ACT II., SCENE I.
Aurelia, Dorcas.
Up of your eyes, speak in the nose, draw sighs
Of an ell long, and rail at discipline.
Would I could hear from Bannswright! Ere I'll be tortur'd
With your preciseness thus, I'll get dry palms
With starching, and put on my smocks myself.
Very devout and holy women that wore
No shift at all.
Their congregations, and swarm'd with Christian vermin.
You'll hold clean linen heresy?
Clean linen in a surplice: that and powders
Do bring dry summers, make the sickness rage,
And the enemy prevail. It was reveal'd
To Mistress Scruple and her husband, who
Do verily ascribe the German war
And the late persecutions to curling,
False teeth, and oil of talc.[194]
A lecturer will sooner hold his peace
Than she.
With his long grace, and sooner eats a capon,
Than blesses it.
Out of a book that suffer'd martyrdom[195]
By fire in Cheapside; since amulets and bracelets,
And love-locks, were in use, the price of sprats,
Jerusalem artichokes, and Holland cheese,
Is very much increased: so that the brethren—
Botchers I mean, and such poor zealous saints
As earn five groats a week under a stall,
By singing psalms, and drawing up of holes,
Can't live in their vocation, but are fain
To turn——
SCENE II.
Enter Bannswright.
My woman
Was in her preaching fit: she only wanted
A table's end.
Poor lady had so much unbred holiness
About her person; I am never dress'd
Without a sermon; but am forc'd to prove
The lawfulness of curling-irons, before
She'll crisp me in a morning. I must show
Text for the fashions of my gowns. She'll ask
Where jewels are commanded? or what lady
I' th' primitive times wore ropes of pearl or rubies?
She will urge councils for her little ruff,
Call'd in Northamptonshire;[196] and her whole service
Is a mere confutation of my clothes.
However she be otherwise, when she had
A good quick wit, and would have made to a lady
A serviceable sinner.
The gift, for which I took her; but, as though
She were inspir'd from Ipswich,[197] she will make
The Acts and Monuments in sweetmeats, quinces
Arraign'd and burnt at a stake: all my banquets
Are persecutions; Dioclesian's days
Are brought for entertainment, and we eat martyrs.
She'll make church-histories. Her needle doth
So sanctify my cushionets; besides,
My smock-sleeves have such holy embroideries,
And are so learned, that I fear in time
All my apparel will be quoted by
Some pure instructor.[199] Yesterday I went
To see a lady that has a parrot: my woman,
While I was in discourse, converted the fowl;
And now it can speak nought but Knox's works;[200]
So there's a parrot lost.
Was earnest to come to you. Had I known
Her mistress had so bred her, I would first
Have preferred her to New England.[201]
You promised me, when you did take my money,
To help me to a faithful service, a lady
That would be saved, not one that loves profane,
Unsanctified fashions.
You goody Hofman,[202] and keep your chamber, till
You can provide yourself some cure, or I
Will forthwith excommunicate your zeal,
And make you a silent waiting-woman.
If you'll be usher to that holy, learned woman
That can heal broken shins, scald heads and th' itch,
Your schoolmistress; that can expound, and teaches
To knit in Chaldee, and work Hebrew samplers,
I'll help you back again.
The frantic ladies' judgments, and Histriomastix,[203]
Deliver me! This was of your preferring;
You must needs help me to another.
Would you desire her qualified? deformed
And crooked? like some ladies who do wear
Their women like black patches, to set them off?
Only between two Moors; or that my nose
Stands wrong, because my woman's doth stand right.
Strange sights from th' knowledge of your knight, when you
Are married, madam; of a quick-feigning head?
Must to her handsome shape have virtue too.
A choleric lady which, within these three weeks,
Has, for not cutting her corns well, put off
Three women; and is now about to part
With the fourth—just one of your description.
Next change o' th' moon or weather, when her feet
Do ache again, I do believe I shall
Pleasure your ladyship.
SCENE III.
Enter Bright, Newcut, Timothy, Plotwell.
Pray, know your distance.
My father is an alderman's fellow; and I
Hope to be one in time.
You may be remembered at the quenching of
Fir'd houses, when the bells ring backward,[204] by
Your name upon the buckets.[205]
You have a good wit, lady, and I can find it
As soon as another. I in my time have been
O' th' university, and should have been a scholar.
To that profession, I can foresee
You would have been a great persecutor of nature
And great consumer of rush candles, with
As small success as if a tortoise should
Day and night practise to run races. Having
Contemplated yourself into ill-looks,
In pity to so much affliction,
You might ha' pass'd for learned; and't may be,
If you had fallen out with the Muses, and
'Scap'd poetry, you might have risen to scarlet.
Light, gentlemen, now have I no more language
Than a dumb parrot. A little more, she'll jeer me
Into a fellow that turns upon his toe
In a steeple, and strikes quarters![206]
Be now so dainty of your lips? Verily,
They are not virgins: they have tasted man.
For the sweet air o' th' parties. If you
Will bring it me confirm'd under the hands
Of four sufficient ladies, that you are
Clean men, you may chance kiss my woman.
Our lips are made of the same clay that yours [are,]
And have not been refused.
Two inns-of-court men.
Through all the town.
From country madams to your glover's wife,
Or laundress;[208] will not let poor gentlewomen
Take physic quietly, but disturb their pills
From operation with your untaught visits;
Or, if they be employ'd, contrive small plots
Below stairs with the chambermaid; commend
Her fragrant breath, which five yards off salutes,
At four deflow'rs a rose, at three kills spiders.
From the yellow waiting-woman; use stratagems
To get her silver whistle, and waylay
Her pewter-knots or bodkin.
Had I in all the world but forty mark,
And that got by my needle, and making socks,
And were that forty mark mill'd sixpences,
Spur-royals, Harry-groats,[209] or such odd coin
Of husbandry, as in the king's reign now
Would never pass, I would despise you.
Your wit will make you die a wither'd virgin.
Hath made this house a wilderness, and you
As unfrequented as a statesman fallen;
When you shall quarrel with your face and glass,
Till from your pencil you have rais'd new cheeks—
See you beg suitors, write bills o'er your door:
"Here is an ancient lady to be let."
Make star-shooting, and dart.[210]
A better face in signs or gingerbread.
Abuse a harmless lady thus! I can't
With patience hear your blasphemies. Make me
Your second, madam.
Why, sir, I took you for a mute i' th' hangings.
I'll tell the faces.
Look like one of them Trojans?[211]
Is missing here, sir; pray, step back again,
And fill the number. You, I hope, have more
Truth in you than to filch yourself away,
And leave my room unfurnish'd.
She'll send for a constable straight, and apprehend him
For thievery.
Penning of recantations, that I suspected
Y' had been a part of the monopoly.
But now I know you have a tongue, and are
A very man, I'll think you only dull,
And pray for better utterance.
Rash judgment of him; he was only struck
With admiration of your beauty.
I'd love a dog of your sweet looks: I am
Enamour'd of you, lady.
I wonder you wear not a cap: your case
Requires warm things! I'll send you forth a caudle. [Exit.
Be with you, madam.
If I were urg'd, I'd fain know whether I
In conscience ought not to set down myself
No wiser than I should be?
Believe she was begotten by some wit;
And he that has her may beget plays on her.
Be chaste to[213] all this wit, I do not think
But that she might be shown.
And has a pretty scornfulness, which now
I've seen, I'm satisfied.
Runs in my head still.
Enter a Footman.
You would dismiss your company; she has
Some business with you.
Is come to private meetings!
She had some other virtues. Well, make haste,
We'll stay without; when thou hast done, inform us
What the rate is: if she be reasonable,
We'll be her customers.
SCENE IV.
Enter Aurelia.
I did receive your ticket this morning. What!
You look the mine should run still?
A careful brother to put me on a course
That draws the eyes o' th' town upon me, and makes me
Discourse for ordinaries, then leave me in't.
I will put off my ladyship, and return
To Mistress Holland, and to making shirts
And bands again.
To see you there again, and there serve out
The rest of your indentures, by managing
Your needle well, and making nightcaps by
A chafing-dish in winter mornings, to keep
Your fingers pliant. How rarely 'twould become you
To run over all your shop to passengers
In a fine sale-tune!
D'ye think I'm the Dutch virgin, that could live
By th' scent of flowers?[214] Or that my family
Are descended of cameleons,
And can be kept with air? Is this the way
To get a husband; to be in danger to be
Shut up for house-rent, or to wear a gown
Out a whole fashion, or the same jewels twice?
Shortly my neighbours will commend my clothes
For lasting well, give them strange dates, and cry,
"Since your last gorget and the blazing star."
Rain showers of silver into thy lap again.
My uncle's gone to sea, and has left me
The key to th' golden fleece. Thou shalt be still
A madam, Pen; and to maintain thy honour,
And to new-dub thee, take this. [Gives her a purse.
But, sister, I
Expected you ere this, out of the throng
Of suitors that frequent you, should have been
Made a true lady—not one in type or show.
I fear you are too scornful, look too high.
With empty education; few will make jointures
To wit or good parts. I may die a virgin,
When some old widow, which at every cough
Resigns some of her teeth, and every night
Puts off her leg as duly as French hood,
Scarce wears her own nose, hath no eyes but such
As she first bought in Broad Street, and every morning
Is put together like some instrument,
Having full coffers, shall be woo'd, and thought
A youthful bride.
A match of my projection? You do know
How ruinous our father's fortunes are.
Before he broke, you know, there was a contract
Between you and young Seathrift. What if I
Make it a wedding?
To be a Lady Mayoress?
Could name good ladies that are fain to find
Wit for themselves and knights too.
Of one, whose husband was so meek, to be
For need her gentleman-usher; and, while she
Made visits above stairs, would patiently
Find himself business at trey-trip[215] i' th' hall.
Sharp conversation will refine him; besides,
How long will't be ere your dissembled state
Meet such another offer?
This afternoon I'll bring him hither: do you
Provide the priest: your dining-room will serve
As well as the church.
SCENE V.
Enter Captain Quartfield beating Roseclap; Salewit and Millicent labouring to part them.
I'll make you trust, and offer me petitions
To go o' th' score.
Last time the captain beat you, what a lion
He is, being ask'd for reckonings.
Indeed, good Master Salewit; yet you must
Ever be foolish, husband.
Do owe you money, sir; is't fit for you
To ask it?
No more, but there is law.
The law of nature, custom, arms, and nations,
Frees men of war from payments.
All void of money are privileged.
Captains and poets, Master Salewit says,
Must never pay.
And, by Bellona, I will cut thy throat.
You John-of-all-trades, have we been your guests
Since you first kept a tavern; when you had
The face and impudence to hang a bush
Out to three pints of claret, two of sack,
In all the world?
Did we here find you out, custom'd your house,
And help'd away your victuals, which had else
Lain mouldy on your hands?
And never paid for't. I do not deny,
But you have been my customers these two years;
My jack went not, nor chimney smok'd without you.
I will go farther; your two mouths have been
Two as good eating mouths as need to come
Within my doors; as curious to be pleased,
As if you still had eaten with ready money;
Had still the meats in season; still drank more
Than your ordinary came to.
Would have this paid for?
He has a harden'd conscience. Sirrah cheater,
You would be question'd for your reckonings, rogue.
Paid for the boiling of a carp a mark.
No man had cheaper reckonings than yourself
And Master Salewit here.
No more, good captain; not to pay is cheap,
A man would think.
And make it dear to breathe in your house, and put
The nose to charges?
And placing of the bread?
Into the bill?
Like fishes, fowls, or faces.
How you rate salads, Roseclap; one may buy
Gardens as cheap.
Taken from Euclid, made in diagrams,
And to be eaten in figures.
Good captain, you have sworn to pay this twelvemonth.
Before these gallants? See if I don't kill you.
SCENE VI.
Enter Bright, Newcut, Timothy, Plotwell.
My man of Helicon. Salute this gentleman,
He is a city wit.
And can make verses, I hear?
A servant to the Muses.
Some speeches, sir, in verse, which have been spoke
By a green Robin Goodfellow from Cheapside conduit,[216]
To my father's company, and mean this afternoon
To make an epithalamium upon my wedding.
A lady fell in love with me this morning:
Ask Master Francis here.
Did not I charge you to be silent?
I had forgot. You are a captain, sir?
Men of the sword and buff; and if need were,
I can roar too, and hope to swear in time,
Do you see, captain?
A gentleman of valour, who has been
In Moorfields often: marry, it has been
To 'squire his sisters, and demolish custards
At Pimlico.[217] [Timothy walks aside.
I never hop'd to see you in silk again.
Or one o' th' bachelor whifflers.[218]
To sea this morning, captain; and I am come
Into your order again. But hark you, captain,
What think you of a fish now?
At dinner do not give him sea enough,
And afterwards, if I and Salewit do not
Show him much better than he that shows the Tombs,
Let me be turned into a sword-fish myself.
Pensive, and cursing the long vacation?
Thou look'st as if thou mean'st to break shortly.
I disciplin'd him for his rudeness.
Are judgments, Roseclap, for dear reckonings.
I mean to drink a health to a lady.
Will you betray your fortune? One of them
Will go and tell her who you are, and spoil
The marriage.
Go in, we'll follow.
Shall straight be set upon the board.
[Exeunt Bright, Newcut, Salewit, Quartfield, and Roseclap.