Enter Mercury, and Servant.
Mer. Who is it? can you tell?
Ser. By my troth, Sir, I know not, but 'tis a Gentlewoman.
Mer. A Gentleman, I'll lay my life, you puppy, h'as sent his Wife to me: if he have, fling up the bed.
Enter Wife with a Letter.
Wife. I am glad I found you Sir, there, take your Letter,
and keep it till you have another friend to wrong, 'tis too
malicious false to make me sin, you have provoked me to
be that I love not, a talker, and you shall hear me.
Why should you dare to imagine me
So light a huswife, that from four hours knowledge
You might presume to offer to my credit
This rude and ruffian tryal, I am sure
I never courted you, nor gave you tokens,
That might concern assurance, you are a fool.
Mer. I cannot blame you now, I see this letter,
Though you be angry, yet with me you must not,
Unless you'l make me guilty of a wrong,
My worst affections hate——
Wife. Did not you send it?
Mer. No, upon my faith, which is more, I understand it not; the hand is as far from my knowledge, as the malice.
Wife. This is strange.
Mer. It is so, and had been stranger, and indeed more hateful,
Had I, that have receiv'd such courtesies, and owe so many
Thanks, done this base office.
Wife. Your name is at it.
Mer. Yes, but not my nature, and I shall hate my name worse than the manner, for this base broking; you are wise and vertuous, remove this fault from me; for on the love I bear to truth and goodness, this Letter dare not name me for the author.
Wife. Now I perceive my husbands knavery, if [my] man can but find where he has been, I will goe with this Gentleman whatsoever comes on't: and as I mean to carry it, both he and all the World shall think it fit, and thank me for it.
Mer. I must confess I loved you, at first, however this made me leave your house unmannerly, that might provoke me to do something ill, both to your honor and my faith, and not to write this Letter, which I hold so truly wicked, that I will not think on't.
Wife. I do believe you, and since I see you are free, my words were not meant to you, but this is not the half of my affliction.
Mer. 'Tis pitty you should know more vexation; may I enquire?
Wife. Faith, Sir, I fear I have lost my husband.
Mer. Your husband? it cannot be: I pitty her, how she's vext!
Enter Servant.
Wife. How now? What news? nay speak, for we must know.
Ser. Faith I have found at length, by chance, where he has been.
Wife. Where?
Ser. In a blind out-house in the Suburbs, pray God all be well with him.
Wife. Why?
Serv. There are his cloaths, but, What's become of him,
I cannot yet enquire.
Wife. I am glad of this; sure they have murther'd him,
What shall I do?
Mer. Be not so grieved, before you know the truth, you have time enough to weep, this is the sodain'st mischief; Did you not bring an Officer to search there, where you say you found his cloaths.
Ser. Yes, and we searcht it, and charg'd the fellow with him: but he, like a Rogue, stubborn Rogue, made answer, he knew not where he was; he had been there, but where he was now, he could not tell: I tell you true, I fear him.
Wife. Are all my hopes and longings to enjoy him,
After this 3 years travel, come to this?
Ser. It is the rankest house in all the City, the most cursed roguy Bawdy-house. Hell fire it.
Mer. This is the worst I heard yet; Will you go home? I'll bear you company, and give you the best help I may: this being here will wrong you.
Wife. As you are a Gentleman, and as you lov'd your dead friend, let me not go home, that will but heap one sorrow on another.
Mer. Why propose any thing and I'll perform't; I am at my wits end too.
Ser. So am I, O my dear Master!
Mer. Peace you great fool.
Wife. Then good Sir carry me to some retir'd place, far from the sight of this unhappy City, whether you will indeed, so it be far enough.
Mer. If I might Councel you, I think 'twere better to
go home,
And try what may be done yet, he may be at home afore
you, Who can tell?
Wife. O no, I know he's dead, I know he's murder'd; tell me not of going home, you murder me too.
Mer. Well, since it pleases you to have it so, I will no more perswade you to go home, I'll be your guide in the Countrey, as your grief doth command me, I have a Mother dwelling from this place some 20 miles: the house though homely, yet able to shew something like a welcome; thither I'll see you safe with all your sorrows.
Wife. With all the speed that may be thought upon; I have a Coach here ready, good Sir quickly; I'll fit you my fine husband.
Mer. It shall be so; if this fellow be dead, I see no band of any other Man, to tye me from my will, and I will follow her with such careful service, that she shall either be my Love, or Wife; Will you walk in?
Wife. I thank you, Sir, but one word with my Man, and I am ready; keep the Irish fellow safe, as you love your life, for he I fear has a deep hand in this, then search agen, and get out warrants for that naughty man, that keeps the bad house, that he may answer it, if you find the body, give it due burial; farewel. You shall hear from me, keep all safe. [Exeunt.
Ser. O my sweet Master!
Antonio knocking within.
Ant. within. Man-a-cree, the Devil take thee, Wilt thou kill me here? I prethee now let me goe seek my Master, I shall be very cheel else.
Enter Servant.
Ser. Do you hear man-a-cree, I'll cree your coxcombe, and you keep not still, down you rogue.
Ant. Good sweet fact serving-man, let me out I beseech de, and by my trot I will give dye Worship 2 shillings in good argott, to buy dy Worship pippines.
Ser. This rogue thinks all the worth of man consists in Peepins; by this light I'll beat rebellion out of you for ever.
Ant. Wilt thou not hear me Man? is fet; I'll give thee all I have about me.
Ser. I thank you, Sir, so I may have picking work.
Ant. Here is five shillings Man.
Serv. Here is a cudgel, a very good one.
Enter two Serving-men.
2. Ser. How now, What's the matter? Where's the Irishman.
1. Ser. There, a wyth take him, he makes more noise alone there, than ten Lawyers can do with double, and a scurvy Case.
2. Ser. Let him out, I must talk with him.
Enter Antonio.
Ant. Wilt thou give me some drink, O hone? I am very dry Man.
2 Ser. You shall have that shall quench your thirst, my friend.
Ant. Fate dost thou mean man.
2 Ser. Even a good tough halter.
Ant. A halter? O hone!
2 Ser. Sirrah, you are a mischievous Rogue, that's the truth.
Ant. No, fet I am not.
1 Ser. Shall I knock out his brains? I have kill'd dogs have been worth three of him for all uses.
2 Ser. Sirrah, the truth on't is, you must with me to a Justice. O Roger, Roger.
1 Ser. Why, what's the matter William?
2 Ser. Heavy news Roger, heavy newes; god comfort us.
Ant. What's the matter now? I am e'en weary of this way, would I were out on't.
1 Ser. My Master sure is murder'd, Roger, and this cursed rogue
I fear, has had a hand in't.
Ant. No fet not.
1 Ser. Stand away, I'll kickt out of him: come, sirrha, mount, I'll make you dance, you Rascal, kill my Master? If thy breech were cannon proof, having this good cause on my side, I would encounter it; hold fair, Shamrocke.
Ant. Why how now Sirs? you will not murder me indeed.
2 Ser. Bless us Roger!
Ant. Nay, I am no spirit.
2 Ser. How do you Sir, this is my very Master.
Ant. Why well enough yet, but you have a heavy foot of your own; Where's my Wife.
1 Ser. Alas poor sorrowful Gentlewoman, she thinks you are dead, and has given o're house-keeping.
Ant. Whether is she gone then?
1 Ser. Into the Countrey with the Gentleman your Friend Sir, to see if she can wear her sorrows out there; she weeps and takes on too too—
Ant. This falls out pat; I shall be everlasting for a name: Doe you hear? upon your lives and faiths to me, not one word I am living, but let the same report pass along, that I am murther'd still; I am made for ever.
1 Ser. Why Sir?
Ant. I have a Cause Sir, that's enough for you; well, if I be not famous, I am wrong'd much; for any thing I know I will not trouble him this week at least, no, let them take their way one of another.
1 Ser. Sir, Will you be still an Irish-man?
Ant. Yes a while.
2 Ser. But your Worship will be beaten no more?
Ant. No, I thank you William.
1 Ser. In truth, Sir, if it must be so, I'll do it better than a stranger.
Ant. Goe, you are Knaves both, but I forgive you, I am almost mad with the apprehension of what I shall be, not a word I charge you. [Exeunt.
Enter Valerio, and Viola.
Val. Come, pretty soul, we now are near our home,
And whilst our horses are walkt down the hill,
Let thou and I walke here over this Close:
The foot-way is more pleasant, 'tis a time
My pretty one, not to be wept away,
For every living thing is full of love;
Art not thou so too? ha?
Vio. Nay, there are living things empty of love,
Or I had not been here, but for my self,
Alas, I have too much.
Val. It cannot be, that so much beauty, so much youth and grace should have too much of love.
Vio. Pray what is love? for I am full of that I do not know.
Val. Why, love fair Maid is an extream desire,
That's not to be examin'd, but fulfill'd,
To ask the reason why thou art in love,
Or what might be the noblest end in love,
Would overthrow that kindly rising warmth,
That many times slides gently o'r the heart,
'Twould make thee grave and staid, thy thoughts would be,
Like a thrice married Widow, full of ends,
And void of all compassion, and to fright thee
From such enquiry, whereas thou art now
Living in ignorance, mild, fresh, and sweet,
And but sixteen; the knowing what love is,
Would make thee six and forty.
Vio. Would it would make me nothing, I have heard
Scholars affirm, the world's upheld by Love,
But I believe, women maintain all this,
For there's no love in men.
Val. Yes, in some men.
Vio. I know them not.
Val. Why, there is love in me.
Vio. There's charity I am sure towards me.
Val. And love; which I will now express, my pretty maid,
I dare not bring thee home, my wife is foul,
And therefore envious, she is very old,
And therefore jealous: thou art fair and young.
A subject fit for her unlucky vices
No work upon, she never will endure thee.
Via. She may endure
If she be ought, but Devil, all the friendship
That I will hold with you; can she endure
I should be thankful to you? may I pray
For you and her, will she be brought to think.
That all the honest industry I have,
Deserves brown bread? if this may be endur'd
She'll pick a quarrel with a sleeping child,
E'r she fall out with me.
Val. But trust me, she does hate all handsomness.
Vio. How fell you in love with such a creature?
Val. I never lov'd her.
Vio. And yet married her?
Val. She was a rich one.
Vio. And you swore I warrant you, she was a fair one then too.
Val. Or believe me, I think I had not had her.
Vio. Are you men all such? wou'd you wou'd wall us in a place
Where all we women that are innocent,
Might live together.
Val. Do not weep at this,
Although I dare not for some weighty reason
Displease my Wife, yet I forget not thee.
Vio. What will you do with me?
Val. Thou shalt be plac'd
At my mans house, and have such food and raiment
As can be bought with money: these white hands
Shall never learn to work, but they shall play
As thou say'st they were wont, teaching the strings
To move in order, or what else thou wilt.
Vio. I thank you, Sir, but pray you cloath me poorly,
And let my labor get me means to live.
Val. But fair one, you, I know do so much hate
A foul ingratitude, you will not look
I should do this for nothing.
Vio. I will work as much out as I can, and take as little,
That you shall have as duely paid to you
As ever servant did.
Vol. But give me now a trial on't, I may believe
We are alone, shew me how thou wilt kiss
And hug me hard, when I have stolen away
From my too clamorous wife that watches me,
To spend a blessed hour or t[w]o with thee.
Vio. Is this the love you mean? you would have that
Is not in me to give, you would have lust.
Val. Not to dissemble, or to mince the word,
'Tis Lust I wish indeed.
Vio. And by my troth I have it not: for heavens sake use
me kindly.
Though I be good, and shew perhaps a monster,
As this world goes.
Val. I do
But speak to thee, thy answers are thy own,
I compel none, but if [thou] refuse this motion,
Thou art not then for me, alas good soul;
What profit can thy work bring me?
Vio. But I fear, I pray goe, for lust they say, will grow
Outragious, being deni'd, I give you thanks
For all your courtesies, and there's a Jewel
That's worth the taking, that I did preserve
Safe from the robbers, pray you leave me here
Just as you found me, a poor innocent,
And Heaven will bless you for it.
Val. Pretty maid, I am no Robber, nor no Ravisher,
I pray thee keep thy Jewel, I have done
No wrong to thee, though thou beest virtuous
And in extremity, I do not know,
That I am bound to keep thee.
Vio. No Sir, for gods sake, if you know an honest man in all these Countreys, give me some directions to find him out.
Val. More honest than my self, good sooth I do not know; I would have lain with thee, with thy consent, and who would not in all these parts, is past my memory, I am sorry for thee, farewel gentle maid, God keep thee safe. [Exit.
Vio. I thank you Sir, and you;
Woman they say, was only made of man,
Methinks 'tis strange they should be so unlike,
It may be all the best was cut away
To make the woman, and the naught was left
Behind with him, I'll sit me down and weep,
All things have cast me from 'em but the earth;
The evening comes, and every little flower
Droops now, as well as I.
Enter two Milk-maids with pails.
Nan. Good Madge lets rest a little, by my troth I am weary, this new pail is a plaguy heavy one, would Tom were hang'd for choosing it, 'tis the untoward'st fool in a Countrey.
Madg. With all my heart, and I thank you too, Nan.
Vio. What true contented happiness dwels here,
More than in Cities! wou'd to God my Father
Had liv'd like one of these, and bred me up
To milk: and do as they do: methinks
'Tis a life that I wou'd choose, if I were now
To tell my time agen, above a Princes; maids, for charity
Give a poor wench one draught of Milk,
That weariness and hunger have nigh famish'd.
Nan. If I had but one Cows Milk in all the world, you should have some on't; there, drink more, the Cheese shall pay for it, alas poor heart, she's drie.
Madge. Do you dwell here abouts?
Vio. No, would I did.
Nan. Madge, if she does not looke like my cosin Sue o'th' Moor lane, as one thing can look like another—
Madge. Nay, Sue has a hazle eye, I know Sue well, and by your leave, not so trim a body neither, this is a feat bodied thing I tell you.
Nan. She laces close by the mass I warrant you, and so does Sue too.
Vio. I thank you for your gentleness, fair maids.
Nan. Drink agen pray thee.
Vio. I am satisfied, and heaven reward thee for't, yet thus far I will compell you to accept these trifles, toys only that express my thanks, for greater worth, I'm sure they have not in them; indeed you shall, I found 'em as I came.
Nan. Madge, look you here Madge.
Madg. Nay, I have as fine a one as you, mine's all gold, and painted, and a precious stone in't; I warrant it cost a crown wench.
Nan. But mine is the most sumptuous one, that e'r I saw.
Vio. One favour you must do me more, for you are well acquainted here.
Nan. Uds me, our Dorothy went away but last week, and I know my mistriss want's a maid, and why may she not be plac'd there? this is a likely wench, I tell you truly, and a good wench I warrant her.
Madg. And 'tis a hard case if we that have serv'd four years apiece, cannot bring in one servant, we will prefer her; hark you sister, pray what's your name.
Vio. Melvia.
Nan. A feat name i'faith; and can you milk a cow? and make a merry-bush? that's nothing.
Vio. I shall learn quickly.
Nan. But be sure to keep the men out, they will mar all that you make else, I know that by my self; for I have been So touz'd among 'em in my days, come you shall e'en home with us, and be our fellow, our house is so honest, and we serve a very good woman, and a Gentlewoman, and we live as merrily, and dance a good daies after even-song: our Wake shall be on Sunday; do you know what a Wake is? we have mighty cheer then, and such a coil, 'twould bless ye; you must not be so bashful, you'll spoil all.
Madg. Let's home for Gods sake, my Mistriss thinks by this time we are lost, come, we'll have a care of you, I warrant you; but you must tell my Mistress where you were born, and every thing that belongs to you, and the strangest things you can devise, for she loves those extreamly, 'tis no matter whether they be true or no, she's not so scrupulous; you must be our Sister, and love us best, and tell us every thing, and when cold weather comes, we'll lye together, will you do this?
Vio. Yes.
Nan. Then home again o' gods name, can you go apace.
Vio. I warrant you. [Exeunt.
Enter Pedro and Uberto, severally.
Ped. How now, any good news yet?
Silvio. Faith not any yet.
Ped. This comes o' tipling; would 'twere treason and't pleas['d] God, to drink more than three draughts at a meal.
Sil. When did you see Richardo?
Ped. I crost him twice to day.
Sil. You have heard of a young wench that was seen last [night].
Ped. Yes.
Sil. Has Richard heard of this?
Ped. Yes, and I think he's ridden after, farewel, I'll have another round.
Sil. If you hear any thing, pray spare no horse-flesh,
I'll do the like.
Ped. Do. [Exeunt.
Enter Richardo and Valerio.
Rich. Sir, I did think 'twas you by all descriptions.
Val. 'Tis so,
I took her up indeed, the manner how
You have heard already, and what she had about her,
As Jewels, Gold, and other trifling things:
And what my end was, which because she slighted,
I left her there i'th' fields.
Rich. Left i'th' fields? could any but a Rogue
That had despis'd humanity and goodness,
[God,] law and credit; and had set himself
To lose his noblest part, and be a beast,
Have left so innocent unmatch'd a virtue,
To the rude mercy of a wilderness?
Val. Sir, if you come to rail, pray quit my house,
I do not use to have such language given
Within my doors to me; for your wench,
You may go seek her with more patience,
She's tame enough, I warrant you.
Rich. Pray forgive me.
I do confess my much forgetfulness;
And weigh my words no farther, I beseech you,
Then a mere madness, for such a grief has seiz'd me
So strong and deadly, as a punishment,
And a just one too,
That 'tis a greater wonder I am living,
Than any thing I utter; yet let me tell you thus much,
'Twas a fault for leaving her
So in the fields.
Val. Sir, I will think so now, and credit me,
You have so wrought me with your grief, that I
Do both forgive and pity you:
And if you'll please to take a bed this night here;
To morrow I'll bring you where I left her.
Rich. I thank you, [no,] shall I be so unworthy:
To think upon a bed, or ease, or comfort,
And have my heart stray from me, God knows where,
Cold and forsaken, destitute of friends,
And all good comforts else, unless some tree
Whose speechless charity must better ours,
With which the bitter east winds made their sport
And sung through hourly, hath invited her
To keep off half a day? shall she be thus,
And I draw in soft slumbers? God forbid.
No, night and bitter coldness, I provoke thee,
And all the dews that hang upon thy locks,
Showrs, Hails, Snows, Frosts, and two edged Winds that prime
The maiden blossoms, I provoke you all,
And dare expose this body to your sharpness,
Till I be made a Land-mark.
Val. Will you then stay and eat with me?
Rich. Y'are angry with me, I know y'are angry,
You would not bid me eat else; my poor Mistriss,
For ought I know thou'rt famish'd, for what else
Can the fields yield thee, and the stubborn season,
That yet holds in the fruit? good gentle Sir,
Think not ill manners in me for denying
Your offer'd meat, for sure I cannot eat
While I do think she wants; well I'm a rascal;
A villain, slave, that only was begotten,
To murder women, and of them the best.
Val. This is a strange affliction.
If you'll accept no greater courtesie, yet drink Sir.
Ric. Now I am sure you hate me, and you knew
What kind of man I am, as indeed 'tis fit,
That every man should know me to avoid me.
If you have peace within you, Sir, or goodness
Name that abhord word - Drink, no more unto me,
You had safer strike me.
I pray you do not, if you love me do not.
Val. Sir, I mean no ill by it.
Ric. It may be so,
Nor let me see
None Sir, if you love heaven;
You know not what offence it is unto me,
Nor good now do not ask me why:
And I warn you once again, let no man else speak of't,
I fear your servants will be prating to me.
Val. Why Sir, what ail you?
Rich. I hate drink, there's the end on't,
And that man that drinks with meat is damn'd
Without an age of prayers and repentance,
And there's a hazard too; good Sir, no more
If you will do me a free courtesie;
That I shall know for one: go take your horse,
And bring me to the place where you left her:
Val. Since you are so impo[r]tunate, I will;
But I will wish Sir, you had staid to night
Upon my credit you shall see no drink.
Rich. Be gone, the hearing of it makes me giddy,
Sir, will you be intreated to forbear it,
I shall be mad else.
Val. I pray no more of that, I am quiet,
I'll but walk in, and away straight.
Rich. Now I thank you,
But what you do, do in a twinkling, Sir.
Val. As soon as may be. [Exit.
Enter Mother, Viola, and two Milk-maids.
Moth. Is this the wench you have brought me? some catch I warrant.
How daringly she looks upon the matter!
Madge. Yes forsooth, this is the maiden.
Moth. Come hither, wou'd you serve?
Vio. If it shall please you to accept my service, I hope I shall do something that shall like you, though it be but truth, and often praying for you.
Moth. You are very curious of your hand methinks,
You preserve it so with gloves, let me see it;
I marry, here's a hand of march-pane, wenches,
This pretty palme never knew sorrow yet;
How soft it is I warrant you, and supple:
O' my word, this is fitter for a pocket to filch withal
Than to [work], I fear me little one,
You are no better than you should be; goe to.
Vio. My Conscience yet is but one witness to me,
And that heaven knows, is of mine innocence,
'Tis true, I must confess with shame enough,
The time that I have led, yet never taught me
What 'twas to break a sleep, or to be weary.
Moth. You can say well: if you be mine, wench, you must doe well too, for words are but slow workers, yet so much hope I have of you, that I'll take you, so you'll be diligent, and do your duty: how now?
Enter Alexander.
Alex. There is a messenger come from your son,
That brings you word he is return'd from travel,
And will be here this night.
Moth. Now joy upon thee for it, thou art ever
A bringer of good tidings, there, drink that:
In troth thou hast much contented me, my Son!
Lord how thou hast pleas'd me, shall I see my Son
Yet e'r I dye? take care my house be handsome,
And the new stools set out, and boughs and rushes,
And flowers for the window, and the Turky Carpet,
And the great parcel Salt, Nan, with the Cruets,
And prethee Alexander goe to the Cook,
And bid him spare for nothing, my son's come home,
Who's come with him?
Alex. I hear of none yet, but a Gentlewoman.
Moth. A Gentlewoman? what Gentlewoman?
Alex. I know not, but such a one there is, he says.
Moth. Pray God he have not cast away himself
Upon some snout-fair piece, I do not like it.
Alex. No sure, my Master has more discretion.
Moth. [Well,] be it how it will, he shall be welcome.
Sirs to your tasks, and shew this little novice
How to bestir her self, I'll sort out things. [Exit.
Madge. We will forsooth, I can tell you, my Mistriss is a stirring woman.
Nan. Lord how she'll talk sometimes! 'tis the maddest cricket—
Vio. Methinks she talks well, and shews a great deal of good huswivery, pray let me deck the chambers, shall I?
Nan. Yes, you shall, but do not scorn to be advis'd, Sister, for there belongs more to that, than you are aware on; why [w]ould you venture so fondly upon the strowings? there's mighty matters in them I'll assure you, and in the spreading of a bough-pot, you may miss, if you were ten years elder, if you take not a special care before you.
Vio. I will learn willingly, if that be all.
Nan. Sirrah where is't they say my young Master hath been?
Madg. Faith I know not, beyond the Sea, where they are born without noses.
Nan. [Jesse blesse] us! without noses? how do they do for handkerchiefs?
Madg. So Richard says, and sirrah, their feet stand in their foreheads.
Nan. That's fine by my troth, these men have pestilent running heads then; do they speak as we do?
Mag. No, they never speak.
Mag. No, they call them Infidels, I know not what they are.
Nan. Sirrah, we shall have fine courting now my young master is come home, were you never courted Sister?
Vio. Alas, I know it not.
Mag. What is that courting, sirrah?
Nan. I can tell, for I was once courted in the matted chamber, you know the party Madge, faith he courted finely.
Madg. Pray thee what is't?
Na[n]. Faith, nothing but he was somewhat figent with me, faith 'tis fine sport, this courting.
Alex. within. Where be the Maids there?
Madg. We shall be hang'd anon, away good wenches, and have a care you dight things handsomly, I will look over you. [Exeunt.
Enter Mercury and Maria.
Mer. If your sorrow will give you so far leave, pray think your self most welcome to this place, for so upon my life you are, and for your own fair sake, take truce awhile with these immoderate mournings.
Wife. I thank you Sir, I shall doe what I may;
Pray lead me to a chamber.
Enter Mother and Alexander.
Mer. Presently,
Before your blessing Mother, I intreat ye
To know this Gentlewoman, and bid her welcome,
The virtuous wife of him that was my self
In all my travels.
Moth. Indeed she is most welcome, so are you son [kneel.
Now all my blessing on thee; thou hast made me
Younger by 20 years, than I was yesterday,
Will you walk in? what ails this Gentlewoman?
Alas, I fear she is not well, good Gen[t]lewoman.
Mer. You fear right.
Moth. She has fasted over long,
You shall have supper presently o'th' board.
Mer. She will not eat; I can assure you Mother,
For Gods sake let your Maid conduct her up
Into some fair becoming Chamber
Fit for a woman of her Being, and
As soon as may be,
I know she's very ill, and wou'd have rest.
Moth. There is one ready for her, the blew chamber.
Mer. 'Tis well, I'll lead you to your chamber door
And there I'll leave you to your quiet, Mistriss.
Wife. I thank you, Sir, good rest to every one,
You'll see me once again to night, I hope. [Exit.
Mer. When you shall please, I'll wait upon you, Lady.
Moth. Where are these maids, attend upon the Gentlewoman, and see she want no good thing in the house? goodnight with all my heart forsooth, good Lord how you are grown, is he not Alexander?
Alex. Yes truly, he's shot up finely, God be thanked.
Mer. An ill weed, Mother, will do so.
Alex. You say true, Sir, an ill weed grows apace.
Mer. Alexander the sharp, you take [me] very quickly.
Moth. Nay, I can tell you, Alexander will do it, do you read madcap still?
Alex. Sometimes forsooth.
Moth. But faith Son, what Countreys have you travell'd?
Mer. Why many, Mother, as they lay before me, France, Spain, Italy and Germany, and other Provinces that I am sure, you are not better'd by, when you hear of them.
Moth. And can you these tongues perfectly?
Mer. Of some a little, Mother.
Moth. Pray spout some French Son.
Mer. You understand it not, and to your ears 'twill goe like an unshod cart upon the stones, only a rough unhandsome sound.
Moth. [Faith] I would fain hear some French.
Alex. Good Sir, speak some French to my Mistriss.
Mer. At your intreaty Alexander, I will, who shall I speak to?
Alex. If your worship will do me the favour Sir, to me.
Mer. Mounseir, Poultron, Coukew, Cullione, Besay, Man cur.
Alex. Awe Mounseir.
Moth. Ha, ha, ha, this fine indeed, gods blessing 'on thy heart Son, by my troth thou art grown a proper Gentleman, cullen and pullen, good god what [saucey] words they use beyond the seas, ha, ha, ha!
Alex. Did not [you sweare] right.
Mer. Yes good Alexander, if you had done so too,
But good Mother, I am very hungry, and have rid far to day, and am fasting.
Moth. You shall have your supper presently, my sweet
Son.
Mer. As soon as you please, which once ended,
I'll go and visit yo[n] sick Gentlewoman.
Moth. Come then. [Exeunt.
Enter Antonio like a Post, with a Letter.
Ant. I have ridden like a fury, to make up this work, and I will do it bravely, e'r I leave it; this is the house I am sure.
Enter Alexander.
Alex. Who wou'd you speak with, Sir?
Ant. Marry Sir, I would speak with a Gentlewoman, came this night late here from the City, I have some Letters of importance to her, I am a Post Sir, and would be dispa[t]ch'd in haste.
Alex. Sir, cannot I deliver 'em? for the truth is, she's ill, and in her chamber.
Ant. Pray pardon me, I must needs speak with her, my business is so weighty.
Alex. I'll tell her so, and bring you present word.
Ant. Pray do so, and I'll attend her, pray god the grief of my imagined death, spoil not what I intend, I hope it will not.
Alex. Though she be very ill, and desires no trouble,
Yet if your business be so urgent, you may come up and
speak with her.
Ant. I thank you Sir, I follow you. [Exit Alex.
Enter Wife.
Wife. What should this fellow be i'th' name of Heaven, that comes with such post business? sure my Husband hath reveal'd himself, and in this haste sent after me, are you the Post my friend?
Enter Anto[n]io.
Ant. Yes forsooth Mistriss.
Wife. What good news hast thou brought me gentle Post?
For I have woe and grief too much already.
Ant. I would you had less, Mistriss, I could wish it, beshrew my heart she moves me cruelly.
Wife. Have I found you once more Jugler? well Jewel, thou hast only virtue in thee, of all I read of yet; what ears has this ass to betray him with? well, what's your business then?
Ant. I have brought a Letter from your servant, Mistriss, in haste.
Wife. Pray give it me, I hope the best still.
Ant. This is the upshot, and I know I have hit it,
Well, if the spirits of the dead do walk, I shall
Hear more of this one hundred years hence.
Wife. By any means you must have special care, for now the City is possest for certain, my Master is made away, which for ought I know is [a] truth indeed; good Mistriss leave your grief, and see your danger, and let that wise and noble Gentleman with whom you are, be your right hand in all things.
Ant. Now do I know I have the better on't, by the languishing of her eye at this near instant, 'tis still simming in her blood, in coyning somewhat to turn Mercury, I know it.
Wife. He is my Husband, and 'tis reasonable he should command in all things, since he will be an ass against the hair, at his own peril be it, in the morn you shall have a pacquet, till when, I must intreat you stay, you shall not lose by it.
Ant. I do not doubt it, Mistriss; I'll leave you to your rest, and wait your pleasure.
Wife. Do, and seek out the Gentleman of the house, bid him come to me presently.
Ant. Who, Mr. Mercury?
Wife. Do you know him, Post?
Ant. Only by sight forsooth, now I remember your servant will'd me to let you know he is the only man, you [and] your fortunes, are now to rest upon.
Wife. Prethee no more, I know all this already.
Ant. I'll take my leave now, I am made for ever. [Exit.
Wife. Good night, I am provided for you, my fine youth. [Exit.
Enter Mother, beating Viola, Alexander with a broken Glass.
Mother. I'll make thee have more care.
Viola. Good Mistriss pardon me.
Moth. Thou'lt ne'r be good I warrant thee, can your fine fingers hold no faster?
Viola. Indeed it was against my will.
Moth. Alexander, let's see the glass, as I am true kirsome woman, it is one of the chrystal glasses my Cosin sent me, and the baggage hath broke it where it cannot be mended, Alexander, can Humphrey mend this think you?
Alex. No truly, this will ne'er be mended.
Vio. Truly I meant but to wash it for the Gentlewoman that is sick above, and shaking out the water, knockt it against the pail side.
Moth. Did you so? be sure I'll stop it, 'twill make a good gap in your quarters wages, I can tell you.
Viola. I pray forgive me, and let me have no wages this first quarter.
Moth. Go whimling, and fetch two or three grating loaves out of the Kitching, to make Ginger-bread of, 'tis such an untoward thing. [Exit Viola.
Alex. She's somewhat simple indeed, she knew not what a kimnel was, she wants good nurture mightily.
Moth. My Son tells me, Alexander, that this young widow means to sojourn here, she offers largely for her board, I may offer her good cheer, prethee make a step i'th' morning down to the Parsonage for some Pigeons; what are you mad there? what noise is that? are you at bowls within? why do you whine?
Enter Viola weeping.
Vio. I have done another fault, I beseech you sweet Mistriss forgive me.
Vio. As I was reaching for the bread that lay upon the shelf, I have thrown down the minc'd meat, that should have made the pies to morrow.
Moth. Get thee out of my house, thou filthy destroying Harlot, thou, I'll not keep thee an hour longer.
Vio. Good Mistriss, beat me rather for my fault, as much as it deserves, I do not know whither to go.
Moth. No I warrant thee, out of my doors.
Vio. Indeed I'll mend, I pray speak you for me.
Alex. If thou hadst hurl'd down any thing but the Pie-meat, I would have spoke for thee, but I cannot find in my heart now.
Moth. Art thou here yet? I think I must have an Officer to thrust thee out of my doors, must I?
Vio. Why, you may stop this in my wages too,
For God's sake do, I'll find my self this year;
And let me stay.
Mer. Thou't spoil ten times as much, I'll cudgel thee out of my doors.
Vio. I am assur'd you are more merciful,
Than thus to beat me and discharge me too.
Moth. Dost thou dispute with me, Alexander carry the prating hilding forth.
Vio. Good Mistriss hear me, I have here a Jewel,
My Mother left me, and 'tis something worth:
Receive it, and when all my faults together
Come to the worth of that, then turn me forth,
Till then I pray you keep me.
Moth. What giggombob have we here? pray god you have not pilfred this somewhere, th'art such a puling thing, wipe your eyes, and rise, go your ways, Alexander, bid the Cook mince some more meat, come, and get you to bed quickly, that you may up betime i'th' morning a milking, or you and I shall fall out worse yet. [Exit Moth, and Alex.
Vio. She has hurt my arm; I am afraid she is a very angry woman, but bless him heaven that did me the most wrong, I am afraid Antonio's wife should see me, she will know me.
Mother within. Melvia.
Vio. I am coming, she's not angry agen I hope. [Exit.
Enter Mercury.
Mer. Now what am I the better for enjoying
This woman that I lov'd so? all I find,
That I before imagined to be happy:
Now I have done, it turns to nothing else
But a poor pitied, and a base repentance,
Udsfoot, I am monstrous angry with my self:
Why should a man that has discourse and reason,
And knows how near he loses all in these things,
Covet to have his wishes satisfied;
Which when they are, are nothing but the shame
I do begin to loath this woman strangely,
And I think justly too, that durst adventure,
Flinging away her modesty to take
A stranger to her bed, her Husbands body
Being scarce cold in the earth for her content,
It was no more to take my senses with
Than if I had an idle dream in sleep
Yet I have made her promises: which grieves me,
And I must keep 'em too, I think she hunts me:
The devil cannot keep these women off,
When they are fletched once.
Enter Wife in night attire.
Wife. To bed for gods sake Sir, why do you stay here?
Some are up i'th' house, I heard the wife,
Good dear sweet-heart to bed.
Mer. Why, I am going! why do you follow me?
You would not have it known I hope, pray get you
Back to your chamber, the doors hard by for me,
Let me alone, I warrant you this it is
To thresh well, I have got a customer,
Will you go to bed?
Wife. Will you?
Mer. Yes, I am going.
Wife. Then remember your promise you made to marry me.
Mer. I will, but it was your fault, that it came
To this pinch now, that it must need remembrance:
For out of honesty I offer'd you
To marry you first, why did you slack that offer?
Wife. Alas I told you the inconvenience of it,
And what wrong it would appear to the world
If I had married [you] in such post-haste
After his death: beside, the foolish people
Would have been bold to have thought we had lain together
in his time, and like enough imagin'd
We two had murther'd him.
Mer. I love her tongue yet,
If I were a Saint
A gilded Saint, and such a thing as this
Should prate thus wittily and feelingly
Unto my Holiness, I cannot tell,
But I fear shrewdly I should do something
That would quite scratch me out o'th' Kalender,
And if I stay longer talking with her,
Though I am mad at what I have done already,
Yet I shall forget my self again;
I feel the Devil
Ready to hold my stirrop; pray to bed, good night.
Wife. This kiss, good night sweet Love,
And peace goe with thee: thou hast prov'd thy self
The honestest man that ever was entic'd
To that sweet sin as people please to call it,
Of lying with anothers wife, and I,
I think the honestest woman without blushing,
That ever lay with another man, I sent my Husband
Into a Cellar, post, fearing, and justly
He should have known him, which I did not purpose
Till I had had my end.
Well, now this plot is perfect, let him brag on't. [Exit.
Enter Justice and Curio with a Paper.
Just. Birlady Sir, you have rid hard that you have.
Cur. They that have business, must do so, I take it.
Just. You say true, when set you out my friend?
Cur. About ten a clock, and I have rid all night.
Just. By the mass you are tough indeed, I have seen the day, I would have rid too with the proudest of them, and fling dirt in their faces, and I have don't with this foolish boy, Sir, many a time; but what can last always? 'tis done, 'tis done now, Sir, age, care, and office, brings us to our footcloaths, the more the pity.
Curio. I believe that, Sir, but will it please you to read the business?
Just. My friend, I can read, and I can tell you when.
Cur. Would I could too Sir, for my haste requires it.
Just. Whence comes it do you say?
Cur. Sir from the City.
Just. Oh from the City, 'tis a reverent place.
Curio. And his justice be as short as his memory,
A Dudgion Dagger will serve him to mow down sin withal,
What clod-pole Commissioner is this?
Just. And by my faith, govern'd by worthy members,
Discreet and upright.
Cur. Sir, they are beholding to you, you have given some of them a commendations, they were not worthy of this twenty years.
Just. Go to, go to, you have a merry meaning, I have found you Sir, i' faith, you are a wag, away, fie now I'll read Your Letter.
Cur. Pray do Sir; what a misery 'tis
To have an urgent business wait the Justice
Of such an old Tuff-taffata that knows not,
Nor can be brought to understand more sence,
Than how to restore supprest Alehouses,
And have his man compound small trespasses,
For ten groats.
Just. Sir, it seems here your business is of a deeper circumstance than I conceiv'd it for; what do you mean, Sir?
Cur. 'Tis for mine own ease I'll assure your Worship.
Just. It shall not be i' faith friend, here I have it,
That one Antonio a Gentleman, I take it so,
Yes, it is so, a Gentleman is lately thought to
Have been made away, and by my faith, upon a
Pearls ground too, if you consider; well, there's
Knavery in't, I see that without spectacles.
Cur. Sure this fellow deals in revelation, he's so hidden,
Goe thy ways, thou wilt stick a bench spit as formally,
And shew thy Agot, and hatch'd chain
As well as the best of them.
Just. And now I have consider'd, I believe it.
Cur. What Sir?
Just. That he was murdered.
Cur. Did you know him?
Just. No.
Cur. Nor how it is suppos'd.
Just. No, nor I care not two-pence, those are toys and yet I verily believe he was murdered, as sure as I believe thou art a man, I never fail'd in these things yet, w'are a man that's beaten to these matters, experience is a certain conceal'd thing that fails not: pray let me ask you one thing, why do you come to me?
Cur. Because the Letter is addrest to you, being the nearest Justice.
Just. The nearest? is that all?
Cur. I think it be Sir, I would be loth you should be the wisest.
Just. Well Sir, as it is, I will endeavour in it; yet if it had come to me by name, I know not, but I think it had been as soon dispatcht as by another, and with as round a wisdom, I, and as happily, but that's all one: I have born this place this thirty years, and upwards, and with sufficient credit, and they may when they please, know me better; to the nearest? well.
Cur. Sir, it is not my fault, for had I known you sooner—
Just. I thank you Sir, I know it.
Cur. I'll be sworn you should have plaid for [any] business now.
Just. And further, they have specified unto me, his Wife is sorely suspected in this matter, as a main cause.
Cur. I think she be Sir, for no other cause can be yet found.
Just. And one Mercury a traveller, with whom they say directly she is run away, and as they think this way.
Just. Well Sir, this Mercury I know, and his breeding, a neighbors child hard by, you have been happy, Sir, in coming hither.
Cur. Then you know where to have him, Sir?
Just. I do Sir, he dwells near me.
Cur. I doubt your Worship dwels near a knave then.
Just. I think so; pray put on: but 'tis a wonder
To see how graceless people are now given,
And how base virtue is accounted with them
That should be all in all, as says a wise man.
I tell you Sir, and it is true, that there have been such
murthers, and of late days, as 'twould make your very heart
bleed in you, and some of them as I shall be enabled, I will
tell you, it fell out of late days.
Cur. It may be so, but will it please you to proceed in this?
Just. An honest Weaver, and as good a workman, as e'er shot shuttle, and as close: but every man must dye; this honest Weaver being a little mellow in his Ale, that was the evidence verbatim, Sir, God bless the mark, sprung his neck just in this place: well Jarvis, thou hadst wrongs, and if I live some of the best shall sweat for't, then a wench—
Cur. But Sir, you have forgot my business.
Just. A sober pretty maid about 17, they say, certainly, howsoever 'tis shuffled, she burst her self, and fondly, if it be so, with Furmety at a Churching, but I think the Devil had another agent in't: either of which, if I can catch, shall stretch for't.
Cur. This is a mad Justice that will hang the Devil; but I would you would be short in this, before that other notice can be given.
Just. Sir, I will doe discreetly what is fitting; what, Antonio?
Ant. within. Your Worship.
Just. Put on your best coat, and let your fellow Mark goe to the Constable, and bid him aid me with all the speed he can, and all the power, and provide Pen and Ink to take their confessions, and my long sword: I cannot tell what danger we may meet with; you'll go with us?
Cur. Yes, what else? I came to that end to accuse both parties.
Just. May I crave what you are?
Cur. Faith Sir, one that to be known would not profit you, more than a near kinsman of the dead Antonio's.
Just. 'Tis well, I am sorry for my neighbor, truly, that he had no more grace, 'twill kill his Mother; she's a good old woman, will you walk in? I'll but put my cloak on, and my chain off, and a clean band, and have my shooes blackt over, and shift my Jerkin, and we'll to our business, and you shall see how I can bolt these matters.
Cur. As soon as't please you, Sir. [Exit.
Enter Valerio, and Richardo.
Val. This is the place; here did I leave the Maid
Alone last night, drying her tender eyes,
Uncertain what to do, and yet desirous
To have me gone.
Rich. How rude are all we men,
That take the name of Civil to our selves!
If she had set her foot upon an earth
Where people live that we call barbarous;
Though they had had no house to bring her to,
They would have spoil'd the glory, that the spring
Has deckt the trees in, and with willing hands
Have torn their branches down, and every man
Would have become a builder for her sake.
What time left you her there?
Val. I left her, when the Sun had so much to sett,
As he is now got from his place of rise.
Rich. So near the night she could not wander far;
Fair Viola!
Val. It is in vain to call, she sought a house
Without all question.
Rich. Peace, fair Viola?
Fair Viola? who should have left her here
On such a ground? if you had meant to lose her,
You might have found there were no ecchos here
To take her name, and carry it about,
When her true Lover came to mourn for her,
Till all the neighboring valleys and the hills,
Resounded Viola,—
And such a place,
You should have chose—
You pity us because
The dew a little wets our feet,
Unworthy far to seek her in the wet;
And what becomes of her? where wandred she,
With two showers raining on her, from her eyes
Continually, abundantly, from which
There's neither tree nor house to shelter her;
Will you go with me to travel?
Val. Whither?
Rich. Over all the world.
Val. No by my faith, I'll make a shorter journey
When I do travel.
Rich. But there's no hope
To gain my end in any shorter way.
Val. Why, what's your end?
Rich. It is to search the earth,
Till we have found two in the shapes of men,
As wicked as our selves.
Val. 'Twere not so hard to find out those.
Rich. Why, if we find them out,
It were the better, for what brave villany,
Might we four do? we wou'd not keep together:
For every one has treachery enough
For twenty countreys, one should trouble Asia,
Another should sow strife in Africa;
But you should play the knave, in at home in Europe,
And for America let me alone.
Val. Sir, I am honester,
Than you know how to be, and can no more
Be wrong'd, but I shall find my self aright.
Rich. If you had any spark of honesty,
You would not think that honester than I,
Were a praise high enough to serve your turn:
If men were commonly so bad as I,
Thieves would be put in Calendars for Saints;
And bones of murderers would work miracles.
I am a kind of knave, of knave so much
There is betwixt me, and the vilest else—
But the next place of all to mine is yours.
Enter two Milk-maids and Viola with pails.
Val. That last is she, 'tis she.
Rich. Let us away, we shall infect her, let her have the wind,
And we will kneel down here.
Vio. Wenches away, for here are men.
Val. Fair maid, I pray you stay.
Vio. Alas, agen?
Rich. Why do you lay hold on her? I pray heartily let her go.
Val. With all my heart, I do not mean to hurt her.
Rich. But stand away then for the purest bodies
Will soonest take infection, stand away,
But for infecting her my self, by heaven,
I would come there, and beat thee further off.
Vio. I know that voice and face.
Val. You are finely mad, g[o]dbwy Sir, now you are here together, I'll leave [y]ou so, god send you good luck, both; when you are soberer, you'll give me thanks. [Exit.
Madg. Wilt thou go milk? come.
Nan. Why dost not come?
Madge. She nods, she's asleep.
Nan. What wert up so early?
Madge. I think yon man's mad to kneel there, nay [come] away, uds body, Nan, help, she looks black i'th face, She's in a sound.
Nan. And you be a man, come hither, and help a woman.
Rich. Come thither? you are a fool.
Nan. And you a knave and a beast that you are.
Rich. Come hither, 'twas my being now so near,
That made [her] swound, and you are wicked people,
Or you wou'd do so too; my venom eyes
Strike innocency dead at such a distance,
Here I'll kneel, for this is out of distance.
Nan. Th'art a prating ass, there's no goodness in thee,
I warrant, how dost thou?
Vio. Why? well.
Madge. Art thou able to go?
Vio. No, pray go you and milk, if I be able to come
I'll follow you, if not, Til sit here,
Till you come back.
Nan. I am loth to leave thee here with yon wild fool.
Vio. I know him well, I warrant thee he will not hurt me.
Madge. Come then Nan. [Exeunt Maids.
Rich. How do you? be not fearfull, for I hold my hands
Before my mouth, and speak, and so
My breath can never blast you.
Vio. 'Twas enough to use me ill, though you had never sought me to mock me, why kneel you so far off, were not that gesture better us'd in prayer, had I dealt so with you, I should not sleep, till [God] and you had both forgiven me.
Rich. I do not mock, nor lives there such a villain
That can do any thing contemptible
To you, but I do kneel, because it is
An action very fit and reverent,
In presence of so pure a creature,
And so far off, as fearful to offend,
One too much wrong'd already.
Vio. You confess you did the fault, yet scorn to come,
So far as hither, to ask pardon for't;
Which I could willingly afford to come,
To you to grant, good Sir if you have
A better love, may you be blest together.
She shall not wish you better than I will,
I but offend you, there are all the Jewels
I stole, and all the love I ever had,
I leave behind with you, I'll carry none
To give another may the next maid you try
Love you no worse, nor be no worse than I.
Rich. Do not leave me yet for all my fault,
Search out the next things to impossible,
And put me on them when they are effected,
I may with better modesty receive
Forgiveness from you.
Vio. I will set no pennance,
To gain the great forgiveness you desire:
But to come hither and take me and it,
Or else I'll come and beg, so you will grant,
That you will be content to be forgiven.
Rich. Nay, I will come since you [will] have it so,
And since you please to pardon me I hope
Free from infection, here I am by you;
A careless man, a breaker of my faith,
A lothsome drunkard; and in that wild fury:
A hunter after whores: I do beseech you,
To pardon all these faults, and take me up
An honest, sober, and a faithful man.
Vio. For [gods] sake, urge your faults no more, but mend,
All the forgiveness I can make you, is,
To love you, which I will do, and desire
Nothing but love again, which if I have not
Yet I will love you still.
Rich. Oh Women, that some one of you will take,
An everlasting pen into your hands:
And grave in paper which the writ shall make,
More lasting than the marble Monuments,
Your matchless virtues to posterities:
Which the defective race of envious man,
Strive to conceal.
Vio. Methinks I would not now for any thing,
But you had mist me, I have made a story,
Will serve to waste many a winters fire
When we are old, I'll [tell] my daughters then,
The miseries their Mother had in love:
And say, my girls be wiser, yet I would not
Have had more wit my self, take up those Jewels,
For I think I hear my fellows coming.