PLEASANT HISTORY OF the two angry women of Abington. (continued 2)

Phi. Stay, Franke, this pitch of frensie will defile thee; Meddle not with it: thy unreprooved vallour Should be high minded; couch it not so low.— Dost heare me? take occasion to slip hence, 360 But secretly, let not thy mother see thee: At the back side there is a cunny greene;[1810] Stay there for me, and Mall and I will come to thee. [Aside.] Fra. Enough, I will. [Aside].—Mother, you doe me wrong To be so peremptory in your commaund, 365 And see that rascall to abuse me so.

Mi. Bar. Should I not, sir? should I not hate a harlot, That robs me of my right, vilde boye? 400 Mi. Gou. That tytle I returne unto thy teeth, [Exeunt Francis and Mall.] And spit the name of harlot in thy face. Mi. Bar. Well, tis not time of night to hold out chat With such a scold as thou art; therefore now Thinke that I hate thee as I doe the devill. 405 Mi. Gou. The devill take thee, if thou dost not, wretch! Mi. Bar. Out upon thee, strumpet! Mi. Gou. Out upon thee, harlot! Mis. Bar. Well, I will finde a time to be reveng'd: Meane time Ile keep my daughter from thy sonne.— 410 Where are you, minion? how now, are yee gone? Phi. She went in, mother. Mi. Go. Francis where are ye? Mi. Ba. He is not heere. O, then, they slipt away, And both together! 415 Phi. Ile assure ye, no; My sister she went in, into the house. Mi. Ba. But, then, sheele out againe at the backe doore, And meete with him: but I will search about All these same fields and paths neere to my house; 420 They are not far I am sure, if I make haste. Exit. Mi. Go. O God, how went he hence, I did not see him? It was when Barnses wife did scolde with me; A plague on[1816] her!—Dick, why didst not thou looke to him? Coo. What should I looke for him? no, no, I looke not for him while[1817] to morrow morning. 426 Mi. Gou. Come, go with me to help to looke him out. Alas, I have nor light, nor linke, nor torche! Though it be darke, I will take any paines To crosse this match. I prethy, Dick, away. 430 Coo. Mistris, because I brought ye out, Ile bring ye home; but, if I should follow, so hee might have the law on his side. Mi. Go. Come, tis no matter; prethee, goe with me. Exeunt [Mistress Goursey and Coomes.] M. Ba. Philip, thy mothers gone to seeke thy sister, And in a rage, i faith: but who comes heere? 435

M. Gou. I doubted that; that made me come unto you: But whether is she gone? Phil. To seeke your sonne, who slipt away from her To meete with Mall my sister in a place 445 Where I appointed; and my mother too Seeke for my sister; so they both are gone: My mother hath a torch; mary, your wife Goes darkling up and downe, and Coomes before her. M. Gou. I thought that knave was with her; but tis well: 450 I pray God, they may come by nere a light, But both be led a darke daunce in the night!

Phil. On that condition thou wilt do thy best To keep thy mistresse and thy fellow Dick Both from my sister and thy masters sonne, 460 I will entreate thy master let thee goe. Hod. O, I, I warrant ye, Ile have fine tricks to cousen them. M. Gou. Well, sir, then, go your waies; I give you leave. Hod. O brave! but where about are they? Phil. About our cunny green they surely are, 465 If thou canst find them. Hod. O, let me alone to grope for cunnies. [Gives Phil. the torch, and] exit. Phi. Well, now will I to Franke and to my sister. Stand you two harkning neere the cunny greene, But sure your light in you must not be seene; 470 Or els let Nicholas stand afarre off with it, [Gives Nich. the torch.] And as his life keep it from mistris Goursey. Shall this be done? M. Bar. Phillip, it shall. Phi. God be with ye! Ile be gone. 475 Exit. M. Bar. Come on, master Goursey: this same is a meanes To make our wives friends, if they resist not. M. Go. Tut, sir, howsoever it shall go forward. M. Bar. Come, then, lets do as Phillip hath advisd.

Mal. Heere is the place where Phillip bid me stay Till Francis came; but wherefore did my brother[1819] Appoint it heere? why in the cunny borough? He had some meaning in't, I warrant ye. Well, heere Ile set me downe under this tree, 5 And thinke upon the matter all alone. Good Lord, what pritty things these cunnies are! How finely they do feed till they be fat, And then what a sweet meate a cunny is! And what smooth skins they have, both black and gray! 10 They say they run more in the night then day: What is the reason? marke; why, in the light They see more passengers then in the night; For harmfull men many a haye[1820] do set, And laugh to see them tumble in the net; 15 And they put ferrets in the holes,—fie, fie!— And they go up and downe where conniees lye; And they lye still, they have so little wit: I marvell the warriner will suffer it; Nay, nay, they are so bad, that they themselves 20 Do give consent to catch these prettie elfes. How if the warriner should spie me here? He would take me for a conny I dare sweare. But when that Francis comes, what will he say? 'Looke, boy, there lyes a conney in my way!' 25 But, soft, a light! whose that? soule, my mother! Nay, then, all hid: i faith, she shall not see me; Ile play bo peepe with her behind this tree.

Mis. Ba. I marvell where this wench doth[1821] hide her selfe So closely; I have searcht in many a bush. 30 Mal. Belike my mother tooke me for a thrush. [Aside.]— Mis. Bar. Shees hid in this same warren, Ile lay money. Mal. Close as a rabbet sucker[1822] from an olde conney. [Aside.] Mi. Bar. O God, I would to God that I could find her! I would keepe her from her loves toyes yet. 35 Mal. I, so you might, if your daughter had no wit. [Aside.] Mi. Ba. What a vilde girle tis, that would hav't so young! Mal. A murren take that desembling tongue! Ere your calves teeth were out, you thought it long. [Aside.] Mi. Bar. But, minion, yet Ile keepe you from the man. 40 Mall. To save a lye, mother, say, if you can. [Aside.] Mi. Bar. Well, now to looke for her. Mal. I, theres the spight: What trick shall I now have to scape her light? [Aside.] Mi. Bar. Whose there? what, minion, is it you?— 45 Beshrew her heart, what a fright she put me to! But I am glad I found her, though I was afraide. [Aside.] Come on your wayes; you are[1823] a handsome maide! Why [steal] you foorth a doores so late at night? Why, whether go ye? come, stand still, I say. 50 Mal. No, indeed, mother; this is my best way. M. Ba. Tis not the best way; stand by me, I tell yee. Mall. No; you would catch me, mother,—O, I smell ye! Mi. Bar. Will ye not stand still? Mal. No, by ladie, no. 55 Mis. Bar. But I will make ye. Mal. Nay, then, trip and goe. Mi. Bar. Mistresse, Ile make ye wearie ere I have done. Mal. Faith, mother, then, Ile trie how you can runne. Mis. Bar. Will ye? 60 Mal. Yes, faith. Exeunt.

Fran. Why, Mal! I prethie, speake; why, Mal, I say! I know thou art not farre, if thou wilt not[1824] speake; 65 Why, Mal!— But now I see shees in her merry vaine, To make me call, and put me to more paine. Well, I must beare with her; sheel beare with me: But I will call, least that it be not so.— 70 What, Mal! what, Mall, I say!—Boy, are we right? Have we not mist the way this same darke night? Boy. Masse, it may be so: as I am true man, I have not seen a cunny since I came; Yet at the cunny-borow we should meete. 75 But, harke! I heare the trampling of some feete. Fran. It may be so, then; therefore lets lye close.

Mi. Gou. O, what a blindfold walke have we had, Dicke, To seeke my sonne! and yet I cannot finde him.

Mi. Gou. Dicke, looke about; It may be here we may finde them out. 95 Coo. I see the glimpse[1825] of some body heere.— And ye be a sprite, Ile fraie the bug beare.— There a goes, mistresse. Mi. Gour. O sir, have I spide you? Fr. A plague on the boy! twas he that descried[1826] me. Exeunt.

Phi. How like a beauteous lady, maskt in blacke Lookes that same large circumference of heaven! The skie, that was so faire three houres agoe, Is in three houres become an Ethiope; And being angrie at her beauteous change, 5 She will not have one of those pearled starres To blab her sable metamorphesis:[1827] Tis very darke. I did appoint my sister To meete me at the cunny berrie below, And Francis too; but neither can I see. 10 Belike my mother hapned on that place, And fraide them from it, and they both are now Wandring about the[1828] fields: how shall I finde them? It is so darke, I scarce can see my hand: Why, then, Ile hollow for them—no, not so; 15 So will his voice betray him to our mothers And if he answere, and bring them where he is. What shall I, then, do? it must not be so— Sbloud,[1829] it must be so; how else, I pray? Shall I stand gaping heere all night till day, 20 And then nere the neere?[1830]—So ho, so ho!

Phi. I have not been much private with that voice: Me thinke Franke Goursey talke and his doth tell me I am mistaken; especially by his bow; Franke had no bow. Well, I will leave this fellow, And hollow somewhat farther in the fields. 30 [Aside].— Doost thou heare, fellow? I perceive by thee That we are both mistaken: I tooke thee For one thou art not; likewise thou tookst me For sir Raph Smith, but sure I am not he: And so, farewell; I must go seeke my friend.— 35 So ho! [Exit.] Wil. So ho, so ho! nay, then, sir Raph, so whoore! For a whore she was sure, if you had her here So late. Now, you are sir Raphe Smith; Well do ye counterfeit and change your voyce, 40 But yet I know ye. But what should be that Francis? Belike that Francis cussend him of his wench, And he conceals himselfe to finde her out; Tis so, upon my life. Well, I will go And helpe him ring his peale of so ho, so ho! 45 [Exit.]

Fra. A plague on Coomes! a plague upon the boy! A plague too—not on my mother for an hundreth pound![1834] Twas time to runne; and yet I had not thought My mother could have followed me so close, Her legges with age I thought had foundered; 50 She made me quite runne through a quickset hedge, Or she had taken me. Well, I may say, I have runne through the briers for a wenche; And yet I have her not,—the woorse lucke mine. Me thought I heard one hollow here about; 55 I judge it Philip: O, the slave will laugh When as he heares how that my mother scarde me! Well, heere Ile stand untill I heare him hollow, And then Ile answere him; he is not farre.

Ra. My man is hollowing for me up and downe, 60 And yet I cannot meet with him.—So ho! Frank. So ho! Ra. Why, what, a poxe, wert thou so neere me, man, And wouldst[1835] not speake? Fra. Sbloud, ye are very hot. 65 Rap. No, sir, I am colde enough with staying here For such a knave as you. Fra. Knave! how now, Phillip? Art mad, art mad? Ra. Why, art not thou my man 70 That went to fetch my bowe.[1836] Fra. Indeed, a bowe Might shoote me ten bowes downe the weather so: I your man! Ra. What art thou, then? 75 Fran. A man: but whats thy name? Rap. Some call me Raph. Franke. Then, honest Raph, farewell.[1837] Ra. Well said, familiar Will! plaine Raph, i faith. [Hollow within Phillip and Will.[1838]] Fran. There calles my man. 80 Ra. But there goes mine away; And yet Ile heare what this next call will say, [Goes out toward the fields.] And here Ile tarrie till he call againe.

Wil. So ho! Fran. So ho! where art thou, Phillip? 85 Wil. Sbloud,[1839] Philip! But now he calde[1840] me Francis: this is fine. [Aside.] Fran. Why studiest thou? I prethy, tell me, Philip, Where the wench[1841] is. Wil. Even now he askt me Francis for the wench, 90 And now he asks[1842] me Phillip for the wench. [Aside]— Well, sir Raph, I must needes tell ye now, Tis not for your[1843] credit to be foorth So late a wenching in this order. Fran. Whats this? so late a wenching, doth he say? [Aside].— Indeed, tis true I am thus late a wenching, 96 But I am forc'st to wench without a wench. Wil. Why, then, you might have tane your bow at first, And gone and kilde a bucke, and not have been So long a drabbing, and be nere the neere. 100 Fran. Swounds, what a pussell am I in this night! But yet Ile put this fellow farther [off][1844] [Aside].— Doost thou heare, man? I am not sir Raph Smith, As thou doost thinke I am; but I did meete him, Even as thou saiest, in pursuite of a wench. 105 I met the wench to, and she[1845] askt for thee, Saying twas thou that wert her love, her deare, And that sir Raph was not an honest knight To traine her thether, and to use her so. Wil. Sbloud, my wench! swounds, were he ten sir Raphs— Fran. Nay, tis true, looke to it; and so, farewell. 111 Exit. Wil. Indeed, I do love Nan, our darie maide: And hath he traine[d] her forth to that intent, Or for another? I carrie his crossebow, And he doth crosse me, shooting in my bow. 115 What shall I do? [Exit.]

Phil. Will foole your man, Will gose[1847] your man! 5 My backe, sir, scornes to weare your liverie. Raph. Nay, sir, I moov'de but such a question to you, And[1848] it hath not disparegd you, I hope; Twas but mistaking; such a night as this May well deceive a man. God boye,[1849] sir. 10 [Exit.] Phil. Gods will, tis sir Raph Smith, a vertuous knight! How gently entertaines he my hard answer! Rude anger made my tongue unmannerly: I crie him mercie. Well, but all this while I cannot finde a Francis.—Francis, ho! 15

Wil. Francis, ho! O, you call Francis now! How have ye usde my Nan? come, tell me, how. Phil. Thy Nan! what Nan? Wil. I, what Nan, now! say, do you not seeke a wench? Phi. Yes, I do. 20 Wil. Then, sir, that is she. Phil. Art not thou [he] I met withall before? Wil. Yes, sir; and you did counterfeit before, And said to me you were not sir Raph Smith. Phil. No more I am not. I met sir Raph Smith; 25 Even now he askt me if I saw his man. Wil. O, fine! Phil. Why, sirra, thou art much deceived in me: Good faith, I am not he thou thinkst I am. Wil. What are ye, then? 30 Phi. Why, one that seekes one Francis and a wench. Wil. And Francis seekes one Phillip and a wench. Phil. How canst thou tell? Wil. I met him seeking Phillip and a wench, As I was seeking sir Raph and a wench. 35 Phil. Why, then, I know the matter: we met crosse, And so we mist; now here we finde our losse. Well, if thou wilt, we two will keepe togither, And so we shall meet right with one or other. Wil. I am content: but, do you heare me, sir? 40 Did not sir Raph Smith aske yee for a wench? Phi. No, I promise thee, nor did he looke For any but thy selfe, as I could gesse. Wil. Why, this is strange: but, come, sir, lets away; I feare that we shall walke here till it be day. Exeunt. 45

M. Gour. And every where we come, I heere some hollo, And yet it is our haps to meete with none. M. Bar. I marvell where your Hodge is, and my man. 5 M. Gour. I, and our wives; we cannot meet with them, Nor with the boye, nor Mall, nor Franke, nor Phillip, Nor yet with Coomes, and yet we nere stood still. Well, I am very angry with my wife, And she shall finde I am not pleasd with her, 10 If we meete nere so soone: but tis my hope.[1889] She hath had as blind a journey ont[1890] as we; Pray God, she have, and worse, if worse may be! M. Bar. This is but short liv'de envie,[1891] maister Goursey: But, come, what say yee to my pollicie?[1892] 15 M. Gou. I faith, tis good, and we will practise it; But, sir, it must be handeled cunningly, Or all is mard; our wives have subtill heads, And they will soone perceive a drift devise.

Raph. No, no.— Was ever man deluded thus like me? I thinke some spirit leads me thus amisse, As I have often heard that some have bin 30 Thus in the nights. But yet this mases me; where ere I come, Some askes me still for Franke or Phillip, And none of them can tell me where Will is. [Aside.] Wil. So ho! } 35 Phil. So ho! } Hodg. So ho!} They hollo within. Boy. So ho! } Rap. Sownes, now I heere foure hollo at the least! One had a little voice; then thats the wench 40 My man hath lost: well, I will answer all. [Aside.] So ho!

Raph. Hey day, from Franke and Phillip to a torche, And to a boye! nay, sownes, then, hap as twill. [Aside.]

Phil. Is this broad waking in a winters night? I am broad walking in a winters night,— 75 Broad indeed, because I am abroad,— But these broad fields methinks are not so broad That they may keepe me foorth of narrow ditches. Heers a hard world! For I can hardly keep myself upright in it: 80 I am marvellous dutifull—but, so ho!

Phi. Father, O father, I have heard them say The dayes of ignorance are past and done; But I am sure the nights of ignorance 95 Are not yet past, for this is one of them. But wheres my sister? M. Bar. Why, we cannot tell. Ph. Wheres Francis? M. Gour. Neither saw we him. 100 Phi. Why, this is fine. What, neither he nor I, nor she nor you, Nor I nor she, nor you and I, till[1896] now, Can meet, could meet, or nere, I thinke, shall meete! Cal ye this woing? no, tis Christmas sport 105 Of Hob man blind:[1897] all blind, all seek to catch, All misse,—but who comes heere?[1898]

Fra. O, have I catcht yee, sir? it was your dooing That made me have this pretty daunce to night; Had not you spoake, my mother had not scard me: 110 But I will swinge ye for it. Phil. Keepe the kings peace! Fran. How! art thou become a constable? Why, Phillip, where hast thou bin all this while? Ph. Why, where you were not: but, I pray, whers my sister? Fran. Why, man, I saw her not; but I have sought her 116 As I should seeke seeke— Phil. A needle, have yee not? Why, you, man, are the needle that she seekes To worke withall. Well, Francis, do you heere? 120 You must not answere so, that you have sought her; But have yee found her? faith, and if you have, God give yee joy of that ye found with her! Fra.[1899] I saw her not: how could I finde her? M. Gou. Why, could yee misse from maister Barnses house Unto his cunnyberry? 126 Fran. Whether I could or no, father, I did. Phil. Father, I did! well, Franke, wilt thou beleeve me, Thou dost not know how much this same doth greeve me: Shall it be said thou mist so plaine a way, 130 When as so faire a wenche did for thee stay? Fra. Sownes, man! Phi. Sownes, man! and if thou hadst bin blinde, The cunny-borow thou needst must finde. I tell thee, Francis, had it bin my case, 135 And I had bin a woer in thy place, I would have laide my head unto the ground, And sented out my wenches way, like a hound; I would have crept upon my knees all night, And have made the flint stones linckes to give me light. 140 Nay, man, I would— Fran. Good Lord, what you would doe! Well, we shall see one day how you can woe. M. Gor. Come, come, we see that we have all bin crost; Therefore lets go, and seeke them we have lost. Exeunt.

[Mal]. Am I alone? doth not my mother come? Her torch I see not, which I well might see, If any way she were comming toward me: Why, then, belike shees gone some other way; And may she go till I bid her turne! 5 Farre shall her way be then, and little faire, For she hath hindered me of my good turne; God send her wet and wearie ere she turne! I had beene at Oxenford, and to morrow Have beene releast from all my maidens sorrow, 10 And tasted joy, had not my mother bin; God, I beseech thee, make it her worst sinne! How many maides this night lyes in their beds, And dreame that they have lost their maidenheads! Such dreames, such slumbers I had to[o] enjoyde, 15 If waking mallice had not them destroide. A starved man with double death doth dye, To have the meate might save him in his eye, And may not have it: so am I tormented, To starve for joy I see, yet am prevented. 20 Well, Franke, although thou woedst and quickly wonne, Yet shall my love to thee be never done; Ile run through hedge and ditch, through brakes and briers, To come to thee, sole lord of my desires: Short woing is the best, an houre, not yeares, 25 For long debating love is full of feares. But, hearke! I heare one tread. O, wert my brother, Or Franke, or any man, but not my mother!

S. Rap. O, when will this same yeare of night have end? Long lookt for daies sunne, when wilt thou ascend? 30 Let not this theefe friend, misty vale[1901] of night, Incroach on day, and shadow thy faire light, Whilst thou com'st tardy from thy Thetes bed, Blushing foorth, golden haire and glorious red; O, stay not long, bright lanthorne of the day, 35 To light my mist way[1902] feete to my right way! Mall. It is a man, his big voice tels me so, Much am I not acquainted with it tho; And yet mine eare, sounds true distinguisher, Boyes[1903] that I have been more familiar 40 With it then now I am: well, I doe judge, It is not envies fellon, not of grudge[1904]; Therefore Ile plead acquaintance, hyer his guiding, And buy of him some place of close abiding, Till that my mothers mallice be expired, 45 And we may joy in that is long desired [Aside].— Whose there? Ra. Are ye a maide?—No question this is she My man doth misse: faith, since she lights on me, I doe not meane till day to let her goe; 50 For what[1905] she is my mans love I will know [Aside].— Harke ye, mayde, if mayde, are ye so light That you can see to wander in the night? Mal. Harke ye, true man, if true, I tell you, no; I cannot see at all which way I goe. 55 Ra. Fayre mayde, ist so? say, had ye nere a fall? Mal. Fayre man, not so; no, I had none at all. Ra. Could you not stumble on one man, I pray? Mal. No, no such blocke till now came in my way. Ra. Am I that blocke, sweete tripe? then, fall and try. 60 Ma. The grounds too hard a feather-bed; not I. Ra. Why, how and you had met with such a stumpe? Mal. Why, if he had been your height, I meant to jumpe. Ra. Are ye so nimble? Mal. Nimble as a doe. 65 Ra. Backt in a pye. Mal. Of ye. Ra. Good meate ye know. Mall. Ye hunt sometimes? Ra. I do. 70 Mal. What take ye? Ra. Deare. Mall. You'l nere strike rascall[1906]? Ra. Yes, when ye are there. Mal. Will ye strike me? 75 Rap. Yes: will ye strike againe?[1907] Mall. No, sir; it fits not maides to fight with men. Ra. I wonder, wench, how I thy name might know. Mall. Why, you may finde it, sir, in the Christcrosse row. Rap. Be my schoolemistresse, teach me how to spell it. 80 Mall. No, faith, I care not greatly if I tell it; My name is Marie Barnes. Ra. How, wench? Mall Barnes! Mal. The verie same. Rap. Why, this is strange. 85 Mal. I pray, sir, whats your[1908] name? Raph. Why, sir Raph Smith doth wonder, wench, at this; Why, whats the cause thou art abroad so late? Mal. What, sir Raph Smith! nay, then, I will disclose All the hole cause to him, in him repose 90 My hopes, my love: God him, I hope, did send Our loves and both our mothers hates to end. [Aside].— Gentle sir Raph, if you my blush might see, You then would say I am ashamed to be Found, like a wandring stray, by such a knight, 95 So farre from home at such a time of night: But my excuse is good; love first by fate Is crost, controulde,[1909] and sundered by fell hate. Franke Goursey is my love, and he loves me; But both our mothers hate and disagree; 100 Our fathers like the match and wish it don; And so it had, had not our mothers come; To Oxford we concluded both to go; Going to meete, they came; we parted so; My mother followed me, but I ran fast, 105 Thinking who went from hate had need make hast; Take me she cannot, though she still persue: But now, sweet knight, I do repose on you; Be you my orator and plead my right, And get me one good day for this bad night. 110 Ra. Alas, good heart, I pitty thy hard hap! And Ile employ all that I may for thee. Franke Goursey, wench! I do commend thy choyse: Now I remember I met one Francis, As I did seeke my man,—then, that was he,— 115 And Philip too,—belike that was thy brother: Why, now I find how I did loose myself, And wander[1910] up and down, mistaking so. Give me thy hand, Mall: I will never leave Till I have made your mothers friends againe, 120 And purchast to ye both your hearts delight, And for this same one bad many a good night. Twill not be long ere that Aurora will, Deckt in the glory of a goldon sunne, Open the christall windowes of the east, 125 To make the earth enamourde of her[1911] face, When we shall have cleare light to see our way: Come; night being done, expect a happy day. Exeunt.

Mis. Ba. O, what a race this peevish girle hath led me! How fast I ran, and now how weary I am! I am so out of breath I scarce can speake,— What shall I doe?—and cannot overtake her. It is[1913] late and darke, and I am far from home: 5 May there not theeves lye watching heere about, Intending mischiefe unto them they meete? There may; and I am much affrayde of them, Being alone without all company. I doe repent me of my coming foorth; 10 And yet I do not,—they had else beene married, And that I would not for ten times more labour. But what a winter of colde feare I thole,[1914] Freecing my heart, least danger should betide me! What shal I do to purchase company? 15 I heare some hollow here about the fields: Then here Ile set my torch upon this hill, Whose light shall beacon-like conduct them to it; They that have lost theyr way, seeing a light, For it may be seene farre off in the night, 20 Will come to it. Well, here Ile lye vnseene,[1915] And looke who comes, and chuse my company: Perhaps my daughter may first come to it. [Retires to one side.]

Mi. Gour. Where am I now? nay, where was I even now? Nor now, nor then, nor where I shall be, know I. 25 I thinke I am going home: I may as well Be[1916] going from home; tis so very darke, I cannot see how to direct a step. I lost my man, pursuing of my sonne; My sonne escapt me too: now, all alone, 30 I am enforst[1917] to wander up and downe. Barnses wife's abroad: pray God, that she May have as good a daunce, nay, ten times worse! Oh, but I feare she hath not; she hath light To see her way. O, that some[1918] bridge would breake, 35 That she might fall into some deep digd ditch, And eyther breake her bones or drowne her selfe! I would these mischiefes I could wish to her Might light on her!—but, soft; I see a light: I will go neere; tis comfortable, 40 After this nights sad spirits dulling[1919] darknes. How now? what, is it set to keep it selfe? Mis. Bar. A plague ont, is she there? [Aside.] Mis. Gou. O, how it cheares and quickens up my thoughts! Mis. Bar. O, that it were the besseliskies fell eye, 45 To poyson thee! [Aside.] Mi. Gou. I care not if I take it,— Sure none is here to hinder me,— And light me home. Mi. Bar. I had rather she were hangd 50 Then I should set it there to doe her good. [Aside.] Mis. Go. I faith, I will. Mi. Ba. I faith, you shall not, mistresse; Ile venter a burnt finger but Ile have it. [Aside.] Mi. Gou. Yet Barnses wife would chafe, if that she knew 55 That I had this good lucke to get a light. Mi. Ba. And so she doth; but praise your[1920] lucke at parting. [Aside.] Mi. Go. O, that it were[1921] her light, good faith, that she Might darkling walke about as well as I! Mi. Ba. O, how this mads me, that she hath her wish! [Aside.] Mi. Go. How I would laugh to see her trot about! 61 Mi. Bar. Oh, I could cry for anger and for rage! [Aside.] Mi. Go. But who should set it here, I marvel, a Gods name. Mi. Bar. One that will hav'te from you, in the devils name. [Aside.] Mi. Go. Ile lay my life that it was Barnses sonne. 65 Mi. Ba. No, forsooth, it was Barnses wife. [Advancing to seize torch.] Mi. Gou. A plague upon her, how she made me start! [Aside].— Mistresse, let go the torch. [They struggle for it.] Mis. Bar. No, but I will not. Mh. Gou. Ile thrust it in thy face, then. 70 Mi. Bar. But you shall not. Mi. Gou. Let go, I say. Mi. Ba. Let you go, for tis mine. Mis. Go. But my possession saies, it is none of thine. Mi. Bar. Nay, I have holde too. 75 Mi. Gou. Well, let go thy hold,[1922] or I will spurn thee. Mi. Bar. Do; I can spurne thee too. Mi. Go. Canst thou? Mi. Ba. I, that I can.

M. Gou. Why, how now, woman?[1923] how unlike to women 80 Are ye both now! come, part, come, part, I say. M. Ba. Why, what immodesty is[1924] this in you! Come, part, I say; fie, fie. Mi. Ba. Fie, fie! I say, she shall not have my torch.— Give me thy torch, boy:—I will run a tilt, 85 And burne out both her eyes in my encounter. Mi. Go. Give roome, and lets have this hot cariere.[1925] M. Go. I say, ye shall not: wife, go to, tame your thoughts That are so mad with fury. M. Ba. And, sweet wife, 90 Temper your rage with patience; do not be Subject so much to such misgovernment. Mi. Bar. Shal I not, sir, when such a strumpet wrongs me? Mi. Go. How, strumpet, mistris Barnes! nay, I pray, harke ye: I oft indeed have heard you call her so, 95 And I have thought upon it, why ye should Twit her with name of strumpet; do you know Any hurt by her, that you terme her so? M. Ba. No, on my life; rage onely makes her say so. M. Go. [with pretended suspicion]. But I would know whence this same rage should come; 100 Whers smoke, theres fire; and my heart misgives My wives intemperance hath got that name;— And, mistresse Barnes, I doubt and shrewdly[1926] doubt, And some great cause begets this doubt in me, Your husband and my wife doth wrong us both. 105 M Ba. [with assumed indignation]. How! thinke ye so? nay, master Goursey, then, You run in debt to my opinion, Because you pay not such advised wisedome As I thinke due unto my good conceit. M. Go. [angrily]. Then still I feare I shall your debter proove. [M. Bar.].[1927] Then I arrest you in the name of love; Not bale, but present answere to my plea; 112 And in the court of reason we will try If that good thoughts should beleeve jelousie. [They make as if they were fighting.]

Phil. Why, looke you, mother, this is long of you.— 115 For Gods sake, father, harke! why, these effects Come still from womens malice: part, I pray.— Comes, Wil, and Hodge, come all, and helpe us part them!— [They try to part the combatants. Father, but heare me speake one word, no more. Franke. Father, but heare me[1928] speake, then use your will. 120 Phil. Crie peace betweene ye for a little while. Mi. Gou. [pulling her husband off]. Good husband, heare him speake. Mis. Bar. [pulling at hers]. Good husband, heare him.

Mis. Bar. O Lord, what haste you make to hurt your selves!— Good Phillip, use some good perswasions To make them friends. Phi. Yes, Ile doe what I can.— Father, and master Goursey, both attend. 135 It is presumption in so young a man To teach where he might learne, or [to][1929] derect Where he hath had direction; but in duety He may perswade as long as his perswase Is backt with reason and a rightfull sute. 140 Phisickes first rule is this, as I have learned, Kill the effect by cutting of the cause:[1930] The same effects of ruffin outrages Comes by the cause of mallice in your wives; Had not they two bin foes, you had bin friends, 145 And we had bin at home, and this same war In peacefull sleep had nere bin dreamt upon.— Mother, and mistresse Goursey, to make them friends, Is to be friends your selves: you are the cause, And these effects proceed, you know, from you; 150 Your hates give life unto these killing strifes, But dye and if that envy dye in you.— [The fathers make as if to renew the combat.] Fathers, yet stay.—O, speake!—O, stay a while!—[They desist.] Francis, perswade thy mother.—Maister Goursey, If that my mother will resolve[1931] your minde[1932] 155 That tis but meere suspect, not common proofe, And if my father sweares hees innocent, As I durst pawne my soule with him he is, And if your wife vow truth and constancy, Will you be then perswaded? 160 M. Gou. Phillip, if thy father will remit The wounds I gave him, and if these conditions May be performde, I bannish all my wrath. M. Bar. And if thy mother will but cleere me, Phillip, As I am ready to protest I am, 165 Then master Goursey is my friend againe. Phi. Harke, mother; now you heare that your desires May be accomplished; they will both be friends, If you'l performe these easie[1933] articles. Mi. Ba. Shall I be friends with such an enemy? 170 Phil. What say you unto my perswase? Mi. Ba. I say shees my deadly enemie. Phil. I, but she will be your friend, if you revolt.[1934] Mi. Ba. The words I said! what, shall I eate a truth? Phi. Why, harke ye, mother. 175 Fra. Mother, what say you? Mis. Go. Why, this I say, she slaundered my good name. Fra. But if she now denie it, tis no defame. Mi. Go. What, shall I thinke her hate will yeeld so much? Fra. Why, doubt it not; her spirit may be such. 180 M. Go. [Impatient for the reconciliation.] Why, will it be? Phi. Yet stay, I have some hope. Mother, why, mother, why, heare ye.[1935] Give me your hand; it is no more but thus; Tis easie labour to shake hands with her: 185 A[1936] little breath is spent in speaking of faire words, When wrath hath violent deliveries.[1937] M. Bar. What, shall we be resolved? [As if to renew the fray.] Mi. Bar. O husband, stay!— [Stepping between them.] Stay, maister Goursey: though your wife doth hate me, 190 And beares unto me mallice infinite And endlesse, yet I will respect your safeties; I would not have you perish by our meanes: I must confesse that onely suspect, And no proofe els, hath fed my hate to her. 195 Mi. Gour. And, husband, I protest by heaven and earth That her suspect is causles and unjust, And that I nere had such a vilde intent; Harme she imaginde, where as none was ment. Phil. Loe, sir, what would yee more? 200 M. Bar. Yes, Phillip, this; That I confirme him in my innocence By this large universe. M. Gour. [with show of continued impatience.] By that I sweare, Ile credit none of you, until I heere 205 Friendship concluded straight betweene them two: If I see that they willingly will doe, Then Ile imagine all suspition ends; I may be then assured, they being friends. Phil. Mother, make full my wish, and be it so. 210 Mi. Bar. What, shall I sue for friendship to my foe? Phil. No: if she yeeld, will you? Mi. Ba. It may be, I. Phil. Why, this is well. The other I will trie.— Come, mistresse Goursey, do you first agree. 215 Mi. Gour. What, shall I yeeld unto mine enemie? Phil. Why, if she will, will you? Mi. Gou. Perhaps I will. Phil. Nay, then, I finde this goes well forward still. Mother, give me your hand,—give me yours to[o]; 220 Be not so loath; some good thing I must do; But lay your torches by, I like not them; Come, come, deliver them unto your men: Give me your hands.—So, now, sir, heere I stand, Holding two angrie women in my hand: 225 And I must please them both; I could please tone,[1938] But it is hard when there is two to one, Especially of women; but tis so, They shall be pleasd whether they will or no.— Which will come first? what, both give back! ha, neither! 230 Why, then, yond may helpe that come both together.[1939] So, stand still, stand[1940] but a little while, And see how I your angers will beguile. Well, yet there is no hurt; why, then, let me Joyne these two hands, and see how theil agree: 235 [They kiss.] Peace, peace! they crie; looke how they friendly kisse! Well, all this while there is no harme in this: Are not these two twins? twins should be both alike, If tone speakes faire, the tother should not strike: Jesus, these warriours will not offer blowes! 240 Why, then, tis strange that you two should be foes. O, yes, youle say, your weapons are your tongues; Touch lip with lip, and they are bound from wrongs: Go to, imbrace, and say, if you be friends, That heere the angrie womens quarrels ends. 245 [They embrace.] Mi. Gou. Then heere it ends, if mistres Barnes say so. Mi. Bar. If you say, I, I list not to say, no. M. Gou. If they be friends, by promise we agree. M. Bar. And may this league of friendship ever be! Phil. What saist thou, Franke? doth not this fall out well? 250 Fran. Yes, if my Mall were heere, then all were well.

Raph. Yonder they be, Mall: stay, stand close, and stur not, Untill I call.—God save yee, gentlemen! M. Bar. What, sir Raph Smith! you are a welcome man: We wondred when we heard you were abroad. 255 Raph. Why, sir, how heard yee that I was abroad? M. Bar. By your man. Raph. My man! where is he? Will. Heere. Raph. O, yee are a trustie squire! 260 Nic. It had bin better, and he had said, a sure carde. Phil. Why, sir? Nic. Because it is the proverbe. Phil. Away, yee asse! Nic. An asse goes a foure legs; I go of two, Christ crosse. 265 Phi. Hold your tongue. Nic. And make no more adoe. M. Gou. Go to, no more adoe.—Gentle sir Raphe, Your man is not in fault for missing you, For he mistooke by us, and we by him. 270 Raph. And I by you; which now I well perceive. But tell me, gentlemen, what made yee all Be from your beds this night, and why thus late Are your wives walking heere about the fields:[1941] Tis strange to see such women of accoumpt 275 Heere; but I gesse some great occasion. M. Gour. Faith, this occasion, sir: women will jarre; And jarre they did to day, and so they parted; We knowing womens mallice let alone Will, canker like, eate farther in their hearts, 280 Did seeke a sodaine cure, and thus it was,— A match betweene his daughter and my sonne: No sooner motioned but twas agreed, And they no sooner saw but wooed and likte: They have it sought to crosse, and crosse it thus. 285 Rap. Fye, mistresse Barnes, and mistresse Goursey both; The greatest sinne wherein your soules may sinne, I thinke, is this, in crossing of true love: Let me perswade yee. Mi. Bar. Sir, we are perswaded, 290 And I and mistresse Goursey are both friends; And, if my daughter were but found againe, Who now is missing, she had my consent To be disposd off to her owne content. Raph. I do rejoyce that what I thought to doe, 295 Ere I begin, I finde already done: Why, this will please your friends at Abington.— Franke, if thou seekst that way, there thou shalt finde Her, whom I holde the comfort of thy minde. Mall. [coming forward]. He shall not seeke me; I will seeke him out, 300 Since of my mothers graunt I need not doubt. Mi. Bar. Thy mother graunts, my girle, and she doth pray To send unto you both a joyfull day!

Phil. Franke, harke ye: brother, now your woings doone, 315 The next thing now you do is for a sonne; I prithe, for, i faith, I should be glad To have myselfe cald nunckle, and thou dad.— Well, sister, if that Francis play the man, My mother must be grandam, and you mam.— 320 To it, Francis,—to it, sister!—God send yee joy! Tis fine to sing, "dansey, my owne sweete boye!" Fra. Well, sir, jest on. Phil. Nay, sir,[1942] do you jest on. M. Bar. Well, may she proove a happy wife to him! 325 M. Gou. And may he proove as happy unto her! Raph. Well, gentlemen, good hap betide them both! Since twas my hap thus happily to meete, To be a witnesse of this sweete contract, I doe rejoyce; wherefore, to have this joye 330 Longer present with me, I do request That all of you will be my promist guests: This long nights labour dooth desire some rest, Besides this wished end; therefore, I pray, Let me deteine yee but a dinner time: 335 Tell me, I pray, shall I obtaine so much? M. Bar. Gentle sir Raphe, your courtesie is such As may impose commaund unto us all; We will be thankfull bolde at your request. Phil. I pray, sir Raph, what cheere shall we have? 340 S. Raph. I faith, countrie fare, mutton and veale, Perchance a ducke or goose. Mal. Oh, I am sick! All. How now, Mall? whats the matter? Mal. Father and mother, if you needs would know, 345 He nam'd a goose, which is my stomacks foe. Phil. Come, come, she is with childe of some od jest, And now shees sicke till that she bring[1943] it foorth. Mal. A jest, quoth you! well, brother, if it be, I feare twill proove an earnest unto me.— 350 Goose, said ye, sir? Oh, that same very name Hath in it much variety of shame! Of all the birds that ever yet was seene, I would not have them graze upon this greene; I hope they will not, for this crop is poore, 355 And they may pasture upon greater store: But yet tis pittie that they let them passe, And like a common bite the Muses grasse. Yet this I feare; if Franke and I should kisse, Some creeking goose would chide us with a hisse: 360 I meane not that goose that sings it knowes not what;[1944] Tis not that hisse when one saies, 'hist, come hither'; Nor that same hisse that setteth dogges together; Nor that same hisse that by a fire doth stand, And hisseth T. or F.[1945] upon the hand; 365 But tis a hisse, and Ile unlace my cote, For I should sound[1946] sure, if I heard that note, And then 'greene ginger for the greene goose' cries, Serves not the turne,—I turn'd the white of eyes. The rosa-solis[1947] yet that makes me live 370 Is favour[1948] that these gentlemen may give; But if they be displeased, then pleasde am I, To yeeld my selfe a hissing death to dye: Yet I hope heeres none consents to kill, But kindly take the favour of good will. 375 If any thing be in the pen to blame, Then here stand I to blush the writers shame: If this be bad, he promises a better; Trust him, and he will proove a right true debter. [Exeunt.]