Act 1 — ACT I. SCENE I.
Reading edition
A Street.
Enter Follywit, Mawworm, Hoboy, and others.
Maw. Captain, regent, principal!
Hob. What shall I call thee? the noble spark of bounty! the life-blood of society!
Fol. Call me your forecast, you whoresons! when you come drunk out of a tavern, ’tis I must cast your plots into form still; ’tis I must manage the prank, or I’ll not give a louse for the proceeding: I must let fly my civil fortunes, turn wild-brain, lay my wits upo’ th’ tenters, you rascals, to maintain a company of villains, whom I love in my very soul and conscience!
Maw. Aha, our little forecast!
Fol. Hang you, you have bewitched me among you! I was as well given[724] till I fell to be wicked! my grandsire had hope of me: I went all in black; swore but a’ Sundays; never came home drunk but 332upon fasting-nights to cleanse my stomach. ’Slid, now I’m quite altered! blown into light colours; let out oaths by th’ minute; sit up late till it be early; drink drunk till I am sober; sink down dead in a tavern, and rise in a tobacco-shop: here’s a transformation! I was wont yet to pity the simple, and leave ’em some money: ’slid, now I gull ’em without conscience! I go without order, swear without number, gull without mercy, and drink without measure.
Maw. I deny the last; for if you drink ne’er so much, you drink within measure.
Fol. How prove you that, sir?
Maw. Because the drawers never fill their pots.
Fol. Mass, that was well found out! all drunkards may lawfully say, they drink within measure by that trick. And, now I’m put i’ th’ mind of a trick, can you keep your countenance, villains? Yet I am a fool to ask that; for how can they keep their countenance that have lost their credits?
Hob. I warrant you for blushing, captain.
Fol. I easily believe that, ancient, for thou lost thy colours once. Nay, faith, as for blushing, I think there’s grace little enough amongst you all; ’tis Lent in your cheeks, the flag’s down.[725] Well, your blushing face I suspect not, nor indeed greatly your laughing face, unless you had more money in your purses. Then thus compendiously now. You all know the possibilities of my hereafter fortunes, and the humour of my frolic grandsire, Sir Bounteous Progress, whose death makes all possible to me: I shall have all, when he has nothing; but 333now he has all, I shall have nothing. I think one mind runs through a million of ’em; they love to keep us sober all the while they’re alive, that when they’re dead we may drink to their healths; they cannot abide to see us merry all the while they’re above ground, and that makes so many laugh at their fathers’ funerals. I know my grandsire has his will in a box, and has bequeathed all to me, when he can carry nothing away; but stood I in need of poor ten pounds now, by his will I should hang myself ere I should get it: there’s no such word in his will, I warrant you, nor no such thought in his mind.
Maw. You may build upon that, captain.
Fol. Then since he has no will to do me good as long as he lives, by mine own will I’ll do myself good before he dies; and now I arrive at the purpose. You are not ignorant, I’m sure, you true and necessary implements of mischief, first, that my grandsire, Sir Bounteous Progress, is a knight of thousands, and therefore no knight since one thousand six hundred;[726] next, that he keeps a house like his name, bounteous, open for all comers; thirdly and lastly, that he stands much upon the glory of his complement,[727] variety of entertainment, together with the largeness of his kitchen, longitude of his buttery, and fecundity of his larder; and thinks himself never happier than when some stiff lord or great countess alights to make light his dishes. These being well mixed together, may 334give my project better encouragement, and make my purpose spring forth more fortunate: to be short, and cut off a great deal of dirty way, I’ll down to my grandsire like a lord.
Maw. How, captain?
Fol. A French ruff, a thin beard, and a strong perfume will do’t. I can hire blue coats[728] for you all by Westminster clock, and that colour will be soonest believed.
Maw. But prithee, captain——
Maw. From the crown of our head to the sole of our foot, bully.
Fol. Why carry yourselves but probably, and carry away enough with yourselves.
Enter Penitent Brothel.
Hob. Why, there spoke a Roman captain!—Master Penitent Brothel!
P. Bro. Sweet master Folly-wit! [Exeunt Follywit, Mawworm, Hoboy, &c.] Here’s a mad-brain a’ th’ first,[731] whose pranks scorn to have precedents, to be second to any, or walk beneath any madcap’s inventions; has played more tricks than the cards can allow a man, and of the last stamp too, hating imitation; a fellow, whose only glory is to be prime of the company; to be sure of which, he maintains all the rest: he’s the carrion, and they the kites that gorge upon him.
But why in others do I check wild passions,
And retain deadly follies in myself?
335I tax his youth of common receiv’d riot,
Time’s comic flashes, and the fruits of blood;
And in myself soothe up adulterous motions,
And such an appetite that I know damns me,
Yet willingly embrace it—love to Harebrain’s wife,
Over whose hours and pleasures her sick husband,
With a fantastic but deserv’d suspect,
Bestows his serious time in watch and ward;
And therefore I’m constrain’d to use the means
Of one that knows no mean, a courtesan,
One poison for another, whom her husband,
Without suspicion, innocently admits
Into her company, who with tried art
Corrupts and loosens her most constant powers,
Making his jealousy more than half a wittol,[732]
Before his face plotting his own abuse,
To which himself gives aim,[733]
Whilst the broad arrow with the forked head
Misses his brow but narrowly. See, here she comes,
The close courtesan, whose mother is her bawd.
Enter Courtesan.
Cour. Master Penitent Brothel!—
P. Bro. My little pretty lady Gullman, the news, the comfort?
Cour. You’re the fortunate man, sir, knight a’ th’ holland shirt;[734] there wants but opportunity, and she’s wax of your own fashioning. She had 336wrought herself into the form of your love before my art set finger to her.
P. Bro. Did our affections meet? our thoughts keep time?
Cour. So it should seem by the music: the only jar is in the grumbling bass-viol her husband.
P. Bro. O, his waking suspicion!
Cour. Sigh not, master Penitent; trust the managing of the business with me, ’tis for my credit now to see’t well finished: if I do you no good, sir, you shall give me no money, sir.
P. Bro. I am arrived at the court of conscience; a courtesan! O admirable times! honesty is removed to the common place.[735] [Aside.] Farewell, lady.
[Exit.
Enter Mother.
Mot. How now, daughter?
Cour. What news, mother?
Mot. A token from thy keeper.
Cour. O, from Sir Bounteous Progress: he’s my keeper indeed; but there’s many a piece of venison stolen that my keeper wots not on. There’s no park kept so warily but loses flesh one time or other; and no woman kept so privately but may watch advantage to make the best of her pleasure; and in common reason one keeper cannot be enough for so proud a park as a woman.
Mot. Hold thee there, girl.
Cour. Fear not me, mother.
Mot. Every part of the world shoots up daily into more subtlety; the very spider weaves her cauls with more art and cunning to entrap the fly.
The shallow ploughman can distinguish now
’Twixt simple truth and a dissembling brow;
337Your base mechanic fellow can spy out
A weakness in a lord, and learns to flout.
How does’t behove us then that live by slight,[736]
To have our wits wound up to their stretch’d height!
Fifteen times
Thou knowest I have sold thy maidenhead
To make up a dowry for thy marriage, and yet
There’s maidenhead enough for old sir Bounteous still:
He’ll be all his lifetime about it yet,
And be as far to seek when he has done.
The sums that I have told upon thy pillow!
I shall once see those golden days again:
Though fifteen, all thy maidenheads are not gone.
Th’ Italian is not serv’d yet, nor the French:
The British men come for a dozen at once,
They engross all the market: tut, my girl,
’Tis nothing but a politic conveyance,
A sincere carriage, a religious eyebrow,
That throw[737] their charms over the worldling’s senses;
And when thou spiest a fool that truly pities
The false springs of thine eyes,
And honourably doats upon thy love,
If he be rich, set him by for a husband.
Be wisely temper’d, and learn this, my wench,
Who gets th’ opinion[738] for a virtuous name
May sin at pleasure, and ne’er think of shame.
Cour. Mother, I am too deep a scholar grown
To learn my first rules now.
Mot. ’Twill be thy own;
I say no more: peace, hark! remove thyself.
O, the two elder brothers! [Exit Courtesan.
338Enter Inesse and Possibility.
Pos. A fair hour, sweet lady!
Mot. Good morrow, gentlemen, master Inesse and master Possibility.
In. Where’s the little sweet lady your daughter?
Mot. Even at her book, sir.
Pos. So religious?
Mot. ’Tis no new motion, sir; sh’as took it from an infant.
Pos. May we deserve a sight of her, lady?
Mot. Upon that condition you will promise me, gentlemen, to avoid all profane talk, wanton compliments, undecent phrases, and lascivious courtings (which I know my daughter will sooner die than endure), I am contented your suits shall be granted.
Pos. Not a bawdy syllable, I protest.
In. Syllable was [well] placed there; for indeed your one syllables are your bawdiest words: prick that down.
[Exeunt.