A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 12

Though soft into my bed I gin to sink
To sleep long as I'm wont to done,[190] yet all
Will be for nought; I may well lig and wink,
But sleep shall there none in this heart ysink. [Exit.

SCENE II.

Credulous, and Shape dogging him.

Cre. So now the mortgage is mine own outright;
I swear by the faith of my body now,
It is a pretty thing—o' my corporal oath,
A very pretty thing. Besides the house,
Orchards, and gardens, some two hundred acres
Of land, that beareth as good country corn,
For country corn, as may be.

Shape. As I'd have it.

Cre. How now, good friend? Where dost thou live?
Dost thou know Caster's farm?

Shape. Yes, sir; I fear 'tis gone:
Sure, Caster's farm is cast away!

Cre. A jest!
Good troth, a good one of a country one;
I see there's wit there too. Then thou dost know it?

Shape. I am afraid I shall not know it long;
I shall lose my acquaintance.

Cre. 'Snigs, another!
A very perilous head! a dangerous brain!

Shape. God bless my master, and the devil take
Somebody else.

Cre. Um! that's not quite so good
As th' other two; that somebody else is me:
Now you shall see how he'll abuse me here
To mine own face. [Aside.] Why somebody else, good brother?

Shape. The rich gout rot his bones! An hungry, old,
Hard-griping citizen, that only feeds
On heirs' and orphans' goods, they say must have it:
One that ne'er had the wisdom to be honest,
And's therefore knave, 'cause 'tis the easier art.
I know he hath not given half the worth on't:
'Tis a mere cheat.

Cre. 'Slid, brother, thou hast paid him
To th' utmost, though he hath not paid thy master.
Now is my wit up too. This land, I see,
Will make men thrive i' th' brain. [Aside.

Shape. Would he were here,
Whoe'er he be, I'd give him somewhat more
Into the bargain: a base, thin-jaw'd sneaksbill,
Thus to work gallants out of all! It grieves me,
That my poor tenement too goes into th' sale.

Cre. What have I done? Now, wit, deliver me!
If he know I am he, he'll cut my throat;
I never shall enjoy it. [Aside.] Sure, it was
Your master's seeking, friend; he would ne'er else
Have had to do with it: he that bought it is
A very honest man, and if you please him,
Will deal with you. I may speak a word
In your behalf; 'twon't be the worse for you.

Shape. I'm going, sir, unto him; do you know
Where I may find him?

Cre. What if I am he?

Shape. I am afraid he is not half so honest
As you do seem.

Cre. Faith, I'm the same. I tried
What metal thou wast made of: I perceive
Thou wilt not flinch for th' wetting;[191] thou may'st be
My bailiff there, perhaps.

Shape. An't please your worship! [Aside.

Cre. So now the case is alter'd.

Shape. I do know
It was my master's seeking; you would ne'er
Have had to do with't else. He sent me to you
For the last hundred pound by the same token
That you invited him to th' eating-house.

Cre. O, this simplicity! He does not know
Yet what an ordinary means. [Aside.] I was now coming
To have paid it in.

Shape. I'll save your worship that
Labour, an't please you. Let me now begin
My bailiffship.

Cre. 'Snigs, wiser yet than so.
Where is thy master?

Shape. Sir, my master's here,
I thank my stars; but Master Caster is
At an horse-race some ten miles off.

Cre. Why, then,
I'll stay till he returns: 'twill be by dinner.

Shape. Your best way's now to send it: if by chance
The race go on his side, your worship may
Fail of your purchase.

Cre. 'Snigs, and that's considerable.
Here, here, make haste with it; but, ere thou goest,
Tell me, is it a pretty thing?

Shape. O' my corporal oath,
A very pretty thing. Besides the house,
Orchards, and gardens, some two hundred acres
Of land that beareth as good country corn—
God give you luck on't!

Cre. Right, as I did say,
Ev'n word by word. But prythee, stay a little;
What meadow-ground's there? Pasture in proportion?

Shape. As you would wish, sir, I'm in haste.

Cre. Nay, bailiff,
But one word more, and I have done: what place
Is there to dry wet linen in?

Shape. O, twenty,
To hang up clothes or anything you please;
Your worship cannot want line-room. God be wi' you!

Cre. But this once, and—

Shape. I must be gone—The race! [Exit Shape.

Cre. Little think'st thee, how diligent thou art
To little purpose. 'Snigs, I pity him:
What haste he makes to cheat himself, poor fool!
Now I am safe, the wretch must pardon me
For his poor tenement; all's mine. I'll sow
One ground or other every month with pease;
And so I will have green ones all the year.
These yeomen have no policy i' th' world. [Exit.

SCENE III.

Priscilla, Meanwell.

Pris. Pray y', entertain yourself awhile, until
I give my mistress notice of your presence.
I'd leave a book with you, but that I see
You are a gentleman: perhaps you'll find
Some pretty stories in the hangings there.

Mean. Thank you, sweetheart.

Pris. A very proper man! [Aside.
If't lie in me to do you any pleasure,
Pray you, sir, use me; you shall find me ready.

[Exit Priscilla.

Mean. I make no doubt of that. These implements,
These chamber-properties are such ripe things,
They'll fall with the least touch: from twelve to twenty
They think that others are to sue to them;
When once they've pass'd these limits, they make bold—
I cannot say to woo, that's something modest—
But ask downright themselves.

Enter Mistress Jane.

Jane. Leave us, Priscilla,
And wait without awhile.

Mean. Fair mistress, pardon
The boldness of a stranger, who uncivilly
Thus interrupts your better thoughts.

Jane. May I
Demand your business?

Mean. Under favour thus:
Not to use farther circumstance, fair virgin
(And yet less fair, 'cause virgin), you are one
That are the thought, the care, the aim, the strife—
I should not err, if I should say the madness—
Of all young men: all sighs, all folded arms,
All o'ercast looks, all broken sleeps are ow'd
Only to you.

Jane. I'm sorry I should be
A trouble unto any: if I could
Afford the remedy as well as now
I do your grief, assure yourself that cure
Shall be the birth of my next action.

Mean. That cure is my request. If that this were
Mine own suit, I had us'd no circumstance.
Young Master Credulous, a proper man—
For sure he shall be rich—one whom the whole
List of our city virgins doat on—you
Conceive the rest, I know.

Jane. Alas! what ails him?
I'll not be slack to do him any good.

Mean. 'Tis in your power. He is very much,
If you will know't—but, sure, you will not grant
If I should tell you.

Jane. If you thus presume
That I am hard, you only ask denial;
Your expectation's cross'd, except you fail.

Mean. If you will know it, then, he is in love.

Jane. I pity him indeed, poor heart. With whom?

Mean. Even with your beauteous self.

Jane. 'Tis not well done
To scoff one ne'er did injure you.

Mean. I vow
By all that's good, by your fair self, I am
As tender of you as that bless'd one is,
Whoe'er he be, that loves you most. If I
In any case abuse you, let me be
More miserable than Littleworth.

Jane. Is he become expression?[192] Is his fate
The period of ill-wishes? Sure, he never
Deserv'd so ill from you!

Mean. I don't reflect
Upon his ruin'd fortunes, but your coldness;
And, sure, I may call him unhappy whom
You do neglect.

Jane. That man, where'er he be,

Is happier than yourself; and were he here,
You should see him receiv'd, and yourself scorn'd.

Mean. I do not think so, lady; sure, you would
Make more of me than so. I'll bring the man,
And so confute you.

Jane. It may be I might
Love you the better something for that office,
If he might enter here.

Mean. Nay, I could tell
Y' had cast him off: alas! you need not hide it:
I have it from himself.

Jane. Doth he think so? Could I but see him——

Mean. If his sight can bring
But the least joy unto you—as perhaps
You'll take some pleasure in his misery—
You shall enjoy it.

Jane. I do fear you promise
Only to raise my hopes awhile, and then
To triumph in their ruin.

Mean. That you may
See how my breast and tongue agree, I'll leave
This ring with you, till I return again.

Jane. My Littleworth! Fool that I was, could I
Not all this while perceive 'twas thee? Why didst thou
Defer my joy thus long by suffering me
To stand i' th' cloud?

Mean. Alas! I guess'd I'd been
Infectious to thee now; that thou wouldst look
On a disease more mildly than on me;
For poverty is counted a contagion.

Jane. I call this kiss to witness—which I wish,
If I prove false, may be the last to me
Which friends pay dying friends—I ne'er will be
Other's than thine.

Mean. I like the vow so well,
That the same way I'll seal my promise too.
If I prove not as thou (that is, most constant),
May this kiss be—that I may wish it worse,
Than that which is due to departing souls—
The last that I shall take from thee. I am
Sent here, but yet unknown to them that send me,
To be another's spokesman: the man is
That foolish son of Master Credulous.
Thou must pretend some liking. 'Twas thy father
Granted me this access to win thee for him:
Be thou no way averse; 't shall be my care
So to bring things about that thou shalt be
Mine by consent in spite of misery.

Jane. Be secret, and love prosper thy design!

[Exit Jane.

Mean. Happy that man that meets such faithfulness!
I did not think it had been in the sex.
I know not now what's misery. Peace! my fair [Music.
Is hallowing the lute with her bless'd touch.

A Song within.

1. Come, O, come, I brook no stay:
He doth not love that can delay.
See how the stealing night
Hath blotted out the light,
And tapers do supply the day.

2. To be chaste is to be old;
And that foolish girl that's cold
Is fourscore at fifteen:
Desires do write us green,
And looser flames our youth unfold.

Mean. 'T cannot be her, her voice was ne'er profan'd
With such immodest numbers.

3. See, the first taper's almost gone;
Thy flame like that will straight be none,
And I as it expire,
Not able to hold fire:
She loseth time that lies alone.

Mean. 'Tis the breath
Of something troubled with virginity.

4. O, let us cherish then these powers,
Whiles we yet may call them ours:
Then we best spend our time,
When no dull zealous chime,
But sprightful kisses strike the hours.

Enter Priscilla.

Mean. What dost thou mean?

Pris. Only to please you, sir.

Mean. Sweetest of things, was't thou? I' faith, I guess'd
'T could be no other's melody but yours.
There have been many of your sex much given
Unto this kind of music.

Pris. Sappho was
Excellent at it; but Amphion he—
He was the man that outdid all: 'tis said
Of him that he could draw stones with the sound
Of his sweet strings. I'd willingly arrive
At some perfection in the quality.

Mean. I do acknowledge your desires most prone.
This for your trouble.

Pris. I am not mercenary;
Your acceptation is reward enough.

Mean. You have it, then.

Pris. Beauty go with you, sir. [Exeunt several ways.

SCENE IV.

Credulous, Hearsay, Slicer; to them Sir Thomas Bitefig, Have-at-all, Caster, as to the Ordinary.

Cre. You're welcome, friends, as I may say——

Hear. You do forget——

Cre. That am a guest as well as you.

Slicer. Most noble sons of fortune and of valour,
You grace us with your presence: you must pardon
Our small provision.

Hear. No variety here,
But you, most noble guests, whose gracious looks
Must make a dish or two become a feast.

Have. I'll be as free as 'twere mine own.

Cas. Who thinks
On anything that borders upon sadness,
May he ne'er know what's mirth, but when others
Laugh at his sullen wrinkles.

Have. We will raise
A noise enough to wake an alderman,
Or a cast captain when the reck'ning is
About to pay.

Cre. Hang thinking; 'snigs, I'll be
As merry as a pismire. Come, let's in.

Slicer. Let's march in order military, sirs.

Have. That's well remember'd, most complete lieutenant.

[Exeunt as to the Ordinary.

SCENE V.

Rhymewell, Bagshot, Vicar Catchmey, Sir Christopher.

Rhyme. Come, my most noble order of the club,
'Cause none will else, let's make much of ourselves:
His letter may procure a dinner yet.

Bag. Cheer up, Sir Kit, thou look'st too spiritually:
I see too much of the tithepig in thee.

Chris. I'm not so happy: Kit's as hungry now
As a besieged city, and as dry
As a Dutch commentator. This vile world
Ne'er thinks of qualities: good truth, I think
'T hath much to answer for. Thy poetry,
Rhymewell, and thy voice, Vicar Catchmey, and
Thy law too, Bagshot, is contemn'd: 'tis pity
Professions should be slighted thus. The day
Will come perhaps, when that the commonwealth
May need such men as we. There was a time
When cobblers were made churchmen; and those black'd
Smutch'd creatures thrust into white surplices,
Look'd like so many magpies, and did speak
Just as they [did], by rote. But now the land
Surfeits forsooth: poor labourers in divinity
Can't earn their groat a day, unless it be
Reading of the Christian burial for the dead;
When they, ev'n for that reason, truly thank
God for thus taking this their brother to him.

Catch. Something profane, Sir Christopher!

Chris. When I
Level my larger thoughts unto the basis
Of thy deep shallowness, am I profane?
Henceforth I'll speak, or rather not speak, for
I will speak darkly.

Catch. There's one comfort then:
You will be brief!

Chris. My briefness is prolix.
Thy mind is bodily, thy soul corporeal,
And all thy subtle faculties are not subtle:
Thy subtlety is dulness. I am strong;
I will not be conceiv'd by such mechanics.

Rhyme. I do conceive you, though, Sir Christopher;
My muse doth sometimes take the selfsame flight.

Chris. Pauci, pauci quos æquus amavit.
But quadragesimal wits [193] and fancies, lean
As ember weeks (which therefore I call lean,
Because they're fat), these I do doom unto
A knowing ignorance: he that's conceiv'd
By such is not conceiv'd; sense is non-sense,
If understood by them. I'm strong again.

Rhyme. You err most orthodoxly, sweet Sir Kit.

Chris. I love that, though I hate it; and I have
A kind of disagreeing consent to't.
I'm strong, I'm strong again. Let's keep these two
In desperate hope of understanding us:
Riddles and clouds are very lights of speech.
I'll veil my careless anxious thoughts, as 'twere
In a perspicuous cloud, that I may
Whisper in a loud voice, and ev'n be silent,
When I do utter words. Words did I call them?
My words shall be no words, my voice no voice,
My noise no noise, my very language silence.
I'm strong, I'm strong. Good sir, you understand not!

Bag. Nor do desire: 'tis merely froth and barm,
The yeast that makes your thin small sermons work.

Chris. Thou hold'st thy peace most vocally. Again!

Catch. I hate this bilk.

Chris. Thou lov'st, 'cause thou dost hate:
Thy injuries are courtesies. Strong again!

Catch. Good Samson, use not this your ass's jaw-bone.

Chris. Thou'st got my love by losing it: that earnest
Jest hath regain'd my soul. Samson was strong;
He killed a thousand with an ass's jaw-bone,

Enter a Servant, as passing by.

And so will I. 'St! 'st!—good friend, d' y' hear?
Here is a letter, friend, to Master Meanwell.

Bag. Any reversions yet? Nothing transmiss'd?

Rhyme. No gleanings, James? No trencher-analects?[194]

Ser. Parley a little with your stomachs, sirs.

Catch. There's nothing so ridiculous as the hungry:
A fasting man is a good jest at any time.

Ser. There is a gentleman without, that will'd me
To ask if you'll admit of him among you:
He can't endure to be in good company.

Catch. You're merry, James. Yes, by all means, good James.
Admit, quoth he! What else? Pray, send him in. [Exit Servant.
Let's be resolv'd to fall out now; then he
Shall have the glory to compose the quarrel
By a good dozen of pacifical beer.

Rhyme. Bag. Agreed, agreed.

Chris. My coat allows no quarrel.

Rhyme. The colour bears't, if you'll venture the stuff.
The tenderness of it, I do confess,
Somewhat denies a grappling.

Chris. I will try:
Perhaps my spirit will suggest some anger.

Enter Andrew.

And. Save you, boon sparks! Will't please you to admit me?

Chris. Your worship graceth us in condescending
To level thus your presence, noble [195] sir.

And. What may I call your name, most reverend sir?

Bag. His name's Sir Kit.

Chris. My name is not so short:
'Tis a trisyllable, an't please your worship;
But vulgar tongues have made bold to profane it
With the short sound of that unhallow'd idol
They call a kit. Boy, learn more reverence.

Bag. Yes, to my betters.

And. Nay, friends, do not quarrel.

Chris. It is the holy cause, and I must quarrel.
Thou son of parchment, got between the standish
And the stiff buckram-bag! thou, that may'st call
The pen thy father and the ink thy mother,
The sand thy brother and the wax thy sister,
And the good pillory thy cousin [once] remov'd—
I say, learn reverence to thy betters.

Bag. Set up an hour-glass; he'll go on, until
The last sand make his period.

Chris. 'Tis my custom;
I do approve the calumny: the words
I do acknowledge, but not the disgrace,
Thou vile ingrosser of unchristian deeds.

Bag. Good Israel Inspiration, hold your tongue;
It makes far better music when you nose
Sternhold's or Wisdom's metre.[196]

Catch. By your leave,
You fall on me now, brother.

Rhyme. 'Tis by cause
You are too forward, brother Catchmey.

Catch. I too forward!

Rhyme. Yes, I say you are too forward—
By the length of your London-measure beard.

Catch. Thou never couldst entreat that respite yet
Of thy dishonesty as to get one hair
To testify thy age.

Bag. I'm beardless too;
I hope you think not so of me [197].

Chris. Yes, verily;
Not one hair's difference betwixt you both.

Rhyme. Thou violent cushion-thumper, hold thy tongue;
The Furies dwell in it!

Catch. Peace, good Sir Kit.

Chris. Sir Kit again! thou art a Lopez. When
One of thy legs rots off (which will be shortly),
Thou'lt bear about a quire of wicked paper,
Defiled with [un]sanctified rhymes
And idols in the frontispiece—that I
May speak to thy capacity, thou'lt be
A ballad-monger.

Catch. I shall live to see thee
Stand in a playhouse door with thy long box,
Thy half-crown library, and cry small books.
Buy a good godly sermon, gentlemen—
A judgment shown upon a knot of drunkards:
A pill to purge out popery: The life
And death of Katharine Stubbs.[198]

Chris. Thou wilt visit windows.
Methinks I hear thee with thy begging tone,
About the break of day, waking the brethren
Out of their morning-revelations.

And. Brave sport, i' faith!

Rhyme. Pray y', good sir, reconcile them.
If that same Justice be i' th' ordinary now,
He'll bind them to the peace for troubling him.

Bag. Why should he not, good sir? It is his office.

And. Now 'tis o' this side: O, for a pair of cudgels!

Rhyme. Peace, inkhorn; there's no music in thy tongue.

Catch. Thou and thy rhyme lie both: the tongue of man
Is born to music naturally.

Rhyme. Thou thing,
Thy belly looks like to some strutting hill,
O'ershadow'd with thy rough beard like a wood.

Chris. Or like a larger jug, that some men call
A Bellarmine, but we a Conscience;
Whereon the lewder hand of pagan workman
Over the proud ambitious head hath carv'd
An idol large with beard episcopal,
Making the vessel look like tyrant Eglon.

Catch. Profane again, Sir Christopher, I take it.

Chris. Must I be strong again? Thou human beast,
Who'rt only eloquent when thou say'st nothing,
And appear'st handsome while thou hid'st thyself,
I'm holy, 'cause profane.

And. Courageous rascals!
Brave spirits! soldiers in their days, I warrant!

Bag. Born in the field, I do assure your worship.
This quarrelling is meat and drink to them.

Rhyme. Thou liest.

Bag. Nay, then I do defy thee thus.

[Bagshot draws his inkhorn, and Rhymewell
catcheth off Sir Christopher's hat and
spectacles.

Rhyme. And thus I am prepar'd to answer thee.

Chris. For the good saint's sake, part them: I am blind,
If that my spectacles should once miscarry.

Rhyme. Caitiff, this holy instrument shall quail thee.

Bag. And this shall send thee to thy cousin furies.

Chris. I feel a film come o'er mine eyes already:
I must look out an animal conductive—
I mean a dog.

And. Pray y', beat not out his eyes in
Another's hands.

Chris. Most strongly urg'd!

Catch. Your words
Are merely wind. James, ho! what, James, some beer.
They're mastiff dogs; they wont be parted, sir,
Without good store of liquor.

Enter Servant, with beer.

And. I will souse them:

Ser. Drink to 'em, sir, if that you'll have 'em quiet.

And. Is that the way? Here's to you, my friends, a whole one.

Bag. Were't not for that good gentleman, thou'dst smoke for't.

Rhyme. Had I not vow'd some reverence to his presence,
Thou hadst been nothing.

Bag. 'Fore Mars, I was dry.
This valour's thirsty: fill to my antagonist.

Rhyme. No, mine own dish will serve; I'm singular.
Few vessels still do well. I carry this
To drink my beer, while others drink their sack.
I am abstemious Rhymewell: I hate wine,
Since I spake treason last i' th' cellar. Here,
Give me thy hand, thou child of fervency.
Didst thou mistrust thy spectacles?
It was no anger, 'twas a rapture merely.

Chris. Drink, and excuse it after. James, your help!
Come, man of voice, keep time, while that I drink.
This moisture shall dry up all injuries,
Which I'll remember only to forget;
And so hereafter, which I'm wont to call
The future now, I love thee stubbornly.
Your beer is like my words, strong, stinging gear.

Catch. Here, little lawyer, let's be friends hereafter;
I love this reconcilement with my heart.

And. 'Tis the best deed that e'er I did. O' my conscience,
I shall make a good justice of the peace.
There had been blood shed if I had not stickled.[199]

Ser. More blood been spill'd, I warrant, than beer now.

And. That inkhorn is a deadly dangerous weapon:
It hath undone one quarter of the kingdom.

Chris. Men should forgive; but thou art far, yea far
From it, O Bagshot: thou'rt in 'love with hate.
Bless me! I see the fiend still in his looks;
He is not reconcilable with drink:
He'll ne'er love truly till he eat with me.
The nature of his spirit asketh meat;
He hath a wolf in's breast: food must appease him.

And. Cold meat will do it, will't not?

Rhyme. Anything
That may employ the teeth.

And. Go, James, provide.
You are not merry yet.

Catch. To satisfy you
In that point, we'll sing a song of his.

And. Let's ha't; I love these ballads hugeously.

The Song.

1. Catchmey.