the fee, Sir Oliver. Since my mistress, sir, will be a lady, I'll lose no fees due to the waiting-maid. Oliver. Why, is there a fee belonging to it? Adri. A knight, and never heard of smock-fees? I would I had the monopoly of them, So there were no impost set upon them.

Oliver. Whom have we here? what, my mad-headed son; What makes he here so late? Say I am gone; And I the whilst will step behind the hangings. W. Small. God bless thee, parcel of man's flesh. Taf. How, sir? W. Small. Why, parcel of man's flesh! art not a woman? But, widow, where's the old stinkard my father? They say, widow, you dance altogether After his pipe. Taf. What then? W. Small. Th' art a fool, I'll assure thee there's no music in it. Taf. Can you play better? W. Small. Better, widow? Blood, dost think I have not learnt my prick-song? What, not the court prick-song? One up and another down: Why, I have't to a hair; by this light, I hope thou lovest him not. Taf. I'll marry him, sir. W. Small. How? marry him! foot, art mad, widow? Woo't marry an old crazed man With meagre looks, with visage wan, With little legs and crinkled thighs, With chap-fall'n gums and deep-sunk eyes? Why, a dog, seiz'd on ten days by death, Stinks not so loathsome as his breath; Nor can a city common jakes, Which all mens' breeches undertakes, Yield fasting stomachs such a savour, As doth his breath and ugly favour. Oliver. Rogue! [Aside. Adri. That's all one, sir; she means to be a lady. W. Small. Does she so? and thou must be her waiting-woman? Faith, thou wilt make a fine dainty creature, To sit at a chamber-door, and look fleas In my lady's dog, while she is shewing Some slippery-breech'd courtier rare faces In a bay[403]-window. Foot, widow, Marry me—a young and complete gallant. Taf. How a complete gallant? what? a fellow With a hat tuck'd up behind, and, what we use About our hips to keep our coats from dabbling, He wears about his neck—a farthingale! A standing collar to keep his neat band clean, The whilst his shirt doth stink, and is more foul Than an inn-of-chancery table-cloth: His breeches must be plaited, as if he had Some thirty pockets, when one poor half-penny purse Will carry all his treasure; his knees all points, As if his legs and hams were tied together; A fellow that has no inside, but prates By rote, as players and parrots use to do, And, to define a complete gallant right, A mercer form'd him, a tailor makes him, A player gives him spirit. W. Small. Why, so in my conscience to be a countess Thou wouldst marry a hedge-hog: I must confess, 'Tis state to have a coxcomb kiss your hands, While yet the chamber-lie[404] is scarce wip'd off; To have an upright usher march before you Bare-headed in a tuftafata jerkin, Made of your old cast gown, shows passing well, But when you feel your husband's pulse, that's hell; Then you fly out, and bid strait smocks farewell. Taf. I hope, sir, whate'er our husbands be, We may be honest. W. Small. May be! may, y' are: Women and honesty are so near allied, As parsons' lives are to their doctrines— One and the same. But, widow, now be rul'd; I hope the heavens will give thee better grace Than to accept the father, and I yet live To be bestowed: if you wed the stinkard, You shall find the tale of Tantalus To be no fable, widow. Oliver. How I sweat! [Aside. I can hold no longer. [Comes out.] Degenerate bastard! I here disclaim thee, cashier thee; nay, more, I disinherit thee both of my love And living: get thee a grey cloak and hat, And walk in Paul's[405] among thy cashier'd mates As melancholy as the best. Taf. Come not near me, I forbid thee my house, my out-houses, My garden, orchard, and my back-side[406]; Thou shalt not harbour near me.

Oliver. Nay, to thy grief Know, varlet, I will be wed this morning, Thou shalt not be there, nor once be grac'd With a piece of rosemary[407]. I[408] cashier thee. Do not reply: I will not stay to hear thee.

W. Small. Now may I go put me on a clean shirt, And hang myself. Foot, who would have thought The fox had earth'd so near me; what's to be done? What miracle shall I now undertake To win respective[409] grace with God and men? What, if I turn'd courtier and liv'd honest? Sure, that would do: I dare not walk the streets, For I dwindle at a serjeant in buff Almost as much as a new player does At a plague-bill certified forty.[410] Well, I like this widow: a lusty plump drab: Has substance both in breech and purse, And pity and sin it were she should be wed To a furr'd cloak and a night-cap. I'll have her: This widow I will have: her money Shall pay my debts, and set me up again. 'Tis here, 'tis almost forg'd, which if it take, The world shall praise my wit, admire my fate. [Exit.

Beard. Serjeants, beware; be sure you not mistake, For if you do— Dash. She shall be quickly bail'd, She shall corpus cum causa be remov'd; Your action entered first below shall shrink, And you shall find, sir serjeant, she has friends Will stick to her in the common place. Ser. Sir, Will you procure her bail? Beard. She shall be bail'd. Drawer, bring up some wine, use her well, Her husband is a gentleman of sort. Ser. A gentleman of sort! why, what care I? A woman of her fashion shall find More kindness at a lusty serjeant's hand Than ten of your gentlemen of sort. Dash. Sir, use her well: she's wife to Master Throat. Ser. I'll use her, sir, as if she were my wife: Would you have any more? Beard. Drink upon that, Whilst we go fetch her bail. Dash, fellow Dash, With all the speed thou hast, run for our master; Make haste, lest he be gone, before thou comest, To Lady Sommerfield's: I'll fetch another; She shall have bail. Dash. And a firking writ Of false imprisonment; she shall be sure Of twelvepence damage, and five-and-twenty pound For suits in law: I'll go fetch my master. Beard. And I another.

Ser. Drawer, leave the room. Here, mistress, a health! Fran. Let it come, sweet rogue.

Drawer. Ay, say you so? then must I have an eye; These serjeants feed on very good reversions, On capons, teals, and sometimes on a woodcock, Hot from the shrieve's own table[411]; the knaves feed well, Which makes them horrid lechers. Fran. This health is pledg'd; And, honest serjeant, how does Master Gripe, The keeper of the Counter? I do protest, I found him always favourable to me, He is an honest man; has often stood to me, And been my friend; and let me go o' trust For victual, when he has denied it knights. But come, Let's pay, and then be gone: th' arrest, you know, Was but a trick to get from nimble Dash, My husband's man. Ser. True: but I have an action At suit of Mistress Smell-smock, your quondam bawd: The sum is eight good pound for six weeks' board, And five weeks' loan for a red taffata gown, Bound with a silver lace. Fran. I do protest, By all the honesty 'twixt thee and me, I got her in that gown in six weeks' space Four pound, and fourteen pence given by a clerk Of an inn-of-chancery that night I came Out of her house; and does the filthy jade Send to me for money?[412] But, honest serjeant, Let me go, and say thou didst not see me, I'll do thee as great a pleasure shortly. Ser. Shall we embrace to-night? Fran. With all my heart. Ser. Sit on my knee, and kiss.

Beard. What news, boy? why stand you sentinel? Drawer. Do but conceal yourself, and we shall catch My serjeant napping. Beard. Shall maids be here deflowered? Ser. Now kiss again. Drawer. Now, now.

Beard. Deflower virgins! rogue I avaunt, ye slave, Are maids fit subjects for a serjeant's mace? So now are we once more free: there's for the wine.

Now to our rendezvous: three pounds in gold These slops[413] contain; we'll quaff in Venice glasses[414], And swear some lawyers are but silly asses.

Capt. Face. Is the coast clear? Are these combustions ceas'd? And may we drink canary sack in peace? Shall we have no attendance here, you rogues? Where be these rascals that skip up and down Faster than virginal jacks?[415] Drawers! Drawer. Sir! Capt. Face. On whom wait you, sir rogue? Drawer. Faith, captain, I attend a conventicle of players. Capt. Face. How, players? what is there e'er a cuckold among them? Drawer. Jove defend else; it stands with policy, That one should be a notorious cuckold, If it be but for the better keeping The rest of his company together. Capt. Face. When did you see Sir Theophrastus Slop, The city dog-master? Drawer. Not to-day, sir. Capt. Face. What have you for my supper? Drawer. Nothing ready, Unless you please to stay the dressing, captain. Capt. Face. Zounds! stay the dressing! you damned rogue, What, shall I wait upon your greasy cook, And wait his leisure? go down stairs, rogue; Now all her other customers be serv'd, Ask, if your mistress have a snip of mutton Yet left for me. Drawer. Yes, sir. Capt. Face. And, good-man rogue, See what good thing your kitchen-maid has left For me to work upon; my barrow-guttlings grumble And would have food: [Exit Drawer.] Say now, the vintner's wife Should bring me up a pheasant, partridge, quail; A pleasant banquet, and extremely love me, Desire me to eat, kiss, and protest, I should pay nothing for it; say she should drink Herself three-quarters drunk to win my love, Then give me a chain worth some three score pounds; Say 'twere worth but forty—say, but twenty, For citizens do seldom in their wooing Give above twenty pounds—say then, 'tis twenty, I'll go sell some fifteen pounds' worth of the chain To buy some clothes, and shift my lousy linen. And wear the rest as a perpetual favour About my arm in fashion of a bracelet. Say then her husband should grow jealous, I'd make him drunk, and then I'll cuckold him. But then a vintner's wife, some rogue will say, Which sits at bar for the receipt of custom, That smells of chippings and of broken fish, Is love to Captain Face; which to prevent, I'll never come but when her best-stitch'd hat, Her bugle-gown, and best-wrought smock is on; Then does she neither smell of bread, of meat, Or droppings of the tap; it shall be so.

Bout. Now leave us, boy; bless you, Captain Face. Capt. Face. I'll have no music[416]. W. Small. Foot, dost take us for fiddlers? Capt. Face. Then turn straight. Drawer, run down the stairs, And thank the gods a gave me that great patience Not to strike you. Bout. Your patience, sir, is great: For you dare seldom strike. Sirrah, they say, You needs will wed the widow Taffata, Nolens volens? Capt. Face. Do not urge my patience, Awake not fury new-rak'd up in embers! I give you leave to live. W. Small. Men say y'have tricks, Y'are an admirable ape, and you can do More feats than three baboons: we must have some. Capt. Face. My patience yet is great; I say, begone, My tricks are dangerous. Bout. That's nothing, I have brought you furniture. Come, get up Upon this table: do your feats, Or I will whip you to them; do not I know You are a lousy knave? Capt. Face. How! lousy knave; Are we not English bred? Bout. Y'are a coward rogue, That dares not look a kitling in the face, If she but stare or mew. Capt. Face. My patience yet is great: Do you bandy tropes? by Dis, I will be knight, Wear a blue coat on great Saint George's day,[417] And with my fellows drive you all from Paul's For this attempt. Bout. Will you yet get up? I must lash you to it. Capt. Face. By Pluto, gentlemen, To do you pleasure, and to make you sport, I'll do't. W. Small. Come, get up then quick. Bout. I'll dress you, sir. Capt. Face. By Jove, 'tis not for fear, But for a love I bear unto these tricks, That I perform it. Bout. Hold up your snout, sir: Sit handsomely; by heaven, sir, you must do it. Come, boy. W. Small. No, by this good light, I'll play Him that goes with the motions. Drawer. Where's the captain, gentlemen? W. Small. Stand back, boy, and be a spectator. Gentlemen, You shall see the strange nature of an outlandish beast, That has but two legs, bearded like a man, Nosed like a goose, and tongued like a woman, Lately brought from the land of Cataia.[418] A beast of much understanding, were it not given Too much to the love of venery. Do I not do it well? Bout. Admirably! W. Small. Remember, noble captain, You skip, when I shall shake my whip. Now, sir, What can you do for the great Turk? What can you do for the Pope of Rome? Hark! he stirreth not, he moveth not, he waggeth not; What can you do for the town of Geneva, sirrah?

Con. Sure, this baboon is a great Puritan, Bout. Is not this strange? W. Small. Not a whit; by this light Banks[419] his horse and he were taught both in a stable. Drawer. O, rare! Capt. Face. Zounds! I'll first be damn'd: shall [my] sport Be laugh'd at? by Dis, by Pluto, and great Proserpine, My fatal blade, once drawn, falls but with death: Yet if you'll let me go, I vow, by Jove, No widow, maid, wife, punk, or cockatrice, Shall make me haunt your ghosts. Bout. 'Twill not serve, sir, You must show more. Capt. Face. I'll first be hang'd and damn'd.[420] W. Small. Foot, can he jump so well? Bout. Is he so quick? I hope the slave will haunt no more the widow. W. Small. As for that take no care, for by this light She'll not have thee. Bout. Not have me? W. Small. No, not have thee. By this hand, flesh, and blood, she is resolv'd To make my father a most fearful cuckold, And he's resolv'd to save his soul by her. Bout. How, by her? W. Small. Thus: all old men, which marry Young wives, shall questionless be sav'd, For while they're young, they keep other men's wives, And when they're old, they keep wives for other men, And so by satisfaction procure salvation. Why, thou dejected tail of a crab! Does not the fair Constantia Sommerfield[421] Doat on thy filthy face? and wilt thou wed A wanton widow? what can'st thou see, To doat on her? Bout. Only this—I love her. W. Small. Dost love her? then take a purgation, For love, I'll assure thee, is a binder. Of all things under heaven, there's no fitter Parallels than a drunkard and a lover; For a drunkard loses his senses, so does your lover; Your drunkard is quarrelsome, so is your lover; Your drunkard will swear, lie, and speak great Words—so will your lover; your drunkard is most Desirous of his lechery, and so is your lover. Well, the night grows old; farewell. I am so much thy friend, that none shall bed thee, While fair Constantia is resolv'd to wed thee. [Exeunt.

T. Small. Foot, shall we let the wench go thus? My masters, now show yourselves gentlemen, And take away the lawyer's wife. Foot, though I have no wit, yet I can Love a wench, and choose a wife.

Gent. Stand close: they come. Beard. By Jove, the night grows dark, and Luna looks As if this hour some fifty cuckolds were making. Then let us trudge.

Beard. And stays the curate? What's here? knock'd down, and blood of men let out? Must men in darkness bleed? then, Erebus, look big, And, Boreas, blow the fire of all my rage Into his nose. Night, thou art a whore, Small-shanks a rogue; and is my wench took from me? Sure, I am gull'd; this was no cockatrice. I never saw her, before this daylight peep'd: What, dropp'st thou, head? this surely is the heir, And mad Will Small-shanks lay in ambuscado, To get her now from me. Beard! Lieutenant Beard, Thou art an ass; what a dull slave was I, That all this while smelt not her honesty! Pate, I do not pity thee: hadst thou brains, Lieutenant Beard had got this wealthy heir From all these rogues. Blood! to be thus o'er-reach'd, In pate and wench! revenge! revenge! come up, And with thy curled locks cling to my beard. Small-shanks, I will betray thee. I will[423] trudge To Saint John Street, to inform the Lady Sommerfield, Where thou art; I will prevent the match. Thou art to Fleet Street gone, revenge shall follow; And my incensed wrath shall, like great thunder, Disperse thy hopes and thy brave wife asunder. [Exit.

Jus. Tut. Say as I say, widow; the wench is gone, But I know whither stol'n she is; well— I know by whom; say as I say, widow. I have been drinking hard—why, say so too, Old men they can be fine with small ado. The law is not offended. I had no punk; Nor in an alehouse have I made me drunk. The statute is not broke[424], I have the skill To drink by law; then say as I say still. Lady Som. To what extremes doth this licentious time Hurry unstayed youth! Nor gods nor laws, Whose penal scourges are enough to save Ev'n damn'd fiends, can in this looser age Confine unbounded youth. Who durst presume To steal my youth's delight, my age's hope, Her father's heir and the last noble stem Of all her ancestors? fear they or gods or laws? Jus. Tut. I say as you say, sister; but for the laws, There are so many, that men do stand in awe Of none at all. Take heed they steal not you. Who woos a widow with a fair full moon Shall surely speed; beware of full moons, widow: Will Small-shanks has your daughter—no word but mum? My warrant you shall have, when time shall come. Lady Som. Your warrant? Jus. Tut. Aye, my warrant, widow; My warrant can stretch far; no more, but so, 'Twill serve to catch a knave or fetch a doe.

Serv.-Man. Here's a gentleman much desirous to see you, madam. Lady Som. What is he for a man? Serv.-Man. Nothing for a man, but much for a beast. I think him lunatic; for he demands What plate of his is stirring i' the house! He calls your men his butlers, cooks, and stewards: Kisses your women, and makes exceeding much Of your coachman's wife.

Serv.-Man. That's my lady. Throat. For that thou first hast brought me to her sight, I here create thee clerk of the kitchen: No man shall beg it from thee. Serv.-Man. Sure, the fellow's mad. Lady Som. What would you, sir? I guess your long profession[425] By your scant suit; your habit seems to turn Your inside outward to me; y'are, I think, Some turner of the law. Throat. Law is my living, And on that ancient mould I wear this outside: Suit upon suit wastes some, yet makes me thrive, First law, then gold, then love; and then we wive. Just. Tut. A man of form, like me. But what's your business? Lady Som. Be brief, good sir; what makes this bold intrusion? Throat. Intrude I do not, for I know the law; It is the rule that squares out all our actions, Those actions bring in coin, coin gets me friends, Your son-in-law hath law at's fingers' ends. Lady Som. My son-in-law! Throat. Madam, your son-in-law. Mother, I come (be glad I call you so), To make a gentle breach into your favour, And win your approbation of my choice: Your cherry-ripe sweet daughter (so renown'd For beauty, virtue and a wealthy dower) I have espous'd. Lady Som. How? you espouse my daughter? Throat. Noverint universi, the laws of heaven, Of nature, church, and chance, have made her mine; Therefore deliver her by these presents. Just. Tut. How's this? made her yours, sir, per quam regulam? Nay, we are letter'd, sir, as well as you, Redde rationem; per quam regulam? Throat. Fæminæ[426] ludificantur viros: By that same rule these lips have taken seizin: Tut, I do all by statute-law and reason. Lady Som. Hence, you base knave! you petty-fogging groom! Clad in old ends, and piec'd with brokery: You wed my daughter! Just. Tut. You, sir Ambi-dexter! A sumner's[427] son, and learn'd in Norfolk wiles: Some common bail or counter-lawyer, Marry my niece! your half-sleeves shall not carry her. Throat. These storms will be dissolv'd in tears of joy, Mother, I doubt it not. Justice, to you, That jerk at my half-sleeves, and yet yourself Do never wear but buckram out of sight: A flannel waist-coat or a canvas truss, A shift of thrift, I use it: let's be friends, You know the law has tricks—ka me, ka thee! Viderit utilitas, the mot to these half-arms, Corpus cum causa, need no bumbasting: We wear small hair, yet have we tongue and wit, Lawyers close-breech'd have bodies politic. Lady Som. Speak, answer me, sir Jack: stole you my daughter? Throat. Short tale to make, I fingered have your daughter: I have ta'en livery and seisin of the wench. Deliver her then: you know the statute-laws; She's mine without exception, bar, or clause; Come, come, restore. Lady Som. The fellow's mad, I think. Throat. I was not mad before I married; But, ipso facto, what the act may make me, That know I not. Just. Tut. Fellows, come in there.

By this, sir, you confess you stole my niece, And I attach you here of felony. Lay hold on him! I'll make my mittimus, And send him to the gaol; have we no bar Nor clause to hamper you? away with him, Those claws shall claw you to a bar of shame, Where thou shalt show thy goll[428]. I'll bar your claim, If I be Justice Tutchin. Throat. Hands off, you slaves! O, favour my jerkin, though you tear my flesh. I set more store by that: my Audita Querela shall be heard, and with a Certiorari I'll fetch her from you with a pox.

Beard. What's here to do? is all the world in arms? More tumults, brawls, and insurrections? Is blood the theme, whereon our time must treat? Throat. Here's Beard your butler: a rescue, Beard; draw. Beard. Draw I not so: my blade's as ominously drawn Unto the death of nine or ten such grooms, As is a knife unsheath'd, with th' hungry maw, Threat'ning the ruin of a chine of beef: But for the restless toil it took of late, My blade shall sleep awhile. Throat. Help. Beard. Stop thy throat. And hear me speak, whose bloody characters Will show I have been scuffling. Briefly thus: Thy wife, your daughter, and your lovely niece, Is hurri'd now to Fleet Street: the damn'd crew With glaves and clubs have rapt her from these arms. Throat, thou art bobb'd; although thou bought'st the heir, Yet hath the slave made a re-entry. Jus. Tut. Sirrah, what are you? Throat. My lady's butler, sir. Beard. Not I, by heaven! Throat. By this good light, he swore it, And for your daughter's love he ran away. Beard. By Jove, I gull'd thee, Throat. Jus. Tut. More knavery yet? Lay hands on him, pinion them both, And guard them hence towards Fleet Street: come away! Beard. Must we be led like thieves, and pinion'd walk? Spent I my blood for this? is this my hire? Why then burn, rage: set Beard and Nose on fire. Jus. Tut. On, on, I say. Throat. Justice, the law shall firk you.