ACT I. SCENE I.
Reading edition
A Street in a Country Town.
Enter Witgood.
Wit. All’s gone! still thou’rt a gentleman, that’s all; but a poor one, that’s nothing. What milk bring[2] thy meadows forth now? where are thy goodly uplands, and thy down lands? all sunk into that little pit, lechery. Why should a gallant pay but two shillings for his ordinary[3] that nourishes him, and twenty times two for his brothel[4] that consumes him? But where’s Long-acre?[5] in my uncle’s conscience, which is three years’ voyage about: he that sets out upon his conscience ne’er finds the way home again; he is either swallowed in the quicksands of law-quillets, or splits upon the piles of a præmunire; yet these old fox-brained 6and ox-browed uncles have still defences for their avarice, and apologies for their practices, and will thus greet our follies:
He that doth his youth expose
To brothel, drink, and danger,
Let him that is his nearest kin
Cheat him before a stranger:
and that’s his uncle; ’tis a principle in usury. I dare not visit the city: there I should be too soon visited by that horrible plague, my debts; and by that means I lose a virgin’s love, her portion, and her virtues. Well, how should a man live now that has no living? hum,—why, are there not a million of men in the world that only sojourn upon their brain, and make their wits their mercers; and am I but one amongst that million, and cannot thrive upon’t? Any trick out of the compass of law[6] now would come happily to me.
Enter Courtesan.
Cour. My love!
Wit. My loathing! hast thou been the secret consumption of my purse, and now comest to undo my last means, my wits? wilt leave no virtue in me, and yet thou ne’er the better?
Hence, courtesan, round-webb’d tarantula,
That dry’st the roses in the cheeks of youth!
Cour. I’ve[7] been true unto your pleasure; and all your lands
Thrice rack’d, were[8] never worth the jewel which
I prodigally gave you, my virginity:
Lands mortgag’d may return, and more esteem’d,
But honesty once pawn’d, is ne’er redeem’d.
7Wit. Forgive: I do thee wrong
To make thee sin, and then to chide thee for’t.
Cour. I know I am your loathing now; farewell.
Wit. Stay, best invention, stay.
Cour. I that have been the secret consumption of your purse, shall I stay now to undo your last means, your wits? hence, courtesan, away!
Wit. I prithee, make me not mad at my own weapon: stay (a thing few women can do, I know that, and therefore they had need wear stays), be not contrary: dost love me? Fate[9] has so cast it that all my means I must derive from thee.
Cour. From me? be happy then;
What lies within the power of my performance
Shall be commanded of thee.
Wit. Spoke like
An honest drab, i’faith: it may prove something;
What trick is not an embryon at first,
Until a perfect shape come over it?
Cour. Come,[10] I must help you: whereabouts left you?
8I’ll proceed:
Though you beget, ’tis I must help to breed.
Speak, what is’t? I’d fain conceive it.
Wit. So, so, so: thou shalt presently take the name and form upon thee of a rich country widow, four hundred a-year valiant,[11] in woods, in bullocks, in barns, and in rye-stacks; we’ll to London, and to my covetous uncle.
Cour. I begin to applaud thee; our states being both desperate, they are soon resolute: but how for horses?
Wit. Mass, that’s true; the jest will be of some continuance. Let me see; horses now, a bots on ’em! Stay, I have acquaintance with a mad host, never yet bawd to thee; I have rinsed the whoreson’s gums in mull-sack many a time and often: put but a good tale into his ear now, so it come off cleanly, and there’s horse and man for us, I dare warrant thee.
Cour. Arm your wits then
Speedily; there shall want nothing in me,
Either in behaviour, discourse, or fashion,
That shall discredit your intended purpose.
I will so artfully disguise my wants,
And set so good a courage on my state,
That I will be believ’d.
Wit. Why, then, all’s furnished.[12] I shall go nigh to catch that old fox mine uncle: though he make but some amends for my undoing, yet there’s some comfort in’t, he cannot otherwise choose (though it be but in hope to cozen me again) but supply any hasty want that I bring to town with me. The 9device well and cunningly carried, the name of a rich widow, and four hundred a-year in good earth, will so conjure up a kind of usurer’s love in him to me, that he will not only desire my presence,—which at first shall scarce be granted him, I’ll keep off a’ purpose,—but I shall find him so officious to deserve, so ready to supply! I know the state of an old man’s affection so well: if his nephew be poor indeed, why, he lets God alone with him; but if he be once rich, then he’ll be the first man that helps him.
Cour. ’Tis right the world; for, in these days, an old man’s love to his kindred is like his kindness to his wife, ’tis always done before he comes at it.
Wit. I owe thee for that jest. Begone: here’s all my wealth; prepare thyself, away. I’ll to mine host with all possible haste; and with the best art, and most profitable form, pour the sweet circumstance into his ear, which shall have the gift to turn all the wax to honey. [Exit Courtesan.]—How no[w]? O, the right worshipful seniors of our country!
Enter Onesiphorus Hoard, Limber, and Kix.[13]
Ones. H. Who’s that?
10Lim. O, the common rioter; take no note of him.
Wit. You will not see me now; the comfort is,
Ere it be long you will scarce see yourselves.
[Aside; and exit.
Ones. H. I wonder how he breathes; has consum’d all
Upon that courtesan.
Lim. We have heard so much.
Ones. H. You’ve[14] heard all truth. His uncle and my brother
Have been these three years mortal adversaries:
Two old tough spirits, they seldom meet but fight,
Or quarrel when ’tis calmest:
I think their anger be the very fire
That keeps their age alive.
Lim. What was the quarrel, sir?
Ones. H. Faith, about a purchase, fetching over a young heir. Master Hoard, my brother, having wasted much time in beating the bargain, what did me old Lucre, but as his conscience moved him, knowing the poor gentleman, stept in between ’em, and cozened him himself.
Lim. And was this all, sir?
Ones. H. This was e’en it, sir; yet, for all this, I know no reason but the match might go forward betwixt his wife’s son and my niece: what though there be a dissension between the two old men, I see no reason it should put a difference between the two younger; ’tis as natural for old folks to fall out, as for young to fall in. A scholar comes a-wooing to my niece; well, he’s wise, but he’s poor: her son comes a-wooing to my niece; well, he’s a fool, but he’s rich.
Lim. Ay, marry, sir.
11Ones. H. Pray, now, is not a rich fool better than a poor philosopher?
Lim. One would think so, i’faith.
Ones. H. She now remains at London with my brother, her second uncle, to learn fashions, practise music; the voice between her lips, and the viol[15] between her legs, she’ll be fit for a consort very speedily: a thousand good pound is her portion; if she marry, we’ll ride up and be merry.
Kix. A match, if it be a match. [Exeunt.