PLEASANT HISTORY OF the two angry women of Abington.

Maister Goursey. Good maister Barnes, this entertaine of yours, So full of courtesie and rich delight, Makes me misdoubt my poore ability In quittance of this friendly courtesie. M. Bar. O master Goursey, neighbour amitie 5 Is such a jewell of high reckoned worth, As for the attaine of it what would not I Disburse, it is so precious in my thoughts! M. Gou. Kinde sir, neere dwelling amity indeed Offers the hearts enquiry better view 10 Then love thats seated in a farther soyle: As prospectives[1619] the[1620] neerer that they be Yeeld better judgement to the judging eye; Thinges seene farre off are lessened in the eye, When their true shape is seene being hard by. 15 M. Bar. True, sir, tis so; and truely I esteeme Meere[1621] amity, familiar neighbourhood, The cousen germaine unto wedded love. M. Gou. I,[1622] sir, thers surely some aliance twixt them, For they have both the off-spring from the heart: 20 Within the hearts bloud ocean still are found Jewels of amity and jemmes of love. M. Bar. I, master Goursey, I have in my time Seene many shipwracks of true honesty; But incident such dangers ever are 25 To them that without compass sayle so farre: Why, what need men to swim when they may wade? But leave this talke, enough of this is said: And, master Goursey, in good faith, sir, wellcome;— And, mistresse Goursey, I am much in debt 30 Unto your kindnes that would visit me. Mi. Gou. O master Barnes, you put me but in minde Of that which I should say; tis we that are Indebted to your kindness for this cheere: Which debt that we may repay, I pray lets have 35 Sometimes your company at our homely house. Mi. Bar. That, mistresse Goursey, you shall surely have; Heele[1623] be a bolde guest I warrant ye, And boulder too with you then I would have him. Mis. Gou. How doe ye meane he will be bolde with me? 40 Mi. Bar. Why, he will trouble you at home, forsooth, Often call in, and aske ye how ye doe; And sit and chat with you all day till night, And all night too, if he might have his will. M. Bar. I, wife, indeed, I thanke her for her kindnes; 45 She hath made me much good cheere passing that way. Mi. Bar. Passing well done of her; she is a kinde wench.— I thanke ye, mistresse Goursey, for my husband; And if it hap your husband come our way A hunting or such ordinary sportes, 50 Ile do as much for yours as you for mine. M. Gou. Pray doe, forsooth.—Gods Lord, what meanes the woman? She speakes it scornefully: i faith I care not; Things are well spoken, if they be well taken.— [Aside.] What, mistresse Barnes, is it not time to part? 55 Mis. Bar. Whats a clocke, sirra? Nicholas. Tis but new strucke one. M. Gou. I have some busines in the towne by three. M. Bar. Till then lets walke into the orchard, sir. What, can you play at tables?[1624] 60 M. Gou. Yes, I can. M. Bar. What, shall we have a game? M. Gou. And if you please. M. Bar. I faith, content; weele spend an hower so.— Sirra, fetch the tables.[1625] 65 Nic. I will, sir. Exit. Phil. Sirra Franke, whilst they are playing heere, Weele to the greene to bowles. Fra. Phillip, content.—Coomes, come hyther, sirra: When our fathers part, call us upon the greene.— 70 Phillip, come, a rubber,[1626] and so leave. Phil. Come on. Exeunt [Phillip and Francis].

M. Bar. So, set them downe.— Mistresse Goursey, how doe you like this game? Mi. Gou. Well, sir. 80 M. Bar. Can ye play at it? Mis. Gou. A little, sir. M. Bar. Faith, so can my wife. M. Gou. Why, then, master Barnes, and if you please, Our wives shall try the quarrell twixt us two, 85 And weele looke on. M. Bar. I am content.—What, woman,[1628] will you play? Mis. Gou. I care not greatly. Mis. Bar. Nor I, but that I thinke sheele play me false. M. Gou. Ile see she shall not. 90 Mis. Bar. Nay, sir, she will be sure you shall not see, You of all men shall not marke her hand; She hath such close conveyance in her play. M. Gou. Is she so cunning growne? Come, come, lets see. Mis. Gou. Yea, mistris Barnes, will ye not house your jests, 95 But let them rome abroad so carelesly? Faith, if your jealious tongue utter another, Ile crosse ye with a jest, and ye were my mother.— [Aside.] Come, shall we play? Mis. Bar. I, what shall we play a game? 100 Mis. Gou. A pound a game. M. Gou. How, wife? Mis. Gou. Faith, husband, not a farthing lesse. M. Gou. It is too much; a shilling were good game. M[is]. Gou. No, weell be ill huswives once; 105 You have oft been ill husbands: lets alone. M. Bar. Wife, will you play so much? Mis. Bar. I would be loath to be so franke a gaimster As mistresse Goursey is; and yet for once Ile play a pound a game aswell as she. 110 M. Bar. Go to, youle have your will. Offer to goe from them. Mis. Bar. Come, ther's my stake. Mis. Gou. And ther's mine. Mis. Bar. Throw for the dice. Ill luck! they are yours. M. Bar. Master Goursey, who sayes that gamings bad, 115 When such good angels[1629] walke twixt every cast? M. Gou. This is not noble sport, but royall play. M. Bar. It must be so where royals walke so fast. Mis. Bar. Play right, I pray. Mi. Gou. Why, so I doe. 120 Mis. Bar. Where stands your man? Mis. Gou. In his right place. Mis. Bar. Good faith, I thinke ye play me foule an ace. M. Bar. No, wife, she playes ye true. Mis. Bar. Peace, husband, peace; ile not be judged by you. 125 Mis. Gou. Husband, master Barnes, pray both goe walke; We cannot play, if standers by doe talke. M. Gou. Well, to your game; we will not trouble ye. [Goursey and Barnes] goe from them. Mi. Gou. Where stands your man now? Mi. Bar. Doth he not stand right? 130 Mi. Gou. It stands betweene the pointes. Mi. Bar. And thats my spight. But yet me thinkes the dice runnes much uneven, That I throw but dewes ase and you eleven. Mis. Gou. And yet you see that I cast downe the hill. 135 Mi. Bar. I, I beshrew ye, tis not with my will. Mis. Gou. Do ye beshrew me? Mi. Bar. No, I beshrew the dice, That turne you up more at once then me at twise. Mi. Gou. Well, you shall see them turne for you anon. 140 Mi. Bar. But I care not for them when your game is done. Mi. Gou. My game! what game? Mi. Bar. Your game, your game at tables. Mi. Gou. Well, mistresse, well, I have red Æsops fables, And know your morrals meaning well enough. 145 Mi. Bar. Loe, you'l be angry now! heres good stuffe. [Re-enter Goursey and Barnes.] M. Gour. How now, woman?[1630] who hath wonne the game? Mi. Gou. No body yet. M. Bar. Your wife's the fairest for't.[1631] Mi. Bar. I, in your eye. 150 Mi. Gou. How do you meane? Mi. Bar. He holds you fairer for't then I. Mi. Gou. For what, forsooth? Mi. Bar. Good gamster, for your game. M. Bar. Well, try it out; t'is all but in the bearing.[1632] 155 Mi. Bar. Nay, if it come to bearing, shee'l be best. Mi. Gou. Why you'r as good a bearer as the rest. Mi. Bar. Nay, thats not so; you beare one man too many. Mi. Gou. Better doe so then beare not any. Mi. Ba. Beshrew me, but my wives jestes grow too bitter; 160 Plainer speeches for her were more [fit]ter:[1633] Malice lyes inbowelled in her tongue, And new hatcht hate makes every jest a wrong. [Aside.] Mi. Go. Looke ye, mistresse, now I hit yee. Mi. Bar. Why, I, you never use to misse a blot,[1632] 165 Especially when it stands so faire to hit. Mi. Gou. How meane ye, mistresse Barnes? Mi. Ba. That mistresse Gourse's in the hitting vaine. Mi. Gou. I hot[1634] your man. Mi. Bar. I, I, my man, my man; but, had I knowne, 170 I would have had my man stood neerer home. Mi. Gou. Why, had ye kept your man in his right place, I should not then have hit him with an ase. Mis. Bar. Right, by the Lord! a plague upon the bones! Mi. Gou. And a hot mischiefe on the curser too! 175 M. Bar. How now, wife? M. Gour. Why, whats the matter, woman? Mi. Gou. It is no matter: I am—— Mis. Bar. I, you are—— Mi. Gou. What am I? 180 Mis. Bar. Why, thats as you will be ever. Mis. Gou. That's every day as good as Barneses wife. Mi. Bar. And better too: then what needs al this trouble? A single horse is worse then that beares double. M. Bar. Wife, go to, have regard to that you say; 185 Let not your words passe foorth the vierge of reason, But keep within the bounds of modesty, For ill report doth like a bayliffe stand, To pound the straying and the wit-lost tongue, And makes it forfeit into follies hands. 190 Well, wife, you know tis[1635] no honest part To entertaine such guests with jestes and wronges: What will the neighbring country vulgar say, When as they heare that you fell out at dinner? Forsooth,[1636] they'l call it a pot quarrell straight; 195 The best they'l name it, is a womans jangling. Go too, be rulde, be rulde. Mi. Bar. Gods Lord, be rulde, be rulde! What, thinke ye I have such a babies wit, To have a rods correction for my tongue? 200 Schoole infancie; I am of age to speake, And I know when to speake: shall I be chid For such a[1637]—— Mi. Gou. What a? nay, mistresse, speake it out; I scorne your stopt compares: compare not me 205 To any but your equals, mistresse Barnes. M. Gou. Peace, wife, be quiet. M. Bar. O, perswade, perswade!— Wife, mistresse Goursey, shall I winne your thoughts To composition of some kind effects? 210 Wife, if you love your credit, leave this strife, And come shake hands with mistresse Goursey heere. Mi. Ba. Shall I shake hands? let her go shake her heeles; She gets nor hands, nor friendship at my hands: And so, sir, while I live I will take heed, 215 What guests I bid againe unto my house. M. Bar. Impatient woman, will you be so stiffe In this absurdnes?[1638] Mi. Ba. I am impatient now I speake; But, sir, Ile tell you more another time: 220 Go too, I will not take it as I have done. Exit. Mis. Gou. Nay, she might stay; I will not long be heere To trouble her. Well, maister Barnes, I am sorry that it was our happes to day, To have our pleasures parted with this fray: 225 I am sorrie too for all that is amisse, Especially that you are moov'de in this. But be not so, tis but a womans jarre, Their tongues are weapons, words there blowes of warre. 'Twas but a while we buffeted you saw, 230 And each of us was willing to withdraw; There was no harme nor bloudshed you did see: Tush, feare us not, for we shall well agree. I take my leave, sir.—Come, kinde harted man, That speakes his wife so faire, I, now and than; 235 I know you would not for an hundreth pound That I should heare your voyces churlish sound; I know you have a farre more milder tune Then 'Peace, be quiet, wife'; but I have done. Will ye go home? the doore directs the way; 240 But, if you will not, my dutie is to stay. [Exit.] M. Bar. Ha, ha! why, heres a right woman, is there not? They both have din'de, yet see what stomacks they have! M. Gou. Well, maister Barnes, we cannot do with all:[1639] Let us be friends still. 245 M. Bar. O, maister Goursey, the mettell of our minds, Having the temper of true reason in them, Affoordes[1640] a better edge of argument For the maintaine of our familiar loves Then the soft leaden wit of women can; 250 Wherefore with all the parts of neighbour love I impart[1641] my selfe to maister Goursey. M. Gou. And with exchange of love I do receive it: Then here weel part, partners of two curst wives. M. Ba. Oh, where shall wee find a man so blest that is not?[1642] But come; your businesse and my home affaires 256 Makes me deliver that unfriendly worde Mongst friends—farewell.[1643] M. Gou. Twentie farewels, sir. M. Bar. But harke ye, maister Goursey; 260 Looke ye perswade at home as I will do: What, man! we must not alwayes have them foes. M. Go. If I can helpe it. M. Bar. God helpe, God helpe! Women are even untoward creatures still. 265 Exeunt.

Fran. Let it not greeve thee, man; come ore to us; We will devise some game to make you win Your money backe againe, sweet Philip. Phil. And that shall be ere long, and if I live: 10 But tell me, Francis, what good horses have yee, To hunt this sommer? Fra. Two or three jades, or so. Phil. Be they but jades? Fran. No, faith; my wag string here 15 Did founder one the last time that he rid, The best gray nag that ever I laid my leg over. Boy. You meane the flea bitten? Fran. Good sir, the same. Boy. And was the same the best that ere you rid on? 20 Fran. I, was it, sir. Boy. I faith, it was not, sir. Fran. No! where had I one so good? Boy. One of my colour, and a better too. Fran. One of your colour! I nere remember him; 25 One of that colour! Boy. Or of that complexion. Fran. Whats that ye call complexion in a horse? Boy. The colour, sir. Fran. Set me a colour on your jest, or I will— 30 Boy. Nay, good sir, hold your hands! Fran. What, shal we have it? Boy. Why, sir, I cannot paint. Fran. Well, then, I can;[1645] And I shall find a pensill for ye, sir. 35 Boy. Then I must finde the table, if you do. Fran. A whoreson, barren, wicked urchen! Boy. Looke how you chafe! you would be angry more, If I should tell it you. Fran. Go to, Ile anger ye, and if you do not. 40 Boy. Why, sir, the horse that I do meane Hath a leg both straight and cleane, That hath nor spaven, splint, nor flawe, But is the best that ever ye saw; A pretie rising knee, O knee! 45 It is as round as round may be; The full flanke makes the buttock round: This palfray standeth on no ground When as my maister's on her backe, If that he once do say but, ticke;[1646] 50 And if he pricke her, you shall see Her gallop amaine, she is so free; And if he give her but a nod, She thinkes it is a riding rod; And if hee'l have her softly go, 55 Then she trips it like a doe; She comes so easie with the raine, A twine thred turnes her backe againe; And truly I did nere see yet A horse play proudlier on the bit: 60 My maister with good managing Brought her first unto the ring;[1647] He likewise taught her to corvet, To runne, and suddainlie to set; Shee's cunning in the wilde goose race, 65 Nay, shee's apt to every pace; And to proove her colour good, A flea, enamourd of her blood, Digd for chanels in her neck, And there made many a crimson speck: 70 I thinke theres none that use to ride But can her pleasant trot abide; She goes so even upon the way, She will not stumble in a day; And when my maister— 75 Fra. What do I? Boy. Nay, nothing, sir. Phil. O, fie, Franke, fie! Nay, nay, your reason hath no justice now, I must needs say; perswade him first to speake, 80 Then chide him for it!—Tell me, prettie wag, Where stands this prawncer, in what inne or stable? Or, hath thy maister put her out to runne, Then, in what field, what champion[1648] feeds this courser, This well paste, bonnie steed that thou so praisest? 85 Boy. Faith, sir, I thinke—— Fran. Villaine, what do yee thinke? Bay. I thinke that you, sir, have bene askt by many, But yet I never heard that yee tolde any. Phil. Well, boy, then I will adde one more to many, 90 And aske thy maister where this jennet feeds.— Come, Franke, tell me, nay, prethie, tell me, Franke, My good horse-maister, tell me—by this light, I will not steale her from thee; if I do, Let me be held a felone to thy love. 95 Fran. No, Phillip, no. Phil. What, wilt thou we[a]re a point[1649] but with one tag? Well, Francis, well, I see you are a wag.

Phi. Dicke Coomes, me thinkes thou art[1652] very pleasant: When[1653] gotst thou this mirrie humor?

Phi. Oh, this meate failer Dicke! How well t'as made the apparell of his wit, 130 And brought it into fashion of an honor!— Prethe,[1654] Dicke Coomes, but tell me how thou doost?

Fra. Why, what a swearing keepes this drunken asse!— Canst thou not say but sweare at every word? 155

Coo. To crack my crowne! I lay ye a crowne of that, Lay it downe, and ye dare; Nay, sbloud, ile venter a quarters wages of that. Crack my crowne, quotha![1656] 165 Fra. Will[1657] ye not yet be quiet? will ye urge me? Coo. Urge yee, with a pox! who urges ye? You might have said so much to a clowne, Or one that had not been ore the sea to see fashions: I have, I tell ye true; and I know what belongs to a man. 170 Crack my crowne, and ye can. Fra. And I can, ye rascall! [Offers to beat him.] Phi. Hold, haire braine, holde! dost thou not see hees drunke? Coo. Nay, let him come: Though he be my masters sonne, I am my masters man, 175 And a man is a man in any ground of England. Come, and he dares, a comes upon his death: I will not budge an inche, no, sbloud, will I[1658] not. Fran. Will ye not? Phi. Stay, prithie, Franke.—Coomes, dost thou heare? 180 Coo. Heare me no heares: Stand away, Ile trust none of you all. If I have my backe against a cart wheele, I would not care if the devill came.

Phil. Loe, Franke, doost thou not see hees drunke, 210 That twits thee[1662] with thy disposition? Fra. What disposition? Phil. Nan Lawson, Nan Lawson. Fran. Nay, then— Phil. Goe to, ye wag, tis well: 215 If ever yee get a wife, i faith Ile tell. Sirra, at home we have a servingman; Hees[1663] not humord bluntly as Coomes is, Yet his condition[1664] makes me often merrie: Ile tell thee, sirra, hees a fine neate fellow, 220 A spruce slave; I warrant ye, heele[1665] have His cruell[1666] garters crosse about the knee, His woollen hose as white as the driven snowe, His shooes dry leather neat, and tyed with red ribbins, A nose-gay bound with laces in his hat, 225 Bridelaces, sir, in's hat—an all greene hat,[1667] Greene coverlet for such a grasse greene wit. 'The goose that graseth on the greene,' quoth he, 'May I eate on when you shall buried be!' All proverbes is his speech, hee's proverbs all. 230 Fra. Why speakes he proverbs? Phi. Because he would speake truth, And proverbes, youle confesse, are olde said sooth. Fra. I like this well, and one day Ile see him: But shall we part? 235 Phil. Not yet, Ile bring you somewhat on your way, And as we goe, betweene your boy and you Ile know where that [brave][1668] praunser stands at levery.

M. Bar. Wife, in my minde to day you were too blame, Although my patience did not blame ye for it: Me thought the rules of love and neighbourhood Did not direct your thoughts; all indirect[1670] Were your proceedings in the entertaine 5 Of them that I invited to my house. Nay, stay, I doe not chide, but counsell, wife, And in the mildest manner that I may: You neede not viewe me with a servants eye, Whose vassaile[1671] sences tremble at the looke 10 Of his displeased master. O my wife, You are my selfe! when selfe sees fault in selfe, Selfe is sinne obstinate, if selfe amend not: Indeede, I sawe a fault in thee my selfe, And it hath set a foyle upon thy fame, 15 Not as the foile doth grace the diamond. Mi. Bar. What fault, sir, did you see in me to day? M. Bar. O, doe not set the organ of thy voice On such a grunting key of discontent! Doe not deforme the beautie of thy tongue 20 With such mishapen answeres. Rough wrathfull words Are bastards got by rashnes in the thoughts: Faire demeanors are vertues nuptiall babes, The off-spring of the well instructed soule; O, let them call thee mother, then, my wife! 25 So seeme not barren of good courtesie. Mi. Bar. So; have ye done? M. Bar. I, and I had done well, If you would do what I advise for well. Mi. Bar. Whats that? 30 M. Bar. Which is, that you would be good friendes With mistresse Goursey.[1672] Mi. Bar. With mistresse Goursey! M. Bar. I, sweet wife. Mis. Bar. Not so, sweet husband. 35 M. Bar. Could you but shew me any grounded cause. Mis. Bar. The grounded cause I ground because I wil not. M. Bar. Your will hath little reason, then, I thinke. Mi. Bar. Yes, sir, my[1673] reason equalleth my will. M. Bar. Lets heare your reason, for your will is great. 40 Mi. Bar. Why, for I will not. M. Bar. Is all your reason 'for I will not,' wife? Now, by my soule, I held yee for more wise, Discreete, and of more temperature in sence, Then in a sullen humour to affect[1674] 45 That womans[1675] will borne, common, scholler phrase: Oft have I heard a timely married girle, That newly left to call her mother mam, Her father dad, but yesterday come from 'Thats my good girle, God send thee a good husband!' 50 And now being taught to speake the name of husband, Will, when she would be wanton in her will, If her husband aske her why, say 'for I will.' Have I chid men for[1676] unmanly choyse, That would not fit their yeares? have I seene thee 55 Pupell[1677] such greene yong things, and with thy counsell Tutor their wits? and art thou now infected With this disease of imperfection? I blush for thee, ashamed at thy shame. Mi. Bar. A shame on her that makes thee rate me so! 60 M. Bar. O black mouth'd rage, thy breath is boysterous, And thou makst vertue shake at this high storme! Shees[1678] of good report; I know thou knowst it. Mi. Bar. She is not, nor I know not, but I know That thou dost love her, therefore thinkst her so; 65 Thou bearst with her, because she beares with thee. Thou mayst be ashamed to stand in her defence: She is a strumpet, and thou art no honest man To stand in her defence against thy wife. If I catch her in my walke, now, by Cockes[1679] bones, 70 Ile scratch out both her eyes. M. Bar. O God! Mi. Bar. Nay, never say 'O God' for the matter: Thou art the cause; thou badst her to my house, Onely to bleare the eyes of Goursey, didst not? 75 But I wil send him word, I warrant thee, And ere I sleepe to[o]; trust upon it, sir. Exit. M. Bar. Me thinkes this is a mighty fault in her; I could be angry with her: O, if I be so, I shall but put a linke unto a torche, 80 And so give greater light to see her fault. Ile rather smother it in melancholly: Nay, wisedome bids me shunne that passion; Then I will studie for a remedy. I have a daughter,—now, heaven invocate, 85 She be not of like spirit as her mother! If so, sheel be a plague unto her husband, If that he be not patient and discreet, For that I hold the ease of all such trouble. Well, well, I would my daughter had a husband, 90 For I would see how she could demeane her selfe In that estate; it may be, ill enough,— And, so God shall help me, well remembred now! Franke Goursey is his fathers sonne and heyre, A youth that in my heart I have good hope on; 95 My sences say a match, my soule applaudes The motion: O, but his lands are great, Hee will looke high; why, I will straine my selfe To make her dowry equall with his land. Good faith, and twere a match, twould be a meanes 100 To make their mothers friends. Ile call my daughter, To see how shees disposde to marriage.— Mall, where are yee?

Mall. Father, heere I am. M. Bar. Where is your mother? 105 Mal. I saw her not, forsooth, since you and she Went walking both together to the garden. M. Ba. Dost thou heare me, girle? I must dispute with thee. Mal. Father, the question, then, must not be hard, For I am very weake in argument. 110 M. Bar. Well, this it is; I say tis good to marry. Mal. And this say I, tis not good to marry. M. Bar. Were it not good, then all men would not marry; But now they doe. Mal. Marry, not all; but it is good to marry. 115 M. Bar. Is it both good and bad? how can this be? Mal. Why, it is good to them that marry well; To them that marry ill, no greater hell. M. Bar. If thou mightst marry well, wouldst thou agree? Mall. I cannot tell; heaven must appoint for me. 120 M. Bar. Wench, I am studying for thy good, indeed. Mall. My hopes and dutie wish your thoughts good speed. M. Bar. But tell me, wench, hast thou a minde to marry? Mall. This question is too hard for bashfulnes; And, father, now ye pose my modestie. 125 I am a maide, and when ye aske me thus, I like a maide must blush, looke pale and wan, And then looke pale[1680] againe; for we change colour As our thoughts change. With true fac'd passion Of modest maidenhead I could adorne me, 130 And to your question make a sober cursie And with close clipt civilitie be silent; Or els say 'no, forsooth,' or 'I, forsooth.' If I said 'no, forsooth,' I lyed, forsooth: To lye upon my selfe were deadly sinne, 135 Therefore I will speake truth, and shame the divell. Father, when first I heard you name a husband, At that same very name my spirits quickned. Dispaire before had kild them, they were dead: Because it was my hap so long to tarry, 140 I was perswaded I should never marry; And, sitting sowing, thus upon the ground I fell in traunce of meditation; But comming to my selfe, 'O Lord,' said I, 'Shall it be so? must I unmarryed dye?' 145 And being angry, father, farther said, 'Now, by saint Anne, I will not dye a maide!' Good faith, before I came to this ripe groath, I did accuse the labouring time of sloath: Me thought the yeere did run but slow about, 150 For I thought each yeare ten I was without. Being foureteene and toward the other[1681] yeare, Good Lord, thought I, fifteene will nere be heere! For I have heard my mother say that then Prittie maides were fit for handsome men: 155 Fifteene past, sixeteene, and seventeene too, What, thought I, will not this husband do? Will no man marry me? have men forsworne Such beauty and such youth? shall youth be worne, As rich mens gownes, more with age then use? 160 Why, then I let restrained[1682] fansie loose, And bad it gaze for pleasure; then love swore me To doe what ere my mother did before me; Yet, in good faith, I was[1683] very loath, But now it lyes in you to save my oath: 165 If I shall have a husband, get him quickly, For maides that weares corke[1684] shooes may step awry. M. Bar. Beleeve me, wench, I doe not repprehend[1685] thee, But for this pleasant answere do commend thee. I must confesse, love doth thee mighty wrong, 170 But I will see thee have thy right ere long; I know a young man, whom I holde most fit To have thee both for living and for wit: I will goe write about it presentle. Mall. Good father, do. [Exit Barnes.] O God, me thinkes I should 175 Wife it as fine as any woman could! I could carry a porte to be obayde, Carry a maistering eye upon my maide, With 'Minion, do your businesse, or Ile make yee,' And to all house authoritie be take me. 180 O God, would I were married! be my troth, But if I be not, I sweare Ile keepe my oath.

Mal. Nay, by the masse, ye lie. 195 Mother, how olde were you when you did marry? Mis. Ba. How olde so ere I was, yet you shall tarry. Mall. Then the worse for me. Hark, mother, harke! The priest forgets that ere he was a clarke: When you were at my yeeres, Ile holde my life, 200 Your minde was to change maidenhead for wife. Pardon me, mother, I am of your minde, And, by my troth, I take it but by kinde.[1686] Mis. Bar. Do ye heare, daughter? you shal stay my leasure. Mall. Do you heare, mother? would you stay fro pleasure 205 When ye have minde to it? Go to, there's no wrong Like this, to let maides lye alone so long: Lying alone they muse but in their beds How they might loose their long kept maiden heads. This is the cause there is so many scapes, 210 For women that are wise will not lead apes In hell:[1687] I tel yee, mother, I say true;— Therefore, come, husband, maiden head, adew! Exit. Mis. Bar. Well, lustie guts, I meane to make ye stay, And set some rubbes in your mindes smothest way.[1688] 215

Phil. Over the meades, halfe way to Milton,[1689] mother, To beare my friend Franke Goursey company. Mi. Ba. Wher's your blew coat,[1690] your sword and buckler, sir? Get you such like habite for a servingman, 221 If you will waight upon the brat of Goursey. Phil. Mother, that you are moov'd, this maks me wonder, When I departed I did leave yee friends: What undigested jarre hath since betided? 225 Mi. Bar. Such as almost doth choake thy mother, boy, And stifles her with the conceit of it; I am abusde, my sonne, by Gourseys wife. Phil. By mistresse Goursey? Mi. Bar. Mistresse flurt, yon[1691] foule strumpet, 230 Light a love, short heeles! Mistresse Goursey Call her againe, and thou wert better no. Phil. O my deare mother,[1692] have some patience! Mis. Bar. I, sir, have patience, and see your father To rifle up the treasure of my love, 235 And play the spend-thrift upon such an harlot! This same will make me have patience, will it not? Phili. This same is womens most impatience: Yet, mother, I have often heard ye say That you have found my father temperate, 240 And ever free from such affections. Mi. Bar. I, till[1693] my too much love did glut his thoughts, And make him seek for change. Phi. O, change your minde! My father beares more cordiall love to you. 245 Mi. B. Thou liest, thou liest, for he loves Gourseys wife, Not me. Phil. Now, I sweare, mother, you are much too blame; I durst be sworne he loves you as his soule. Mi. Bar. Wilt thou be pampered by affection? 250 Will nature teach thee such vilde[1694] perjurie? Wilt thou be sworne, I, forsworne,[1695] carelesse boy? And if thou swearst, I say he loves me not. Phil. He loves ye but too well, I sweare, Unlesse ye knew much better how to use him. 255 Mi. Bar. Doth he so, sir? thou unnaturall boy! 'Too well,' sayest thou? that word shall cost thee[1696] somwhat: O monstrous! have I brought thee up to this? 'Too well'! O unkinde, wicked, and degenerate, Hast thou the heart to say so of thy mother? 260 Well, God will plague thee fort, I warrant thee: Out on thee, villaine, fie upon thee, wretch! Out of my sight, out of my sight, I say! Phil. This ayre is pleasant, and doth please me well, And here I will stay. 265 Mi. Bar. Wilt thou, stubborne villaine?

M. Bar. How now, whats the matter? Mi. Bar. Thou setst thy sonne to scoffe and mocke at me: Ist not sufficient I am wrongd of thee, But he must be an agent to abuse me? 270 Must I be subject to my cradle too? O God, O God amend it! [Exit.] M. Ba. Why, how now, Phillip? is this true, my sonne? Phil. Deare father, she is much impatient: Nere let that hand assist me in my need, 275 If I more said then that she thought amisse To thinke that you were so licentious given; And thus much more, when she inferd it more, I swore an oath you lov'd her but too well: In that as guiltie I do hold my selfe, 280 Now that I come to more considerate triall: I know my fault; I should have borne with her: Blame me for rashnesse, then, not for want of dutie. M. Ba. I do absolve thee; and come hether, Phillip: I have writ a letter unto master Goursey, 285 And I will tell thee the contents thereof; But tell me first, thinkst thou Franke Goursey loves thee? Phil. If that a man devoted to a man, Loyall, religious in loves hallowed vowes, If that a man that is soule laboursome 290 To worke his owne thoughts to his friends delight, May purchase good opinion with his friend, Then I may say, I have done this so well, That I may thinke Franke Goursey loves me well. M. Ba. Tis well; and I am much deceived in him, 295 And if he be not sober, wise, and valliant. Phi. I hope my father takes me for thus wise, I will not glew my selfe in love to one That hath not some desert of vertue in him: What ere you thinke of him, beleeve me, father, 300 He will be answerable to your thoughts In any quallity commendable. M. Bar. Thou chearst my hopes in him; and, in good faith, Thoust[1697] made my love complete unto thy friend: Phillip, I love him, and I love him so. 305 I could affoorde him a good wife I know. Phi. Father, a wife! M. Bar. Phillip, a wife. Phil. I lay my life, my sister. M. Bar. I, in good faith. 310 Phil. Then, father, he shall have her; he shall, I sweare. M. Bar. How canst thou say so, knowing not his minde? Phi. All is one for that; I will goe to him straight. Father, if you would seeke this seaven yeares day, You could not[1698] finde a fitter match for her; 315 And he shall have her, I sweare he shall; He were as good be hang'd as once deny her. I faith, Ile to him.[1699] M. Bar. Hairebraine, hairebraine, stay! As yet we do not know his fathers[1700] minde: 320 Why, what will master Goursey say, my sonne, If we should motion it without his knowledge? Go to, hees a wise and discreet gentleman, And that expects[1701] from me all honest parts; Nor shall he faile his expectation; 325 First I doe meane to make him privy to it: Phillip, this letter is to that effect. Phil. Father, for Gods[1702] sake send it quickly, then: Ile call your man.—What, Hugh! wheres Hugh, there, ho? M. Bar. Phillip, if this would proove a match, 330 It were the only meanes that could be found To make thy mother frends with Mist[resse] Gou[rsey]. Phil. How, a match! Ile warrant ye, a match. My sister's faire, Franke Goursie he is rich; Her[1703] dowrie too will be sufficient; 335 Franke's yong,[1704] and youth is apt to love; And, by my troth, my sisters maiden head Standes like a game at tennis,—if the ball Hit into the hole, or hazard, farewell all! Ma. Bar. How now, where's Hugh? 340

Phil. Why, what doth this proverbial with us? Why, where's Hugh? M. Bar. Peace, peace. Phil. Where's Hugh, I say? M. Bar. Be not so hasty, Phillip. 345 Phil. Father, let me alone, I doe it but to make my selfe some sport. This formall foole, your man, speakes naught but proverbs, And speake men what they can to him, hee'l answere With some rime,[1705] rotten sentence, or olde saying, 350 Such spokes[1706] as the ancient of the parish use, With, 'neighbour, tis an olde proverbe and a true, Goose giblets are good meate, old sacke better then new'; Then saies another, 'neighbour, that is true'; And when each man hath drunke his gallon round, 355 A penny pot, for thats the olde mans gallon, Then doth he licke his lips, and stroke his beard That's glewed together with his slavering droppes Of yesty ale, and when he scarce can trim His gouty fingers, thus hee'l phillip it, 360 And with a rotten hem say, 'hey, my hearts, Merry go sorrie! cocke and pye, my heartes!' But then their saving penny proverbe comes, And that is this, 'they that will to the wine, Berlady[1707] mistresse, shall lay theyr penny to mine.' 365 This was one of this penny-fathers[1708] bastards, For, on my lyfe, he was never begot Without the consent of some great proverb-monger. M. Bar. O, ye are a wag. Phil. Well, now unto my busines. 370 Swounds, will that mouth, thats made of olde sed sawes And nothing else, say nothing to us now?

Phil. Why, ye whoresen proverb-booke bound up in follio, Have yee no other sence to answer me But every worde a proverbe? no other English? Well, Ile fulfill a proverb on thee straight.

M. Bar. Peace, Nicke, Ile see he shall use thee well; Go to, peace, sirra: here, Nicke, take this letter, Carrie it to him to whom it is directed.

M. Bar. Alas, poore foole, he uses all his wit! 430 Phillip, in faith[1711] this mirth hath cheered thought, And cussend it of his right play of passion. Goe after Nick, and, when thou thinkst hees there, Go in and urge to that which I have writ: Ile in these meddowes make a cerckling walke, 435 And in my meditation conjure so, As that same[1712] fend of thought, selfe-eating anger, Shall by my spels of reason[1713] vanish quite: Away, and let me heare from thee to night. Phil. To night! yes, that you shall: but harke ye, father; 440 Looke that you my sister waking keepe, For Franke I sweare shall kisse her ere I sleepe. Exeunt.

Frank. I am very dry with walking ore the greene.— Butler, some beere!—Sirra, call the butler.

Fran. My mother powtes, and will looke merrily Neither upon my father nor on me: He saies she fell out with mistresse Barnes to day; 15 Then I am sure they'l not be quickly friends. Good Lord, what kinde of creatures women are! Their love is lightly wonne and lightly lost; And then their hate is deadly and extreame: He that doth take a wyfe betakes himselfe 20 To all the cares and troubles of the world. Now her disquietnes doth grieve my father, Greeves me, and troubles all the house besides.— What, shall I have some drinke? [Horn sounded within]—How now? a horne! Belike the drunken slave[1716] is fallen asleepe, 25 And now the boy doth wake him with his horne.

Fran. How loathsome is this beast mans shape to me, This mould of reason so unreasonable![1719] Sirra, why doost thou trip him downe, seeing hees drunke?

Fran. Looke ye, sirra, where your fellow lies; 76 Hees in a fine taking, is he not?

Fran. Tis right as Phillip said, tis a fine foole [Aside].— 105 This letter is directed to my father; Ile carrie it to him.—Dick Coomes, make him drinke. Exit.

Phil. By this, I thinke, the letter is delivered, And twill be shortly time that I step in, And wooe their favours for my sisters fortune: And yet I need not; she may doe as well, But yet not better, as the case doth stand 5 Betweene our mothers; it may make them friends; Nay, I would sweare that she would doe as well, Were she a stranger to one quality, But they are so acquainted, theil nere part. Why, she will floute the devill, and make blush 10 The boldest face of man that ever man saw; He that hath best opinion of his wit, And hath his braine pan fraught with bitter jestes Or of his owne, or stolne, or how so ever, Let him stand nere so high in his owne conceite, 15 Her wit's a sunne that melts him downe like butter, And makes him sit at table pancake wise, Flat, flat, [God knowes][1726] and nere a word to say; Yet sheele not leave him then, but like a tyrant Sheele persecute the poore wit-beaten man, 20 And so bebang him with dry bobs and scoffes, When he is downe, most cowardly, good faith, As I have pittied the poore patient. There came a farmers sonne a wooing to her, A proper man, well landed too he was, 25 A man that for his wit need not to aske What time a yeere twere good to sow his oates Nor yet his barley, no, nor when to reape, To plowe his fallowes, or to fell his trees, Well experienst thus each kinde of way; 30 After a two monthes labour at the most, And yet twas well he held it out so long, He left his love, she had so laste his lips He could say nothing to her but 'God be with yee'! Why, she, when men have din'd and call for cheese, 35 Will straight maintaine jests bitter to disgest; And then some one will fall to argument, Who, if he over master her with reason, Then sheele begin to buffet him with mockes. Well, I doe doubt Frances hath so much spleene, 40 Theil nere agree; but I will moderate. By this time tis time, I thinke, to enter: This is the house; shall I knocke? no; I will not Waite while[1727] one comes out to answere; Ile in, and let them be as bolde with us. 45 Exit.

M. Gour. If that they like, her dowry shall be equall To your sonnes wealth or possibility: It is a meanes to make our wives good friendes, And to continue friendship twixt us two.[1728] Tis so, indeed: I like this motion, 5 And it hath my consent, because my wife[1729] Is sore infected and hart sick with hate; And I have sought the Galen of advice, Which oneley tels me this same potion To be most soveraigne for her sicknes cure. 10

Heere comes my sonne, conferring with his friend.— Fraunces, how do you like your friends discourse? I know he is persuading to this motion. Fra. Father, as matter that befits a friend, But yet not me, that am too young to marry. 15 M. Gou. Nay, if thy minde be forward with thy yeares, The time is lost thou tarriest. Trust me, boy,[1729] This match is answerable to thy birth; Her bloud and portion give each other grace; These indented lines promise a sum, 20 And I do like the valew: if it hap Thy liking to accord to my consent, It is a match. Wilt thou goe see the maide? Fra. Nere. Trust me, father, the shape[1730] of marriage, Which I doe see in others, seeme[s][1731] so severe, 25 I dare not put my youngling liberty Under the awe of that instruction; And yet I graunt the limmits of free youth Going astray are often restrainde by that. But mistresse wedlocke, to my scholler thoughts, 30 Will be too curst, I feare. O, should she snip My pleasure ayming minde, I shall be sad, And sweare, when I did marry, I was mad! M. Gour. But, boy, let my experience teach thee this— Yet, in good faith, thou speakst not much amisse;— 35 When first thy mothers fame to me did come, Thy grandsire thus then came to me his sonne, And even my words to thee to me he said, And as to me thou saist to him I said, But in a greater huffe and hotter bloud,— 40 I tell ye, on youthes tip-toes then I stood: Saies he (good faith, this was his very say), 'When I was yong, I was but reasons foole, And went to wedding as to wisdomes schoole; It taught me much, and much I did forget, 45 But, beaten much, by it I got some wit; Though I was shackled from an often scoute,[1732] Yet I would wanton it when I was out; Twas comfort, old acquaintance then to meete, Restrained liberty attainde is sweet.' 50 Thus said my father to thy father,[1733] sonne, And thou maist doe this too,[1734] as I have done. Phi. In faith, good counsell, Franke: what saist thou to it? Fra. Phillip, what should I say? Phil. Why, eyther I or no. 55 Fra. O, but which rather? Phil. Why, that which was persuaded by thy father. Fra. Thats I, then,[1735] I: O, should it fall out ill! Then I, for I am guilty of that ill,— Ile not be guilty, no. 60 Phi. What, backeward gone! Fra. Phillip, no whit backward; that is, on. Phi. On, then. Fra. O, stay! Phil. Tush, there is no good lucke in this delay: 65 Come, come, late commers, man, are shent. Fra. Heigh ho, I feare I shall repent! Well, which waye, Phillip?[1736] Phi. Why, this way. Fra. Canst thou tell, And takest upon thee to be my guide to hell?— 70 But which way, father? M. Gour. That way. Fran. I, you know; You found the way to sorrow long agoe. Father, God boye ye:[1737] you have sent your sonne To seeke on earth an earthly day of doome, 75 Where I shall be adjudged,[1738] alacke the ruthe, To penance for the follies of my youth! Well, I must goe, but, by my troth, my minde Is not love capable to[1739] that kinde. O, I have lookt upon this mould of men, 80 As I have done upon a lyons den! Praised I have the gallant beast I saw, Yet wisht me no acquaintance with his pawe: And must I now be grated with them? well, Yet I may hap to proove a Daniell; 85 And, if I doe, sure it would make me laugh, To be among wilde beastes and yet be safe. Is there a remedy to abate their rage? Yes, many catch them, and put them in a cage. I, but how catch them? marry, in your hand 90 Carrie me foorth a burning fire brand, For with his sparkling shine, olde rumor saies, A fire brand the swiftest runner fraies: This I may doe; but, if it proove not so, Then man goes out to seeke his adjunct woe. 95 Phillip, away! and, father, now adew! In quest of sorrow I am sent by you M. Gou. Returne the messenger of joy, my sonne. Fran. Sildome in this world such a worke is done. Phi. Nay, nay, make hast, it will be quicklie night. 100 Fra. Why, is it not good to wooe by candle light? Phil. But, if we make not haste theile be abed. Fran. The better, candels out and curtans spred. Exeunt [Francis and Phillip]. M. Gour. I know, though that my sons years be not many, Yet he hath wit to wooe as well as any. 105 Here comes my wife: I am glad my boy is gone

Ere she came hether.—How now, wife? how ist? What, are ye yet in charity and love With mistresse Barnes? Mi. Gou. With mistris Barnes! why mistris[1740] Barnes, I pray? M. Gou. Because she is your neighbour and—— 111 Mi. Gou. And what? And a jealous slandering spitefull queane she is, One that would blur my reputation With her approbrious mallice, if she could. 115 She wrongs her husband, to abuse my fame: Tis knowne that I have lived in honest name All my life time, and bin your right true wife. M. Gour. I entertaine no other thought, my wife, And my opinion's sound of your behaviour. 120 Mis. Gou. And my behaviour is as sound as it; But her ill speeches seekes to rot my credit, And eate it with the worme of hate and mallice. M. Gou. Why, then, preserve it you by patience. Mi. Gou. By patience! would ye have me shame my selfe, And cussen my selfe to beare her injuries? 126 Not while her eyes be open will I yeelde A word, a letter, a sillables valew, But equall and make even her wrongs to me To her againe. 130 M. Gou. Then, in good faith, wife, ye are more to blame. Mi. Gou. Am I too blame, sir? pray, what letters this? [Snatches the letter.] M. Gou. There is a dearth of manners in ye, wife, Rudelie to snatch it from me. Give it me. Mi. Gou. You shall not have it, sir, till I have read it. 135 M. Gou. Give me it, then, and I will read it to you. Mi. Gou. No, no, it shall not need: I am a scholler Good enough to read a letter, sir. M. Gou. Gods passion, if she knew but the contents, Sheele seeke to crosse this match! she shall not read it.— [Aside.] Wife, give it me; come, come, give it me. 141 Mi. Gou. Husband, in very deed, you shall not have it. M. Gou. What, will you moove me to impatience, then? Mi. Gou. Tut, tell not me of your impatience; But since you talke, sir, of impatience, 145 You shall not have the letter, by this light, Till I have read it; soule, ile burne it first! M. Gou. Go to, ye move me, wife; give me the letter; In troth, I shall growe angry, if you doe not. Mi. Gou. Grow to the house top with your anger, sir! 150 Nere tell me, I care not thus much for it. M. Gour. Well, I can beare enough, but not too much. Come, give it me; twere best you be persuaded; By God—ye make me sweare—now God forgive me!— Give me, I say, and stand not long upon it; 155 Go to, I am angry at the heart, my very heart. Mis. Gou. Hart me no hearts, you shall not have it, sir, No, you shall not; nere looke so big, I will not be affraide at your great lookes; You shall not have it, no, you shall not have it. 160 M. Gou. Shall I not have[1741] it? in troth, Ile try that: Minion, Ile hav'te; shall I not hav'te?—I am loath— Go too, take pausment, be advisde— In faith, I will; and stand not long upon it— A woman of your yeares! I am ashamde 165 A couple of so long continuance Should thus—Gods foote—I crye God hartely mercy!— Go to, ye vex me; and Ile vexe ye for it; Before I leave ye, I will make ye glad To tender it on your knees; heare ye, I will, I will. 170 What, worse and worse stomacke! true, i[1742] faith! Shall I be crost by you in my olde age? And where I should have greatest comfort to, A nursse of you?—nursse in the divels name!— Go to, mistris; by Gods pretious deere, 175 If ye delaie— Mi. Gou. Lord, Lord, why, in what a fit Are you in, husband! so inrag'd, so moov'd, And for so slight a cause, to read a letter! Did this letter, love, conteine my death, 180 Should you denie my sight of it, I would not Nor see my sorrow nor eschew my danger, But willinglie yeeld me a patient Unto the doome that your displeasure gave. Heere is the letter; not for that your incensment 185 [Gives back the letter.] Makes me make offer of it, but your health, Which anger, I doe feare, hath crasd, And viper like hath suckt away the bloud That wont was to be cheerefull in this cheeke: How pale yee looke! 190 M. Gou. Pale! can yee blame me for it? I tell you true, An easie matter could not thus have moov'd me. Well, this resignement, and so foorth—but, woman, This fortnight shall I not forget yee for it.— Ha, ha, I see that roughnes can doe somewhat! 195 I did not thinke, good faith, I could have set So sower a face upon it, and to her, My bed embracer, my right bosome friend. I would not that she should have seene the letter, As poore a man as I am, by my troth, 200 For twenty pound: well, I am glad I have it.— [Aside.] Ha, heres adoe about a thing of nothing! What, stomack, ha! tis happy you come downe. Exit. Mi. Gou. Well, craftie[1743] fox, Ile hunt ye, by my troth: Deale ye so closely? Well, I see his drift: 205 He would not let me see the letter, least That I should crosse the match; and I will crosse it.—

Dicke Coomes?[1744] Coom. Forsooth. Mis. Gour. Come hether, Dicke; thou art a man I love, 210 And one whom I have much in my regarde. Coo. I thanke ye for it, mistris, I thanke ye for it. Mi. Gou. Nay, heers my hand, I will do very much For thee, if ere thou standst in need of me; Thou shalt not lack, whilst thou hast a day to live, 215 Money, apparrell—— Coo. And sword and bucklers? Mis. Gou. And sword and bucklers too, my gallant Dick, So thou wilt use but this in my defence. 219

Mis. Gour. Why, this, brave Dicke. Thou knowest that Barnses[1751] wife And I am foes: now, man me to her house; And though it be darke, Dicke, yet weelle have no light, 240 Least that thy maister should prevent our journey By seeing our depart. Then, when we come, And if that she and I do fall to words, Set in thy foote and quarrell with her men, Draw, fight, strike, hurt, but do not kill the slaves, 245 And make as though thou struckst at a man, And hit her, and thou canst,—a plague upon her!— She hath misusde me, Dicke: wilt thou do this?

Mi. Gour. Art thou resolved, Dicke? wilt thou do this for me? And if thou wilt, here is an earnest penny 261 Of that rich guerdon I do meane to give thee. [Gives money.]

S. Raph. Come on, my harts: i faith, it is ill lucke, To hunt all day, and not kill any thing. What sayest thou, lady? art thou weary yet? La. I must not say so, sir. Sir Ra. Although thou art. 5 Wil. And can you blame her, to be foorth so long, And see no better sport? Ra. Good faith, twas very hard. La. No, twas not ill, Because, you know, it is not good to kill. 10 Ra. Yes, venson, ladie. La. No, indeed, nor them; Life is as deere in deare as tis in men. Ra. But they are kild for sport. Lad. But thats bad play, 15 When they are made to sport their lives away. Ra. Tis fine to see them runne. La. What, out of breath? They runne but ille that runne themselves to death. Ra. They might make, then, lesse hast, and keep their winde. La. Why, then, they see the hounds brings death behinde. 21 Rap. Then, twere as good for them at first to stay, As to run long, and run their lives away. La. I, but the stoutest of you all thats here Would run from death and nimbly scud for feare. 25 Now, by my troth, I pittie those poor elfes.[1756] Ra. Well, they have made us but bad sport to day. La. Yes, twas my sport to see them scape away. Will. I wish that I had beene at one bucks fall. La. Out, thou wood-tyrant! thou art worst of all. 30 Wil. A woodman,[1757] ladie, but no tyrant I. La. Yes, tyrant-like thou lovest to see lives dye. Ra. Lady, no more: I do not like this lucke, To hunt all day, and yet not kill a buck. Well, it is late; but yet I sweare I will 35 Stay heere all night but I a buck will kill. La. All night! nay, good sir Raph Smith, do not so. Ra. Content ye, ladie.—Will, go fetch my bow: A berrie[1758] of faire roes I saw to day Downe by the groves, and there Ile take my[1759] stand, 40 And shoote at one; God send a luckie hand! La. Will ye not, then, sir Raph, go home with me? Ra. No, but my men shall beare thee company.— Sirs, man her home.—Will, bid the huntsmen couple, And bid them well reward their hounds to night.— 45 Ladie, farewell.—Will, hast ye with the bow; Ile stay for thee heere by the grove below. Wil. I will; but twill be darke, I shall not see: How shall I see ye, then? Ra. Why, hollo to me, and I wil answer thee. 50 Wil. Enough, I wil. Raph. Farewell. Exit. La. How willingly doost thou consent to go To fetch thy maister that same killing bow! Wil. Guiltie of death I willing am in this, 55 Because twas our ill haps to day to misse: To hunt, and not to kill, is hunters sorrow. Come, ladie, weell have venson ere to morrow. Exeunt.

Phil. Come, Franke, now we are hard by the[1760] house: But how now, sad? Fran. No, to studie how to woe thy sister. Phil. How, man? how to woe her! why, no matter how; I am sure thou wilt not be ashamed to woe. 5 Thy cheekes not subject to a childish blush, Thou hast a better warrant by thy wit; I know thy oratorie can unfold Quicke invention, plausible discourse, And set such painted beautie on thy tongue, 10 As it shall ravish every maiden sence; For, Franke, thou art not like the russet youth I tolde thee of, that went to woe a wench, And being full stuft up with fallow wit And meddow matter, askt the pretty maide 15 How they solde corne last market day with them, Saying, 'Indeed, twas very deare with them.' And, do ye heare, ye[1761] had not need be[1762] so, For she[1763] will, Francis, throwly[1764] trie your wit: Sirra, sheel bow the mettall of your wits, 20 And, if they cracke, she will not hold ye currant; Nay, she will way your wits as men way[1765] angels, And, if it[1766] lacke a graine, she will not change[1767] with ye. I cannot speake it but in passion, She is a wicked wench to make a jest; 25 Aye me, how full of floutes and mockes she is! Fran. Some aqua vitæ reason to recover This sicke discourser! Sound[1768] not, prethy, Philip. Tush, tush, I do not thinke her as thou saiest: Perhaps shees opinions darling, Phillip, 30 Wise in repute, the crowes bird. O my friend, Some judgements slave themselves to small desart,[1769] And wondernize the birth of common wit, When their owne[1770] straungenes do but make that strange, And their ill errors do but make that good: 35 And why should men debase to make that good? Perhaps such admiration winnes her wit. Phil. Well, I am glad to heare this bold prepare For this encounter. Forward, hardy Franke! Yonders the window with the candle int; 40 Belike shees putting on her night attire: I told ye, Franke, twas late. Well, I will call her, Mary, softly, that my mother may not heare.— Mall, sister Mall!

Mal. Tis I! who I? I, quoth the dogge, or what? A Christ crosse rowe I?[1771]

Mal. Well climde, gentleman! I pray, sir, tell me, do you carte the queene of love? Fran. Not cart her, but couch her in your eye, And a fit place for gentle love to lye. 65 Mal. I, but me thinkes you speake without the booke, To place a fower[1773] wheele waggon in my looke: Where will you have roome to have the coachman sit? Fran. Nay, that were but small manners, and not fit: His dutie is, before you bare to stand, 70 Having a lustie whipstocke in his hand. Ma. The place is voide; will you provide me one? Fra. And if you please, I will supply the roome. Mal. But are ye cunning in the carmans lash? And can ye whistle well? 75 Fran. Yes, I can well direct the coache of love. Mal. Ah cruell carter, would you whip a dove? Phil. Harke ye, sister— Mal. Nay, but harke ye, brother; Whose white[1774] boy is that same? know ye his mother? 80 Phil. He is a gentleman of a good house. Mal. Why, is his house of gold? Is it not made of lyme and stone like this? Phil. I meane, hees well descended. Mal. God be thanked! 85 Did he descend some steeple or some ladder? Phi. Well, you will still be crosse: I tell ye, sister, This gentleman by all your friends consent Must be your husband. Mal. Nay, not all, some sing another note; 90 My mother will say no, I hold a groate. But I thought twas somewhat, he would be a carter; He hath beene whipping lately some blinde beare, And now he would ferke[1775] the blinde boy heere with us. Phil. Well, do you heare, you, sister, mistresse Would-Have?[1776] You that do long for somewhat, I know what— 96 My father tolde me—go to, Ile tell all If ye be crosse—do ye heare me? I have labourd A yeares worke in this afternoone for ye: Come from your cloyster, votarie, chas[t]e nun,[1777] 100 Come downe and kisse Franke Gourseys mothers sonne. Mal. Kisse him, I pray? Phi. Go to, stale maidenhead! come downe, I say, You seveneteene and upward, come, come downe; You'l stay till twentie else for your wedding gowne. 105 Mal. Nun, votarie, stale maidenhead, seventeen and upward! Here be names! what, nothing else?

Phi. Peace, Francis.—Harke ye, sister, this I say:[1779] You know my mind; or answer, I or nay. Wit and judgement hath resolvde his mind, And he foresees what after he shall finde: 120 If such discretion, then, shall governe you, Vow love to him, heele do the like to you. Mal. Vow love! who would not love such a comely feature, Nor high nor lowe, but of the middle stature? A middle man, thats the best syze indeed; 125 I like him well: love graunt us well to speed! Fran. And let me see a woman of that tallnesse, So slender and of such a middle smalnesse, So olde enough, and in each part so fit, So faire, so kinde, endued with so much wit, 130 Of so much wit as it is held a wonder, Twere pittie to keepe love and her asunder; Therefore go up, my joy, call downe my blisse; Bid her come seale the bargaine with a kisse. Mal. Franke, Franke, I come through dangers, death, and harmes, To make loves patent[1780] with my[1781] seale of armes. 136 Phi. But, sister, softly, least my mother heare. Mal. Hush, then: mum, mouse in cheese,[1782] cat is neere. Exit Mal.[1783] Fran. Now, in good faith, Philip, this makes me smile, That I have woed and wonne in so small while. 140 Phi. Francis, indeed, my sister, I dare say, Was not determined to say thee nay; For this same tother thing, calde maiden-head, Hangs by so small a haire or spiders thred, And worne so too[1784] with time, it must needs fall, 145 And, like a well lur'de hawke, she knows her call.

Mal. Whist, brother, whist! my mother heard me tread, And askt, Whose there? I would not answer her; She calde, A light! and up shees gone to seeke me: There when she findes me not, sheel hether come; 150 Therefore dispatch, let it be quickly done. Francis, my loves lease I do let to thee, Date of my life and thine: what sayest thou to me? The entring, fine, or income thou must pay, Are kisses and embrases every day; 155 And quarterly I must receive my rent; You know my minde. Fran. I gesse at thy intent: Thou shalt not misse a minute of thy time. Mal. Why, then, sweet Francis, I am onely thine.— 160 Brother, beare witnesse. Phi. Do ye deliver this as your deed? Mul. I do, I do. Ph. God send ye both good speed! Gods Lord, my mother! Stand aside, and closely too, least that you be espied.[1785] 165

Mis. Ba. You disobedient ruffen, carlesse wretch, That said your father lovde me but too well! Ile thinke on't when thou thinkst I have forgotten[1786] it: 170 Whose with thee else?—How now, minion? you! With whom? with him!—Why, what make you heere, sir, And thus late too? what, hath your mother sent ye To cut my throate, that heere you be in waite?— Come from him, mistris, and let go his hand.— 175 Will ye not, sir? Fra. Stay, mistresse Barnes, or mother, what ye will; Shees[1787] my wife, and here she shall be still. Mi. Ba. How, sir? your wife! wouldst thou my daughter have? Ile rather have her married to her grave.[1788] 180 Go to, be gone, and quickly, or I sweare Ile have my men beate ye for staying here. Phi. Beate him, mother! as I am true man, They were better beate the divell and his dam. Mi. Bar. What, wilt thou take his part? 185 Phil. To do him good, And twere to wade hetherto up in blood. Fran. God a mercy, Phil![1789]—But, mother, heare me. Mis. Bar. Calst thou me mother? no, thy mothers name Carryes about with it reproche and shame. 190 Give me my daughter: ere that she shall wed A strumpets sonne, and have her so mislead, Ile marry her to a carter; come, I say, Give me her from thee. Fra. Mother,[1790] not to day, 195 Nor yet to morrow, till my lives last morrow Make me leave that which I with leave did borrow: Heere I have borrowed love, Ile not denaie[1791] it.— Thy wedding night's my day, then Ile repay it.— Till then sheel trust me.—Wench, ist[1792] not so? 200 And if it be, say I, if not, say no. Mal. Mother, good mother, heare me! O good God, Now we are even, what, would you make us odde? Now, I beseech ye, for the love of Christ, To give me leave once to do what I list. 205 I am as you were when you were a maide; Gesse by your selfe how long you would have staide, Might you have had your will: as good begin At first as last, it saves us from much sinne; Lying alone, we muse on things and things, 210 And in our mindes one thought another brings: This maides life, mother, is an idle life. Therefore Ile be, I, I will be a wife; And, mother, doe not mistrust[1793] my age or power, I am sufficient, I lacke nere an houre; 215 I had both wit to graunt when he did woe me, And strength to beare what ere he can doe to me. Mi. Bar.[1794] Well, bold-face, but I meane to make you stay. Goe to, come from him, or Ile make ye come: Will yee not come? 220 Phi. Mother, I pray forbeare; This match is for my sister. Mi. Bar. Villaine, tis not; Nor she shall not be so matcht now. Phi. In troth, she shall, and your unruly hate 225 Shall not rule us; weele end all this debate By this begun devise. Mi. Bar. I, end what you begun! Villaines, theeves, Give me my daughter! will ye rob me of her?— Help, help! theil rob me heere, theil rob me heere! 230

Mi. Ba. Why, Gourseys sonne, confederates[1795] with this boy, This wretch unnaturall and undutifull, Seekes hence to steale my daughter: will you suffer it? Shall he, thats sonne to my arche-enemy, 235 Enjoy her? have I brought her up to this? O God, he shall not have her, no, he shall not! M. Bar. I am sorry she knowes it. [Aside].—Harke ye, wife, Let reason moderate your rage a little. If you examine but his birth and living, 240 His wit and good behaviour, you will say, Though that ill hate make your opinion bad, He dooth deserve as good a wife as she.

M. Ba. And yet it shall go forward:—but who's heere? What, mistris Goursey! how knew she of this? Phi. Franke, thy mother. Fra. Swones, where? a plague uppon it! 250 I thinke the devill is set to crosse this match. Mi. Go. This is the house, Dick Coomes, and yonders light: Let us go neere. How now? me thinkes I see My sonne stand hand in hand with Barnes his daughter.— Why, how now, sirra? is this time of night 255 For you to be abroad? what have we heere? I hope that love hath not thus coupled you. Fra. Love, by my troth, mother, love: she loves me, And I love her; then we must needs agree. Mi. Bar. I, but Ile keep her sure enough from thee. 260 Mi. Go. It shall not need. Ile keep him safe enough; Be sure he shal not graft in such a stock. Mi. Bar. What stock, forsooth? as good a stock as thine: I doe not meane that he shall graft in mine. Mi. Gou. Nor shall he, mistris.—Harke, boy; th'art but mad To love the branch that hath a roote so bad. 266 Fra. Then, mother, Ile graft a pippin on a crab. Mi. Gou. It will not proove well. Fra. But Ile proove my skill. Mi. Bar. Sir, but you shall not. 270 Fra. Mothers both, I will. M. Bar. Harke, Phillip: send away thy sister straight; Let Francis meete her where thou shall appoint; Let them go severall to shun suspition, And bid them goe to Oxford both this night; 275 There to morrow say that we will meete them, And there determine of their marriage. [Aside.] Phi. I will: though it be very late and darke, My sister will endure it for a husband. 279 [Aside.] M. Ba. Well, then, at[1797] Carfolkes,[1798] boy, I meane to meet them. [Aside.] Phil. Enough. Exit [Master Barnes]. Would they would begin to chide! For I would have them brawling, that meane while They may steale hence, to meete where I appoint[1799] it. [Aside].— What, mother, will you let this match go forward?— Or, mistresse Goursey, will you first agree? 285 Mi. Gou. Shall I agree first? Phi. I, why not? come, come. Mi. Go. Come from her, sonne, and if thou lov'st thy mother. Mi. Bar. With the like spell, daughter, I conjure thee. Mi. G. Francis, by faire means let me win thee from her, 290 And I will gild my blessing, gentle sonne, With store of angels. I would not have thee Check thy good fortune by this cusning choise: O, doe not thrall thy happie libertie In such a bondage! if thou'lt be needs bound, 295 Be, then, to better worth; this worthlesse choise Is not fit for thee. Mi. Bar. Ist not fit for him? wherefore ist not fit? Is he too brave[1800] a gentleman, I praie? No, tis not fit; she shall not fit his turne: 300 If she were wise, she would be fitter for Three times his better.—Minion, go in, or Ile make ye; Ile keep ye safe from him, I warrant ye. Mi. Gou. Come, Francis, come from her. Fra. Mothers, with both hands shove I hate from love, 305 That like an ill companion would infect The infant minde of our affection[1801]: Within this cradle shall this minutes babe Be laide to rest; and thus Ile hug[1802] my joy. Mi. Gou. Wilt thou be obstinate, thou selfe wilde[1803] boy? 310 Nay, then, perforce Ile parte ye, since ye will not.