FOOTNOTES:
[21] [This play having been printed by Dilke, and the following one (by the same author) in Dodsley's collection, the two prefaces presented, of course, many repetitions, as well as certain mistakes. That now given (from a collation of the two) will, it is hoped, be found to contain the whole matter of both without these accidental oversights.]
[22] Malone (Sh. by Bosw. II. 172) expresses his conviction that this "rare scholar of Pembroke Hall" was neither William nor Samuel Rowley, but Ralph Rowley, who became a student of Pembroke Hall in 1579, and was elected fellow in 1583.—Collier.
[23] ["The Birth of Merlin," 1662.]
[24] [Halliwell's "New Illustrations of the Life of Shakespeare," 1875, pp. 29, 30, where a curious anecdote of him is given.]
[25] The title of "All's Lost by Lust" might, at least with equal propriety, be given to the others.
[26] [In the old copy and by Dilke the name is given as Bruin.]
[27] [See further Stow, edit. 1720, bk. i. p. 21.]
[28] [This and the two following plays were in Warburton's collection of MSS. dramas, and appear to have perished.]
[29] [Chalmers, and after him Dilke, confounded Samuel with William Rowley, supposing the latter to be the writer of the historical play on the reign of Henry VIII. 4o, 1605, 1613, &c.]
[30] [Hazlitt's "Handbook," in v.]
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
- King Henry III.
- Mountford.
- Pembroke.
- Arundel.
- Cardinal.
- Lord Mayor.
- Old Foster.
- Alderman Brewen.
- Stephen, brother to Old Foster.
- Ropert, son to Old Foster.
- Sir Godfrey Speedwell, } suitors to Jane.
- Innocent Lambskin, }
- Richard, factor to Old Foster.
- George, factor to Brewen.
- Doctor.
- Host Boxall.
- Jack, }
- Dick, } Gamesters.
- Hugh, }
- Roger, the clown, servant to the Widow.
- Keeper of Ludgate.
- Widow, the woman never vex'd.
- Mistress Foster, wife to Old Foster.
- Jane, daughter to Brewen.
- Joan, servant to Widow.
A NEW WONDER:
A WOMAN NEVER VEXED.[31]
ACT I., SCENE I.
Enter Old Foster, Alderman Brewen, and two factors,[32] Richard and George.
Plays the lewd wanton with our dancing sails,
And makes 'em big[33] with vaporous embryo.[34]
When she returns laden with merchandise,
And safe deliver'd with our customage.
But time must ripen it. Are our accounts made even?
George. To the quantity of a penny, if his agree with mine. What's yours, Richard?
Rich. Five hundred sixty pounds. Read the gross sum of your broadcloths.
George. 68 pieces at B, ss, and l; 57 at l, ss, and o.[35]
Rich. Just: lead nineteen ton.
As our bottoms, with love as merchandise,
And may they both increase t' infinities.
Is scantier far than gold; and one mine of that
More worth than twenty argosies[36]
Of the world's richest treasure.
O. Fos. Here you shall dig [Laying his hand on his breast], and find your lading.
So we'll participate in merchandise.
We always venture on uncertain odds,
Although we bear hope's emblem, the anchor,
With us. The wind brought it; let the wind blow 't
Away again; should not the sea sometimes
Be partner with us, our wealth would swallow us.
To touch you with somewhat that concerns you.
Your brother, sir—'tis he that I would speak of.
'Tis his proper epithet: would you conceit
But what my love has done for him:
So oft, so chargeable, and so expensive,
You would not urge another addition.
Till he forfeit the name of brother,
Which is inseparable: he's now in Ludgate, sir.
And part of your treasure lies buried with him.
There let him howl; 'tis the best stay he hath;
For nothing but a prison can contain him,
So boundless is his riot: twice have I rais'd
His decayed fortunes to a fair estate;
But with as fruitless charity as if I had thrown
My safe-landed substance back into the sea;
Or dress in pity some corrupted jade,
And he should kick me for my courtesy.
I am sure you cannot but hear what quicksands
He finds out; as dice, cards, pigeon-holes,[38]
To our eyes that prodigals return at last;
And the loudest roarer[40] (as our city phrase is)
Will speak calm and smooth; you must help with hope, sir:
Had I such a brother, I should think
That heaven had made him as an instrument
For my best charity to work upon:
This is a maxim sure, Some are made poor,
That rich men by giving may increase their store.
Nor think, sir,
That I do tax your labours and mean myself
For to stand idly by; for I have vow'd,
If heaven but bless this voyage now abroad,
To leave some memorable relic after me,
That shall preserve my name alive till doomsday.
Join with your good intents; but to relieve
A waste-good, a spendthrift——
Makes prize of all his fingers 'light upon
To relieve his unthrifty uncle.
Nor know I better how to express my love
Unto yourself, than by loving your son.
And methinks 'tis far above my limits
Either to check or to complain of him.
[To O. Fos.] And your son Robert a natural nephew's part
To relieve his poor uncle.
Condition of my estate; I'm lately married
To a wealthy widow, from whom my substance
Chiefly does arise: she has observed this in her
Son-in-law, often complains and grudges at it,
And what foul broils such civil discords bring,
Few married men are ignorant of.
Enter Mistress Foster.
Rather than thus be thwarted for mine own.
Though you regard not of my just complaints,
Neither in love to me, nor [for] preserving me
From other injuries, both which you're tied to
By all the rightful laws, heavenly or humane—
But I'll complain, sir, where I will be heard.
Some awkward star threw out's unhappy fire
At my conception, and 'twill never quench,
While I have heat in me. Would I were cold!
There would be bonfires made to warm defame:
My death would be a jubilee to some.
And know not the cause?
[So] to complain: I threw down at his feet
The subjection of his whole estate: he did not
Marry me for love's sake, nor for pity;
But love to that I had; he now neglects
The love he had before: a prodigal
Is suffer'd to lay waste those worldly blessings,
Which I enclosed long,[43] intending for good uses.
That throws it forth into the common shore.
As I do grieve the kindred; but I'd make
The one a stranger, the other a servant—
No son nor brother; for they deserve neither
Of those offices.
With disinheritance for this disorder?
The charitable office of his kind nephew
Who with his pilfering purloin'd from me,
Has set him at liberty; if this may be suffer'd,
I'll have no eyes to see.
A present remedy. Sirrah, go call 'em in:
This worthy gentleman shall know the cause,
And censure for us both with equity.
For I shall favour one for pity,
The other for your love's sake.
Enter Robert and Stephen Foster.
Are all my words with you so light esteem'd,
That they can take no hold upon your duty?
Removed from; but this is not a place fit
For one in debt. How came you out of prison, sirrah?[44]
Did not command it.
Betwixt the duty that belongs to me
And love unto my uncle: as well you may
Bid me [to] love my maker, and neglect
The creature which he hath bid me [to] love:[45]
If man to man join not a love on earth,
They love not heaven, nor him that dwells above it;
Such is my duty; a strong correlative
Unto my uncle—why, he's half yourself.
But to make void that false construction.
Here I disclaim the title of a brother;
And by that disclaim hast thou lost thy child's part:
Be thou engag'd for any debts of his,
In prison rot with him; my goods shall not
Purchase such fruitless recompence.
Steph. Then thou'rt a scurvy father and a filthy brother.
Mrs Fos. Ay, ay, sir, your tongue cannot defame his reputation.
Steph. But yours can; for all the city reports what an abominable scold he has got to his wife.
I'll take my blessing from thee whilst I live,
And that which after me should bless thy 'state.
Ballads I'll make, and make 'em tavern music,
To sing thy churlish cruelty.
And I will piss upon thy threshold.
I'll gild thy painted posts[47] cum privilegio,
And kick thy sergeants.
I'll break this leg, and bind it up again,
To pull out pity from a stony breast,
Rather than thou shalt want.
With two yards of rope; counterfeit two villains;
Beg under a hedge, and share your bounty:[48]
But come not near my house;
Nor thou in's company, if thou'lt obey:
There's punishment for thee; for thee there's worse:
The loss of all that's mine, with my dear curse. [Exeunt.
Manent Stephen and Robert.
This is but heat, sir, and I doubt not but
To cool this rage with my obedience:
But, uncle, you must not then heap[49] such fuel.
Thy father's curse for love unto thy uncle.
Bethink yourself, sir, of some course that might
Befit your estate, and let me guide it.
Steph. Ha, a course? 'Sfoot! I have't![50] Coz, canst lend me forty shillings? Could I but repair this old decay'd tenement of mine with some new plaister; for, alas, what can a man do in such a case as this?
Rob. Ay, but your course, uncle?
Steph. Tush! leave that to me, because thou shalt wonder at it: if you should see me in a scarlet gown within the compass of a gold chain, then I hope you'll say that I do keep myself in good compass: then, sir, if the cap of maintenance[51] do march before me, and not a cap be suffer'd to be worn in my presence, pray do not upbraid me with my former poverty. I cannot tell, state and wealth may make a man forget himself; but, I beseech you, do not; there are things in my head that you dream not of; dare you try me, coz?
Your fortunes.
Steph. Why, gramercy, coz. [Aside.] Now if the dice do run right, this forty shillings may set me up again: to lay't on my back, and so to pawn it, there's ne'er a damn'd broker in the world will give me half the worth on't: no, whilst 'tis in ready cash, that's the surest way: seven is better than eleven; a pox take the bones![52] an they will not favour a man sometimes.
Rob. Look you, uncle, there's forty shillings for you.
Steph. As many good angels guard thee, as thou hast given me bad ones to seduce me! for these deputy devils damn worse than the old ones. Now, coz, pray listen; listen after my transformation: I will henceforth turn an apostate to prodigality; I will eat cheese and onions, and buy lordships; and will not you think this strange?
Betwixt an uncle and a nephew's love;
Though my estate be poor, revenues scant,
Whilst I have any left, you shall not want.
Steph. Why, gramercy! by this hand I'll make thee an alderman, before I die, do but follow my steps. [Exeunt.
Enter Widow and Clown.
Clown. Yes, mistress, he will come; but pray, resolve me one thing for my long service. What business have you with the churchman? Is it to make your will, or to get you a new husband?
Wid. Suppose to make my will, how then?
Clown. Then I would desire you to remember me, mistress; I have serv'd you long, and that's the best service to a woman: make a good will, if you mean to die, that it may not be said, Though most women be long-liv'd, yet they all die with an ill-will.
Wid. So, sir; suppose it be for marriage?
Clown. Why, then, remember yourself, mistress: take heed how you give away the head; it stands yet upon the shoulders of your widowhood: the loving, embracing ivy has yet the upper place in the house; if you give it to the holly, take heed, there's pricks in holly; or if you fear not the pricks, take heed of the wands; you cannot have the pricks without the wands: you give away the sword, and must defend yourself with the scabbard: these are pretty instructions of a friend; I would be loth to see you cast down, and not well taken up.
Wid. Well, sir, well, let not all this trouble you; see, he's come: will you begone?
Enter Doctor.[53]
Clown. I will first give him a caveat, to use you as kindly as he can. [To the Doctor.] If you find my mistress have a mind to this coupling at barley-break, let her not be the last couple to be left in hell.[54]
Doc. I would I knew your meaning, sir.
Clown. If she have a mind to a fresh husband or so, use her as well as you can; let her enter into as easy bands as may be.
Doc. Sir, this is none of my traffic; I sell no husbands.
Clown. Then you do wrong, sir; for you take money for 'em: what woman can have a husband, but you must have custom for him? and often the ware proves naught too—not worth the impost.
Doc. Your man's pregnant[55] and merry, mistress.
Wid. He's saucy, sir. Sirrah, you'll begone?
Clown. Nay, at the second hand you'll have a fee too; you sell in the church; and[56] they bring 'em again to your churchyard, you must have tollage: methinks, if a man die whether you will or no, he should be buried whether you would or no.
Doc. Nay, now you wade too far, sir.
Wid. You'll begone, sirrah!
Clown. Mistress, make him your friend; for he knows what rate good husbands are at; if there hath been a dearth of women of late, you may chance pick out a good prize; but take heed of a clerk.
Begone, and bid the maids dress dinner!
But fish.
Furnish the table, and charity
Shall be the voider. What fish is there, sirrah?
Clown. Marry, there is salmon, pike, and fresh cod, soles, maids,[57] and plaice.
Wid. Bid 'em haste to dress 'em then.
Clown. Nay, mistress, I'll help 'em too; the maids shall first dress the pike and the cod, and then [Aside] I'll dress the maids in the place you wot on. [Exit Clown.
I have some scruples in my conscience;
Some doubtful problems which I cannot answer
Nor reconcile; I'd have you make them plain.
That gave those blessings which I must relate:
Sir, you now behold a wond'rous woman;
You only wonder at the epithet;
I can approve it good: guess at mine age.
How think you then, is not this a wonder?
That a woman lives full seven-and-thirty years
Maid to a wife, and wife unto a widow,
Now widow'd, and mine own, yet all this while
From the extremest verge of my remembrance,
Even from my weaning-hour unto this minute,
Did never taste what was calamity?
I know not yet what grief is, yet have sought
An hundred ways for its acquaintance: with me
Prosperity hath kept so close a watch,
That even those things that I have meant a cross,
Have that way turn'd a blessing. Is it not strange?
And to you alone belonging: you are the moon,
For there's but one: all women else are stars,
For there are none of like condition.
Full oft and many have I heard complain
Of discontents, thwarts, and adversities,
But a second to yourself I never knew:
To groan under the superflux of blessings,
To have ever been alien unto sorrow,
No trip of fate? Sure, it is wonderful.
For it is now my chief affliction.
I have heard you say, that the child of heaven
Shall suffer many tribulations;
Nay, kings and princes share them with their subjects:
Then I that know not any chastisement,
How may I know my part of childhood?[58]
'Tis some affliction that you are afflicted
For want of affliction; cherish that:
Yet wrest it not to misconstruction;
For all your blessings are free gifts from heaven—
Health, wealth, and peace; nor can they turn to curses
But by abuse. Pray, let me question you:
You lost a husband—was it no grief to you?
Had given it entertainment as a sorrow,
But straight it turn'd unto my treble joy:
A comfortable revelation prompts me then,
That husband (whom in life I held so dear)
Had chang'd a frailty to unchanging joys;
Methought I saw him stellified in heaven,
And singing hallelujahs 'mongst a quire
Of white-sainted souls: then again it spake,
And said it was a sin for me to grieve
At his best good, that I esteemed best:
And thus this slender shadow of a grief
Vanish'd again.
A heavenly blessing: do not appoint the rod;
Leave still the stroke unto the magistrate:
The time is not passed, but you may feel enough.
Yet I would aggravate to make the most on't;
Thus 'twas: the other day it was my hap,
In crossing of the Thames,
To drop that wedlock ring from off my finger
That once conjoin'd me and my dead husband;
It sank; I priz'd it dear—the dearer, 'cause it kept
Still in mine eye the memory of my loss;
Yet I griev'd [less] the loss; and [I] did joy withal,
That I had found a grief: and this is all
The sorrow I can boast of.
That had I suffered a draught to be made for it,
The bottom would have sent it up again,
I am so wondrously fortunate.
Enter Clown.
Wid. Not for my whole estate.
Clown. O mistress! where are you? I think you are the fortunatest woman that ever breathed on two shoes: the thief is found.
Wid. The thief! what thief? I never was so happy to be robbed.
Clown. Bring him away, Jug: nay, you shall see the strangest piece of felony discovered that ever you saw, or your great grandmother's grandam before, or after; a pirate, a water-thief.
Wid. What's all this?
Clown. Bring him away, Jug: yet the villain would not confess a word, till it was found about him.
Wid. I think the fellow's mad.
Clown. Did you not lose your wedding-ring the other day?
Wid. Yes, sir, but I was not robbed of it.
Enter Joan with a fish.
Clown. No! well, thank him that brings it home then, and will ask nothing for his pains. You see this salmon?
Wid. Yes, what of it?
Clown. It cost but sixpence: but had the fisher known the worth of it, 'twould have cost you forty shillings. Is not this your ring?
Wid. The very same.
Clown. Your maid Joan, examining this salmon, that she bought in the market, found that he had swallowed this gudgeon.
Is not this above wonder?
Then that my servant needs must buy that fish
'Mongst such infinities of fish and buyers:
What fate is mine that runs all by itself
In unhappy happiness? My conscience dreads it.
Would thou hadst not swallowed it, or thou not bought it.