Act 5 — SCENE IV.

Enter Widow, Pleasant, Careless, Wild, Parson, Jolly, Wanton, and Secret: the Fiddlers play as they come in.

Par. Master Jolly, I find I am naturally inclined to mirth this day, and methinks my corns ache more than my horns; and to a man that has read Seneca, a cuckold ought to be no grief, especially in this parish, where I see such droves of St Luke's clothing. There's little Secret too, th' allay of waiting-woman, makes me hope she may prove metal of the parson's standard. Find a way to rid me of Wanton, and I'll put in to be chaplain to this merry family: if I did not inveigle formal Secret, you should hang me. I know the trick on't; 'tis but praying to, and preaching of the waiting-woman, then carefully seeing her cushion laid, with her book and leaf turned down, does it, with a few anagrams, acrostics, and her name in the register of my Bible: these charm the soft-souled sinner: then sometimes to read a piece of my sermon, and tell her a Saturday where my text shall be, spells that work more than philtres.

Jolly. If you can be serious, we'll think of this at leisure. See how they eye Wanton!

Care. What! consulting, parson? let us be judges betwixt you. D'ye hear, Jack? if he offers ready money, I counsel, as a friend, take it; for, by this light, if you refuse it, your wife will not. D'ye see those gay petticoats?

Par. Yes, if you mean my wife's.

Care. You know they're his, and she only wears 'em for his pleasure: and 'tis dangerous to have a wife under another man's petticoats. What if you should find his breeches upon her?

Par. Are not you married too? take care that yours does not wear the breeches, another kind of danger, but as troublesome as that, or sore eyes; and if she get but a trick of taking as readily as she's persuaded to give, you may find a horn at home. I have seen a cuckold of your complexion; if he had had as much hoof as horn, you might have hunted the beast by his slot.[277]

Plea. How fine she is! and, by this light, a handsome wench. Master Jolly, I am easier persuaded to be reconciled to your fault than any man's I have seen of this kind: her eyes have more arguments in 'em than a thousand of those that seduce the world; hang me, if those quivers be not full of darts; I could kiss that mouth myself. Is this she my aunt quarrelled with you for?

Jolly. The same, selfsame: and, by this hand, I was barbarous to her, for your aunt's sake; and had I not 'scaped that mischief of matrimony, by this light, I had never seen her again. But I was resolved not to quit her till I was sure of a wife, for fear of what has followed. Had I been such an ass to have left her upon the airy hopes of a widow's oaths, what a case had I been in now! You see your aunt's provided of a man. Bless him, and send him patience! 'Twould have been fine to have seen me walking, and sighing upon cold hunting, seeking my whore again, or forced to make use of some common mercenary thing, that sells sin and diseases, crimes, penance, and sad repentance together! Here's consolation and satisfaction in Wanton, though a man lose his meal with the widow. And faith, be free—how do you like my girl? Rid thee of her! What does she want now, pray, but a jointure, to satisfy any honest man? Speak your conscience, ladies: don't you think a little repentance hereafter will serve for all the small sins that good-nature can act with such a sinner?

Par. Pray, sir, remember she's my wife, and be so civil to us both, as to forget these things.

Jolly. For that, Jack, we'll understand hereafter. 'Tis but a trick of youth, man, and her jest will make us both merry, I warrant thee.

Par. Pray, sir, no more of your jests, nor your Jack. Remember my coat and calling. This familiarity, both with my wife and myself, is not decent: your clergy with Christian names are scarce held good Christians.

Wid. I wonder at nothing so much as Master Jolly's mirth to-day! Where lies his part of the jest? Cosened or refused by all, not a fish that stays in's net.

Jolly. No; what's this? [Jolly hugs Wanton.] Show me a fairer in all your streams. Nor is this my single joy, who am pleased to find you may be cosened; rejoice to see you may be brought to lie with a man for a jest. Let me alone to fit you with a trick too.

Care. Faith, it must be some new trick; for thou art so beaten at the old one, 'twill neither please thee nor her; besides, I mean to teach her that myself.

Plea. I shall never be perfectly quiet in my mind till I see somebody as angry as myself: yet I have some consolation, when I think on the wise plot that killed the coachman. How the plague, red cross, and halbert has cut their fingers that designed it! their anger will be perfect. Secret says they are coming, and that the Lady Loveall has given 'em the alarm.

Enter Sad and Constant.

Wild. And see where the parties come!—storms and tempests in their minds! their looks are daggers.

Plea. Servant, what, you're melancholy, and full of wonder! I see you have met the news.

Sad. Yes, madam; we have heard a report that will concern both your judgment and your honour.

Plea. Alas, sir! we're innocent; 'tis mere predestination.

Con. All weddings, Master Sad, you know, go by chance, like hanging.

Plea. And, I thank my stars, I have 'scaped hanging. To ha' been his bride had been both.

Con. This is not like the promise you made us yesterday.

Wid. Why, truly, servant, I scarce know what I do yet. The fright of the plague had so possessed my mind with fear, that I could think and dream of nothing last night but of a tall black man that came and kissed me in my sleep, and slapped his whip in mine ears. 'Twas a saucy ghost, not unlike my coachman that's dead, and accused you of having a hand in his murder, and vowed to haunt me till I was married. I told my niece the dream.

Plea. Nay, the ghost sighed, and accused Secret and Master Sad of making him away. Confess, faith, had you a hand in that bloody jest?

Wid. Fie, servant! Could you be so cruel as to join with my woman against me?

Con. 'Tis well, ladies. Why a pox do you look at me? This was your subtle plot; a pox on your clerk's wit! You said the jest would beget a comedy when 'twas known, and so I believe 'twill.

Sad. Madam, I find you have discovered our design, whose chief end was to prevent this mischief, which I doubt not but you'll both live to repent your share of, before you have done travelling to the Epsoms, Bourbonne,[278] and the Spaws, to cure those travelled diseases these knights-errant have with curiosity sought out for you. 'Tis true, they are mischiefs that dwell in pleasant countries, yet those roses have their thorns; and I doubt not but these gentlemen's wit may sting as well as please sometime; and you may find it harder to satisfy their travelled experience than to have suffered our home-bred ignorance.

Care. Hark, if he be not fallen into a fit of his cousin! these names of places he has stolen out of her receipt-book: amongst all whose diseases find me any so dangerous, troublesome, or incurable as a fool; a lean, pale, sighing, coughing fool, that's rich and poor both; being born to an estate, without a mind or heart capable to use it; of a nature so miserable, he grudges himself meat; nay, they say, he eats his meals twice: a fellow whose breath smells of yesterday's dinner, and stinks as if he had eat all our suppers over again. I would advise you, Master Sad, to sleep with your mouth open to air it, or get the brewer to tun it. Foh! an empty justice, that stinks of the lees and casks, and belches Littleton and Plowden's cases! Dost thou think any woman, that has wit or honour, would kiss that bung-hole? By this light, his head and belly look as blue and lank as French rabbits or stale poultry! Alas, sir! my lady would have a husband to rejoice with; no green-tailed lecturer, to stand sentry at his bedside, while his nasty soul scours through him, sneaking out at the back-door! These, sir, are diseases which neither the Spaw or Bath can cure: your garters and willow are a more certain remedy.

Con. Well, sir, I find our plot's betrayed, and we have patience left. 'Tis that damned captain has informed.

Sad. Yet 'tis one comfort, madam, that you have missed that man of war, that knight of Finsbury. His dowager, with ale and switches, would ha' bred a ballad.

Plea. Faith, sir, you see what a difficulty it is in this age for a woman to live honest, though she have a proper man for her husband; therefore, it behoves us to consider whom we choose.

Jolly. The lady has reason: for, being allowed but one, who would choose such weasels as we see daily married? that are all head and tail, crooked, dirty, sordid vermin, predestined for cuckolds, painted snails, with houses on their backs, and horns as big as Dutch cows! Would any woman marry such? Nay, can any woman be honest that let's such hodmandods crawl o'er her virgin breast and belly, or suffer 'em to leave their slimy paths upon their bodies only for jointures? Out! 'tis mercenary and base! The generous heart has only the laws of nature and kindness in her view, and when she will oblige, Friend is all the ties that Nature seeks; who can both bear and excuse those kind crimes. And, I believe, one as poor as the despised captain and neglected courtier may make a woman as happy in a friendship as Master Sad, who has as many faults as we have debts: one whose father had no more credit with Nature than ours had with Fortune; whose soul wears rags as well as the captain's body.

Sad. Nay, then, I'll laugh; for I perceive y' are angrier than we. Alas! h' has lost both ventures—Wanton and the widow.

Jolly. Both; and neither so unlucky as to be thy wife. Thy face is hanged with blacks already: we may see the bells toll in thy eyes. A bride and a wedding-shirt, a sexton and a winding-sheet. A scrivener to draw up jointures, a parson to make thy will, man. By this light, he's as chap-fallen as if he had lain under the table all night.

Care. Faith, Master Sad, he's parlously in the right. Ne'er think of marrying in this dull clime. Wedlock's a trade you'll ne'er go through with. Wives draw bills upon sight, and 'twill not be for your credit to protest them. Rather follow my counsel, and marry à la Venetiano, for a night and away; a pistole jointure does it: then, 'tis but repenting in the morning, and leave your woman and the sin both i' th' bed. But if you play the fool, like your friends, and marry in serious earnest, you may repent it too, as they do; but where's the remedy?

[This is spoken a little aside.

Wid. What was't you said, sir? Do you repent?

Care. By this hand, widow, I don't know: but we have pursued a jest a great way. Parson, are you sure we are married?

Par. Yes, I warrant you, for their escaping.

Care. Their escaping! Fool, thou mistakest me; there's no fear of that! But I would fain know if there be no way for me to get out of this noose? no hole to hide a man's head in from this wedlock?

Par. Not any, but what I presume she'll show you anon.

Care. Hum! now do I feel all my fears flowing in upon me. Wanton and Mistress Pleasant both grow dangerously handsome. A thousand graces in each I never observed before. Now, just now, when I must not taste, I begin to long for some of their plums.

Wid. Is this serious, sir!

Care. Yes, truly, widow, sadly serious. Is there no way to get three or four mouthfuls of kisses from the parson's wife?

Wid. This is sad, sir, upon my wedding-day, to despise me for such a common thing.

Sad. As sad as I could wish. This is a jest makes me laugh.—Common! No, madam, that's too bitter; she's forest only, where the royal chase is as free as fair.

Wan. Were not you a widow to-day?

Sad. Yes, faith, girl, and as foolish a one as ever coach jumbled out of joint.

Wan. Stay, then, till to-morrow, and tell me the difference betwixt us.

Sad. I hope thou'lt prove a she-prophet. Could I live to see thee turn honest wife, and she the wanton widow!

Wan. I cannot but laugh, to see how easy it is to lose or win the opinion of the world. A little custom heals all; or else what's the difference betwixt a married widow and one of us? Can any woman be pure, or worth the serious sighing of a generous heart, that has had above one hand laid upon her? Is there place to write above one lover's name with honour in her heart? 'Tis indeed for one a royal palace; but if it admits of more, an hospital or an inn at best, as well as ours: only off from the road and less frequented.

Plea. Shrewdly urged.

Wan. And though the sins of my family threw me into want, and made me subject to the treachery of that broken faith, to whose perjury I owe all my crimes, yet still I can distinguish betwixt that folly and this honour, which must tell you: He or she, that would be thought twice so, was never once a lover.

Con. Parson, thou art fitted! a whore and apothegms! What sport will she make us under a tree with a salad and sayings in the summer!

Wild. Come, Wanton, no fury; you see my aunt's angry.

Wan. So am I, sir, and yet can calmly reason this truth. Married widows, though chaste to the law and custom, yet their second Hymens make that, which was but dyeing in the first husband's bed, a stain in the second's sheets; where all their kindness and repeated embraces want their value, because they're sullied, and have lost their lustre.

Sad. By this light, I'll go to school to Wanton; she has opened my eyes, and I begin to believe I have 'scaped miraculously. By this hand, wench, I was within an inch of being married to this danger; for what can we call these second submissions, but a tolerated lawful mercenariness which though it be a rude and harsh expression, yet your carriage deserves it?

Plea. Fie, Master Sad! pray leave being witty. I fear 'tis a mortal sin to begin in the fifth act of your days: upon an old subject, too—abusing of widows because they despise you!

Wid. Alas, niece! let him alone: he may come in for his share: the parson, that has so oft received 'em, will not refuse him tithes there in charity.

Wan. That or conveniency, interest or importunity, may by your example prevail: but 'tis not fair play, madam, to turn your lover to the common, as you call it, now he's rid lean in your service. Take heed, Master Careless, and warning, Master Sad; you see how fit for the scavenger's team your lady leaves her lovers!

Care. Such a lecture, before I had married, would ha' made me have considered of this matter. Dost thou hear, Wanton? Let us forgive one another being married, for that folly has made us guilty alike.

Wan. And I would fain know the difference betwixt ours and a wedding crime, which is worst: to let love, youth, and good-humour betray us to a kindness, or to be gravely seduced by some aunt or uncle, without consideration of the disparity of age, birth, or persons, to lie down before a jointure. Ladies, you may flatter yourselves; but the ingenuous part of the world cannot deny but such minds, had they been born where our faults are not only tolerated but protected, would have listened to the same things: interest counsels thereto.

Care. Parson, what boot betwixt our wives? either come to a price, or draw off your doxy.

Par. Propose, propose: here will be mirth anon.

Sad. Yes, yes, propose, while I break it to your lady. Madam, you see, here's a proper man to be had, and money to boot. What, dumb?

Wan. No, she's only thinking. Faith, madam, try 'em both to-night, and choose to-morrow.

Wild. Come, no more of this. Aunt, take my word for your husband, that have had more experience of him than all these: 'tis true he will long for these girls, as children do for plums; and when h' has done, make a meal upon cheese. And you must not wonder nor quarrel at what he says in his humour, but judge him by his actions; and when he is in his fit, and raves most, put him into your bed, and fold him close in your arms, aunt: if he does not rise as kind and as good a husband as he that sings psalms best, hang me? Why, you're a fool, aunt: a widow, and dislike a longing bridegroom! I thought you had known better. Do you love a spurred horse rather than a ducker, that neighs and scrapes? I would not say this, but that I know him. Let him not go out of your sight, for he's now in season—a ripe, mature husband. No delays: if you let him hang longer upon hope, his fruit will fall alone.

Wid. You are merry, sir; but if I had known this humour——

Wild. You'd ha' kissed him first; but, being ignorant, let me make you blush. Come, a kiss, and all's friends. [She kisses Careless, and he kisses her twice.] How now, sir, again! again!

Plea. Aunt, look to yourself.

Care. Um! By this light, sweetheart, and I thank thee. Nay, widow, there's no jesting with these things—[Kisses her again]—nay, I am a lion in my love. Aware, puss, if you flatter me, for I shall deceive you.

Par. Since all are cosened, why should I be troubled at my fortune? Faith, gentlemen, what will you two give for a wife betwixt you?

Con. Faith, they're mischiefs dear bought, though a man get 'em for nothing.

Par. I'm almost of his mind; and if other people find no more pleasure in a married life than I upon my wedding-day, I'd pass my time in the Piazza with the mountebank, and let him practise upon my teeth, and draw 'em too, ere he persuades the words of matrimony out of my mouth again. Ay, ay, Master Constant, you may laugh, you ha' missed a wife; would I were in your case, the world should see how cheerfully I should bear such an affliction.

Con. Jack, I ha' made my peace at home: and by seeing others shipwrecked, will avoid the danger, and here resolve never to sigh again for any woman: they're weeds grow in every hedge; and transplanting of 'em thus to our beds gives certain trouble, seldom pleasure, never profit.

Enter Captain.

Par. See where the enemy comes! Now, if you be wise, arm, and unite against him as a common foe. He's come from his old lady, designing a reconciliation. The rogue's provident, and would fain have a nest for his age to rest in. Buff and feathers do well in the youth and heat of thirty; but in the winter of old age captain at threescore, lame and lean, may lie with the almanac out of date.

Capt. The parson's grown witty, and prophesies upon the strength of bridecake. If I guess aright, thou'lt be hanged: for 'tis a truth, I have been endeavouring to make it appear her fears were mistaken in me; but I find the witch more implacable than the devil. The waiting-woman is harder to forgive [for] her part than my lady. Faithful will not be reconciled: the merciless bawd is all fire and sword, no quarter. Bless me from an old waiting-woman's wrath! She'll never forgive me the disappointing her of a promise when I was drunk. Her lady and she are coming, but in such a fury, I would not have the storm find you out in the street: therefore I counsel you to avoid the boys, and take shelter in the next house.

Wild. No, let's home, and with all diligence get our dinner to defend us; and let the porter dispute it at the wicket, till she signs articles of peace.

Omnes. Agreed.

[Careless is kind to the Widow. As he goes out, Wild and Pleasant go together; Jolly and the Parson's wife go together.

Wild. See how they pair now! 'Tis not threescore year will part 'em, now he has tasted a kiss or two.

Jolly. Parson, I'll be your brideman.

Par. 'Tis well, sir; I shall ha' my time too.

Jolly. Ay, by this hand. Nay, we'll share fairly.

Capt. That's but reason, Wanton; and since he grows tame, use him kindly, for my sake.

Par. Can any of you digest sponge and arsenic?

Capt. Arsenic! what's that?

Par. An Italian salad, which I'll dress for you, by Jove, ere I'll walk in my canonical coat lined with horn. Death! if I suffer this, we shall have that damned courtier pluck on his shoes with the parson's musons. Fine, i' faith! none but the small Levite's brow to plant your shoeing-horn seed in? How now?

[As he is going off, the Captain stays him.

Capt. Prythee, Jack, stay, and say something to the gentlemen by way of epilogue. Thou art a piece of scurvy poet thyself; prythee, oblige the author, and give us a line or two in praise of his play.

Par. I oblige him! hang him and all his friends, and hurt nobody. Yes, I am likely to speak for him. You see how I ha' been used to-day betwixt you. I shall find a time to be revenged. Let go my cloak; I have a province within of mine own to govern: let me go.

Capt. Who, thy wife? Faith, stay and give them an opportunity; thy pain will be the sooner over. You see, 'tis a thing resolved betwixt 'em; and now thou'rt satisfied in the matter, be wise and silent; who knows what good she may do thee another time? I dare say, if she had as many souls in her as she had men, she'd bring thee a cure of herself.

Par. Let me go, or I shall be as troublesome as you are injurious, for all your titles, sir.

Capt. Lend me your cloak then, to appear more decent; you'd not ha' me present epilogue in buff,[279] whoreson dunce, with a red nose?

Par. Sir, my business is praying, not epilogues.

Capt. With that face? By this light, 'tis a scandal to see it flaming so near the altar: thou look'st as if thou'dst cry Tope in the face of the congregation, instead of Amen.

Par. Thou'rt an ass, 'tis proper there; 't has zeal and fervour in't, and burns before the altar like the primitive lamps.

Capt. I cry thee mercy. By this light, he'll make it sacrilege anon to steal his nose! thou'lt entitle the altar to that coal. Was't not kindled ex voto? Nay, I will have your cloak.

Par. Take it; would 'twere Nessus's shirt, for you and your poet's sake.

[Exit Parson.

Capt. What, does the rogue wish 'twere made of nettles?[280]

[Captain puts on his cloak, and addresses himself to speak the epilogue, and is interrupted by Lady Loveall, and Faithful her woman, who, in haste and full of anger, pull him by the cloak.

Love. By your favour, sir, did you see any company pass this way?

Capt. None but the three brides, and they are gone just before you. Hark! the music will guide you.

[The music plays.

Love. Is it certain, then, they're married?

Capt. Yes, lady; I saw the church's rites performed.

Faith. Why does your ladyship lose time in talking with this fellow? don't you know him, madam? 'tis the rascally captain, hid in a black cloak. I know you, sirrah.

Love. She has reason; now I mark him better, I should know that false face too. See, Faithful, there are those treacherous eyes still.

Capt. Alas! you mistake me, madam, I am Epilogue now. The captain's within, and as a friend, I counsel you not to incense the gentlemen against the poet, for he knows all your story, and if you anger him, he'll put it in a play; but if you'll do friendly offices, I'll undertake, instead of your pearl you lost, to help you to the jewel; the Scotch Dictionary will tell you the value of it. Let them go alone, and fret not at their loss. Stay, and take my counsel: it shall be worth three revenges.

Love. Well, what is't, sir?

Capt. They say you have a great power over the parson: if you can prevail with him to express his anger in some satiric comedy (for the knave has wit, and they say his genius lies that way), tell him 'tis expected he should be revenged upon the illiterate courtier that made this play. If you can bring this business about, I may find a way, as Epilogue, to be thankful, though the captain abused you to-day. Think on't: Stephen[281] is as handsome, when the play is done, as Master Wild was in the scene.

Love. There's something of reason in what he says. [Aside.] But, my friend, how shall one believe you? you that were such a rascal to-day in buff, is it to be hoped you can be honest only with putting on a black cloak? Well, I'll venture once again; and if I have any power, he shall sting the malicious rascal, and I think he is fit for such a business. I'm sure he has the worst tongue, and a conscience that neither honour nor truth binds; and therefore 'tis to be believed, if he will rail in public, he may be even with your poet. I will clothe and feed him and his muse this seven years, but I will plague him. Secret tells me, 'twas your poet too that pawned me to-day in the tavern.

Capt. By my faith, did he; nay, 'twas he that told me of your friendship with Jolly.

Love. I wonder the parson has been so long silent; a man of his coat and parts to be beaten with a pen by one that speaks sense by rote, like parrots! one that knows not why sense is sense, but by the sound! one that can scarce read, nay, not his own hand! Well, remember your promise.

Capt. Leave it to me, he is yours; and if our plot take, you shall have all your shares in the mirth, but not the profit of the play; and the parson more than his tithe, a second day.

Love. We will discourse of this some other time. And pray despatch what 'tis you have to say to this noble company, that I may be gone; for those gentlemen will be in such fury if I stay, and think, because we are alone, God knows what.

Capt. 'Tis no matter what they think; 'tis not them we are to study now, but these guests, to whom pray address yourself civilly, and beg that they would please to become fathers, and give those brides within. What say you, gentlemen, will you lend your hands to join them? The match, you see, is made. If you refuse, Stephen misses the wench, and then you cannot justly blame the poet; for, you know, they say that alone is enough to spoil the play.

FOOTNOTES:

The Rebellion

LUST'S DOMINION

ANDROMANA or THE MERCHANT'S WIFE

LADY ALIMONY

THE PARSON'S WIFE

Transcriber's Notes:

1. Minor punctuation errors have been corrected without comment.

2. A Table of Contents did not appear in the original text. The brief brief Table of Contents has been created for this e-text.

3. All end-of-line stage directions have been moved onto their own lines and indented by a consistent amount under the dialogue.

4. Footnotes have been numbered sequentially and moved to the end of this e-text. Markers have been added indicating where footnotes for a particular play begin.

5.Spelling corrections:

p. 69, "emnity" to "enmity" (2) (that fatal enmity)

p. 132, "Eléazar" (1) to "Eleazar" (60) (Until my Eleazar)

p. 186, "philip" (1) to "Philip" (88) (can I Philip him)

p. 253, "ememy's" to "enemy's" (36) (an enemy's advice)

p. 371, "KILLLGREW" to "KILLIGREW" (20) (THOMAS KILLIGREW)

p. 510, "aud" to "and" (envy and a dazzling power)

Footnote [265], "entituled" to "entitled" (3) (epigrams, entitled)

There are a number of spelling variants between the various authors, all of which have been retained.

There are a number of word variants retained throughout the text, sometimes occuring within the SAME play (and often the same speaker), these include hyphenations, apostrophe's and accented characters.

6.Other Corrections and Notes:

p. 212, corrected SCENE IV. to SCENE VI. For reference, Scene IV is on p. 205 and Scene V is on p. 209.

p. 301, added Footnote Anchor [125] missing in original text.

p. 353, changed ACT VIII. to SCENE VIII., this is correctly Scene VIII of the FOURTH ACT of this play. ACT V. begins on the next page.

Footnote [190], corrected subscripted "o" character to superscripted to conform with other instances. (printed in 12^o, 1641)

p. 451, added Footnote Anchor [239] missing in original text.