[Shape counterfeits Mistress Jane's voice.
Unto your trusty friend: if you perform
This vow, we may——
Be man and wife.
That I'll propose.
Any to tempt me?
By this darkness), I never will.
On whom I laugh?
My nods, my winks?
From any gallant's visit?
You shall do what you will.
Great chests and forms against my chamber-door;
Nor pin my smock unto your shirt a-nights,
For fear I should slip from you ere you wake?
Some small pledge from you to assure your love;
If that you yet prove false, I may have something
To witness your inconstancy. I'll take
This little ruby—this small blushing stone
From your fair finger.
A diamond in my band-string; if you have
A mind to that, I pray, make use of't too.
It darts a pretty light, a veget spark,[221]
It seems an eye upon your breast.
For love's sake, take it then: leave nothing that
Looks like an eye about me.
'Cause of thy resolution, I'll perform
This office for thee. Take my word for't, this
Shall ne'er betray thee. [Exit Shape.
I cannot see to thank thee, my sweet Jany.
Tutor, your hand; good tutor, lead me wisely.
Thine eyes shall be thine own before next morning. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Shape, Chirurgeon, Mercer.
By which it came was not more close. D' y' think
I would undo myself by twitting? 'Twere
To bring the gallants all about mine ears,
And make me mine own patient. I'm faithful
And secret, though a barber.
He's very modest: 'twas his first attempt
Procur'd him this infirmity. He will
Be bashful, I am sure, and won't be known
Of any such thing at the first. You must
Be sure to put him to't.
He knows not yet the world, I do perceive.
It is as common now with gentlemen,
As 'tis to follow fashion: only here
Lieth the difference, that they keep in this
A little longer. I shall have so much
Upon your word, sir?
The cure by that time, twenty pieces, sir:
You are content?
According to your own prescription.
Sit down, I pray you, sir: this gentleman
Is a good friend of yours.
As any one can wish to deal with, verily.
To do him any service truly. Pray you,
Good brother, don't delay me: I'm in haste.
How could these milksop words e'er get him company
That could procure the pox? [Aside.] Where do you feel
You[r] grief most trouble you?
'Tis no such heinous fault, as that you should
Seek thus to hide it; mere ill-fortune only—
He told me you'd be shamefac'd: you must be
Wary hereafter.
He is a little mad indeed: the gentleman
Told me so much just as I came along. [Aside.
Yes, yes, I will be wary; I'll take heed.
Come, pray y', despatch me.
It is the custom of most gentlemen
Not to confess until they feel their bones
Begin t' admonish 'em.
Good friend, make haste; I've very urgent business.
Methinks 'tis very firm as yet to the touch.
You fear no danger there as yet, sir, do you?
I see he is not to be cross'd. [Aside.
Feel the first grudging on't? 'Tis not broke out
In any place?
Care is requir'd.
Nor will not, truly. Trust me, you will wish
You had confess'd, and suffer'd me in time,
When you shall come to dry-burnt racks of mutton,
The syringe, and the tub.[222]
Pray fetch me what you promis'd.
Or mad? I do protest, I ne'er did meet
A gentleman of such perverseness yet.
I find you just as I was told I should.
As much, whiles that I am receiving this.
Prefer your gain before your health.
I pray you tell it out: we tradesmen are not
Masters of our own time.
Come, come, leave jesting now at last, good brother.
My money, sir; the twenty pieces that
The gentleman did give you order now
To pay me for the velvet that he bought
This morning of me.
Of one that wrongs you not; I do profess
I wont be fubb'd, ensure yourself.
O, O, the gentleman! Is this the cure
I should perform? Truly I dare not venture
Upon such desperate maladies.
Too high for my small quality. Verily
Perhaps, good brother, you might perish under
Mine hands truly. I do profess, I am not
Any of your bold mountebanks in this.
Gull'd, by my swear: by my swear, gull'd! he told me
You had a small infirmity upon you,
A grief of youth or two: and that I should
Have twenty pieces for the cure. He ask'd you,
If that you were content? you answered, yes.
I was in hope I had gain'd a patient more.
Your best way is to make haste after him.
That I was, thus to trust him. [Exit.
'Fore God, a good one. O, the gentleman! [Exit laughing.
SCENE V.
Rhymewell, Bagshot, Catchmey, Sir Christopher: a song at a window, congratulating (as they think) Master Meanwell's marriage.
A fairer from your bride doth rue;
A brighter day doth thence appear,
And makes a second morning there.
Her blush doth shed
All o'er the bed
Clean shamefac'd beams,
That spread in streams,
And purple round the modest air.
What angry pishes, and what fies,
What pretty oaths then newly born,
The list'ning taper heard there sworn:
Whiles froward she
Most peevishly
Did yielding fight
To keep o'er night,
What she'd have proffer'd you ere morn.
To grant what they do come to lose.
Intend a conquest, you that wed;
They would be chastely ravished.
Not any kiss
From Mistress Pris,
If that you do,
Persuade and woo:
Know pleasure's by extorting fed.
Only by hard encircling you:
May she round about you twine,
Like the easy-twisting vine;
And whiles you sip
From her full lip
Pleasures as new
As morning dew,
Let those soft ties your hearts combine.
God give your worship good morrow!
One jerk at th' times, wrapp'd in a benediction
O' th' spouse's teeming, and I'll go with you.
A Song.
That shalt make this spouse a mother,
Spring up, and Dod's blessing on't.[224]
Show thy little sorrel pate,
And prove regenerate,
Before thou be brought to the font.
Cut in pieces quite for thee,
To wrap thy soft body about;
So 'twill better service do,
Reformed thus into
The state of an orthodox clout.
And shalt begin to waddle,
And trudge in thy little apron;
May'st thou conceive a grace
Of half an hour's space,
And rejoice in thy Friday capon.
Name Master Paul, but urge St Knox;[225]
And at every reform'd dinner,
Let cheese come in, and preaching,
And by that third course teaching
Confirm an unsatisfi'd sinner.
And defy an offering;
And learn to sing what others say.
Let Christ-tide be thy fast,
And Lent thy good repast;
And regard not an holy-day.
Enter CONSTABLE and Assistants.
I'll hamper them.
You must be jerking at the times, forsooth.
I am afraid the times will 'scape, and we,
The men of them, shall suffer now the scourge.
It was a hymn I warbled.
It was no hymn, it was a song. Is this
Your filthy rendezvous? you shall be taught
Another tune.
Merciful cruelty, and as 'twere a kind
Of pitiful hard-heartedness. I'm strong.
[They bring in Andrew and Priscilla.
Your ward accordingly. Drag 'em out both.
The ord'nary hath sent to you. No bail:
I will take none. I'll suffer no such sneaks
As you to offend this way: it doth belong
T'your betters, sir.
I do assure you; take my word for that.
There shall be no advoutry[226] in my ward,
But what is honest. I'll see justice done
As long as I'm in office. Come along. [Exeunt.
FOOTNOTES:
[202] So Falstaff says ("First Part Henry IV.," act iii. sc. 3): "An I have not forgotten what the inside of a church is made of, I am a pepper-corn, a brewer's horse."
[203] A noise of fiddlers is a company or concert of them; as in Ben Jonson's "Epicæne," act iii. sc. 3: "The smell of the venison, going through the street, will invite one noise of fiddlers or other."
So in "Bartholomew Fair," act iii. sc. 6: "Cry you mercy, sir; will you buy a fiddle to fill up your noise?"
In Marmyon's "Fine Companion," act iv. sc. 1: "He come but with a troope of wenches, and a noyse of fidlers; and play thee backe like Orpheus."
Again, in Dekker's "Belman of London," 1608, sig. G 2: "To bee up more earely then a noyse of shrugging fidlers."
And in "Miscellaneous State Papers from 1501 to 1726," vol. i. p. 87: "After the which they had a very notable banquet; the heavenly noise that was there, as well with strange instruments of music as otherwise, I cannot declare."
See also the examples in Mr Steevens's note on "Henry IV., Part II.," act ii. sc. 4.
[204] i.e., Be placed at the bottom of them, and act as the sole to the shoe.—Steevens.
[205] The old copy has it, Enter Have-at-all; but it is an obvious error of the press.—Collier.
[206] See note to "The Antiquary" [act i., sc. 1, vol. 13].
[207] A term anciently used in salutation, or rather in drinking. See Selden's notes on the ninth song of Drayton's "Polyolbion," and [Steevens's] notes on "Macbeth," act i. sc. 7, for a particular account of the origin of this phrase.—Steevens.
[208] [A term in fencing.]
[209] [Cartwright's adoption of the English of a period of which he was evidently very ignorant, has made his character of "The Antiquary" a very tedious and troublesome one. By intermete we are here to understand intermit; but there is no such word in early English. Intermit occurs in Coleridge's "Glossary," 1859.]
[210] To do.
[211] [Old copy, paynant.]
[212] Morglay was the sword of Bevis of Southampton. It afterwards became a cant word for a sword in general. See "Every Man in his Humour," Act iii. so. 1; also "Every Woman in her Humour," 1609, sig. D 4—
[213] Pity.
[214] Now complete. The passage requires this explanation, or poor Moth's argument seems to want force, his present hopes being founded on a supposition that all possible discoveries to be made by beating have been already made.
[215] Moth here seems to allude to the following circumstance in the English History: "But uppon the morne followynge, both hostes joyned agayne, and fought egerly: contynuyng whych fyghte, Edrycus espying Edmunde to be at advauntage of wynnyng of the feld, sodaynly pyght a dead mannes hed upon a speare head, and cryed to the host of Englyshmen, fle, fle, ye Englyshmen, and save youre selfes, lo here is the heade of Edmunde your kinge."—Fabyan's "Chronicle."
[216] Verstegan, in his "Restitution of Decayed Intelligence," 1634, p. 130, gives the following account of this transaction:—"King Hingistus prepared them a feast; and after the Brittains were well whitled with wine, he fell to taunting and girning at them; whereupon blowes ensued; and the Brittish nobility there present, being in all three hundreth, were all of them slaine; as William of Malmesbury reporteth: though others make the number more, and say that the Saxons had each of them a seax (a kind of crooked knife) closely in his pocket, and that at the watch-word, Nem cowr seaxes, which is, take your seaxes, they suddainely, and at unwares, slew the Brittaines."
[217] Care not.
[218] Gift.
[219] In spite of.
[220] Always.
[221] A lively spark.
[222] [Old copy, syren.] So in "Timon of Athens," act iv. sc. 3—
See a note on that passage, Shakespeare, viii. 409, edit. 1778.—Steevens.
[223] [Old copy repeats taking after of, as it appears, erroneously, since it spoils the sense, and is not essential to the metre, such metre as it is! By my swear, by my oath: it is an unusual phrase, but occurs again just below.]
[224] John Dod, a learned and pious divine, born in Cheshire, educated at Jesus College, Cambridge, and afterwards successively minister of Hanwell, Oxfordshire, Fenny Drayton, Leicestershire, Canons Ashby and Fawsley in Northamptonshire, though for a time silenced in each of them. He is commonly called the Decalogist, having with Robert Cleaver, another Puritan, written "An Exposition on the Ten Commandments." He died at Fawsley in 1645, aged about ninety years. [For whatever the preceding account may be worth it is retained; but Dod's blessing seems to be merely a whimsical corruption of God's blessing.]
[225] This was John Knox, the celebrated reformer in Scotland. See his character in Robertson's "History of Scotland," i. 130.
ACT V., SCENE I.
Sir Thomas Bitefig as sick, Jane.
Though I am past the worst, and I perceive
My dinner only griev'd me; yet 'cause life's
Frail and uncertain, let me counsel thee—
'Tis good to be beforehand still. First, then,
I charge thee, lend no money; next, serve God;
If ever thou hast children, teach them thrift;
They'll learn religion fast enough themselves.
Nay, do not weep, but hearken. When heaven shall
Please to call in this weary soul of mine;
Ben't idle in expense about my burial:
Buy me a shroud—any old sheet will serve
To clothe corruption; I can rot without
Fine linen; 'tis but to enrich the grave,
And adorn stench—no reverence to the dead,
To make them crumble more luxuriously.
One torch will be sufficient to direct
The footsteps of my bearers. If there be
Any so kind as to accompany
My body to the earth, let them not want
For entertainment: prythee, see they have
A sprig of rosemary dipp'd in common water,
To smell to, as they walk along the streets.
Eatings and drinkings are no obsequies.
Raise no oppressing pile to load my ashes;
But if thou'lt needs b' at charges of a tomb,
Five or six foot of common stone, engraved
With a good hopeful word, or else a couple
Of capital letters filled up with pitch,
Such as I set upon my sheep, will serve:
State is not meet for those that dwell in dust.
Mourn as thou pleasest for me; plainness shows
True grief. I give thee leave to do it for
Two or three years, if that thou shalt think fit;
'Twill save expense in clothes. And so now be
My blessing on thee, and my means hereafter.
With me, as to preserve me to th' unwelcome
Performance of these sad injunctions.
SCENE II.
To them Meanwell.
Sure, there is some design, some trick or other
Put on you by those men, who never sleep,
Unless they've cheated on that day.
You do mean your partners my good friends?
Covet, not love. If any came from them,
It was some vulture in a holy habit,
Who did intend your carcase, not your safety.
Indeed I know not of't; I've all this while
Appear'd another to you than I am. [Discloseth himself.
Perhaps you know me now, I'm he whom you
Pleas'd to forbid your house—whom Master Credulous
Takes leave to style lost man and vagabond.
In care to my daughter, not in hate to you.
Was both in love to you and to your daughter:
That I have all this while liv'd thus disguis'd,
Was only to avert the snare from you,
Not to entrap you: that you might not be
Blinded by those who, like to venomous beasts,
Have only sight to poison; that you might not
Ruin your daughter in a compliment.
Feign'd only to secure your own designs;
For't cannot sink into me, that they durst
Make mirth of my repentance, and abuse
My last devotion with a scene of laughter.
He is scarce yet at home.
But venture with me home, I'll almost promise
I'll make it plain they've put a trick upon you.
I'd tread them o'er with comfort, that I might
Discover this religious villany. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Hearsay, Slicer, and Shape in his Confessor's habit.
(When I sit down), and (when I stand) the confessor.
[As he is thus acting, Meanwell and Sir
Thomas discover themselves above.
'Tis you must give it, father: I am ill,
I'm very ill; fit only now for heaven.
My soul would fain be flying, were't not for
A sin or two that clogs her. But for a sin
Or two that clogs her? Take heed; don't, so near
Your last deliverance, play the sophister
With heaven. A sin or two! why, I've heard say
You're wont to screw your wretched tenants up
To th' utmost farthing, and then stand upon
The third rent-capon. Then he answers me
In the small doleful tune of a country wench
Examin'd by th' official for the mischance
Of a great belly caught at a Whitson-ale:[227]
I could not help it. Then it is your custom,
When you invite, to think your meat laid out,
You write your beef disburs'd, are wont to call
For the return of't just as for a debt;
True. That two chimneys ne'er yet smok'd at once
In all your buildings. All most true. That you
Are wont to keep an untouch'd capon, till
Corruption makes it able to walk out
And visit the barn-door again. I could
Say much more, but I had rather have you
Come so much nearer pardon, as t' accuse
Yourself by your own mouth.
And take my vengeance whilst my fury's hot. [Above.
[Above.
I've been addicted to frugality.
Son, do not mince: pray, call it covetousness.
Imprimis, It hath ever been my custom
To ride beyond an inn to save my horse-meat.
Item, When once I had done so, and found
No entertainment, I beguil'd the children
Of their parch'd peas: my man being left to that
We make the emblem of mortality.
What? Grass, you mean? Or sweet hay, which you please.
He doth account for's sins with Item so.
And so refresh'd my soul under my cloak,
As I did walk the streets. Cloaking of sins,
Although they be but eating sins, I do
Pronounce most dangerous. I find this so,
I'd almost lost mine eyes by't, being justled.
I once sung Psalms with servants, where I lodg'd,
And took part with 'em in their lovely reliques;
Truly my soul did lust, they were temptations.
What! sing that you might eat? It is the sin
O' th' brethren, son; but that their reliques are
Whole widows' houses.
And eat my bread in secret, whilst my man
Fed on the wholesome steam of candle-suet,
Item, which grieves me most, I did make bold
With the black puddings of my needy tailor:
Satan was strong; they did provoke me much.
One so exactly bad that, if the book
Of all men's lives lay open to his view,
Would meet no sin unpractis'd by himself.
I will rush in. [Above.
Alas! I cannot weep, mine eyes are pumice:
But alms I hope may yet redeem. Alms given
In a large manner, son. Won't fifty pounds
Wipe off my score? If doubled, 't may do something.
Can I be sav'd no cheaper? Take this, then,
And pray for me. With that I thus dismiss'd him.
Bless'd son, for now I dare pronounce thee bless'd,
Being thou'st pour'd thus out thy soul.—The wolf!
The wolf! 'Sfoot, peace, we're in the noose;
We are betray'd; yon's Meanwell and the knight!
Truly he is as good a man as any
I ever yet confess'd—don't look that way—
A very honest, charitable man,
Full of sincerity and true devotion.
Let's for some officers.
[Exeunt Sir Thomas and Meanwell.