NO WIT
HELP LIKE A WOMAN’S.
NO WIT
HELP LIKE
A Woman’s. A Comedy, By Tho. Middleton, Gent. London: Printed for Humphrey Moseley, at the Prince’s Arms in St. Pauls Churchyard. 1657. 8vo.—is generally found appended to the Two New Playes, &c. of the same date: see vol. iii. p. 553, and vol. iv. p. 513.
Among Shirley’s Poems (Works, vol. vi. p. 492) is A Prologue to a play there [at Dublin], called, No Wit to A Woman’s—most probably to the present play.
PROLOGUE.
How is’t possible to suffice
So many ears, so many eyes?
Some in wit, some in shows
Take delight, and some in clothes;
Some for mirth they chiefly come,
Some for passion,[1]—for both some;
Some for lascivious meetings, that’s their arrant;[2]
Some to detract, and ignorance their warrant.
How is’t possible to please
Opinion toss’d in such wild seas?
Yet I doubt not, if attention
Seize you above, and apprehension
You below, to take things quickly,
We shall both make you sad and tickle ye.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
- Sir Oliver Twilight, a knight.
- Philip Twilight, his son.
- Sandfield, friend to Philip Twilight, and in love with Jane.
- Sunset, an old gentleman.
- Low-water, a decayed gentleman.
- Sir Gilbert Lambstone,
Weatherwise,
Pepperton,
Overdone, suitors to Lady Goldenfleece. - Beveril, brother to Mistress Low-water.
- Dutch Merchant.
- Dutch Boy, his son.
- Savourwit, servant to Sir Oliver Twilight.
- Pickadill, Lady Goldenfleece’s fool.
- Servants, &c.
- Lady Twilight.
- Lady Goldenfleece, a rich widow.
- Mistress Low-water.
- Grace, secretly married to Philip Twilight, passing as daughter to Sir Oliver Twilight, but really Jane daughter to Sunset.
- Jane, passing as daughter to Sunset, but really Grace daughter to Sir Oliver Twilight.
Scene, London.
NO WIT
HELP LIKE A WOMAN’S.
ACT I. SCENE I.
Enter Philip Twilight and Savourwit.
Phil. I’m at my wit’s ends, Savourwit.
Sav. And I
Am even following after you as fast
As I can, sir.
Phil. My wife will be forc’d from me,
My pleasure!
Sav. Talk no more on’t, sir; how can there
Be any hope i’ the middle, when we’re both
At our wit’s end in the beginning? my invention
Was ne’er so gravell’d since I first set out upon’t.
Phil. Nor does my stop stick only in this wheel,
Though’t be a main vexation; but I’m grated
In a dear, absolute friend, young master Sandfield—
Sav. Ay, there’s another rub too!
Phil. Who supposes
That I make love to his affected mistress,[4]
When ’tis my father works against the peace
Of both our spirits, and wooes unknown to me:
He strikes out sparks of undeservèd anger
’Twixt old steel friendship and new stony hate;
As much forgetful of the merry hours
The circuits of our youth have[5] spent and worn,
As if they had not been, or we not born.
Enter Sandfield.
Sand. Unmerciful in torment!
Will this disease never forsake mine eye?
Phil. It must be kill’d first, if it grow so painful;
Work it out strongly at one time, that th’ anguish
May never more come near thy precious sight.
If my eternal sleep will give thee rest,
Close up mine eyes with opening of my breast.
Sand. I feel thy wrongs at midnight, and the weight
Of thy close treacheries: thou hast a friendship
As dangerous as a strumpet’s, that will kiss
Men into poverty, distress, and ruin;
And to make clear the face of thy foul deeds,
Thou work’st by seconds. [Drawing his sword.
Phil. Then may the sharp point of an inward horror
Strike me to earth, and save thy weapon guiltless!
Sand. Not in thy father?
Phil. How much is truth abus’d
When ’tis kept silent! O defend me, friendship!
But that a lover’s weapon ne’er[8] hears reason,
’Tis out still, like a madman’s: hear but me, sir;
’Tis my young master’s injury, not yours,
That you quarrel with him for; and this shews
As if you’d challenge a lame man the field,
And cut off’s head, because he has lost his legs:
His grief makes him dead flesh, as it appear’d
By offering up his breast to you; for, believe it, sir,
Had he not greater crosses of his own,
Your hilts could not cross him——
Sand. How!
Sav. Not your hilts, sir.
Come, I must have you friends; a pox of weapons!
There’s a whore gapes for’t; put it up i’ the scabbard.
Sand. [sheathing his sword] Thou’rt a mad slave!
Sav. Come, give me both your hands,
You’re in a quagmire both; should I release you now,
Your wits would both come home in a stinking pickle;
Your father’s old nose would smell you out presently.
Phil. Tell him the secret, which no mortal knows
But thou and I; and then he will confess
How much he wrong’d the patience of his friend.
Sav. Then thus the marigold opens at the splendour
Of a hot, constant friendship ’twixt you both.
’Tis not unknown to your ear, some ten years since,
My mistress, his good mother, with a daughter
About the age of six, crossing to Guernsey,
Was taken by the Dunkirks,[9] sold both, and separated,
As the last news brings hot,—the first and last
So much discover’d; for in nine years’ space
No certain tidings of their life or death,
Or what place held ’em, earth, the sea, or heaven,
Came to the old man’s ears, the knight my master,
Till about five months since a letter came,
Sent from the mother, which related all
Their taking, selling, separation,
And never meeting; and withal requir’d
Six hundred crowns for ransom; which my old master
No sooner heard the sound, but told the sum,
Gave him[10] the gold, and sent us both aboard:
We landing by the way—having a care
To lighten us of our carriage, because gold
Is such a heavy metal—eas’d our pockets
In wenches’ aprons: women were made to bear,
But for us gentlemen ’tis most unkindly.[11]
Sand. Well, sir?
Phil. A pure rogue still!
Sav. Amongst the rest, sir,
’Twas my young master’s chance there to doat finely
Upon a sweet young gentlewoman, but one
That would not sell her honour for the Indies,
Till a priest struck the bargain, and then half
A crown despatch’d it;
To be brief, wedded her and bedded her,
Brought her home hither to his father’s house,
And, with a fair tale of mine own bringing up,
She passes for his sister that was sold.
Sand. Let me not lose myself in wondering at thee!
But how made you your score even for the mother?
Sav. Pish, easily; we told him how her fortunes
Mock’d us as they mock’d her; when we were o’ the sea
She was o’ the land; and, as report was given,
When we were landed, she was gone to heaven.
So he believes two lies one error bred,
The daughter ransom’d, and the mother dead.
Sand. Let me admire thee, and withal confess
My injuries to friendship!
Phil. They’re all pardon’d:
These are the arms I bore against my friend.
Sav. But what’s all this to the present? this discourse
Leaves you i’ the bog still.
Phil. On, good Savourwit.
Sav. For yet our policy has cross’d ourselves;
For the old knave, my master, little thinking her
Wife to his son, but his own daughter still,
Seeks out a match for her——
Phil. Here I feel the surgeon
At second dressing.
Sav. And has entertain’d,
Even for pure need, for fear the glass should crack
That is already broken but well solder’d,
A mere sot for her suitor, a rank fox,
One Weatherwise, that wooes by the almanac,
Observes the full and change, an arrant moon-calf;
And yet, because the fool demands no portion
But the bare dower[12] of her smock, the old fellow,
Worn to the bone with a dry, covetous[13] itch,
To save his purse, and yet bestow his child,
Consents to waste [her on] lumps of almanac-stuff
Kned with May-butter.[14] Now, as I have thought on’t,
I’ll spoil him in the baking.
Sand. Prithee, as how, sirrah?
Sav. I’ll give him such a crack in one o’ the sides,
He shall quite run out of my master’s favour.
Phil. I should but too much love thee for that.
Sav. Thus, then,
To help you both at once, and so good night to you:
After my wit has shipp’d away the fool,
As he shall part, I’ll buzz into the ear
Of my old master, that you, sir, master Sandfield,
Dearly affect his daughter, and will take her
With little or no portion; well stood out in’t;
Methinks I see him caper at that news,
And in the full cry, O! This brought about
And wittily dissembled on both parts—
You to affect his love, he to love yours—
I’ll so beguile the father at the marriage,
That each shall have his own; and both being welcom’d
And chamber’d in one house.—as ’tis his pride
To have his children’s children got successively
On his forefathers’ feather-beds,—in the daytimes,
To please the old man’s eyesight, you may dally,
And set a kiss on the wrong lip—no sin in’t,
Brothers and sisters do’t, cousins do more;
But, pray, take heed you be not kin to them:
So in the night-time nothing can deceive you,
Let each know his own work; and there I leave you.
Sand. Let me applaud thee!
Phil. Blest be all thy ends
That mak’st arm’d enemies embracing friends!
About it speedily. [Exit with Sandfield.
Sav. I need no pricking;
I’m of that mettle, so well pac’d and free,
There’s no good riders that use spur to me.
Enter Grace.
O, are you come?
Grace. Are any comforts coming?
Sav. I never go without ’em.
Grace. Thou sportest joys that utterance cannot perfect.
Sav. Hark, are they risen?
Grace. Yes, long before I left ’em;
And all intend to bring the widow homeward.
Sav. Depart then, mistress, to avoid suspect;
Our good shall arrive time enough at your heart.
[Exit Grace.
Poor fools, that evermore take a green surfeit
Of the first fruits of joys! Let a man but shake the tree,
How soon they’ll hold up their laps to receive comfort!
The music that I struck made her soul dance—
Peace—
Enter Lady Goldenfleece with Sir Gilbert Lambstone, Pepperton, and Overdone; after them, Sir Oliver Twilight and Sunset, with Grace and Jane.
Here comes the lady widow, the late wife
To the deceas’d sir Avarice Goldenfleece,
Second to none for usury and extortion,
As too well it appears on a poor gentleman,
One master Low-water, from whose estate
He pull’d that fleece that makes his widow weight.
Those are her suitors now, sir Gilbert Lambstone,
Master Pepperton, [and] master Overdone. [Aside.
L. Gold. Nay, good sir Oliver Twilight, master Sunset,
We’ll trouble you no farther.
Sir O. Twi.
Sun. No trouble, sweet madam.
Sir G. Lamb. We’ll see the widow at home, it shall be our charge that.
L. Gold. It shall be so indeed.
Thanks, good sir Oliver; and to you both
I am indebted for those courtesies
That will ask me a long time to requite.
Sir O. Twi. Ah, ’tis but your pleasant condition[15] to give it out so, madam.
L. Gold. Mistress Grace and mistress Jane, I wish you both
A fair contented fortune in your choices,
And that you happen right.
Grace.
Jane. Thanks to you, good madam;
Grace. There’s more in that word right than you imagine. [Aside.
L. Gold. I now repent, girls, a rash oath I took,
When you were both infants, to conceal a secret.
Grace. What does’t concern, good madam?
L. Gold. No, no;
Since you are both so well, ’tis well enough;
It must not be reveal’d; ’tis now no more
Than like mistaking of one hand for t’other:
A happy time to you both!
Grace.
Jane. The like to you, madam!
Grace. I shall long much to have this riddle open’d.
[Aside.
Jane. I would you were so kind to my poor kinswoman,
And the distressèd gentleman her husband,
Poor master Low-water, who on ruin leans;
You keep this secret as you keep his means. [Aside.
Sweet master Pepperton;—master Overdone, welcome.
[Exeunt all except Sir Oliver Twilight and Savourwit.
Sir O. Twi. And goes the business well ’twixt those young lovers?
Sav. Betwixt your son and master Sunset’s daughter
The line goes even, sir.
Sir O. Twi. Good lad, I like thee.
Sav. But, sir, there’s no proportion, height, or evenness,
Betwixt that equinoctial and your daughter.
Sav. Are you glad, sir,
There’s no proportion in’t?
Sir O. Twi. Ay, marry am I, sir:
I can abide no word that ends in portion;
I’ll give her nothing.
Sav. Say you should not, sir—
As I’ll ne’er urge your worship ’gainst your nature—
Is there no gentleman, think you, of worth and credit,
Will open ’s bed to warm a naked maid?
A hundred gallant fellows, and be glad
To be so set a-work: virginity
Is no such cheap ware as you make account on,
That it had need with portion be set off,
For that sets off a portion in these days.
Sir O. Twi. Play on, sweet boy;
O, I could hear this music all day long,
When there’s no money to be parted from!
Strike on, good lad.
Sav. Do not wise men and great often bestow
Ten thousand pound in jewels that lie by em?
If so, what jewel can lie by a man
More precious than a virgin? if none more precious,
Why should the pillow of a fool be grac’d
With that brave spirits with dearness have embrac’d?
And then, perhaps, ere the third spring come on,
Sends home your diamond crack’d, the beauty gone;
And more to know her, ’cause you shall not doubt her,
A number of poor sparks twinkling about her.
Sav. But shall I dry your eyes with a merry jig now,
And make you look like sunshine in a shower?
Sir O. Twi. How, how, my honest boy, sweet Savourwit?
Sav. Young master Sandfield, gallant master Sandfield——
Sir O. Twi. Ha! what of him?
Sav. Affects your daughter strangely.
Sir O. Twi. Brave master Sandfield!—let me hug thy zeal
Unto thy master’s house;—ha, master Sandfield!
But he’ll expect a portion.
Sav. Not a whit, sir,
As you may use the matter.
The devil a penny that he gets of me!
Sav. He lies at the mercy of your lock and key, sir;
You may use him as you list.
Sir O. Twi. Say’st thou me so?
Is he so far in doing?
Sav. Quite over head and ears, sir;
Nay, more, he means to run mad, and break his neck
Off some high steeple, if he have her not.
Sir O. Twi. Now bless the young gentleman’s gristles! I hope to be
A grandfather yet by ’em.
Sav. That may you, sir,
To, marry, a chopping girl with a plump buttock,
Will hoist a farthingale at five years old,
And call a man between eleven and twelve
To take part of a piece of mutton with her.
Sir O. Twi. Ha, precious wag! hook him in finely, do.
Sav. Make clear the way for him first, set the gull going.
Sir O. Twi. An ass, an ass, I’ll quickly dash his wooing.
Sav. Why, now the clocks
Go right again: it must be a strange wit
That makes the wheels of youth and age so hit;
The one are dry, worn, rusty, furr’d, and soil’d,
Love’s wheels are glib, ever kept clean and oil’d.
[Aside, and exit.
Sir O. Twi. I cannot choose but think of this good fortune;
That gallant master Sandfield!
Enter Weatherwise.
Wea. Stay, stay, stay!
What comfort gives my almanac[19] to-day?
[Taking out an almanac.
Luck, I beseech thee! [Reads] Good days,—evil days,—June,—July;—speak a good word for me now, and I have her: let me see, The fifth day, ’twixt hawk and buzzard; The sixth day, backward and forward,—that was beastly to me, I remember; The seventh day, on a slippery pin; The eighth day, fire and tow; The ninth day, the market is marred,—that’s ’long of the hucksters, I warrant you; but now the tenth day—luck, I beseech thee now, before I look into’t!—The tenth[20] day, against the hair,—a pox on’t, would that hair had been left out! against the hair? that hair will go nigh to choke me; had it been against any thing but that, ’twould not have troubled me, because it lies cross i’ the way. Well, I’ll try the fortune of a good face yet, though my almanac leave me i’ the sands. [Aside.
Sir O. Twi. Such a match too, I could not wish a better! [Aside.
Wea. Mass, here he walks. [Aside.]—Save you,
sweet sir Oliver—sir Oliver Twilight.
Sir O. Twi. O, pray come to me a quarter of a year hence;
I have a little business now.
Wea. How, a quarter of a year hence? what, shall I come to you in September?
Sir O. Twi. Nor in November neither, good my friend.
Wea. You’re not a mad knight! you will not let your daughter hang past August, will you? she’ll drop down under tree then: she’s no winter-fruit, I assure you, if you think to put her in crust after Christmas.
Sir O. Twi. Sir, in a word, depart; my girl’s not for you;
I gave you a drowsy promise in a dream,
But broad awake now, I call’t in again:
Have me commended to your wit,—farewell, sir. [Exit.
Wea. Now the devil run away with you, and some lousy fiddler with your daughter! may Clerkenwell have the first cut of her, and Houndsditch pick the bones! I’ll never leave the love of an open-hearted widow for a narrow-eyed maid again; go out of the roadway, like an ass, to leap over hedge and ditch; I’ll fall into the beaten path again, and invite the widow home to a banquet: let who list seek out new ways, I’ll be at my journey’s end before him:
My almanac told me true how I should fare;
Let no man think to speed against the hair.[21]
[Exit.
SCENE II.
A room in Low-water’s house.
Enter Mistress Low-water.
Mis. Low. Is there no saving means, no help religious,
For a distressèd gentlewoman to live by?
Has virtue no revenue? who has all then?
Is the world’s lease from hell, the devil[22] head-landlord?
O, how was conscience, the right heir, put by?
Law would not do such an unrighteous deed,
Though with the fall of angels[23] ’t had been fee’d.
Where are our hopes in banks? was honesty,
A younger sister, without portion left,
No dowry in the chamber beside wantonness?
O miserable orphan!
’Twixt two extremes runs there no blessèd mean,
No comfortable strain,[24] that I may kiss it?
Must I to whoredom or to beggary lean,
My mind being sound? is there no way to miss it?
Is’t not injustice that a widow laughs,
And lays her mourning part upon a wife?
That she should have the garment, I the heart?
My wealth her uncle left her, and me her grief.
Yet, stood all miseries in their loathed’st forms
On this hand of me, thick like a foul mist;
And here the bright enticements of the world
In clearest colours, flattery and advancement,
And all the bastard glories this frame jets[25] in,—
Horror nor splendour, shadows fair nor foul,
Should force me shame my husband, wound my soul.
Enter Jane.
Cousin, you’re welcome; this is kindly done of you,
To visit the despis’d.
Jane. I hope not so, coz;
The want of means cannot make you despis’d;
Love not by wealth, but by desert, is priz’d.
Mis. Low. You’re pleas’d to help it well, coz.
Jane. I’m come to you,
Beside my visitation, to request you
To lay your wit to mine, which is but simple,
And help me to untie a few dark words
Made up in knots,—they’re of the widow’s knitting,
That ties all sure,—for my wit has not strength
Nor cunning to unloose ’em.
Mis. Low. Good: what are they?
Though there be little comfort of my help.
Jane. She wish’d sir Oliver’s daughter and myself
Good fortune in our choices, and repented her
Of a rash oath she took, when we were both infants,
A secret to conceal; but since all’s well,
She holds it best to keep it unreveal’d:
Now, what this is, heaven knows.
Mis. Low. Nor can I guess:
The course of her whole life and her dead husband’s
Was ever full of such dishonest riddles,
To keep right heirs from knowledge of their own:
And now I’m put i’ the mind on’t, I believe
It was some price[26] of land or money given,
By some departing friend upon their deathbed,
Perhaps to yourself; and sir Oliver’s daughter
May wrongfully enjoy it, and she hir’d—
For she was but an hireling in those days—
To keep the injury secret.
Jane. The most likeliest
That ever you could think on!
Mis. Low. Is it not?
Jane. Sure, coz, I think you have untied the knot;
My thoughts lie at more ease: as in all other things,
In this I thank your help; and may you live
To conquer your own troubles and cross ends,
As you are ready to supply your friends!
Mis. Low. I thank you for the kind truth of your heart,
In which I flourish when all means depart.—
Sure in that oath of hers there sleeps some wrong
Done to my kinswoman. [Aside.
Enter Footman.
Jane. Who’d you speak withal?
Foot. The gentlewoman of this house, forsooth.
Jane. Whose footman are you?
Foot. One sir Gilbert Lambstone’s.
Jane. Sir Gilbert Lambstone’s? there my cousin walks.
Foot. Thank your good worship. [Exit Jane.
Mis. Low. How now? whence are you?
Foot. This letter will make known.
[Giving letter to Mis. Low-water.
Mis. Low. Whence comes it, sir?
Foot. From the knight my master, sir Gilbert Lambstone.
Mis. Low. Return’t; I’ll receive none on’t.
[Throwing down letter.
Foot. There it must lie then; I were as good run to Tyburn a-foot, and hang myself at mine own charges, as carry it back again. [Exit.