[Aside, and exit.
’Tis for the love of mischief I do this,
And that we’re sworn to the first oath we take.
Re-enter Firestone.
Fire. O mother, mother!
Hec. What’s the news with thee now?
Fire. There’s the bravest[509] young gentleman within, and the fineliest drunk! I thought he would have fallen into the vessel; he stumbled at a pipkin of child’s grease; reeled against Stadlin, overthrew her, and in the tumbling-cast struck up old Puckle’s heels with her clothes over her ears.
Hec. Hoyday!
Fire. I was fain to throw the cat upon her to save her honesty, and all little enough; I cried out still, I pray, be covered.[510] See where he comes now, mother.
Enter Almachildes.
Alm. Call you these witches? they be tumblers, methinks,
Very flat tumblers.
Hec. ’Tis Almachildes—fresh blood stirs in me—
The man that I have lusted to enjoy;
I’ve had him thrice in incubus already. [Aside.
Alm. Is your name Goody Hag?
Hec. ’Tis any thing:
Call me the horrid’st and unhallow’d things
That life and nature tremble[511] at, for thee
I’ll be the same. Thou com’st for a love-charm now?
Alm. Why, thou’rt a witch, I think.
Hec. Thou shalt have choice of twenty, wet or dry.
Alm. Nay, let’s have dry ones.
Hec. If thou wilt use’t by way of cup and potion,
I’ll give thee a remora shall bewitch her straight.
Alm. A remora? what’s that?
Hec. A little suck-stone;
Some call it a sea-lamprey, a small fish.
Alm. And must be butter’d?
Hec. The bones of a green frog too, wondrous precious,
The flesh consum’d by pismires.
Alm. Pismires? give me a chamber-pot!
Fire. You shall see him go nigh to be so unmannerly, he’ll make water before my mother anon. [Aside.
Alm. And now you talk of frogs, I’ve somewhat here;
I come not empty-pocketed from a banquet,
I learn’d that of my haberdasher’s wife:
Look, goody witch, there’s a toad in marchpane[512] for you.
[Gives marchpane.
Hec. O sir, you’ve fitted me!
Alm. And here’s a spawn or two
Of the same paddock-brood too, for your son.
[Gives other pieces of marchpane.
Fire. I thank your worship, sir: how comes your handkercher
Alm. ’Tis nothing but the sirup the toad spit;
Take all, I prithee.
Hec. This was kindly done, sir;
And you shall sup with me to-night for this.
Alm. How? sup with thee? dost think I’ll eat fried rats
And pickled spiders?
Hec. No; I can command, sir,
The best meat i’ th’ whole province for my friends,
And reverently serv’d in too.
Alm. How?
Hec. In good fashion.
Alm. Let me but see that, and I’ll sup with you.
[Hecate conjures; and enter a Cat playing on a fiddle, and Spirits with meat.
The Cat and Fiddle’s an excellent ordinary:
You had a devil once in a fox-skin?
Hec. O, I have him still: come, walk with me, sir.
[Exeunt all except Firestone.
Fire. How apt and ready is a drunkard now to reel to the devil! Well, I’ll even in and see how he eats; and I’ll be hanged if I be not the fatter of the twain with laughing at him. [Exit.
ACT II. SCENE I.
A Hall in Antonio’s House.
Enter Antonio and Gasparo.
Gas. Good sir, whence springs this sadness? trust me, sir,
You look not like a man was married yesterday:
There could come no ill tidings since last night
To cause that discontent. I was wont to know all,
Before you had a wife, sir: you ne’er found me
Without those parts of manhood, trust and secrecy.
Ant. I will not tell thee this.
Gas. Not your true servant, sir?
Ant. True? you’ll all flout according to your talent,
The best a man can keep of you; and a hell ’tis
For masters to pay wages to be laugh’d at.
Give order that two cocks be boil’d to jelly.
Gas. How? two cocks boil’d to jelly?
Ant. Fetch half an ounce of pearl. [Exit.
For a consumption; and I hope one night
Has not brought you to need the cook already,
And some part of the goldsmith: what, two trades
In four-and-twenty hours, and less time?
Pray heaven, the surgeon and the pothecary
Keep out! and then ’tis well. You’d better fortune,
As far as I see, with your strumpet sojourner,
Your little four nobles[516] a-week: I ne’er knew you
Eat one panado[517] all the time you’ve kept her;
And is’t in one night now come up to two cockbroth[s]?
I wonder at the alteration strangely.
Enter Francisca.
Fran. Good morrow, Gaspar.
Gas. Your hearty wishes, mistress,
And your sweet dreams come upon you!
Fran. What’s that, sir?
Gas. In a good husband; that’s my real meaning.
Fran. Saw you my brother lately?
Gas. Yes.
Fran. I met him now,
As sad, methought, as grief could make a man:
Know you the cause?
Gas. Not I: I know nothing,
But half an ounce of pearl, and kitchen business,
Which I will see perform’d with all fidelity:
I’ll break my trust in nothing, not in porridge, I.
[Exit.
Fran. I have the hardest fortune, I think, of a hundred gentlewomen:
Some[518] can make merry with a friend seven year,
And nothing seen; as perfect a maid still,
To the world’s knowledge, as she came from rocking.
But ’twas my luck, at the first hour, forsooth,
To prove too fruitful: sure I’m near my time;
I’m yet but a young scholar, I may fail
In my account; but certainly I do not.
These bastards come upon poor venturing gentlewomen ten to one faster than your legitimate children: if I had been married, I’ll be hanged if I had been with child so soon now. When they are our husbands, they’ll be whipt ere they take such pains as a friend will do; to come by water to the back-door at midnight, there stay perhaps an hour in all weathers, with a pair of reeking watermen laden with bottles of wine, chewets,[519] and currant-custards. I may curse those egg-pies, they are meat that help forward too fast.
This hath been usual with me night by night,
Honesty forgive me! when my brother has been
Dreaming of no such juncket; yet he hath far’d
The better for my sake, though he little think
For what, nor must he ever. My friend promis’d me
To provide safely for me, and devise
A means to save my credit here i’ th’ house.
My brother sure would kill me if he knew’t,
And powder up my friend, and all his kindred,
For an East Indian voyage.
Enter Isabella.
Isa. Alone, sister?
Fran. No, there’s another with me, though you see’t not.—
[Aside.
Morrow, sweet sister: how have you slept to-night?
Isa. More than I thought I should; I’ve had good rest.
Fran. I am glad to hear’t.
Isa. Sister, methinks you are too long alone,
And lose much good time, sociable and honest:
I’m for the married life; I must praise that now.
Fran. I cannot blame you, sister, to commend it;
You’ve happen’d well, no doubt, on a kind husband,
And that’s not every woman’s fortune, sister:
You know if he were any but my brother,
My praises should not leave him yet so soon.
Isa. I must acknowledge, sister, that my life
Is happily blest with him: he is no gamester,[520]
That ever I could find or hear of yet,
Nor midnight surfeiter; he does intend
To leave tobacco too.
Fran. Why, here’s a husband!
Isa. He saw it did offend me, and swore freely
He’d ne’er take pleasure in a toy[521] again
That should displease me: some knights’ wives in town
Will have great hope, upon his reformation,
To bring their husbands’ breaths into th’ old fashion,
And make 'em kiss like Christians, not like Pagans.
Fran. I promise you, sister, 'twill be a worthy work
To put down all these pipers; ’tis great pity
There should not be a statute against them,
As against fiddlers.
Isa. These good offices,
If you had a husband, you might exercise,
To th’ good o’ th’ commonwealth, and do much profit:
Beside, it is a comfort to a woman
T’ have children, sister; a great blessing certainly.
Fran. They will come fast enough.
Isa. Not so fast neither
As they’re still welcome to an honest woman.
Fran. How near she comes to me! I protest she grates
My very skin. [Aside.
Isa. Were I conceiv’d with child,
Beshrew my heart, I should be so proud on’t!
Fran. That’s natural; pride is a kind of swelling:—
But yet I’ve small cause to be proud of mine. [Aside.
Isa. You are no good companion for a wife:
Get you a husband; prithee, sister, do,
That I may ask your counsel now and then:
'Twill mend your discourse much; you maids know nothing.
Fran. No, we are fools; but commonly we prove
Quicker mothers than you that have husbands:—
I’m sure I shall else: I may speak for one. [Aside.
Re-enter Antonio.
Ant. I will not look upon her; I’ll pass by,
And make as though I see her not. [Aside.
Isa. Why, sir,—
Pray, your opinion, by the way, with leave, sir:
I’m counselling your sister here to marry.
Ant. To marry? soft; the priest is not at leisure yet;
Some five year hence.—Would you fain marry, sister?
Fra. I’ve no such hunger to’t, sir,—for I think
I’ve a good bit that well may stay my stomach,
As well as any that broke fast, a sinner. [Aside.
Ant. Though she seem tall of growth, she’s short in years
Of some that seem much lower.—How old, sister?
Not seventeen, for a yard of lawn!
Fran. Not yet, sir.
Ant. I told you so.
Fran. I would he’d laid a wager of old shirts rather;
I shall have more need of them shortly; and yet,
A yard of lawn will serve for a christening-cloth;
I’ve use for every thing, as my case stands. [Aside.
Isa. I care not if I try my voice this morning;
But I have got a cold, sir, by your means.
Ant. I’ll strive to mend that fault.
Isa. I thank you, sir. [Sings.
In a maiden-time profest,
Then we say that life is best;
Tasting once the married life,
Then we only praise the wife:
There’s but one state more to try,
Which makes women laugh or cry—
Widow, widow: of these three
The middle’s best, and that give me.
Ant. There’s thy reward. [Kisses her.
Isa. I will not grumble, sir,
Like some musician; if more come, ’tis welcome.
Your kissing married folks spoil[523] all the maids
That ever live i’ th’ house with 'em. O, here
He comes with his bags and bottles; he was born
Enter Aberzanes, and Servants carrying baked meats and bottles.
Aber. Go, fellows, into th’ larder; let the bake-meats
Be sorted by themselves.
Ant. Why, sir—
Aber. Look the canary-bottles be well stopt;
The three of claret shall be drunk at dinner.
[Exeunt Servants.
Ant. My good sir, you’re too plenteous of these courtesies,
Indeed you are; forbear 'em, I beseech ye:
I know no merit in me, but poor love
And a true friend’s well-wishing, that can cause
This kindness in excess.—I’ th’ state that I am,
I shall go near to kick this fellow shortly,
And send him down stairs with his bag and baggage:
Why comes he now I’m married? there’s the point.
[Aside.
I pray, forbear these things.
Aber. Alas, you know, sir,
These idle toys,[525] which you call courtesies,
They cost me nothing but my servants’ travail!
One office must be kind, sir, to another:
You know the fashion. What! the gentlewoman
Your sister’s sad, methinks.
Ant. I know no cause she has.
Fran. Nor shall you, by my good will. [Aside.]
—What do you mean, sir?
Shall I stay here, to shame myself and you?
The time may be to-night, for aught you know.
Aber. Peace; there’s means wrought, I tell thee.
Enter Sebastian and Gentleman.
Fran. Ay, sir, when?
Ant. How now? what’s he?
Isa. O, this is the man, sir,
I entertain’d this morning for my service;
Please you to give your liking.
Ant. Yes, he’s welcome;
I like him not amiss.—Thou wouldst speak business,
Wouldest thou not?
Seb. Yes; may it please you, sir,
There is a gentleman from the northern parts
Hath brought a letter, as it seems in haste.
Ant. From whom?
Gent. Your bonny lady mother, sir.
[Giving letter to Antonio.
Ant. You are kindly welcome, sir: how doth she?
Ant. [reads] I pray send your sister down with all speed to me: I hope it will prove much for her good in the way of her preferment. Fail me not, I desire you, son, nor let any excuse of hers withhold her: I have sent, ready furnished, horse and man for her.
Aber. Now, have I thought upon you?
Fran. Peace, good sir;
You’re worthy of a kindness another time.
Ant. Her will shall be obey’d.—Sister, prepare yourself;
You must down with all speed.
Fran. I know, down I must;
And good speed send me! [Aside.
Ant. ’Tis our mother’s pleasure.
Fran. Good sir, write back again, and certify her
I’m at my heart’s wish here; I’m with my friends,
And can be but well, say.
Ant. You shall pardon me, sister;
I hold it no wise part to contradict her,
Nor would I counsel you to’t.
Fran. ’Tis so uncouth
Living i’ th’ country, now I’m us’d to th’ city,
That I shall ne’er endure’t.
Aber. Perhaps, forsooth,
’Tis not her meaning you shall live there long:
I do not think but after a month or so,
You’ll be sent up again; that’s my conceit.
However, let her have her will.
Ant. Ay, good sir,
Great reason ’tis she should.
Isa. I’m sorry, sister,
’Tis our hard fortune thus to part so soon.
Fran. The sorrow will be mine.
Ant. Please you walk in, sir;
We’ll have one health unto those northern parts,
Though I be sick at heart.
[Exeunt Antonio, Isabella, and Gentleman.
Aber. Ay, sir, a deep one—
Which you shall pledge too.
Fran. You shall pardon me;
I have pledg’d one too deep already, sir.
Aber. Peace; all’s provided for: thy wine’s laid in,
Sugar and spice; the place not ten mile hence.
What cause have maids now to complain of men,
When a farm-house can make all whole agen?[527]
[Exeunt Aberzanes and Francisca.
Seb. It takes; has no content: how well she bears it yet!
Hardly myself can find so much from her
That am acquainted with the cold disease:
O honesty’s a rare wealth in a woman!
It knows no want, at least will express none,
Not in a look. Yet I’m not throughly happy:
His ill does me no good; well may it keep me
From open rage and madness for a time,
But I feel heart’s grief in the same place still.
What makes the greatest torment 'mongst lost souls?
’Tis not so much the horror of their pains,
Though they be infinite, as the loss of joys;
It is that deprivation is the mother
Of all the groans in hell, and here on earth
Of all the red sighs in the hearts of lovers.
Still she’s not mine, that can be no man’s else
Till I be nothing, if religion
Have the same strength for me as 't has for others:
Holy vows, witness that our souls were married!
Re-enter Gasparo, ushering in Lord Governor attended by Gentlemen.
Gas. Where are you, sir? come, pray, give your attendance;
Here’s my lord governor come.
Gov. Where’s our new kindred?
Not stirring yet, I think.
Gas. Yes, my good lord:
Please you, walk near.
Gov. Come, gentlemen, we’ll enter.
Seb. I ha’ done’t upon a breach; this a less venture.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A Gallery in the Duke’s House.
Enter Almachildes.
Fie of all drunken humours! by this hand,
I could beat myself when I think on’t: and the rascals
Made me good cheer too; and to my understanding then
Eat some of every dish, and spoil’d the rest:
But coming to my lodging, I remember
I was as hungry as a tirèd foot-post.
What’s this?
[Takes from his pocket a ribbon.
O, ’tis the charm her hagship gave me
For my duchess’ obstinate woman; round about
A threepenny silk ribbon of three colours,
Necte tribus nodis ternos Amoretta colores;
Amoretta! why, there’s her name indeed:
Nodo et Veneris dic vincula necte;
Nay, if Veneris be one, I’m sure there’s no dead flesh in’t.
If I should undertake to construe this now,
I should make a fine piece of work of it,
For few young gallants are given to good construction
Of any thing, hardly of their best friends’ wives,
Sisters, or nieces. Let me see what I can do now.
Necte tribus nodis,—Nick of the tribe of noddies;
Ternos colores,—that makes turned colours;
Nodo et Veneris,—goes to his venery like a noddy;
Dic vincula,—with Dick the vintner’s boy.
Here were a sweet[530] charm now, if this were the meaning on’t, and very likely to overcome an honourable gentlewoman. The whorson old hellcat would have given me the brain of a cat once in my handkercher; I bade her make sauce with’t, with a vengeance! and a little bone in the hithermost part of a wolf’s tail; I bade her pick her teeth with’t, with a pestilence! Nay, this is somewhat cleanly yet and handsome; a coloured ribbon, a fine, gentle charm! a man may give’t his sister, his brother’s wife, ordinarily. See, here she comes, luckily.
Enter Amoretta.
Amo. Blest powers, what secret sin have I committed
That still you send this punishment upon me?
Alm. ’Tis but a gentle punishment; so take it.
Amo. Why, sir, what mean you? will you ravish me?
Alm. What, in the gallery, and the sun peep in?
There’s fitter time and place.—
[As he embraces her, he thrusts the ribbon into her bosom.
’Tis in her bosom now. [Aside.
Amo. Go, you’re the rudest thing e’er came at court!
Alm. Well, well; I hope you’ll tell me another tale
Ere you be two hours older: a rude thing?
I’ll make you eat your word; I’ll make all split[531] else.
[Exit.
Amo. Nay, now I think on’t better, I’m to blame too:
There’s not a sweeter gentleman in court;
Nobly descended too, and dances well.
Beshrew my heart, I’ll take him when there’s time;
He will be catch’d up quickly. The duchess says
Sh’as some employment for him, and has sworn me
To use my best art in’t: life of my joys,
There were good stuff! I will not trust her with him.
I’ll call him back again; he must not keep
Out of my sight so long; I shall grow mad then.
Enter Duchess.
Duch. He lives not now to see to-morrow spent,
If this means take effect, as there’s no hardness in’t.
Last night he play’d his horrid game again,
Came to my bed-side at the full of midnight,
And in his hand that fatal, fearful cup;
Wak’d me, and forc’d me pledge him, to my trembling
And my dead father’s scorn: that wounds my sight,
That his remembrance should be rais’d in spite:
But either his confusion or mine ends it.— [Aside.
O, Amoretta,—hast thou met him yet?
Speak, wench, hast done that for me?
Amo. What, good madam?
Duch. Destruction of my hopes! dost ask that now?
Didst thou not swear to me, out of thy hate
To Almachildes, thou’dst dissemble him
A loving entertainment, and a meeting
Where I should work my will?
Amo. Good madam, pardon me:
A loving entertainment I do protest
Myself to give him, with all speed I can too;
But, as I’m yet a maid, a perfect one
As the old time was wont to afford, when
There were[532] few tricks and little cunning stirring,
I can dissemble none that will serve your turn;
He must have even a right one and a plain one.
Duch. Thou mak’st me doubt thy health; speak, art thou well?
Amo. O, never better! if he would make haste
And come back quickly! he stays now too long.
[The ribbon falls out of her bosom.
Duch. I’m quite lost in this woman: what’s that fell
Out of her bosom now? some love-token?
Amo. Nay, I’ll say that for him, he’s the uncivil’st gentleman,
And every way desertless.
Duch. Who’s that now
She discommends so fast?
Amo. I could not love him, madam,
Of any man in court.
Duch. What’s he now, prithee?
Amo. Who should it be but Almachildes, madam?
I never hated man so deeply yet.
Duch. As Almachildes?
Amo. I am sick, good madam,
When I but hear him nam’d.
Duch. How is this possible?
But now thou saidst thou lov’dst him, and didst raise him
'Bove all the court in praises.
Amo. How great people
May speak their pleasure, madam! but surely I
Should think the worse of my tongue while I liv’d then.
Duch. No longer have I patience to forbear thee,
Thou that retain’st an envious soul to goodness!
He is a gentleman deserves as much
As ever fortune yet bestow’d on man;
The glory and prime lustre of our court;
Nor can there any but ourself be worthy of him:
And take you notice of that now from me,
Say you have warning on’t, if you did love him,
You must not now.
Amo. Let your grace never fear it.
Duch. Thy name is Amoretta, as ours is;
'Thas made me love and trust thee.
Amo. And my faithfulness
Has appear’d well i’ th’ proof still; has’t not, madam?
Duch. But if’t fail now, ’tis nothing.
Amo. Then it shall not.
I know he will not be long from fluttering
'Bout this place, now has had a sight of me;
And I’ll perform
In all that I vow’d, madam, faithfully.
Duch. Then am I blest both in revenge and love,
And thou shalt taste the sweetness. [Exit.
Amo. What your aims be
I list not to inquire; all I desire
Is to preserve a competent honesty,
Both for mine own and his use that shall have me,