Act 5 — ACT V., SCENE I.
Reading edition
Ludgate. Enter Old Foster, his Wife, and Keeper.
Keeper. Come, come, be merry, sir; do as mourners do at funerals, wear your hat in your eyes, and laugh in your heart.
O. Fos. I have no such fat legacy left me, To teach me how to play the hypocrite.
Keeper. No? Why, look ye, sir, you shall want neither meat, drink, money, nor anything that the house affords; or if anything abroad like ye, sir, here's money, send for what you will, sir. Nay, you shall beg no more at the grate neither.
O. Fos. Ha! is not this Ludgate? Keeper. Yes, sir. O. Fos. A jail, a prison, a tomb of men lock'd up, Alive and buried? Keeper. 'Tis what you please to call it. O. Fos. O, at what crevice, then, hath comfort, Like a sunbeam, crept in? for all the doors And windows are of iron, and barr'd to keep Her out. I had a limb cut from my body Dear to me as [my] life; I had a son And brother, too. O grief! They both would give me poison first in gold, Before their hollow palms ten drops should hold Of nature's drink, cold water, but to save My life one minute: whence should pity come, When my best friends do beat it from this room?
Keeper. No matter, sir; since you have good meat set before you, never ask who sent it. If heaven provide for you, and make the fowls of the air your caters, feed you fat, and be thankful; and so I leave you. [Exit.
Mrs Fos. The keeper is your friend, and pours true balm Into your smarting wounds; therefore, dear husband, Endure the dressing with patience. O. Fos. O wife, my losses are as numberless As the sea-sands that swallowed them! And shall I, In reckoning them, my sad griefs multiply? Mrs Fos. You may, sir; But your dim eyes so thick with tears do run, You cannot see from whence your comforts come: Besides, your debts being truly counted Cannot be great. O. Fos. But all my wealth and state lies in the sea's bottom. Mrs Fos. It again may rise. O. Fos. O, never! Mrs Fos. Good sir, so hope, for I from heaven espy An arm to pluck you from this misery.
Enter Keeper.
Keeper. Sir, there's one without desires to speak with you.
O. Fos. Go, send him in. [Exit Keeper.] None comes to do me good, My wealth is lost, now let them take my blood.
Enter Robert.
Ha! what art thou? Call for the keeper there, And thrust him out of doors, or lock me up. Mrs Fos. O, 'tis your son, sir! O. Fos. I know him not: [Robert kneels. I am no king, unless of scorn and woe; Why kneel'st thou, then? Why dost thou mock me so? Rob. O my dear father, hither am I come, Not like a threat'ning storm t' increase your wrack, For I would take all sorrows from your back, To lay them all on my own. O. Fos. Rise, mischief, rise! Away, and get thee gone! Rob. O, if I be thus hateful to your eye, I will depart, and wish I soon may die; Yet let your blessing, sir, but fall on me. O. Fos. My heart still hates thee. Mrs Fos. Sweet husband! O. Fos. Get you both gone! That misery takes some rest that dwells alone; Away, thou villain! Rob. Heaven can tell, Ache but your finger, I, to make it well, Would cut my hand off. O. Fos. Hang thee, hang thee! Mrs Fos. Husband! O. Fos. Destruction meet thee! Turn the key there, ho! Rob. Good sir, I'm gone; I will not stay to grieve you. O, knew you for your woes what pains I feel, You would not scorn me so. See, sir, to cool Your heat of burning sorrow, I have got Two hundred pounds, and glad it is my lot To lay it down with reverence at your feet; No comfort in the world to me is sweet, Whilst thus you live in moan. O. Fos. Stay! Rob. Good troth, sir, I'll have none on't back, Could but one penny of it save my life. Mrs Fos. Yet stay and hear him. O unnatural strife In a hard father's bosom! O. Fos. I see mine error now. O, can there grow A rose upon a bramble? Did there e'er flow Poison and health together in one tide? I'm born a man: reason may step aside, And lead a father's love out of the way: Forgive me, my good boy, I went astray: Look, on my knees I beg it—not for joy Thou bring'st this golden rubbish, which I spurn; But glad in this, the heavens mine eyeballs turn, And fix them right to look upon that face, Where love remains with pity, duty, grace. O my dear wronged boy! Rob. Gladness o'erwhelms my heart! With joy I cannot speak! Mrs Fos. Crosses of this foolish world Did never grieve my heart with torments more, Than it is now grown light With joy and comfort of this happy sight. O. Fos. Yet, wife, I disinherited this boy. Rob. Your blessing's all I crave. O. Fos. And that enjoy For ever: evermore my blessings fly To pay thy virtues, love and charity.
Enter Stephen's Wife.
Mrs Fos. Here comes your brother's wife. Welcome, dear sister. Wife. I thank you. How fare you, brother? O. Fos. Better than your husband's hate could wish me, That laughs to see my back with sorrows bow: But I am rid of half my ague now. Wife. Had you an ague, then? O. Fos. Yes, and my heart had every hour a fit; But now't has left me well, and I left it. Wife. O, 'tis well. Cousin, what make you here, I pray? Rob. To support a weak house falling to decay. Wife. 'Tis well if you can do't, and that the timber You underprop it with be all your own. Hark, coz, where's your uncle's money? Rob. Faith, aunt, 'tis gone; But not at dice nor drabbing. Wife. Sir, I believe, With your uncle's gold your father you relieve. Rob. You are sav'd, believing so: your belief's true. Wife. You cut large thongs of that's another's due, And you will answer't ill. Now, in good troth, I laugh at this jest: much good do them both: My wager I had won, had I but laid. [Aside. O. Fos. What has my poor boy done, that you have made So much blood rise in's cheeks? Wife. Nothing, dear brother; Indeed all's well: the course that he has run I like and love; let him hold on the same; A son's love to a father none can blame: I will not leave your brother's iron heart, Till I have beat it soft with my entreats. O. Fos. 'Twill ne'er be music, 'tis so full of frets. Wife. Frets make best music: strings the higher rack'd Sound sweetest. O. Fos. And sound nothing when they are crack'd, As is his love to me, and mine to him. Wife. I hope you both in smoother streams shall swim. He's now the Sheriff of London, and in council Set at the Guildhall in his scarlet gown, With mayor and aldermen, how to receive the king, Who comes to see Master Brewen's hospital To-morrow, consecrated by th' Cardinal, And old St Mary's Spital, here by Shoreditch. Mrs Fos. Ay, sister, he and you may set 'Bout what you will; heav'n, I am sure, prospers it; But I am ever cross'd: you have been bound For three great voyages, yet ne'er run aground— Maid, wife, and widow, and wife again—have spread Full and fair sails, no wrecks you e'er did dread, Nor e'er felt any; but even close ashore, I'm sunk, and 'midst of all my wealth made poor. Wife. You must thank heaven. Mrs Fos. I do, indeed, for all. Wife. Sister, that hand can raise that gives the fall.
Enter Keeper.
Keeper. Master Foster, the new sheriff, your brother, Is come to Ludgate, and I am come in haste To know your pleasure, if you would see him. O. Fos. I'll see a fury first; hence! clap to the door, I pray thee. Wife. Why, 'tis your brother, sir. Rob. Father, let's fly the thunder of his rage. Wife. Stand valiantly, And let me bear the storm: all hurts that are, And ruins in your bosoms I'll repair.
Enter Stephen Foster.
Steph. Where's the keeper? Go, sir, take my officers And see your prisoners presently convey'd From Ludgate unto Newgate and the Counters. Keeper. I shall, sir. Steph. Let the constables of the wards Assist you. Go, despatch! and take these with you. [To Robert.] How now! what mak'st thou here, thou caitiff? Ha! Com'st thou to stitch his wounds that seeks to cut My throat? Darest thou in despite Relieve this dotard? O. Fos. Get thee from my sight, Thou devil in red: com'st thou in scarlet pride To tread on thy poor brother in a jail? Is there but one small conduit-pipe that runs Cold water to my comfort, and wouldst thou Cut off that, thou cruel man? Steph. Yes; I'll stop that pipe that thou may'st pining sit; When drops but fell on me, thou poison'd it: Thou thrust'st a son's name from thy cruel breast For clothing of his uncle; now that uncle Shall thrust him naked forth for clothing thee; Banish'd for ever from my wealth and me. O. Fos. Thou canst not be to nature so uneven, To punish that which has a pay from heaven: Pity, I mean, and duty. [Stephen offers to strike Robert.] Wouldst thou strike? Wound me, then, that will kill thee, if I can: Steph. Thou ravest. O. Fos. How can I choose? Thou makest me mad: For shame thou shouldst not make these white hairs sad: Churl, beat not my poor boy; let him not lose Thy love for my sake; I had rather bruise My soul with torments for a thousand years, Could I but live them, rather than salt tears Thy malice draw from him: see, here's thy gold; Tell it: none's stole. My woes can ne'er be told! Rob. O misery! is nature quite forgot? O. Fos. Choke with thy dunghill-muck! and vex me not. Steph. No, keep it; he perhaps that money stole To give it thee; for which, to vex thy soul, I'll turn him forth of doors: make him thy heir, Of jails, miseries, curses, and despair, For here I disinherit him of all. O. Fos. No matter; lands to him in heaven will fall. Wife. Good husband. Mrs Fos. Gentle brother. Rob. Dear uncle. Steph. I am deaf. O. Fos. And damn'd; the devil's thumbs stop thine ears! Steph. I'll make thee wash those curses off with tears. Keeper, away with him out of my sight; And do, sir, as I charg'd you. Keeper. Yes, sir, I will. O. Fos. Poor tyranny! when lions weak lambs kill. [Exeunt all but Stephen and his Wife. Steph. How now, wife, art vex'd yet? Wife. Never so well content, believe me, sir; Your mildness wears this mask of cruelty well. Steph. I am glad they're gone; mine eyes with rain did swell, And much ado they had from pouring down. The keeper knows my mind. Wife, I have paid My brother's debts; and when he's out of door To march to Newgate, he shall be set free. Wife. O let me kiss thee for this charity. But for your cousin, sir? Steph. He's my life's best health. The boy shall not miscarry for more wealth Than London gates lock safe up every night. My breath in black clouds flies: my thoughts are white. Wife. Why from Ludgate do you remove [the] prisoners? Steph. This is my meaning, wife: I'll take the prison down, and build it new, With leads to walk on, [and] rooms large and fair; For when myself lay there, the noisome air Chok'd up my spirits; and none better know What prisoners feel than they that taste the woe. The workmen are appointed for the business; I will have't despatched, before 'tis thought on. Wife. In good deeds I'll walk hand in hand with you; There is a fair tenement adjoining Close to the gate, that was my father's, I'll give it freely; take it down, and add So much ground to the work. Steph.[103] 'Tis fairly given; Thy soul on prisoners' prayers shall mount to heaven. The plumbers and the workmen have survey'd The ground from Paddington; whence I'll have laid Pipes [all along] to London, to convey Sweet water into Ludgate from fresh springs: When charity tunes the pipe, the poor man sings.
Enter Keeper.
How now, keeper? Keep. The prisoners are remov'd, sir. Steph. What did you with my brother? Keep. As you commanded, sir, I have discharged him. Steph. How did he meet that unexpected kindness? Keep. Troth, sir, as a man o'ercome 'twixt grief and gladness; But, turning to his son, he fetch'd a sigh So violent as if his heart would break, And (silent) wept, having no power to speak. Wife. Alas! good old man, some sweet bird must sing, And give his sorrows present comforting. Steph. Not yet, I'll wrack his sorrows to the height, And of themselves they'll then sink softly down. Keeper, go thou again after my brother, Charge in my name him and his son to appear Before the king; to whom I will make known Their wrongs against me, showing just cause To disinherit both by course of law. Begone! Keep. I am gone, sir. [Exit. Steph. Come, wife. Wife. What's your meaning, sir? Steph. Thou shalt know that anon. The heavens oft scowl, clouds thicken, winds blow high, Yet the brightest sun clears all, and so will I. [Exeunt.
Enter Henry III., attended by Montfort, Pembroke, and Arundel, Lord Mayor, Stephen Foster as Sheriff, Alderman Brewen, &c.
King. O, welcome is all love; our people's shouts In their heart's language makes our bienvenues Most high and sovereign: we return all thanks Unto our loving citizens; [To Brewen] chiefly to you, sir, Whose pious work invites our majesty To royalise this place with our best presence, Accompanied with this reverend Cardinal: Would [that] me might, after [so] many broils, End our days [too] in these religious toils: We would work most faithfully. But, bounteous sir, How do you call your buildings? Brew. Unless it please your majesty to change it, I call it Domus Dei. King. The house of God; It is too good to change: pray you, proceed. Brew. These are my ends: to all distressed Christians, Whose travels this way bend, the hospital shall Free succour be for three days and three nights Sojourn: diet[104] and lodging, both sweet and satisfying: And (if their need be such) as much in coin As shall, for three days more, defray their further travel: This unto heaven—be you testator, good my liege, And witness with me, noble gentlemen— Most free and faithfully I dedicate. King. An honourable work, and deserves large memory. Mont. 'Tis a good example, 'tis pity 'tis no better followed. Arun. But say, sir: now in some future age, Perhaps some two or three hundred year behind us, This place, intended for a use so charitable, Should be unhallow'd again by villanous inhabitants, Say whores instead of Christians, and Your hospital tenements turn'd into stews, Would not this grieve you in your grave?[105] Brew. If my grave were capable of grief, sure it would, sir. King. Prythee, be a false prophet. Arun. I will, if I can, my lord. King. Let now our heralds in the streets proclaim The title and [the] office of this hospital; Make known to all distressed travellers, That we'll accept his charitable house; This Domus Dei shall be their free sojourn, As is proposed.
Enter on the one side Stephen's Wife; on the other Old Foster, Mistress Foster, Jane, Robert, and Keeper. All kneel.
King. What are these petitioners? Rob. Each hath a knee for duty, the other for petition. King. Rise, your duty's done; your petitions Shall need no knees, so your intents be honest: Does none here know them? Steph. Yes, my good lord, There's now a wonder in your sight. King. A wonder, Master Sheriff? You mean for beauty? Steph. No, my liege, I would not So boast mine own wife; but it is a wonder That excels beauty. King. A wonder in a woman! What is't, I prythee? Steph. Patience, my liege; This is a woman that was never vex'd. King. You may boast it largely; 'tis a subject's happiness Above a queen's. Have you suits to us? Rob. I am the suppliant plaintiff, royal Henry; From me their griefs take their original. King. What art thou? Rob. Even what your grace shall please to make of me: I was the son to this distressed father, Until he took his paternity off, And threw me from his love; then I became Son to mine uncle by adoption; Who likewise that hath ta'en away again, And thrown me back to poverty: never was son So toss'd betwixt two fathers, yet knows not one; For still the richest does despise his heir, And I am back expuls'd into despair. King. This may your vices cause. Rob. For that I come To your impartial censure for a doom. King. We hear; speak on: we know the parties; Each one relate his grief, and if it lie in us, We'll yield relief: it is first requisite That we know of you, sir, the cause Of this your son his disinheritance. O. Fos. Before I understood his virtuous mind, Or weighed his disposition to be kind, I did that froward work; this now great man Was an unthrifty wretch, a prodigal then, And I disdain'd to know his brotherhood, Denied relief to him; this child, kind and good, Against my contradiction, did him relieve, As his distressed uncle; at this I chid, forbad. Still he holds on his course, He grows more kind, and he in wasting worse; My rage continued, as it had begun, And in that rage I threw away my son. Steph. The like plead I, my lord: for when my state Had rais'd itself by an uncertain fate, I took this outcast child, made him my own, As full and free as I myself had sown The seed that brought him forth; for this my love His oblig'd duty presently did prove A traitor to my trust, against my will Succouring that foe which I did love so ill Only for hating him. My charity being thus Abus'd, and quit with injury, what could I then But, as his father erst, so I again Might throw him from my love? for worse is love abus'd Than new-born hate, and should be so refus'd: I did a father's part, if it were bad, Blame him for both, there I my pattern had. King. You fall betwixt two pillars, sir; is't not so? Rob. Unhappy fate, my lord; yet thus I plead: For this my father's hate I might deserve, I broke his precepts, and did unchildly swerve From his commission; I to my uncle gave What was my father's, striving thereby to save His fall'n repute; he rag'd; I did it still, Yet must confess, as it was well, 'twas ill; Well in my love, methought, ill to my fate, For I thereby ruin'd my own estate: But that mine uncle throws me forth of door, For the same cause he took me in before, Beats sorest 'gainst my bosom. If 'twere good To take from a father for an uncle's food In laws of love and nature, how much rather Might I abridge an uncle for a father? Charity's a virtue generally stands, And should dispersed be through all men's hands. Then would you keep't alone? For when your heir I first adopted was, charity was there: How errs your judgment then? seeing, you see, What was good in you, makes sin in me. You'll say my father did it: O, throw away That foul excuse; let not discretion stray So far aside; if custom lawful make, Then sin were lawful for example sake; Nor were those wasted goods only your own, Since part was mine having adoption; Then do me right, my lord, yet do no wrong, For where my duty fail'd, my love was strong. King. With an impartial ear we have heard Your loving story; 'tis both fair and honest. Steph. O, let me now anticipate your grace, And, casting off the shadow of a face, Show my heart's true figure; how have I striv'd To make this forced counterfeit long-liv'd, And now it bursts. Come (both) into my heart, I have two jewels here shall never part From my love's eye-watch; too worthy to be fil'd On time's best record, a woman and a child. (To O. Fos). Now, sir, to you I come; we must be friends, Though envy wills not so, yet love contends 'Gainst envy and her forces; my young years Say I must offer first a peace in tears. O. Fos. O, let my shame my bosom's centre break! Love is so young, it coys, but cannot speak. King. You bless mine eyes with objects that become The theatre of kings to look upon. Steph. The keeper is discharg'd, sir; your debts are paid, And from the prison you're a free man made: There's not a creditor can ask you ought. As your son did for me, so have I bought Your liberty with mine; and to increase it more, Because I know bare liberty is poor Without assistance: to raise your state again, The thirds of mine are yours, [To Wife] say you amen? Wife. No, not to that, you are kind brothers now, Divide by halves that love, and I'll allow. Steph. Thou art only wise in virtue; as thou sett'st down, So let it be. Half my estate's your own. O. Fos. It whole redounds again, for I am yours; Forget this minute my forgetful hours. Steph. O, they are buried all, sir! King. This union's good; Such league should ever be in brotherhood. Steph. Yet without boast, my liege, let me relate One small thing more—remorse of my own state, And my dear brother's worse succession: For that we both have prisoners been in one Selfsame place of woe, and felt those throes, That Ludgate yields: my charity bestows Some alms of comfort: keeper, you can speak it. Keep. And many hundred more, sir: you have re-edified And built it fair, adding more ground to it, And by pipes of lead from Paddington, drawn Water thither free for all prisoners: lodgings Likewise free, and a hundred pounds yearly, to make Them fires for better comfort: all this is almost finish'd. King. A worthy work! the better being done In the founder's eye, not left unto succession. Steph. O my good lord, I ever kept in mind An English sentence, which my tutor is, And teaches me to act my charity With mine own hands; so doubtful is performance, When the benefactor's dead. King. What is't, I prythee? Steph. This, my good lord: Women are forgetful, children unkind, Executors covetous, and take what they find; If any man ask, where the dead's goods became, The executor swears he died a poor man.[106] King. You have prevented well, so has this good alderman; I wish you many scholars. Wife. [To Steph.] You make some doubts of me in this, sir: Did you not say that women are forgetful? King. You have vex'd her now, sir: how do you answer that? Steph. No, my lord, she's exempt from the proverb. Wife. No, my lord, I'll help it better: I do confess That women are forgetful, yet ne'ertheless I am exempt: I know my fate, and find My dear husband must not leave me behind, But I must go before him;[107] and 'tis said, The grave's good rest when women go first to bed. Steph. Thanks for thy excuse, good wife, but not thy love To fill my grave before me: I would not live to see that day. Wife. Prythee, no more, I had rather be angry than flatter'd. King. You have a wonder, master sheriff; a priceless jewel. Steph. Many jewels, my good lord; a brother, wife, and child, For this I would have strove even with a father: Howe'er rough storms did in my brows appear, Within my bosom it was always clear. O. Fos. I give him to you now, sir. Steph. I take him, and to him back do give All that myself behind in 'state shall leave. O. Fos. And all that you gave me, I do bestow; So in one hour become full heir to two. Brew. I claim a third by this bond's virtue; [Pointing to Jane. See, as a father thou art heir to those. Jane. I will not go to him, father, on any of these conditions. Rob. You shall have love to boot too, sweet Jane. Jane. Nay, an' you play booty, I dare not trust you. Rob. What shall I say? Accept my hand and heart,[108] Tied in a true love's knot, never to part.
Jane. Ay, marry, sir, these are better conditions than the inheritance of three fathers. Let me have love in esse; let lands follow in posse. Now I'll have thee as fast as the priest can despatch us, let him read as fast as he can.
King. The liveliest harmony that e'er I heard! All instruments compar'd to these sweet tunes Are dull and harsh: I joy to see so good a child, A woman wonder; brothers reconciled. [To Brewen.] You, worthy sir, did invite us to a feast, We'll not forget it, but will be your guest; Because we'll view these wonders o'er again, Whose records do deserve a brazen pen; But this above the rest in golden text Shall be insculp'd, A woman never vex'd.