[87] “No point”—not at all (Fr. non point). See Dyce’s Shakesp. Glossary.
SCENE V.
A Street.
Enter Sir Hubert, Sir Lionel, Tysefew, Franceschina, and three with halberds.
Sir Hub. Plant a watch there! be very careful, sirs; the rest with us.
Tyse.
The heavy night grows to her depth of quiet;
’Tis about mid-darkness.
Fra. Mine shambre is hard by; ick sall bring you to it presantment.
Sir Lio. Deep silence! On!
[Exeunt.
Coc. (within). Wa, ha, ho!
Enter Mulligrub.
Mul. It was his voice, ’tis he: he sups with his cupping-glasses. ’Tis late; he must pass this way: I’ll ha’ him—I’ll ha’ my fine boy, my worshipful Cocledemoy; I’ll moy him; he shall be hang’d in lousy linen; I’ll hire some sectary to make him an heretic before he die; and when he is dead I’ll piss on his grave. 15
Enter Cocledemoy.
Coc. Ah, my fine punks, good night, Frank Frailty, Frail o’ Frail-hall! Bonus noches, my ubiquitari.
Mul. Ware polling and shaving, sir.
Coc. A wolf, a wolf, a wolf!
[Exit Cocledemoy, leaving his cloak behind him.
Mul. Here’s something yet, a cloak, a cloak! Yet I’ll after; he cannot ’scape the watch; I’ll hang him if I have any mercy. I’ll slice him.
[Exit.
Enter three Constables; to them Cocledemoy.
1st Con. Who goes there? Come before the constable. 24
Coc. Bread o’ God! constable, you are a watch for the devil. Honest men are robb’d under your nose; there’s a false knave in the habit of a vintner set upon me; he would have had my purse, but I took me to my heels: yet he got my cloak, a plain stuff cloak, poor, yet ’twill serve to hang him. ’Tis my loss, poor man that I am! 31
[Exit.
Enter Mulligrub running with Cocledemoy’s cloak.
2d Con. Masters, we must watch better; is’t not strange that knaves, drunkards, and thieves should be abroad, and yet we of the watch, scriveners, smiths, and tailors, never stir?
1st Con. Hark, who goes there?
Mul. An honest man and a citizen.
2d Con. Appear, appear; what are you?
Mul. A simple vintner.
1st Con. A vintner ha! and simple; draw nearer, nearer; here’s the cloak. 41
2d Con. Ay, Master Vintner, we know you: a plain stuff cloak; ’tis it.
1st Con. Right, come! O thou varlet, dost not thou know that the wicked cannot ’scape the eyes of the constable?
Mul. What means this violence? As I am an honest man I took the cloak——
1st Con. As you are a knave, you took the cloak, we are your witnesses for that. 50
Mul. But, hear me, hear me! I’ll tell you what I am.
2d Con. A thief you are.
Mul. I tell you my name is Mulligrub.
1st Con. I will grub you. In with him to the stocks; there let him sit till to-morrow morning, that Justice Quodlibet may examine him.
Mul. Why, but I tell thee——
2d Con. Why, but I tell thee, we’ll tell thee now.
Mul. Am I not mad? am I not an ass? Why, scabs, God’s-foot! let me out. 60
2d Con. Ay, ay, let him prate; he shall find matter in us scabs, I warrant: God’s-so, what good members of the commonwealth do we prove!
1st Con. Prithee, peace; let’s remember our duties, and let’s[88] go sleep, in the fear of God.
[Exeunt, having left Mulligrub in the stocks.
Mul. Who goes there? Illo, ho, ho: zounds, shall I run mad—lose my wits! Shall I be hang’d? Hark; who goes there? Do not fear to be poor, Mulligrub; thou hast a sure stock now.
Re-enter Cocledemoy like a bellman.
Coc. The night grows old, 70
And many a cuckold
Is now—Wha, ha, ha, ho!
Maids on their backs
Dream of sweet smacks,
And warm—Wo, ho, ho, ho!
I must go comfort my venerable Mulligrub, I must
fiddle him till he fist.[89] Fough!
Maids in your night-rails,
Look well to your light—
Keep close your locks, 80
And down your smocks;
Keep a broad eye,
And a close thigh.
Excellent, excellent! Who’s there? Now, Lord, Lord—Master Mulligrub—deliver us! what does your worship in the stocks? I pray come out, sir.
Mul. Zounds, man, I tell thee I am lock’d!
Coc. Lock’d! O world! O men! O time! O night! that canst not discern virtue and wisdom, and one of the common council! What is your worship in for? 90
Mul. For (a plague on’t) suspicion of felony.
Coc. Nay, and it be such a trifle, Lord, I could weep, to see your good worship in this taking. Your worship has been a good friend to me, and tho’ you have forgot me, yet I knew your wife before she was married, and since I have found your worship’s door open, and I have knock’d, and God knows what I have saved: and do I live to see your worship stocked?
Mul. Honest bellman, I perceive
Thou knowest me: I prithee call the watch. 100
Inform the constable of my reputation,
That I may no longer abide in this shameful habitation,
And hold thee all I have about me.
[Gives him his purse.
Coc. ’Tis more than I deserve, sir: let me alone for your delivery.
Mul. Do, and then let me alone with Cocledemoy. I’ll moy him!
Re-enter the Constables.
Coc. Maids in your——
Master Constable, whose that ith’ stocks?
1st Con. One for a robbery: one Mulligrub, he calls himself. Mulligrub? Bellman, knowest thou him? 111
Coc. Know him! O, Master Constable, what good service have you done! Know him? He’s a strong thief; his house has been suspected for a bawdy tavern a great while, and a receipt for cut-purses, ’tis most certain. He has been long in the black book, and is he ta’en now?
2d Con. By’r lady, my masters, we’ll not trust the stocks with him, we’ll have him to the justices, get a mittimus to Newgate presently. Come, sir, come on, sir. 121
Mul. Ha! does your rascalship yet know my worship in the end?
1st Con. Ay, the end of your worship we know.
Mul. Ha! goodman constable, here’s an honest fellow can tell you what I am?
2d Con. ’Tis true, sir; y’are a strong thief, he says, on his own knowledge. Bind fast, bind fast! we know you. We’ll trust no stocks with you. Away with him to the jail instantly. 130
Mul. Why, but dost hear? Bellman, rogue, rascal! God’s—why, but—
[The Constables drag away Mulligrub.
Coc. Why, but! wha, ha, ha! excellent, excellent! ha, my fine Cocledemoy, my vintner fists. I’ll make him fart crackers before I ha’ done with him; to-morrow is the day of judgment. Afore the Lord God, my knavery grows unperegall;[90] ’tis time to take a nap, until half an hour hence. God give your worship music, content, and rest.
[Exit.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
Franceschina’s lodging.
Enter Franceschina, Sir Lionel, Tysefew, with Officers.
Fra. You bin very velcom to mine shambra.
Sir Lio. But, how know ye, how are ye assured,
Both of the deed, and of his sure return?
Fra. O min-here, ick sall tell you. Metre Malheureux came all bretless running a my shambra, his sword all bloudy: he tel a me he had kil Freevill, and pred a me to conceal him. Ick flatter him, bid bring monies, he should live and lie vid me. He went, whilst ick (me hope vidout sins), out of mine mush love to Freevill, betray him. 10
Sir Lio. Fear not, ’tis well: good works get grace for
sin.
[She conceals them behind the curtain.
Fra. Dere, peace, rest dere; so, softly, all go in.—
De net is lay, now sal ick be revenge.
If dat me knew a dog dat Freevill love,
Me would puisson him; for know de deepest hell
As a revenging woman’s naught so fell.
Mar. Ho! Cousin Frank, the party you wot of, Master Malheureux—
Fra. Bid him come up, I prede.
[Cantat saltatque cum cithara.
Enter Malheureux.
Fra. O min-here man, a dere liver love, 20
Mine ten tousant times velcom love!
Ha! by mine trat, you bin de just—vat sall me say?
Vat seet honie name sall I call you?
Mal. Any from you
Is pleasure. Come, my loving prettiness,
Where’s thy chamber? I long to touch your sheets.
Fra. No, no, not yet, mine seetest soft-lipp’d love,
You sall not gulp down all delights at once.
Be min trat, dis all-fles-lovers, dis ravenous wenchers[91]
dat sallow all down hole, vill have all at one bit; fie, fie,
fie! be min fait, dey do eat comfets vid spoons. 31
No, no, I’ll make you chew your pleasure vit love;
De more degrees and steps, de more delight,
De more endearèd is de pleasure height.
Mal. What, you’re a learn’d wanton, and proceed by art?
Fra. Go, little vag, pleasure should have a crane’s long neck, to relish de ambrosia of delight. And ick pre de tell me, for me loves to hear of manhood very mush, i’fait: ick prede—vat vas me a saying? Oh, ick prede tell a me how did you killa Metre Freevill? 40
Mal. Why, quarrelled o’ set purpose, drew him out,
Singled him, and, having the advantage
Of my sword and might, ran him through and through.
Fra. Vat did you vid him van he was sticken?
Mal. I dragg’d him by the heels to the next wharf,
And spurn’d him in the river.
[Those in ambush rusheth forth and take him.
Sir Lio. Seize, seize him!
O monstrous! O ruthless villain!
Mal. What mean you, gentlemen? By heaven——
Tyse. Speak not of anything that’s good. 49
Mal. Your errors gives you passion: Freevill lives.
Sir Lio. Thy own lips say thou liest.
Mal. Let me die, if at Shatewe’s the jeweller he lives not safe untouch’d.
Tyse. Meantime to strictest guard, to sharpest prison.
Mal. No rudeness, gentlemen: I’ll go undragg’d.
O, wicked, wicked devil!
[Exit.
Sir Lio. Sir, the day of trial is this morn; let’s prosecute
The sharpest rigour and severest end:
Good men are cruel when they’re vice’s friend.
Sir Hub. Woman, we thank thee with no empty hand;
Strumpets are fit[92] for something. Farewell. 61
[All save Young Freevill depart.
Free. Ay, for hell!
O, thou unreprievable, beyond all
Measure of grace damn’d irremediably![93]
That things of beauty created for sweet use,
Soft comfort, as[94] the very music of life,
Custom should make so unutterably[95] hellish!
O, heaven!
What difference is in women and their life!
What man, but worthy name of man, would leave 70
The modest pleasures of a lawful bed—
The holy union of two equal hearts
Mutually holding either dear as health—
Th’ undoubted issues, joys of chaste sheets,
Th’ unfeign’d embrace of sober ignorance—
To twine th’ unhealthful loins of common loves,
The prostituted impudence of things,
Senseless like those by cataracts of Nile,
Their use so vile takes away sense! How vile
To love a creature made of blood and hell, 80
Whose use makes weak, whose company doth shame,
Whose bed doth beggar, issue doth defame!
Re-enter Franceschina.
Fra. Metre Freevill live? ha, ha, live at Mestre Shatewe’s! Mush[96] at Metre Shatewe’s! Freevill is dead, Malheureux sall hang: and, sweet divel, dat Beatrice would but run mad, dat she would but run mad! den me would dance and sing. Metre Don Dubon, me pre ye now go to Mestres Beatrice. Tell her Freevill is sure dead, and dat he curse herself especially, for dat he was sticked in her quarrel, swearing in his last gasp, dat if it had bin in mine quarrels ’twould never have grieved him.
Free. I will. 92
Fra. Prede do, and say any ting dat vil vex her.
Free. Let me alone to vex her.
Fra. Vil you, vil you mak a her run mad? Here, take dis ring, see me scorn to wear anyting dat was hers or his. I prede torment her, ick cannot love her; she honest and virtuous, forsooth!
Free. Is she so? O vile creature! then let me alone with her. 100
Fra. Vat, vil you mak a her mad? seet, by min trat, be pretta servan; bush,[97] ick sall go to bet now.
[Exit.
Free. Mischief, whither wilt thou? O thou tearless woman!
How monstrous is thy devil,
The end of hell as thee!
How miserable were it to be virtuous,
If thou couldst prosper!
I’ll to my love, the faithful Beatrice;
She has wept enough, and faith, dear soul, too much.
But yet how sweet is it to think how dear 110
One’s life was to his love: how mourn’d his death!
’Tis joy not to be express’d with breath:
But O let him that would such passion drink,
Be quiet of his speech, and only think!
[Exit.
[91] Old eds. “wenches.”
[92] Ed. 1. “fit, fit.”
[93] Old eds. “immediatlie.”
[94] Ed. 1. “and as.”
[95] Ed. 2. “vnutterable.”
[96] Ironical exclamation.
[97] i.e., buss (kiss).
Beatrice’s chamber.
Enter Beatrice and Crispinella.
Bea. Sister, cannot a woman kill herself? is it not lawful to die when we should not live?
Cri. O sister, ’tis a question not for us; we must do what God will.
Bea. What God will? Alas, can torment be His
glory, or our grief His pleasure! Does not the nurse’s
nipple, juiced over with wormwood, bid the child it
should not suck? And does not Heaven, when it hath
made our breath bitter unto us, say we should not live?
O my best sister, 10
To suffer wounds when one may ’scape this rod
Is against nature, that is against God!
Cri. Good sister,
Do not make me weep; sure Freevill was not false.
I’ll gage my life that strumpet, out of craft
And some close second end, hath maliced[98] him.
Bea. O sister! if he were not false, whom have I lost?
If he were, what grief to such unkindness!
From head to foot I am all misery;
Only in this, some justice I have found— 20
My grief is like my love, beyond all bound.
Nur. My servant, Master Caqueteur, desires to visit you.
Cri. For grief’s sake keep him out; his discourse is like the long word Honorificabilitudinitatibus,[99] a great deal of sound and no sense: his company is like a parenthesis to a discourse,—you may admit it, or leave it out, it makes no matter.
Enter Freevill in his disguise.
Free. By your leave, sweet creatures.
Cri. Sir, all I can yet say of you is, you are uncivil.
Free. You must deny it. By your sorrow’s leave, 31
I bring some music to make sweet your grief.
Bea. Whate’er you please. O break my heart!
Canst thou yet pant? O dost thou yet survive?
Thou didst not love him if thou now canst live!
Freevill sings.[100]
O Love, how strangely sweet
Are thy weak passions!
That love and joy should meet
In self-same fashions!
O who can tell 40
The cause why this should move?
But only this,—
No reason ask of Love!
[Beatrice swounds.[101]
Cri. Hold, peace!—the gentlest soul is sownd. O my best sister!
Free. Ha, get you gone, close the doors! My Beatrice!
[Discovers himself.
Cursed be my indiscreet trials! O my immeasurably loving—
Cri. She stirs, give air, she breathes!
Bea. Where am I? Ha! how have I slipp’d off life?
Am I in heaven? O my lord, though not loving, 51
By our eternal being, yet give me leave
To rest by thy dear[102] side! Am I not in heaven?
Free. O eternally much loved,[103] recollect your spirits!
Bea. Ha, you do speak! I do see you, I do live!
I would not die now: let me not burst with wonder.
Free. Call up your blood; I live to honour you
As the admired glory of your sex.
Nor ever hath my love been false to you;
Only I presum’d to try your faith too much, 60
For which I most am grieved.
Cri. Brother, I must be plain with you, you have
wrong’d us.
Free. I am not so covetous to deny it;
But yet, when my discourse hath stay’d your quaking,
You will be smoother lipp’d; and the delight
And satisfaction which we all have got,
Under these strange disguisings, when you know,
You will be mild and quiet, forget at last:
It is much joy to think on sorrows past.
Bea. Do you then live? and are you not untrue? 70
Let me not die with joy; pleasure’s more extreme
Than grief; there’s nothing sweet to man but mean.
Free. Heaven cannot be too gracious to such goodness.
I shall discourse to you the several chances;
But hark, I must yet rest disguis’d;
The sudden close of many drifts now meet:
Where pleasure hath some profit, art is sweet.
Enter Tysefew.
Tyse. News, news, news, news!
Cri. Oysters, oysters, oysters, oysters! 79
Tyse. Why, is not this well now? Is not this better than louring and pouting and puling, which is hateful to the living and vain to the dead? Come, come, you must live by the quick, when all is done; and for my own part, let my wife laugh at me when I am dead, so she’ll smile upon me whilst I live: but to see a woman whine, and yet keep her eyes dry: mourn, and yet keep her cheeks fat: nay, to see a woman claw her husband by the feet when he is dead, that would have scratched him by the face when he was living—this now is somewhat ridiculous. 90
Cri. Lord, how you prate.
Tyse. And yet I was afraid, i’faith, that I should ha’ seen a garland on this beauty’s hearse; but time, truth, experience, and variety, are great doers with women.
Cri. But what’s the news?—the news, I pray you?
Tyse. I pray you? ne’er pray me: for by your leave
you may command me. This ’tis:
The public sessions, which this day is past,
Hath doom’d to death ill-fortuned Malheureux.
Cri. But, sir, we heard he offer’d to make good, 100
That Freevill lived at Shatewe’s the jeweller’s——
Bea. And that ’twas but a plot betwixt them two.
Tyse. O, ay, ay, he gaged his life with it; but know,
When all approach’d the test, Shatewe[104] denied
He saw or heard of any such complot,
Or of Freevill; so that his own defence
Appeared so false, that, like a madman’s sword,
He stroke his own heart; he hath the course of law,
And instantly must suffer. But the jest
(If hanging be a jest, as many make it) 110
Is to take notice of one Mulligrub,
A sharking vintner.
Free. What of him, sir?
Tyse. Nothing but hanging: the whoreson slave is mad before he hath lost his senses.
Free. Was his fact[105] clear and made apparent, sir?
Tyse. No, faith, suspicious; for ’twas thus protested:
A cloak was stol’n; that cloak he had; he had it,
Himself confess’d, by force; the rest of his defence
The choler of a justice wronged in wine, 120
Join’d with malignance of some hasty jurors,
Whose wit was lighted by the justice’ nose;
The knave was cast.
But, Lord, to hear his moan, his prayers, his wishes,
His zeal ill-timèd, and his words unpitied,
Would make a dead man rise and smile,
Whilst he observed how fear can make men vile.
Cri. Shall we go meet the execution?
Bea. I shall be ruled by you.
Tyse. By my troth, a rare motion;[106] you must haste,
For malefactors goes like the world, upon wheels. 130
Bea. Will you man us? You shall be our guide.
[To[107] Freevill.
Free. I am your servant.
Tyse. Ha, servant? Zounds, I am no companion for panders! you’re best make him your love.
Bea. So will I, sir; we must live by the quick, you say.
Tyse. ’Sdeath o’ virtue! what a damn’d thing’s this!
Who’ll trust fair faces, tears, and vows? ’Sdeath! not I.
She is a woman,—that is,—she can lie.
Cri. Come, come, turn not a man of time,[108] to make all ill
Whose goodness you conceive not, since the worst of chance 140
Is to crave grace for heedless ignorance.
[Exeunt.
[99] This word, which occurs in Love’s Labour Lost (and in several old plays), was invented long before Shakespeare’s time. See Dyce’s Shakesp. Glossary.
[100] So ed. 2.—Ed. 1. “He sings, she sounds.”
[101] Swoons. (The stage direction is from ed. 2.)
[102] So ed. 1.—Ed. 2. “dead.”
[103] Ed. 1. “laved.”
[104] Ed. 1. “Shatews.”
[105] Guilt.
[106] Proposal.
[107] The stage direction is printed as part of the text in old eds.
[108] The text seems to be corrupt.
A Public Place.
Enter Cocledemoy, like a sergeant.
Coc. So, I ha’ lost my sergeant in an ecliptic mist, drunk! horrible drunk! he is fine. So now will I fit myself; I hope this habit will do me no harm; I am an honest man already. Fit, fit, fit, as a punk’s tail, that serves everybody. By this time my vintner thinks of nothing but hell and sulphur; he farts fire and brimstone already. Hang toasts! the execution approacheth.
Enter Sir Lionel, Sir Hubert; Malheureux, pinioned; Tysefew, Beatrice, Freevill, Crispinella, Franceschina, and halberds.
Mal. I do not blush, although condemned by laws;
No kind of death is shameful but the cause,
Which I do know is none; and yet my lust 10
Hath made the one (although not cause) most just.
May I not be reprieved? Freevill is but mislodg’d;
Some lethargy hath seiz’d him—no, much malice;
Do not lay blood upon your souls with good intents;
Men may do ill, and law sometime repents.
[Cocledemoy picks Malheureux’ pocket of his purse.
Sir Lio. Sir, sir, prepare; vain is all lewd defence.
Mal. Conscience was law, but now law’s conscience.
My endless peace is made; and to the poor,—
My purse, my purse!
Coc. Ay, sir; and it shall please you, the poor has your purse already. 21
Mal. You[109] are a wily[110] man.
—But now, thou source of devils, oh, how I loathe
The very memory of that I adored!
He that’s of fair blood, well mien’d, of good breeding,
Best famed, of sweet acquaintance, and true friends,
And would with desperate impudence lose all these,
And hazard landing at this fatal shore,—
Let him ne’er kill, nor steal, but love a whore.
Fra. De man does rave; tinck a got, tinck a got, and bid de flesh, de world, and the dible, farewell. 31
Mal. Farewell!
Free. Farewell!
[Freevill discovers himself.
Fra. Vat ist you see?—Hah!
Free. Sir, your pardon, with my this defence:
Do not forget protested violence
Of your low affections: no requests,
No arguments of reason, no known danger,
No assured wicked bloodiness,
Could draw your heart from this damnation. 40
Mal. Why, stay!
Fra. Unprosperous devil, vat sall me do now?
Free. Therefore, to force you from the truer danger,
I wrought the feignèd; suffering this fair devil
In shape of woman to make good her plot:
And, knowing that the hook was deeply fast,
I gave her line at will, till, with her own vain strivings,
See here she’s tired. O thou comely damnation!
Dost think that vice is not to be withstood?
O what is woman, merely made of blood! 50
Sir Lio. You maze us all; let us not be lost in darkness!
Free. All shall be lighted; but this time and place
Forbids longer speech; only what you can think
Has been extremely ill, is only hers.
Sir Lio. To severest prison with her! With what heart canst live—
What eyes behold a face?
Fra. Ick vil not speak; torture, torture your fill,
For me am worse than hang’d; me ha’ lost my will.
[Exit Franceschina with the guard.
Sir Lio. To the extremest whip and jail.
Free. Frolic, how is it, sirs? 60
Mal. I am myself. How long was’t ere I could
Persuade my passion to grow calm to you!
Rich sense makes good bad language, and a friend
Should weigh no action, but the action’s end.
I am now worthy yours; when before
The beast of man, loose blood, distemper’d us:
He that lust rules cannot be virtuous.
Enter Mulligrub, Mistress Mulligrub, and Officers.
Off. On afore there! room for the prisoners!
Mul. I pray you do not lead me to execution through Cheapside. I owe Master Burnish, the goldsmith, money, and I fear he’ll set a sergeant on my back for it.
Coc. Trouble not your sconce, my Christian brothers, but have an eye unto the main chance. I will warrant your shoulders; as for your neck, Plinius Secundus, or Marcus Tullius Cicero, or somebody it is, says that a threefold cord is hardly broken. 75
Mul. Well, I am not the first honest man that hath been cast away; and I hope shall not be the last.
Coc. O, sir, have a good stomach and maws; you shall have a joyful supper.
Mul. In troth I have no stomach to it; and it please you, take my trencher; I use to fast at nights. 81
Mistress Mul. O husband! I little thought you should have come to think on God thus soon;[111] nay, and you had been hang’d deservedly it would never have grieved me; I have known of many honest innocent men have been hang’d deservedly: but to be cast away for nothing!
Coc. Good woman, hold your peace, your prittles and your prattles, your bibbles and your babbles; for I pray you hear me in private: I am a widower, and you are almost a widow; shall I be welcome to your houses, to your tables, and your other things? 92
Mistress Mul. I have a piece of mutton and a featherbed for you at all times; I pray make haste.
Mul. I do here make my confession: if I owe any man anything, I do heartily forgive him; if any man owe me anything, let him pay my wife.
Coc. I will look to your wife’s payment, I warrant you.
Mul. And now, good yoke-fellow, leave thy poor Mulligrub. 101
Mistress Mul. Nay, then I were unkind; i’faith I will not leave you until I have seen you hang.
Coc. But brother,[112] brother, you must think of your sins and iniquities; you have been a broacher of profane vessels; you have made us drink of the juice of the whore of Babylon: for whereas good ale, perrys, bragots,[113] cyders, and metheglins, was the true ancient British and Troyan drinks, you ha’ brought in Popish wines, Spanish wines, French wines, tam Marti quam Mercurio, both muscadine and malmsey, to the subversion, staggering, and sometimes overthrow of many a good Christian. You ha’ been a great jumbler; O remember the sins of your nights! for your night works ha’ been unsavoury in the taste of your customers. 115
Mul. I confess, I confess; and I forgive as I would be forgiven. Do you know one Cocledemoy?
Coc. O very well. Know him!—an honest man he is, and a comely; an upright dealer with his neighbours, and their wives speak good things of him. 120
Mul. Well, wheresoe’er he is, or whatsoe’er he is, I’ll take it on my death he’s the cause of my hanging. I heartily forgive him, and if he would come forth he might save me; for he only knows the why and the wherefore.
Coc. You do, from your hearts and midrifs and entrails, forgive him then? you will not let him rot in rusty irons, procure him to be hang’d in lousy linen without a song, and after he is dead piss on his grave?
Mul. That hard heart of mine has procured all this; but I forgive as I would be forgiven. 131
Coc. [Discovering himself] Hang toasts, my worshipful Mulligrub. Behold thy Cocledemoy, my fine vintner; my castrophomical fine boy; behold and see!
Tyse. Bliss o’ the blessed, who would but look for two knaves here?
Coc. No knave, worshipful friend, no knave; for observe, honest Cocledemoy restores whatsoever he has got, to make you know that whatsoever he has done, has been only euphoniæ gratia—for wit’s sake. I acquit this vintner, as he has acquitted me; all has been done for emphasis of wit, my fine boy, my worshipful friends.
Tyse. Go, you are a flatt’ring knave. 143
Coc. I am so; ’tis a good thriving trade; it comes forward better than the seven liberal sciences, or the nine cardinal virtues; which may well appear in this, you shall never have flattering knave turn courtier. And yet I have read of many courtiers that have turned flattering knaves.
Sir Hub. Was’t even but so? why, then all’s well. 150
Mul. I could even weep for joy.
Mistress Mul. I could weep too, but God knows for what!
Tyse. Here’s another tack to be given—your son and daughter.
Sir Hub. Is’t possible? heart, ay, all my heart; will you be joined here?
Tyse. Yes, faith, father; marriage and hanging are spun both in one hour.
Coc. Why, then, my worshipful good friends, I bid
myself most heartily welcome to your merry nuptials
and wanton jigga-joggies.—And now, my very fine
Heliconian gallants, and you, my worshipful friends in
the middle region, 164
If with content our hurtless mirth hath been,
Let your pleased minds at our much care be seen;[114]
For he shall find, that slights such trivial wit,
’Tis easier to reprove than better it.
We scorn to fear, and yet we fear to swell;
We do not hope ’tis best,—’tis all, if well.
[Exeunt. 170