Bry. Ay, do, predee; I had rather have thee make a scabbard of my guts, and let out all de Irish puddings in my poor belly, den to be a false knave to dee, i’faat; I will never see dine own sweet face more. A marvhid deer a gra, fare dee well, fare dee well; I will go steal cows again in Ireland. [Exit.
SCENE II.
Bel. How now, what ails your master?
Or. Has taken a younger brother’s purge, forsooth, and that works with him.
Bel. Where is his cloak and rapier?
Or. He has given up his cloak, and his rapier is bound to the peace: if you look a little higher, you may see that another hath entered into hatband for him too. Six and four have put him into this sweat.
Bel. Where’s all his money?
Or. ’Tis put over by exchange: his doublet was going to be translated, but for me: if any man would ha’ lent but half a ducat on his beard, the hair of it had stuft a pair of breeches[344] by this time; I had but one poor penny, and that I was glad to niggle out and buy a holly-wand to grace him thorough the street; as hap was, his boots were on, and then[345] I dusted, to make people think he had been riding, and I had run by him.
Bel. O me!
Mat. O rogue, of what devilish stuff are these dice made of? of the parings of the devil’s corns of his toes, that they run thus damnably?
Bel. I prithee, vex not.
Mat. If any handicraft’s-man was ever suffered to keep shop in hell, it will be a dice-maker; he’s able to undo more souls than the devil: I played with mine own dice, yet lost. Ha’ you any money?
Bel. 'Las, I ha’ none!
Mat. Must have money, must have some; must have a cloak, and rapier, and things: will you go set your lime-twigs, and get me some birds, some money?
Bel. What lime-twigs should I set?
Mat. You will not, then? must have cash and pictures: do ye hear, frailty, shall I walk in a Plymouth cloak,[346] that’s to say, like a rogue, in my hose[347] and doublet, and a crab-tree cudgel in my hand, and you swim in your satins? must have money; come.
Or. Is’t bed-time, master, that you undo my mistress?
Mat. Help to flay, Pacheco.
Or. Flaying call you it?
Mat. I’ll pawn you, by th’ Lord, to your very eyebrows!
Or. Why, hear you, sir? i’faith, do not make away her gown.
Mat. O, it’s summer, it’s summer; your only fashion for a woman now is to be light, to be light.
Or. Why, pray, sir, employ some of that money you have of mine.
Mat. Thine? I’ll starve first, I’ll beg first; when I touch a penny of that, let these fingers’ ends rot.
Or. So they may, for that’s past touching. I saw my twenty pounds fly high. [Aside.
Mat. Knowest thou never a damned broker about the city?
Or. Damned broker? yes, five hundred.
Mat. The gown stood me in above twenty ducats; borrow ten of it: cannot live without silver.
Mat. How now, little chick, what ailest? weeping for a handful of tailor’s shreds? pox on them! are there not silks enow at mercer’s?
Bel. I care not for gay feathers, I.
Mat. What dost care for, then? why dost grieve?
Mat. 'Twas your profession before I married you.
Mat. Why, do as all of our occupation do against quarter-days; break up house, remove, shift your lodgings: pox a’ your quarters!
Lod. Where’s this gallant?
Mat. Signor Lodovico? how does my little Mirror of Knighthood?[349] this is kindly done, i’faith; welcome, by my troth.
Mat. Drink and feed, laugh and lie warm.
Lod. Is this thy wife?
Mat. A poor gentlewoman, sir, whom I make use of a’ nights.
Lod. Pay custom to your lips, sweet lady.
Mat. Borrow some shells[350] of him—some wine, sweetheart.
Lod. I’ll send for’t then, i’faith.
Mat. You send for’t?—Some wine, I prithee.
Bel. I ha’ no money.
Mat. ’Sblood, nor I.—What wine love you, signor?
Lod. Here, or I’ll not stay, I protest: trouble the gentlewoman too much? [Gives money to Bellafront, who goes out.] And what news flies abroad, Matheo?
Mat. Troth, none. O signor, we ha’ been merry in our days.
Mat. You say true.
Mat. I am the most wretched fellow! sure some left-handed priest christened me, I am so unlucky; I am never out of one puddle or another; still falling.
Fill out wine to my little finger. With my heart, i’faith. [Drinks.
Or. All the brokers’ hearts, sir, are made of flint: I can, with all my knocking, strike but six sparks of fire out of them: here’s six ducats, if you’ll take them.
Mat. Give me them [taking money]: an evil conscience gnaw them all! moths and plagues hang upon their lousy wardrobes!
Lod. Is this your man, Matheo?
Mat. An old[352] serving-man.
Or. You may give me t’other half too, sir; that’s the beggar.
Lod. What hast there? gold?
Mat. A sort[353] of rascals are in my debt God knows what, and they feed me with bits, with crums, a pox choke them!
Mat. Thanks, good, noble knight!
Mat. Hast angled? hast cut up this fresh salmon?
Bel. Wouldst have me be so base?
Or. I hope he will not sneak away with all the money, will he?
Bel. Thou seest he does.
Or. Nay, then, it’s well. I set my brains upon an upright last; though my wits be old, yet they are like a withered pippin, wholesome. Look you, mistress, I told him I had but six ducats of the knave broker, but I had eight, and kept these two for you.
Bel. Thou shouldst have given him all.
Or. What, to fly high?
Bel. Like waves, my misery drives on misery. [Exit.
Or. Sell his wife’s clothes from her back! does any poulterer’s wife pull chickens alive? He riots all abroad, wants all at home; he dices, whores, swaggers, swears, cheats, borrows, pawns: I’ll give him hook and line a little more for all this:
SCENE III.
Lod. Hist, hist, lieutenant Bots! how dost, man?
Car. Whither are you ambling, madam Horseleech?
Mis. H. About worldly profit, sir: how do your worships?
Bots. We want tools, gentlemen, to furnish the trade; they wear out day and night, they wear out till no mettle be left in their back. We hear of two or three new wenches are come up with a carrier, and your old goshawk here is flying at them.
Lod. And, faith, what flesh have you at home?
Mis. H. Ordinary dishes; by my troth, sweet men, there’s few good i’ th’ city: I am as well furnished as any, and, though I say it, as well customed.
Bots. We have meats of all sorts of dressing; we have stewed meat for your Frenchman,[355] pretty light picking meat for your Italian, and that which is rotten roasted for Don Spaniardo.
Lod. A pox on’t!
Bots. We have poulterer’s ware for your sweet bloods, as dove, chicken, duck, teal, woodcock, and so forth; and butcher’s meat for the citizen, yet muttons[356] fall very bad this year.
Lod. Stay; is not that my patient linen-draper yonder, and my fine young smug mistress his wife?
Car. Sirrah[357] grannam, I’ll give thee for thy fee twenty crowns, if thou canst but procure me the wearing of yon velvet cap.
Mis. H. You’d wear another thing besides the cap: you’re a wag.
Bots. Twenty crowns? we’ll share, and I’ll be your pully to draw her on.
Lod. Do’t presently; we’ll ha’ some sport.
Mis. H. Wheel you about, sweet men: do you see? I’ll cheapen wares of the man, whilst Bots is doing with his wife.
Lod. To’t: if we come into the shop, to do you grace, we’ll call you madam.
Bots. Pox a’ your old face! give it the badge of all scurvy faces, a mask.
Can. What is’t you lack,[358] gentlewoman? cambric, or lawns, or fine hollands? pray draw near, I can sell you a pennyworth.
Bots. Some cambric for my old lady.
Car.[359] Save you, signor Candido.
Lod. How does my noble master? how my fair mistress?
Car. Cry you mercy, madam; though masked, I thought it should be you by your man.—Pray, signor, shew her the best, for she commonly deals for good ware.
Bots. A word, I pray; there is a waiting gentlewoman of my lady’s, her name is Ruyna, says she’s your kinswoman, and that you should be one of her aunts.
Bots. If it please you to bestow the poor labour of your legs at any time, I will be your convoy thither.
Bots. Do you hear? the naked troth is, my lady hath a young knight, her son, who loves you; you’re made, if you lay hold upon’t: this jewel he sends you.
Lod. What, will she do?
Bots. Do? they shall all do, if Bots sets upon them once: she was as if she had professed the trade, squeamish at first; at last I shewed her this jewel, said a knight sent it her.
Lod. Is’t gold and right stones?
Bots. Copper, copper, I go a-fishing with these baits. She nibbled,[360] but would not swallow the hook, because the conger-head her husband was by: but she bids the gentleman name any afternoon and she’ll meet him at her garden-house,[361] which I know.
Lod. Is this no lie, now?
Bots. Damn me if——
Lod. O, prithee, stay there.
Bots. The twenty crowns, sir.
Lod. Before he has his work done? but, on my knightly word, he shall pay’t thee.
Ast. I thought thou hadst been gone into thine own country.
Bry. No, faat, la, I cannot go dis four or tree days.
Ber. Look thee, yonder’s the shop, and that’s the man himself.
Fon. Thou shalt but cheapen, and do as we told thee, to put a jest upon him to abuse his patience.
Bry. I’faat, I doubt my pate shall be knocked: but, sa crees sa’ me, for your shakes I will run to any linen-draper in hell: come, predee.
Ast.
Ber.
Fon. } Save you, gallants.
Lod.
Car. } O, well met!
Lod. The garden-house, you say? we’ll bolt[362] out your roguery.
Lod. Do you hear? one, two, three,—’sfoot, there came in four gallants! sure your wife is slipt up; and the fourth man, I hold my life, is grafting your warden-tree.[363]
Lod. Have you so? nay, then——
Can. Now, gentlemen, is’t cambrics?
Bry. I predee, now, let me have de best wa[u]res.
Can. What’s that he says, pray, gentlemen? u Lod. Marry, he says we are like to have the best wars.
Bry. Faat a devil pratest tow so? a pox on dee! I predee, let me see some hollen to make linen shirts, for fear my body be lousy.
Can. Indeed I understand no word he speaks.
Bry. Pox on de gardens, and de weeds, and de fool’s cap dere, and de clouts! hear, doest make a hobby-horse of me? [Tearing the cambric.
All. O, fie! he has torn the[364] cambric.
Can. ’Tis no matter.
Ast. It frets me to the soul.
All. Ha, ha, ha! come, come, let’s go, let’s go.
ACT IV. SCENE I.
Mat. How am I suited, Front? am I not gallant, ha?
Bel. Yes, sir, you are suited well.
Mat. Exceeding passing well, and to the time.
Bel. The tailor has played his part with you.
Mat. And I have played a gentleman’s part with my tailor, for I owe him for the making of it.
Bel. And why did you so, sir?
Mat. To keep the fashion: it’s your only fashion now of your best rank of gallants to make their tailors wait for their money; neither were it wisdom indeed to pay them upon the first edition of a new suit; for commonly the suit is owing for when the linings are worn out, and there’s no reason then that the tailor should be paid before the mercer.
Mat. This is the suit, and I need not shame to wear it, for better men than I would be glad to have suits bestowed on them. It’s a generous fellow; but, pox on him, we whose pericranions are the very limbecks and stillatories of good wit, and fly high, must drive liquor out of stale gaping oysters—shallow knight, poor squire Tinacheo! I’ll make a wild Cataian of forty such:[367] hang him! he’s an ass, he’s always sober.
Bel. This is your fault to wound your friends still.
Mat. No, faith, Front, Lodovico is a noble Slavonian: it’s more rare to see him in a woman’s company than for a Spaniard to go into England and to challenge the English fencers there. [Knocking within.] One knocks; see. [Exit Bellafront.]—La, fa, sol, la, fa, la—[sings]—rustle in silks and satins! there’s music in this, and a taffeta petticoat, it make[s] both fly high, catso![368]
Bel. Matheo, ’tis my father.
Mat. Ha! father? it’s no matter, he finds no tattered prodigals here.
Or. Is not the door good enough to hold your blue coats?[369] away, knaves. Wear not your clothes thread-bare at knees for me; beg heaven’s blessing, not mine. [Exeunt Servants.]—O, cry your worship mercy, sir: was somewhat bold to talk to this gentlewoman your wife here.
Mat. A poor gentlewoman, sir.
Mat. If it offend you, sir, ’tis for my pleasure.
Bel. Yes, and our kingdom, for ’tis our content.
Or. It’s a very poor kingdom, then; what, are all your subjects gone a sheep-shearing? not a maid? not a man? not so much as a cat? You keep a good house belike, just like one of your profession, every room with bare walls, and a half-headed bed to vault upon, as all your bawdy-houses are. Pray, who are your upholsters? O, the spiders, I see, they bestow hangings upon you.
Mat. Bawdy-house? zounds! sir——
Or. No acquaintance with it? what maintains thee then? how dost live then? has thy husband any lands, any rents coming in, any stock going, any ploughs jogging, any ships sailing? hast thou any wares to turn, so much as to get a single penny by?
Mat. Do you hear, sir?——
Or. So, sir, I do hear, sir, more of you than you dream I do.
Mat. You fly a little too high, sir.
Or. Why, sir, too high?
Mat. I ha’ suffered your tongue, like a bard cater-tray,[374] to run all this while, and ha’ not stopt it.
Or. Well, sir, you talk like a gamester.
Mat. If you come to bark at her because she’s a poor rogue, look you, here’s a fine path, sir, and there, there[’s] the door.
Bel. Matheo!
Mat. Your blue coats[375] stay for you, sir. I love a good honest roaring boy,[376] and so——
Or. That’s the devil.
Mat. Sir, sir, I’ll ha’ no Joves in my house to thunder avaunt: she shall live and be maintained, when you, like a keg of musty sturgeon, shall stink; where? in your coffin—how? be a musty fellow, and lousy.
Or. I know she shall be maintained, but how? she like a quean, thou like a knave; she like a whore, thou like a thief.
Mat. Thief? zounds! thief?
Bel. Good, dearest Mat!—Father!——
Mat. Pox on you both! I’ll not be braved: new satin scorns to be put down with bare bawdy velvet. Thief?
Or. Ay, thief; thou’rt a murderer, a cheater, a whoremonger, a pot-hunter, a borrower, a beggar—
Bel. Dear father——
Mat. An old ass, a dog, a churl, a chuff, an usurer, a villain, a moth, a mangy mule with an old velvet footcloth[377] on his back, sir.
Bel. O me!
Or. Varlet, for this I’ll hang thee.
Mat. Ha, ha, alas!
Or. Thou keepest a man of mine here under my nose——
Mat. Under thy beard.
Or. As arrant a smell-smock, for an old muttonmonger,[378] as thyself——
Mat. No, as yourself.
Or. As arrant a purse-taker as ever cried, Stand! yet a good fellow,[379] I confess, and valiant; but he’ll bring thee to th’ gallows: you both have robbed of late two poor country pedlars.
Mat. How’s this, how’s this? dost thou fly high? rob pedlars?—Bear witness, Front—Rob pedlars? my man and I a thief?
Bel. O sir, no more!
Or. Ay, knave, two pedlars; hue and cry is up, warrants are out, and I shall see thee climb a ladder.
Mat. And come down again as well as a bricklayer or a tiler.—How the vengeance knows he this? [Aside.]—If I be hanged, I’ll tell the people I married old Friscobaldo’s daughter; I’ll frisco you and your old carcass.
Or. Tell what thou canst: if I stay here longer, I shall be hanged too for being in thy company; therefore, as I found you, I leave you——
Mat. Kneel, and get money of him.
Or. A knave and a quean, a thief and a strumpet, a couple of beggars, a brace of baggages.
Mat. Hang upon him—Ay, ay, sir, fare you well; we are so—Follow close—We are beggars—in satin—to him.