ACT II. SCENE I.

A Room in Lucre’s House.

Enter Lucre.

Luc. My adversary evermore twits me with my nephew, forsooth, my nephew: why may not a virtuous uncle have a dissolute nephew? What though he be a brotheller, a wastethrift, a common surfeiter, and, to conclude, a beggar, must sin in him call up shame in me? Since we have no part in their follies, why should we have part in their infamies? For my strict hand toward his mortgage, that I deny not: I confess I had an uncle’s pen’worth; let me see, half in half, true: I saw neither hope of his reclaiming, nor comfort in his being; and was it not then better bestowed upon 21his uncle than upon one of his aunts?—I need not say bawd, for every one knows what aunt stands for in the last translation.

Enter Servant.

Now, sir?

Ser. There’s a country serving-man, sir, attends to speak with your worship.

Luc. I’m at best leisure now; send him in to me.

[Exit Servant.

Enter Host disguised as a serving-man.

Host. Bless your venerable worship.

Luc. Welcome, good fellow.

Host. He calls me thief^[33] at first sight, yet he little thinks I am an host. [Aside.

Luc. What’s thy business with me?

Host. Faith, sir, I am sent from my mistress, to any sufficient gentleman indeed, to ask advice upon a doubtful point: ’tis indifferent, sir, to whom I come, for I know none, nor did my mistress direct me to any particular man, for she’s as mere a stranger here as myself; only I found your worship within, and ’tis a thing I ever loved, sir, to be despatched as soon as I can.

Luc. A good, blunt honesty; I like him well. [Aside.]—What is thy mistress?

Host. Faith, a country gentlewoman, and a widow, sir. Yesterday was the first flight of us; but now she intends to stay till a little term business be ended.

Luc. Her name, I prithee?

Host. It runs there in the writings, sir, among her lands; widow Medler.

22Luc. Medler? mass, have I ne’er heard of that widow?

Host. Yes, I warrant you, have you, sir: not the rich widow in Staffordshire?

Luc. Cuds me, there ’tis indeed; thou hast put me into memory: there’s a widow indeed! ah, that I were a bachelor again!

Host. No doubt your worship might do much then; but she’s fairly promised to a bachelor already.

Luc. Ah, what is he, I prithee?

Host. A country gentleman too; one whom your worship knows not, I’m sure; has spent some few follies in his youth, but marriage, by my faith, begins to call him home: my mistress loves him, sir, and love covers faults, you know: one master Witgood, if ever you have heard of the gentleman.

Luc. Ha! Witgood, sayst thou?

Host. That’s his name indeed, sir; my mistress is like to bring him to a goodly seat yonder; four hundred a-year, by my faith.

Luc. But, I pray, take me with you.^[34]

Host. Ay, sir.

Luc. What countryman might this young Witgood be?

Host. A Leicestershire gentleman, sir.

Luc. My nephew, by th’ mass, my nephew! I’ll fetch out more of this, i’faith: a simple country fellow, I’ll work’t out of him. [Aside.]—And is that gentleman, sayst thou, presently to marry her?

Host. Faith, he brought her up to town, sir; has the best card in all the bunch for’t, her heart; and I know my mistress will be married ere she 23go down; nay, I’ll swear that, for she’s none of those widows that will go down first, and be married after; she hates that, I can tell you, sir.

Luc. By my faith, sir, she is like to have a proper gentleman, and a comely; I’ll give her that gift.

Host. Why, does your worship know him, sir?

Luc. I know him? does not all the world know him? can a man of such exquisite qualities be hid under a bushel?

Host. Then your worship may save me a labour, for I had charge given me to inquire after him.

Luc. Inquire of him? If I might counsel thee, thou shouldst ne’er trouble thyself further; inquire of him of no more but of me; I’ll fit thee. I grant he has been youthful; but is he not now reclaimed? mark you that, sir: has not your mistress, think you, been wanton in her youth? if men be wags, are there not women wagtails?

Host. No doubt, sir.

Luc. Does not he return wisest that comes home whipt with his own follies?

Host. Why, very true, sir.

Luc. The worst report you can hear of him, I can tell you, is that he has been a kind gentleman, a liberal, and a worthy: who but lusty Witgood, thrice-noble Witgood!

Host. Since your worship has so much knowledge in him, can you resolve^[35] me, sir, what his living might be? my duty binds me, sir, to have a care of my mistress’ estate; she has been ever a good mistress to me, though I say it: many wealthy suitors has she nonsuited for his sake; 24yet though her love be so fixed, a man cannot tell whether his non-performance may help to remove it, sir: he makes us believe he has lands and living.

Luc. Who, young master Witgood? why, believe it, he has as goodly a fine living out yonder,—what do you call the place?

Host. Nay, I know not, i’faith.

Luc. Hum—see, like a beast, if I have not forgot the name—pooh! and out yonder again, goodly grown woods and fair meadows: pax^[36] on’t, I can ne’er hit of that place neither: he? why, he’s Witgood of Witgood Hall; he, an unknown thing!

Host. Is he so, sir? To see how rumour will alter! trust me, sir, we heard once he had no lands, but all lay mortgaged to an uncle he has in town here.

Luc. Push,^[37] ’tis a tale, ’tis a tale.

Host. I can assure you, sir, ’twas credibly reported to my mistress.

Luc. Why, do you think, i’faith, he was ever so simple to mortgage his lands to his uncle? or his uncle so unnatural to take the extremity of such a mortgage?

Host. That was my saying still, sir.

Luc. Pooh, ne’er think it.

Host. Yet that report goes current.

Luc. Nay, then you urge me: Cannot I tell that best that am his uncle?

Host. How, sir? what have I done!

25Luc. Why, how now! in a swoon, man?

Host. Is your worship his uncle, sir?

Luc. Can that be any harm to you, sir?

Host. I do beseech you, sir, do me the favour to conceal it: what a beast was I to utter so much! pray, sir, do me the kindness to keep it in; I shall have my coat pulled o’er my ears, an’t should be known; for the truth is, an’t please your worship, to prevent much rumour and many suitors, they intend to be married very suddenly and privately.

Luc. And dost thou think it stands with my judgment to do them injury? must I needs say the knowledge of this marriage comes from thee? am I a fool at fifty-four? do I lack subtlety now, that have got all my wealth by it? There’s a leash of angels^[38] for thee: come, let me woo thee speak where lie they?

Host. So I might have no anger, sir——

Luc. Passion of me, not a jot: prithee, come.

Host. I would not have it known, sir,^[39] it came by my means.

Luc. Why, am I a man of wisdom?

Host. I dare trust your worship, sir; but I’m a stranger to your house; and to avoid all intelligencers, I desire your worship’s ear.

Luc. This fellow’s worth a matter of trust. [Aside.]—Come, sir. [Host whispers to him.] Why, now thou’rt an honest lad.—Ah, sirrah, nephew!

Host. Please you, sir, now I have begun with your worship, when shall I attend for your advice upon that doubtful point? I must come warily now.

26Luc. Tut, fear thou nothing; To-morrow’s evening shall resolve the doubt.

Host. The time shall cause my attendance.

Luc. Fare thee well. [Exit Host.]—There’s more true honesty in such a country serving-man than in a hundred of our cloak companions:^[40] I may well call ’em companions, for since blue coats have been turned into cloaks,^[41] we can scarce know the man from the master.—George!

Enter George.

Geo. Anon, sir.

Luc. List hither: [whispers] keep the place secret: commend me to my nephew; I know no cause, tell him, but he might see his uncle.

Geo. I will, sir.

Luc. And, do you hear, sir? Take heed you use him with respect and duty.

Geo. Here’s a strange alteration; one day he must be turned out like a beggar, and now he must be called in like a knight. [Aside, and exit.

Luc. Ah, sirrah, that rich widow!—four hundred a-year! beside, I hear she lays claim to a title of a hundred more. This falls unhappily that he should bear a grudge to me now, being likely to prove so rich: what is’t, trow,^[42] that he makes me a stranger for? Hum,—I hope he has not so much wit to apprehend that I cozened him: he 27deceives me then. Good heaven, who would have thought it would ever have come to this pass! yet he’s a proper gentleman, i’faith, give him his due, marry, that’s his mortgage; but that I ne’er mean to give him: I’ll make him rich enough in words, if that be good; and if it come to a piece of money, I will not greatly stick for’t; there may be hope some of the widow’s lands, too, may one day fall upon me, if things be carried wisely.

Re-enter George.

Now, sir, where is he?

Geo. He desires your worship to hold him excused; he has such weighty business, it commands him wholly from all men.

Luc. Were those my nephew’s words?

Geo. Yes, indeed, sir.

Luc. When men grow rich, they grow proud too, I perceive that; he would not have sent me such an answer once within this twelvemonth: see what ’tis when a man’s come to his lands! [Aside.]—Return to him again, sir; tell him his uncle desires his company for an hour; I’ll trouble him but an hour, say; ’tis for his own good, tell him: and, do you hear, sir? put worship upon him: go to, do as I bid you; he’s like to be a gentleman of worship very shortly.

Geo. This is good sport, i’faith. [Aside, and exit.

Luc. Troth, he uses his uncle discourteously now: can he tell what I may do for him? goodness may come from me in a minute, that comes not in seven year again: he knows my humour; I am not so usually good; ’tis no small thing that draws kindness from me, he may know that and^[43] 28he will. The chief cause that invites me to do him most good, is the sudden astonishing of old Hoard, my adversary: how pale his malice will look at my nephew’s advancement! with what a dejected spirit he will behold his fortunes, whom but last day he proclaimed rioter, penurious makeshift, despised brothel-master!^[44] Ha, ha! ’twill do me more secret joy than my last purchase, more precious comfort than all these widow’s revenues.

Re-enter George, shewing in Witgood.

Now, sir?

Geo. With much entreaty he’s at length come, sir.

[Exit.

Luc. O, nephew, let me salute you, sir! you’re welcome, nephew.

Wit. Uncle, I thank you.

Luc. You’ve a fault, nephew; you’re a stranger here:

Well, heaven give you joy!

Wit. Of what, sir?

Luc. Hah, we can hear!

You might have known your uncle’s house, i’faith,

You and your widow: go to, you were to blame;

If I may tell you so without offence.

Wit. How could you hear of that, sir?

Luc. O, pardon me!

’Twas^[45] your will to have kept it^[46] from me, I perceive now.

Wit. Not for any defect of love, I protest, uncle.

Luc. O, ’twas unkindness, nephew! fie, fie, fie.

Wit. I am sorry you take it in that sense, sir.

Luc. Pooh, you cannot colour it, i’faith, nephew.

29Wit. Will you but hear what I can say in my just excuse, sir?

Luc. Yes, faith, will I, and welcome.

Wit. You that know my danger i’ th’ city, sir, so well, how great my debts are, and how extreme my creditors, could not out of your pure judgment, sir, have wished us hither.

Luc. Mass, a firm reason indeed.

Wit. Else, my uncle’s house! why, ’t had been the only make-match.

Luc. Nay, and thy credit.

Wit. My credit? nay, my countenance: push,^[47] nay, I know, uncle, you would have wrought it so by your wit, you would have made her believe in time the whole house had been mine.

Luc. Ay, and most of the goods too.

Wit. La, you there! well, let ’em all prate what they will, there’s nothing like the bringing of a widow to one’s uncle’s house.

Luc. Nay, let nephews be ruled as they list, they shall find their uncle’s house the most natural place when all’s done.

Wit. There they may be bold.

Luc. Life, they may do any thing there, man, and fear neither beadle nor somner:^[48] an uncle’s house! a very Cole-Harbour.^[49] Sirrah, I’ll touch thee near now: hast thou so much interest in thy widow, that by a token thou couldst presently send for her?

Wit. Troth, I think I can, uncle.

Luc. Go to, let me see that.

Wit. Pray, command one of your men hither, uncle.

30Luc. George!

Re-enter George.

Geo. Here, sir.

Luc. Attend my nephew. [Witgood whispers to George, who then goes out.]—I love a’ life^[50] to prattle with a rich widow; ’tis pretty, methinks, when our tongues go together: and then to promise much and perform little; I love that sport a’ life, i’faith: yet I am in the mood now to do my nephew some good, if he take me handsomely. [Aside.]—What, have you despatched?

Wit. I ha’ sent, sir.

Luc. Yet I must condemn you of unkindness, nephew.

Wit. Heaven forbid, uncle!

Luc. Yes, faith, must I. Say your debts be many, your creditors importunate, yet the kindness of a thing is all, nephew: you might have sent me close word on’t, without the least danger or prejudice to your fortunes.

Wit. Troth, I confess it, uncle; I was to blame there; but, indeed, my intent was to have clapped it up suddenly, and so have broke forth like a joy to my friends, and a wonder to the world: beside, there’s a trifle of a forty pound matter toward the setting of me forth; my friends should ne’er have known on’t; I meant to make shift for that myself.

Luc. How, nephew? let me not hear such a word again, I beseech you: shall I be beholding^[51] to you?

Wit. To me? Alas, what do you mean, uncle?

31Luc. I charge you, upon my love, you trouble nobody but myself.

Wit. You’ve no reason for that, uncle.

Luc. Troth, I’ll ne’er be friends with you while you live, and^[52] you do.

Wit. Nay, and you say so, uncle, here’s my hand; I will not do’t.

Luc. Why, well said! there’s some hope in thee when thou wilt be ruled; I’ll make it up fifty, faith, because I see thee so reclaimed. Peace; here comes my wife with Sam, her t’other husband’s son.

Enter Mistress Lucre and Freedom.

Wit. Good aunt.

Free. Cousin Witgood, I rejoice in my salute; you’re most welcome to this noble city, governed with the sword in the scabbard.

Wit. And the wit in the pommel. [Aside.]—Good master Sam Freedom, I return the salute.

Luc. By the mass, she’s coming, wife; let me see now how thou wilt entertain her.

Mis. L. I hope I am not to learn, sir, to entertain a widow; ’tis not so long ago since I was one myself.

Enter Courtesan.

Wit. Uncle——

Luc. She’s come indeed.

Wit. My uncle was desirous to see you, widow, and I presumed to invite you.

Court. The presumption was nothing, master Witgood: is this your uncle, sir?

Luc. Marry am I, sweet widow; and his good uncle he shall find me; ay, by this smack that I 32give thee [kisses her], thou’rt welcome.—Wife, bid the widow welcome the same way again,

Free. I am a gentleman now too by my father’s occupation, and I see no reason but I may kiss a widow by my father’s copy: truly, I think the charter is not against it; surely these are the words, The son once a gentleman may revel it, though his father were a dauber; ’tis about the fifteenth page: I’ll to her.

[Aside, then offers to kiss the Courtesan, who repulses him.

Luc. You’re not very busy now; a word with thee, sweet widow.

Free. Coads-nigs! I was never so disgraced since the hour my mother whipt me.

Luc. Beside, I have no child of mine own to care for; she’s my second wife, old, past bearing: clap sure to him, widow; he’s like to be my heir, I can tell you.

Court. Is he so, sir?

Luc. He knows it already, and the knave’s proud on’t: jolly rich widows have been offered him here i’ th’ city, great merchants’ wives; and do you think he would once look upon ’em? forsooth, he’ll none: you are beholding^[53] to him i’ th’ country, then, ere we could be: nay, I’ll hold a wager, widow, if he were once known to be in town, he would be presently sought after; nay, and happy were they that could catch him first.

Court. I think so.

Luc. O, there would be such running to and fro, widow! he should not pass the streets for ’em: he’d be took up in one great house or other presently: faugh! they know he has it, and must 33have it. You see this house here, widow; this house and all comes to him; goodly rooms, ready furnished, ceiled with plaster of Paris, and all hung about^[54] with cloth of arras.—Nephew.

Wit. Sir.

Luc. Shew the widow your house; carry her into all the rooms, and bid her welcome.—You shall see, widow.—Nephew, strike all sure above and^[55] thou beest a good boy,—ah! [Aside to Witgood.

Wit. Alas, sir, I know not how she would take it!

Luc. The right way, I warrant t’ye: a pox, art an ass? would I were in thy stead! get you up, I am ashamed of you. [Exeunt Witgood and Courtesan]. So: let ’em agree as they will now: many a match has been struck up in my house a’ this fashion: let ’em try all manner of ways, still there’s nothing like an uncle’s house to strike the stroke in. I’ll hold my wife in talk a little.—Now, Jenny, your son there goes a-wooing to a poor gentlewoman but of a thousand [pound] portion: see my nephew, a lad of less hope, strikes at four hundred a-year in good rubbish.

Mis. L. Well, we must do as we may, sir.

Luc. I’ll have his money ready told for him again^[56] he come down: let me see, too;—by th’ mass, I must present the widow with some jewel, a good piece of^[57] plate, or such a device; ’twill hearten her on well: I have a very fair standing cup; and a good high standing cup will please a widow above all other pieces. [Exit.

Mis. L. Do you mock us with your nephew?—I have a plot in my head, son;—i’faith, husband, to cross you.

34Free. Is it a tragedy plot, or a comedy plot, good mother?

Mis. L. ’Tis a plot shall vex him. I charge you, of my blessing, son Sam, that you presently withdraw the action of your love from master Hoard’s niece.

Free. How, mother?

Mis. L. Nay, I have a plot in my head, i’faith. Here, take this chain of gold, and this fair diamond: dog me the widow home to her lodging, and at thy best opportunity fasten ’em both upon her. Nay, I have a reach: I can tell you thou art known what thou art, son, among the right worshipful, all the twelve companies.

Free. Truly, I thank ’em for it.

Mis. L. He? he’s a scab to thee: and so certify her thou hast two hundred a-year of thyself, beside thy good parts—a proper person and a lovely. If I were a widow, I could find in my heart to have thee myself, son; ay, from ’em all.

Free. Thank you for your good will, mother; but, indeed, I had rather have a stranger: and if I woo her not in that violent fashion, that I will make her be glad to take these gifts ere I leave her, let me never be called the heir of your body.

Mis. L. Nay, I know there’s enough in you, son, if you once come to put it forth.

Free. I’ll quickly make a bolt or a shaft on’t.^[58]

[Exeunt.

35