Act 3 — Scene II.

Jonson:

I thought we’d find you here, Chettle; but what are you doing?

Chettle:

[Writing.] Writing, lad, for a meal, as a poet must in these niggard-tradesman times.

Burbage:

Have you seen Shakespeare?

Chettle:

Shakespeare? No. Why do you ask? Is there any news?

Burbage:

Great news! The Lord Chamberlain writes me to be in readiness to play before the Queen. I must to the theatre at once.

102Fletcher:

I’m with you.

Dekker }

Marston }

And I!

Chettle:

A drink, lads, before you go, to keep out the river-mist; water’s the cause of all my pains!

Jonson:

Sack, you mean; sack and canary that make your blood boil with gout.

[The drawer brings wine in large flagons.]

Chettle:

Not so, bully Ben. Not so. Rheumatics, not gout. Ah, had my mother but given me sack when I was young and tender, I had never known these whoreson tweakings. A pious upbringing, Ben, and a watery diet have been my undoing.

Burbage:

Do you go with us, Jonson?

Jonson:

No. I’m not known to your Lord Chamberlains.

103Fletcher:

Nor I. Yet I go to see the stir.

Jonson:

You are of the company.

Fletcher:

No. I take Foster’s place; you can have Browne’s.

Jonson:

No, no! I’ll keep my own name and my own place. [Enter Shakespeare.] Ho, Will! you’re to be a courtier; have you heard?

Shakespeare:

No: what is it?

Burbage:

We must be ready: we may be summoned any day to play at Court: I have the order.

Jonson:

What’s Chettle chuckling over there?

Chettle:

[Looking up from his writing.] Angling for supper, lads; just a snack.

104Dekker:

Let’s see Chettle’s snack.

Fletcher:

[Pounces on the paper and reads.] It’s a letter to Mistress Tagge of the “Tabard.”

Marston:

Let’s hear it!

Jonson:

Read it, Fletcher, read it!

Chettle:

No. No! Mad lads! That forked radish there shall not clapperclaw my work. If you must hear it I’ll read it myself. No whipper-snapper shall squeak my words! Now, lads, listen! [Reads.] “To fair Mistress Tagge, the best hostess in London; argal in the world! I kiss your hands most beauteous and bountiful; I have but now seen your drawer and heard that you want twenty angels to-night. The time’s short, but I’ll bring them as I’m a true man unless the rascal bookseller lies in his promise to me and that he’ll not dare——

105Jonson:

What a poor cheat! Who’s the bookseller, Chettle?

Chettle:

[Reads on.] “This very night I’ll bring the angels to my angel!”

Jonson:

Oh, foul jest!

Chettle:

“But as I shall come late will sweet Mistress Tagge prepare me a mouthful of supper—any little thing’ll do—a snack just to provoke appetite, for indeed I’m far from strong.

Jonson:

Oh, mountainous weakling! Tun of lard!

Fletcher:

Now for the snack, boys! Listen.

Chettle:

Ay, a snack, you pizzle; a snack for a man. [Reads.] “Say a slice of calver’d salmon at first or a pickled lamprey and——

106Shakespeare:

[Interrupting.] “Or indeed both,” Chettle, put in “or indeed both,”—the salmon and the lamprey.

Chettle:

Right you are, bully boy. Right! [Corrects the letter and reads again.] “Say a slice of calver’d salmon at first or a pickled lamprey or indeed both, [looks up at Shakespeare and laughs] and then a loin of young pork dressed with your own select and poignant sauce and then a few oiled mushrooms——

Shakespeare:

Too many “thens,” Chettle. “A few oiled mushrooms and one is ready to loose a button and begin.” [All laugh.]

Chettle:

True, true, lad; ’tis but a beginning. [Writes and reads on.] “For something to eat, a shoulder of mutton and a cantle of one of your noble pasties [Shakespeare interjects “just to quiet the stomach’s craving,” and Chettle writes and repeats the phrase] just to quiet the stomach’s craving, and then a bird, say a pheasant for choice, 107and afterwards a goose [Shakespeare interjects “to trifle with,” and again Chettle writes and repeats the words] to trifle with, and instead of salad some barbel’s beards—you know how I like ’em—and nothing more an’ you love me—nothing, unless it be a morsel of cheese [Shakespeare interjects “to take away the cannibal taste of the meat” and Chettle writes and repeals the words with a loud laugh] to take away the cannibal taste of the meat.”

Jonson:

You gulf of gluttony! No wonder you’re lame with gout!

Chettle:

It’ll tweak you worse at my age, old gamecock! Ah, lads! My suppers are all numbered; I can’t increase ’em by one and so I want ’em all good. This world owes Hal Chettle a living.

Fletcher:

Are you finished?

Chettle:

[Reads on.] “And you’ll not forget the wine, dear Mistress Tagge: nothing but your old sack—sack 108without taint of sugar or cow’s juice—pure milk o’ the grape; and afterwards, if you will, a tankard of canary with my pipe, just to keep me warm thro’ the long night. And as for the angels, count on ’em; if I can, I’ll bring you twice twenty; for I love an open hand.” [Shakespeare, going to the door, interjects, “‘In others,’ Chettle, ‘in others.’” All laugh; but Chettle cries, “No, no, mad wag,” as Shakespeare goes out.]

Jonson:

You unspeakable liar, you; you haven’t two coins in the world to clink together!

Chettle:

That’s the virtue of the promise, thickhead! Ha; Ha! lads! He knows how to write and how to fight, the great boar, but not how to live. That’s Chettle’s art. Ben has no kindling fancy, no procreate imagination. I’ll tell you a secret, lads, a rich secret, a secret of gold; in this world large promises excite more goodwill than small performances, and praise to a woman is more than sacks of money. He! he! Oh, the sweet creatures; how should we live without ’em! And how angry I shall be to-night with that cozening, lying bookdealer! Ha! ha!

109Jonson:

Haven’t you any conscience?

Chettle:

No, bully boy, no: I’ve never been rich enough to keep a conscience: never! With us poor devils conscience is like a court-suit put by for state occasions and then used as little as may be: we pawn it sometimes for a dinner. Conscience, look ye, is a jade that still cries “No, no!” and never helps with brave encouragement: a good defender of the rich; but a born foe of the poor, laming enterprise. No, no, lad, no conscience for me; a bad one’s worse than a belly-ache, and with a good one I’d starve. Conscience is like a shrewish wife (have I touched ye there, Ben?), as long as you listen to her she makes you miserable, and when you no longer care for her, why should you keep her? To conclude: Conscience, boys, is a bogey to frighten the feeble from frolic. Ha ha!

Jonson:

But as a man, aren’t you ashamed to cheat a poor woman?

Chettle:

Have at ye again, lad! In this world we all 110cheat and are cheated. You cheat the groundlings and orange-girls out of their crosses with a bad play when they’ve paid to hear a good ’un, and I cheat by giving soft words instead of coins. And the conclusion! The girls are angry with you, while my hostess is in love with me. True virtue is good-humour, Ben: and a pleasant smile’s more than all the commandments.

Fletcher:

Chettle’s putting up for a saint.

Chettle:

And why not, lad, why not? The greatest sinners always make the greatest saints. Reason: they’ve more stuff in ’em for good or evil and better wits to shape the mass to a purpose. Reason again. How can you help others to resist temptation unless you feel the strength of it in your own flesh?

Jonson:

You are the sum of all sins—a glutton, drunkard, letcher and shameless to boot: how can you talk of being a saint!

Chettle:

Sins of the flesh, my lad, find pardon easier than malice of the spirit; I’d be a saint to-morrow, 111but the living’s thin and ye’re all such unbelieving rascals that ye’d make me misdoubt my own virtue!

Jonson:

Virtue in you would be like a lump of butter in a raging fire, ’Twould feed the flames!

Chettle:

That’s the unbelief in ye, that still keeps me a sinner, a villainous sinner!

Burbage:

At this rate, Chettle, you’ll make us all late. Come, boys, come, there’s much to do.

Chettle:

’Tis a churl would leave a good dinner, but no one would leave good talk but a chough, and that was good, wasn’t it, Ben?

Jonson:

Like your dinners, Chettle; more to be praised for quantity than quality, but still——

Chettle:

Have with you, lads: I’ve a Court cloak in white sarsenet; the colour of fear and of 112conscience, it takes a stain in every weather and from every touch! Ha! ha! ha!

[Exit all save Jonson, who calls the drawer by stamping on the floor.]