ACT II.
Reading edition
SCENE I.
Outside Sir Hubert Subboy’s house, under Beatrice’s window.
Enter Freevill, Pages with torches and Gentlemen with music.
Free. The morn is yet but young. Here, gentlemen, This is my Beatrice’ window—this the chamber Of my betrothèd dearest, whose chaste eyes, Full of loved sweetness and clear cheerfulness, Have gaged my soul to her enjoyings; Shredding away all those weak under-branches Of base affections and unfruitful heats. Here bestow your music to my voice.
[A song.
Enter Beatrice above.
Always a virtuous name to my chaste love!
Bea. Loved sir, 10 The honour of your wish return to you. I cannot with a mistress’ compliment, Forcèd discourses, or nice art of wit, Give entertain to your dear-wishèd presence: But safely thus,—what hearty gratefulness, Unsullen silence, unaffected modesty, And an unignorant shamefastness can express, Receive as your protested due. ’Faith, my heart, I am your servant. O let not my secure simplicity 20 Breed your mislike, as one quite void of skill; ’Tis grace enough in us not to be ill. I can some good, and, faith, I mean no hurt; Do not then, sweet, wrong sober ignorance. I judge you all of virtue, and our vows Should kill all fears that base distrust can move. My soul, what say you—still you love?
Free. Still! My vow is up above me, and, like time, Irrevocable: I am sworn all yours. No beauty shall untwine our arms, no face 30 In my eyes can or shall seem fair; And would to God only to me you might Seem only fair! Let others disesteem Your matchless graces, so might I safer seem; Envy I covet not. Far, far be all ostent— Vain boasts of beauties, soft joys, and the rest: He that is wise pants on a private breast. So could I live in desert most unknown, Yourself to me enough were populous;[28] Your eyes shall be my joys, my wine that still 40 Shall drown my often cares; your only voice Shall cast a slumber on my list’ning sense; You, with soft lip, shall only ope mine eyes And suck their lids asunder; only you Shall make me wish to live, and not fear death, So on your cheeks I might yield latest breath. O he that thus may live and thus shall die, May well be envied of a deity.[29]
Bea. Dear, my loved heart, be not so passionate; Nothing extreme lives long. 50
Free. But not to be extreme[30]—nothing in love’s extreme— My love receives no mean.
Bea. I give you faith; and, prithee, since, poor soul! I am so easy to believe thee, make it much more pity to deceive me! Wear this slight favour in my remembrance.
[Throweth down a ring to him.
Free. Which, when I part from, Hope, the best of life, ever part from me.
Bea. I take you and your word, which may ever live your servant. See, day is quite broke up—the best of hours. 61
Free. Good morrow, graceful mistress: our nuptial day holds.
Bea. With happy constancy a wishèd day.
[Exit.
Free. Myself and all content rest with you.
Enter Malheureux.
Mal. The studious morn, with paler cheek, draws on The day’s bold light. Hark how the free-born birds Carol their unaffected passions!
[The nightingales sing.
Now sing they sonnets—thus they cry, We love! O breath of heaven! thus they, harmless souls, 70 Give entertain to mutual affects. They have no bawds, no mercenary beds, No polite restraints, no artificial heats, No faint dissemblings; no custom makes them blush, No shame afflicts their name. O you happy beasts! In whom an inborn heat is not held sin, How far transcend you wretched, wretched man, Whom national custom, tyrannous respects Of slavish order, fetters, lames his power, Calling that sin in us which in all things else 80 Is Nature’s highest virtue. O miseri quorum gaudia crimen habent! Sure Nature against virtue cross doth fall, Or virtue’s self is oft unnatural. That I should love a strumpet! I, a man of snow! Now, shame forsake me—whither am I fallen! A creature of a public use! my friend’s love, too! To live to be a talk to men—a shame To my professed virtue! O accursed reason, How many eyes hast thou to see thy shame, 90 And yet how blind once to prevent defame!
Free. Diaboli virtus in lumbis est! Morrow, my friend. Come, I could make a tedious scene of this now; but what——Pah! thou art in love with a courtezan! Why, sir, should we loathe all strumpets, some men should hate their own mothers or sisters: a sin against kind, I can tell you.
Mal. May it beseem a wise man to be in love?
Free. Let wise men alone, ’twill beseem thee and me well enough. 100
Mal. Shall I not offend the vowe[d] band of our friendship?
Free. What, to affect that which thy friend affected? By Heaven, I resign her freely; the creature and I must grow off; by this time she has assure[d]ly heard of my resolved marriage, and no question swears “God’s sacrament, ten towsand divells.” I’ll resign, i’faith.
Mal. I would but embrace her, hear her speak, and at the most, but kiss her.
Free. O friend, he that could live with the smoke of roast-meat might live at a cheap rate! 111
Mal. I shall ne’er prove heartily received; A kind of flat ungracious modesty, An insufficient dulness stains my ’haviour.
Free. No matter, sir; insufficiency and sottishness are much commendable in a most discommendable action: now could I swallow thee, thou hadst wont to be so harsh and cold: I’ll tell thee,—hell and the prodigies of angry Jove are not so fearful to a thinking mind as a man without affection. Why, friend, philosophy and nature are all one; love is the centre in which all lines close, the common bond of being. 122
Mal. O but a chaste reservèd privateness, A modest continence!
Free. I’ll tell thee what, take this as firmest sense:— Incontinence will force a continence; Heat wasteth heat, light defaceth light, Nothing is spoiled but by his proper might. This is something too weighty for thy floor.
Mal. But howsoe’er you shade it, the world’s eye 130 Shines hot and open on’t; Lying, malice, envy, are held but slidings, Errors of rage, when custom and the world Calls lust a crime spotted with blackest terrors.
Free. Where errors are held crimes, crimes are but errors.
Along, sir, to her; she’s an arrant strumpet; and a strumpet is a sarpego, venom’d gonorrhy to man—things actually possessed [Offers to go out, and suddenly draws back]—yet since thou art in love,—and again, as good make use of a statue—a body without a soul, a carcass three months dead—yet since thou art in love——
Mal. Death, man! my destiny I cannot choose. 142
Free. Nay, I hope so. Again, they sell but only flesh, No jot affection; so that even in the enjoying,
Absentem marmoreamque putes.[31] Yet since you needs must love——
Mal. Unavoidable, though folly—worse than madness!
Free. It’s true; but since you needs must love, you must know this,— He that must love, a fool and he must kiss.
Enter Cocledemoy.
Master Cocledemoy, ut vales, Domine! 150
Coc. Ago tibi gratias, my worshipful friend, how does your friend?
Free. Out, you rascal!
Coc. Hang toasts, you are an ass; much o’ your worship’s brain lies in your calves; bread o’ god, boy, I was at supper last night with a new-wean’d bulchin; bread o’ god, drunk, horribly drunk—horribly drunk! there was a wench, one Frank Frailty, a punk, an honest polecat, of a clean instep, sound leg, smooth thigh, and the nimble devil in her buttock. Ah, feast o’ grace! when saw you, Tysefew, or Master Caqueteur, that prattling gallant of a good draught, common customs, fortunate impudence, and sound fart? 163
Free. Away, rogue!
Coc. Hang toasts, my fine boy, my companion as worshipful.
Mal. Yes, I hear you are taken up with scholars and churchmen.
Enter Holifernes the barber.
Coc. Quanquam[32] te, Marce, fili, my fine boy.
Hol. Does[33] your worship want a barber-surgeon? 170
Free. Farewell, knave; beware the Mulligrubs.
[Exeunt Freevill and Malhereux.
Coc. Let the Mulligrubs beware the knave. What, a barber-surgeon, my delicate boy?
Hol. Yes, sir, an apprentice to surgery.
Coc.[34] ’Tis, my fine boy. To what bawdy-house doth your master belong? What’s thy name?
Hol. Holifernes Reinscure.
Coc. Reinscure! Good Master Holifernes, I desire your further acquaintance; nay, pray ye be covered, my fine boy: kill thy itch, and heal thy scabs. Is thy master rotten? 181
Hol. My father, forsooth, is dead——
Coc. And laid in his grave. Alas! what comfort shall Peggy then have![35]
Hol. None but me, sir; that’s my mother’s son, I assure you.
Coc. Mother’s son? A good witty boy, would live to read an homily well: and to whom are you going now?
Hol. Marry, forsooth, to trim Master Mulligrub the vintner. 190
Coc. Do you know Master Mulligrub?
Hol. My godfather, sir.
Coc. Good boy: hold up thy chops. I pray thee do one thing for me: my name is Gudgeon.
Hol. Good Master Gudgeon.
Coc. Lend me thy basin, razor, and apron.
Hol. O Lord, sir![36]
Coc. Well spoken; good English. But what’s thy furniture worth?
Hol. O Lord, sir, I know not. 200
Coc. Well spoken; a boy of a good wit: hold this pawn; where dost dwell?
Hol. At the sign of the Three Razors, sir.
Coc. A sign of good shaving, my catastrophonical fine boy. I have an odd jest to trim Master Mulligrub, for a wager; a jest, boy; a humour. I’ll return thy things presently. Hold!
Hol. What mean you, good Master Gudgeon?
Coc. Nothing, faith, but a jest, boy: drink that; I’ll recoil presently. 210
Hol. You’ll not stay long.
Coc. As I am an honest man. The Three Razors?
Hol. Ay, sir.
[Exit Holifernes.
Coc. Good; and if I shave not Master Mulligrub, my wit has no edge, and I may[37] go cack in my pewter. Let me see,—a barber: my scurvy tongue will discover me: must dissemble, must disguise; for my beard, my false hair; for my tongue—Spanish, Dutch or Welsh—no, a Northern barber; very good. Widow Reinscure’s man, well; newly entertain’d, right; so, hang toasts! all cards have white backs, and all knaves would seem to have white breasts: so proceed now, worshipful Cocledemoy.
[Exit Cocledemoy, in his barber’s furniture.
SCENE II.
Franceschina’s lodging.
Enter Mary Faugh, and Franceschina with her hair loose, chafing.
Mar. Nay, good sweet daughter, do not swagger so; you hear your love is to be married, true; he does cast you off, right; he will leave you to the world,—what then? though blue and white, black and green, leave you, may not red and yellow entertain you? is there but one colour in the rainbow?
Fra. Grand grincome[38] on your sentences! God’s sacrament, ten towsand divels take you!—you ha’ brought mine love, mine honour, mine body, all to noting! 10
Mar. To nothing! I’ll be sworn I have brought them to all the things I could; I ha’ made as much o’ your maidenhead—and you had been mine own daughter, I could not ha’ sold your maidenhead oft’ner than I ha’ done. I ha’ sworn for you, God forgive me! I have made you acquainted with the Spaniard, Don Skirtoll,—with the Italian, Messer Beieroane,—with the Irish lord, S. Patrick,—with the Dutch merchant, Haunce Herkin Glukin Skellam Flapdragon,—and specially with the greatest French, and now lastly with this English, yet, in my conscience, an honest gentleman. And am I now grown one of the accursed with you for my labour? Is this my reward? Am I call’d bawd? Well, Mary Faugh, go thy ways, Mary Faugh; thy kind heart will bring thee to the hospital. 25
Fra. Nay, good naunt, you’ll help me to an oder love, vil you not?
Mar. Out, thou naughty belly! wouldst thou make me thy bawd?—thou’st best make me thy bawd. I ha’ kept counsel for thee: who paid the apothecary,—was’t not honest Mary Faugh? who redeem’d thy petticoat and mantle,—was’t not honest Mary Faugh? who helped thee to thy custom,—not swaggering Ireland captains, nor of two-shilling inns-o’-court men,—but with honest flat-caps,[39] wealthy flat-caps, that pay for their pleasure the best of any men in Europe, nay, which is more, in London? And dost thou defy me, vile creature? 37
Fra. Foutra[40] pon you,—vitch, bawd, polecat,—paugh! Did not you praise Freevill to mine love?
Mar. I did praise, I confess, I did praise him; I said he was a fool, an unthrift, a true whoremaster, I confess; a constant drab-keeper, I confess: but what, the wind is turn’d!
Fra. It is, it is, vile woman!—reprobate woman!—naughty woman! it is: vat sall become of mine poor flesh now? mine body must turn Turk for twopence. O Divela, life o’ mine art! ick sall be reveng’d!—do ten thousand hell damn me, ick sall have the rogue trote cut! and his love, and his friend, and all his affinity, sall smart! sall dye! sall hang! Now legion of devil seize him!—de gran pest, St. Anthony’s fire, and de hot Neapolitan poc, rot him! 52
Enter Freevill and Malheureux.
Free. Franceschina!
Fra. O mine seet, dear’st, kindest, mine loving! O mine towsand, ten towsand, delicated, petty[41] seet art!
[Cantat Gallicè.
A[h] mine, a[h] dear leevest affection!
Free. Why, monkey, no fashion in you! Give entertain to my friend.
Fra. Ick sall make de most of you dat courtesy may. Aunt Mary, Mettre Faugh, stools, stools, for des gallants! Mine mettre sing non oder song,[42]—frolic, frolic, sir!— 61 but still complain me do her wrong. Lighten your heart, sir; for me did but kiss her,—for me did but kiss her—and so let go. Your friend is very heavy; ick sall ne’er like such sad company.
Free. No, thou delightest only in light company.
Fra. By mine trot, he been very sad; vat ail you, sir?
Mal. A tooth-ache, lady, a paltry rheum.
Fra. De diet is very goot for de rheum.
Free. How far off dwells the house-surgeon, Mary Faugh? 71
Mar. You are a profane fellow, i’faith; I little thought to hear such ungodly terms come from your lips.
Fra. Pre de now, ’tis but a toy, a very trifle.
Free. I care not for the value, Frank, but i’faith——
Fra. I’fait, me must needs have it (dis is Beatrice’ ring, oh could I get it!); seet, pre de now, as ever you have embraced me with a hearty arm, a warm thought, or a pleasing touch, as ever you will profess to love me, as ever you do wish me life, give me dis ring, dis little ring. 81
Free. Prithee be not uncivilly importunate; sha’ not ha’t; faith, I care not for thee, nor thy jealousy; sha’ not ha’t, i’faith.
Fra. You do not love me. I hear of Sir Hubert Subboys’ daughter, Mistress Beatrice. God’s sacrament, ick could scratch out her eyes, and suck the holes!
Free. Go; y’ are grown a punk rampant!
So, get thee gone; ne’er more behold min eyes, by thee made wretched! 90
Free. Mary Faugh, farewell!—farewell, Frank!
Fra. Sall I not ha’ de ring?
Free. No, by the Lord!
Fra. By te Lord?
Free. By the Lord!
Fra. Go to your new blouze,—your unproved sluttery,—your modest mettre, forsooth!
Free. Marry, will I, forsooth!
Fra. Will you marry, forsooth?
Free. Do not turn witch before thy time.— 100 With all my heart, sir, you will stay.
Mal. I am no whit myself. Video meliora proboque, But raging lust my fate all strong doth move; The gods themselves cannot be wise and love.
Free. Your wishes to you!
[Exit Freevill.
Mal. Beauty entirely choice—
Fra. Pray ye prove a man of fashion, and neglect the neglected.
Mal. Can such a rarity be neglected?—can there be measure or sin in loving such a creature?
Fra. O min poor forsaken heart! 110
Mal. I cannot contain,—he saw thee not that left thee. If there be wisdom, reason, honour, grace, Of any foolishly-esteemèd virtue, In giving o’er possession of such beauty, Let me be vicious, so I may be loved. Passion, I am thy slave; sweet, it shall be my grace, That I account thy love my only virtue: Shall I swear I am thy most vowèd servant?
Fra. Mine vowed? Go! go! go! I cannot more of love. No! no! no! You bin all unconstant. O unfaithful men—tyrants—betrayers—de very enjoying us loseth us; and when you only ha’ made us hateful, you only hate us. O mine forsaken heart! 123
Mal. I must not rave. Silence and modesty two customary virtues. Will you be my mistress?
Fra. Mettres? Ha! ha! ha!
Mal. Will you lie with me?
Fra. Lie with you? O no; you men will out-lie any woman; fait, me no more can love.
Mal. No matter, let me enjoy your bed. 130
Fra. O! vile man, vat do you tinck on me? Do you take me to be a beast—a creature that for sense only will entertain love, and not only for love—love? O! brutish abomination!
Mal. Why, then I pray thee love, and with thy love enjoy me——
Fra. Give me reason to affect you. Will you swear you love me?
Mal. So seriously, that I protest no office so dangerous—no deed so unreasonable—no cost so heavy, but I vow to the utmost tentation of my best being to effect it. 141
Fra. Sall I, or can I trust again? O fool! How natural ’tis for us to be abused! Sall ick be sure that no satiety, No enjoying, Not time shall languish your affection?
Mal. If there be ought in brain, heart, or hand, Can make you doubtless, I am your vow’d servant.
Fra. Will you do one ting for me?
Mal. Can I do it? 150
Fra. Yes, yes; but ick do not love dis same Freevill.
Mal. Well?
Fra. Nay, I do hate him.
Mal. So.
Fra. By this kiss I hate him.
Mal. I love to feel such oaths; swear again.
Fra. No, no. Did you ever hear of any that loved at the first sight?
Mal. A thing most proper.
Fra. Now fait, I judge it all incredible until this hour I saw you: pretty fair-eyed yout, would you enjoy me? 162
Mal. Rather than my breath, even as my being.
Fra. Vel! had ick not made a vow——
Mal. What vow?
Fra. O let me forget it; it makes us both despair!
Mal. Dear soul, what vow?
Fra. Ha, good morrow, gentle sir; endeavour to forget me, as I must be enforced to forget all men. Sweet mind rest in you. 170
Mal. Stay, let not thy desire burst me. O my impatient heat endures no resistance—no protraction! there is no being for me but your sudden enjoying.
Fra. I do not love Freevill.
Mal. But what vow? what vow?
Fra. So long as Freevill lives, I must not love.
Mal. Then he—
Fra. Must—
Mal. Die!
Fra. I [k]no[w] there is no such vehemence in your affects. 180 Would I were anything, so he were not!
Mal. Will you be mine when he is not?
Fra. Will I? Dear, dear breast, by this most zealous kiss! but I will not persuade you; but if you hate him that I loathe most deadly; yet as you please—I’ll persuade noting.
Mal. Will you be only mine?
Fra. Vill I? How hard ’tis for true love to dissemble. I am only yours.
Mal. ’Tis as irrevocable as breath: he dies. 190 Your love!
Fra. My vow,—not until he be dead; Which that I may be sure not to infringe, Dis token of his death sall satisfy: He has a ring, as dear as the air to him, His new love’s gift; tat got and brought to me, I shall assurèd your professèd rest.
Mal. To kill a man?
Fra. O! done safely; a quarrel sudden pick’d, With an advantage strike—then bribe—a little coin, All’s safe, dear soul; but I’ll not set you on. 200
Mal. Nay, he is gone—the ring! Well, come, little more liberal of thy love.
Fra. Not yet; my vow.
Mal. O Heaven! there is no hell but love’s prolongings. Dear, farewell.
Fra. Farewell. Now does my heart swell high, for my revenge Has birth and form; first friend sall kill his friend. He dat survives I’ll hang; besides de chaste Beatrice I’ll vex. Only de ring; 210 Dat got, the world sall know the worst of evils: Woman corrupted is the worst of devils.
[Exit Franceschina.
Mal. To kill my friend! O ’tis to kill myself! Yet man’s but man’s excrement—man breeding man As he does worms; or this, to spoil this nothing.
[He spits.
The body of a man is of the self-same mould[43] As ox or horse; no murder to kill these. As for that only part which makes us man, Murder wants power to touch’t. O wit, how vile! How hellish art thou, when thou raisest nature 220 ’Gainst sacred faith! Think more: to kill a friend To gain a woman! to lose a virtuous self For appetite and sensual end, whose very having Loseth all appetite, and gives satiety! That corporal end, remorse and inward blushings, Forcing us loathe the steam of our own heats; Whilst friendship closed in virtue, being spiritual, Tastes no such languishings, and moments’ pleasure With much repentance; but like rivers flow, And further that they run they bigger grow. 230 Lord, how was I misgone! how easy ’tis to err, When passion will not give us leave to think! A learn’d, that is an honest man, may fear, And lust, and rage, and malice,[44] and anything, When he is taken uncollected suddenly: ’Tis sin of cold blood, mischief with waked eyes, That is the damnèd and the truly[45] vice; Not he that’s passionless, but he ’bove passion’s wise. My friend shall know it all.
[Exit.
SCENE III.
A Tavern.
Enter Master Mulligrub and Mistress Mulligrub, she with a bag of money.
Mistress Mul. It is right, I assure you, just fifteen pounds.
Mul. Well, Cocledemoy, ’tis thou putt’st me to this charge; but, and I catch thee, I’ll charge thee with as many irons. Well, is the barber come? I’ll be trimm’d, and then to Cheapside to buy a fair piece of plate, to furnish the loss. Is the barber come?
Mistress Mul. Truth, husband, surely heaven is not pleased with our vocation. We do wink at the sins of our people. Our wines are protestants; and I speak it to my grief, and to the burthen of my conscience, we fry our fish with salt butter. 12
Mul. Go, look to your business; mend the matter, and score false with a vengeance.
[Exit Mistress Mulligrub.
Enter Cocledemoy like a barber..
Welcome, friend, whose man?
Coc. Widow Reinscure’s man; and shall please your good worship, my name’s Andrew Shark.
Mul. How does my godson, good Andrew?
Coc. Very well, he’s gone to trim Master Quicquid, our parson. Hold up your head. 20
Mul. How long have you been a barber, Andrew?
Coc. Not long, sir; this two year.
Mul. What! and a good workman already. I dare scarce trust my head to thee.
Coc. O, fear not; we ha’ poll’d better men than you; we learn the trade very quickly. Will your good worship be shaven or cut?
Mul. As you will. What trade didst live by before thou turnedst barber, Andrew?
Coc. I was a pedlar in Germany; but my countrymen thrive better by this trade. 31
Mul. What’s the news, barber? thou art sometimes at court.
Coc. Sometimes poll a page or so, sir.
Mul. And what’s the news? How do all my good lords and all my good ladies, and all the rest of my acquaintance?
Coc. What an arrogant knave’s this! I’ll acquaintance ye! ’Tis cash!—[He spieth the bag.]—Say ye, sir?
Mul. And what news—what news, good Andrew? 40
Coc. Marry, sir, you know the Conduit at Greenwich, and the under-holes that spouts up water?
Mul. Very well; I was wash’d there one day, and so was my wife—you might have wrung her smock, i’faith! But what o’ those holes?
Coc. Thus, sir. Out of those little holes, in the midst of the night, crawl’d out twenty-four huge, horrible, monstrous, fearful, devouring——
Mul. Bless us! 49
Coc. Serpents, which no sooner were beheld, but they turn’d to mastiffs, which howl’d; those mastiffs instantly turn’d to cocks, which crowed; those cocks, in a moment, were changed to bears, which roar’d; which bears are at this hour to be yet seen in Paris Garden, living upon nothing but toasted cheese and green onions.
Mul. By the Lord! and this may be, my wife and I will go see them. This portends something.
Coc. [aside.] Yes, worshipful fist,[46] thou’st feel what portends by and by. 59
Mul. And what more news? You shave the world—especially you barber-surgeons—you know the ground of many things. You are cunning privy searchers: by the mass, you scour all. What more news?
Coc. They say, sir, that twenty-five couple of Spanish jennets are to be seen, hand in hand, dance the old measures,[47] whilst six goodly Flaunders mares play to them on a noise[48] of flutes.
Mul. O monstrous! this is a lie o’ my word. Nay, and this be not a lie—I am no fool, I warrant—nay, make an ass of me once? 70
Coc. Shut your eyes close—wink; sure, sir, this ball will make you smart.
Mul. I do wink.
Coc. Your head will take cold;
[Cocledemoy puts on a coxcomb on Mulligrub’s head.]
I will put on your good worship’s nightcap whilst I shave you. So, mum, hang toasts! Faugh, via![49] sparrows must peck and Cocledemoy munch. 77
Mul. Ha, ha, ha! Twenty-five couple of Spanish jennets to dance the old measures. Andrew makes my worship laugh, i’faith. Dost take me for an ass, Andrew?—dost know one Cocledemoy in town? He made me an ass last night, but I’ll ass him! Art thou free, Andrew? Shave me well—I shall be one of the common council shortly—and then, Andrew—why, Andrew, Andrew, dost leave me in the suds?
CANTAT.
Why, Andrew, I shall be blind with winking. Ha! Andrew—wife—Andrew, what means this? Wife!—my money, wife! 88
Enter Mistress Mulligrub.
Mistress Mul. What’s the noise with you? What ail you?
Mul. Where’s the barber?
Mistress Mul. Gone. I saw him depart long since. Why, are not you trimm’d?
Mul. Trimm’d! O wife! I am shaved. Did you take hence the money?
Mistress Mul. I touch’d it not, as I am religious.
Mul. O Lord! I have wink’d fair.
Enter Holifernes.
Hol. I pray, godfather, give me your blessing.
Mul. O Holifernes—O where’s thy mother’s Andrew? 100
Hol. Blessing, godfather!
Mul. The devil choke thee! where’s Andrew, thy mother’s man?
Hol. My mother hath none such, forsooth.
Mul. My money—fifteen pounds—plague of all Andrews! who was’t trimm’d me?
Hol. I know not, godfather; only one met me, as I was coming to you, and borrowed my furniture, as he said, for a jest’ sake.
Mul. What kind of fellow? 110
Hol. A thick, elderly, stub-bearded fellow.
Mul. Cocledemoy, Cocledemoy! Raise all the wise men in the street! I’ll hang him with mine own hands! O wife! some rosa solis.[50]
Mistress Mul. Good husband, take comfort in the Lord; I’ll play the devil, but I’ll recover it. Have a good conscience, ’tis but a week’s cutting[51] in the term!
Mul. O, wife! O, wife! O, Jack! how does thy mother? Is there any fiddlers in the house?
Mistress Mul. Yes, Master Creak’s[52] noise? 120
Mul. Bid ’em play, laugh, make merry; cast up my accounts, for I’ll go hang myself presently. I will not curse, but a pox on Cocledemoy; he has poll’d and shaved me, he has trimm’d me!
[Exeunt.