The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Mermaid Series. Edited by H. Ellis. The best plays of the old dramatists. Thomas Dekker. Edited, with an introduction and notes by Ernest Rhys., by Thomas Dekker

Ast. Troth, like a spire steeple in a country village overpeering so many thatched houses.

Lod. It’s rather a long pike-staff against so many bucklers without pikes;[242] they sit for all the world like a pair of organs, and he’s the tall great roaring pipe i’ th’ midst.

Lod. Troth, shall I tell you, and aloud I’ll tell it;
We laugh to see, yet laugh we not in scorn,
Amongst so many caps that long hat worn.

1st Guest. Mine is as tall a felt as any is this day in Milan, and therefore I love it, for the block [243] was cleft out for my head, and fits me to a hair.

Cand. Indeed you’re good observers; it shows strange:
But gentlemen, I pray neither contemn,
Nor yet deride a civil ornament;
I could build so much in the round cap’s praise,
That ’bove this high roof, I this flat would raise.

Lod. Prithee, sweet bridegroom, do’t.

Cand. So all these guests will pardon me, I’ll do’t.

Guests. With all our hearts.

Cand. Thus, then, in the cap’s honour.
To every sex, and state, both nature, time,
The country’s laws, yea, and the very clime
Do allot distinct habits; the spruce courtier
Jets [244] up and down in silk: the warrior
Marches in buff, the clown plods on in gray:
But for these upper garments thus I say,
The seaman has his cap, pared without brim;
The gallant’s head is feathered, that fits him;
The soldier has his morion, women ha’ tires;
Beasts have their head-pieces, and men ha’ theirs.

Cand. Each degree has his fashion, it’s fit then,
One should be laid by for the citizen,
And that’s the cap which you see swells not high,
For caps are emblems of humility.
It is a citizen’s badge, and first was worn
By th’ Romans; for when any bondman’s turn
Came to be made a freeman, thus ’twas said,
He to the cap was called, that is, was made
Of Rome a freeman; but was first close shorn:
And so a citizen’s hair is still short worn.

Lod. That close shaving made barbers a company,
And now every citizen uses it.

Cand. Of geometric figures the most rare,
And perfect’st, are the circle and the square;
The city and the school much build upon
These figures, for both love proportion.
The city-cap is round, the scholar’s square,
To show that government and learning are
The perfect’st limbs i’ th’ body of a state:
For without them, all’s disproportionate.
If the cap had no honour, this might rear it,
The reverend fathers of the law do wear it.
It’s light for summer, and in cold it sits
Close to the skull, a warm house for the wits;
It shows the whole face boldly, ’tis not made
As if a man to look on’t were afraid,
Nor like a draper’s shop with broad dark shed,
For he’s no citizen that hides his head.
Flat caps as proper are to city gowns,
As to armours helmets, or to kings their crowns.
Let then the city-cap by none be scorned,
Since with it princes’ heads have been adorned.
If more the round cap’s honour you would know,
How would this long gown with this steeple [245] show?

All. Ha, ha, ha! most vile, most ugly.

Cand. Pray, signor, pardon me, ’twas done in jest.

Bride. A cup of claret wine there.

1st Pren. Wine? yes, forsooth, wine for the bride.

Car. You ha’ well set out the cap, sir.

Lod. Nay, that’s flat.

Lod. Since his cap’s round, that shall go round. Be bare,
For in the cap’s praise all of you have share.

[They bare their heads and drink. As 1st Prentice offers the wine to the Bride, she hits him on the lips, breaking the glass.

The bride’s at cuffs.

Cand. Oh, peace, I pray thee, thus far off I stand,
I spied the error of my servants;
She called for claret, and you filled out sack;
That cup give me, ’tis for an old man’s back,
And not for hers. Indeed, ’twas but mistaken;
Ask all these else.

Guests. No faith, ’twas but mistaken.

1st Pren. Nay, she took it right enough.

Cand. Good Luke, reach her that glass of claret.
Here mistress bride, pledge me there.

Bride. Now I’ll none. [Exit.

Lod. Look what your mistress ails.

Cand. I pray you, hold your tongue.—My servant there tells me she is not well.

Lod. A word with you: do ye hear? This wench, your new wife, will take you down in your wedding shoes, unless you hang her up in her wedding garters.

Lod. Will you be a tame pigeon still? Shall your back be like a tortoise shell, to let carts go over it, yet not to break? This she-cat will have more lives than your last puss had, and will scratch worse, and mouse you worse: look to’t.

Lod. What would I have you do? Swear, swagger, brawl, fling! for fighting it’s no matter, we ha’ had knocking pusses enow already; you know, that a woman was made of the rib of a man, and that rib was crooked. The moral of which is, that a man must, from his beginning be crooked to his wife; be you like an orange to her, let her cut you never so fair, be you sour as vinegar. Will you be ruled by me?

Lod. I’ll send my man for’t within this half hour, and within this two hour I’ll be your prentice. The hen shall not overcrow the cock; I’ll sharpen your spurs.

Lod. Only a jest: farewell, come, Carolo. [Exeunt Lodovico, Carolo, and Astolfo.

Cand. Pray conceit not ill
Of my wife’s sudden rising. This young knight,
Sir Lodovico, is deep seen in physic,
And he tells me, the disease called the mother,[246]
Hangs on my wife, it is a vehement heaving
And beating of the stomach, and that swelling
Did with the pain thereof cramp up her arm,
That hit his lips, and brake the glass,—no harm,
It was no harm!

Guests. No, signor, none at all.

Cand. The straightest arrow may fly wide by chance.
But come, we’ll close this brawl up in some dance. [Exeunt.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.—A Room in Matheo’s House.

Bell. O my sweet husband! wert thou in thy grave and art alive again? Oh welcome, welcome!

Mat. Dost know me? my cloak, prithee, lay’t up. Yes, faith, my winding-sheet was taken out of lavender, to be stuck with rosemary [247]: I lacked but the knot here, or here; yet if I had had it, I should ha’ made a wry mouth at the world like a plaice [248]: but sweetest villain, I am here now and I will talk with thee soon.

Mat. Did these heels caper in shackles? Ah! my little plump rogue. I’ll bear up for all this, and fly high. Catso catso.[249]

Mat. What sayest, what sayest? O brave fresh air! a pox on these grates and gingling of keys, and rattling of iron. I’ll bear up, I’ll fly high, wench, hang toff.

Bell. Matheo, prithee, make thy prison thy glass,
And in it view the wrinkles, and the scars,
By which thou wert disfigured; viewing them, mend them.

Bell. Thou has been in the hands of misery, and ta’en strong physic; prithee now be sound.

Mat. Yes. ’Sfoot, I wonder how the inside of a tavern looks now. Oh, when shall I bizzle, bizzle?[251]

Bell. Nay, see, thou’rt thirsty still for poison! Come, I will not have thee swagger.

Bell. ’Tis that sharpened an axe to cut thy throat.
Good love, I would not have thee sell thy substance
And time, worth all, in those damned shops of hell;
Those dicing houses, that stand never well,
But when they stand most ill; that four-squared sin
Has almost lodged us in the beggar’s inn.
Besides, to speak which even my soul does grieve,
A sort of ravens have hung upon thy sleeve,
And fed upon thee: good Mat, if you please,
Scorn to spread wing amongst so base as these;
By them thy fame is speckled, yet it shows
Clear amongst them; so crows are fair with crows.
Custom in sin, gives sin a lovely dye;
Blackness in Moors is no deformity.

Mat. Bellafront, Bellafront, I protest to thee, I swear, as I hope for my soul, I will turn over a new leaf. The prison I confess has bit me; the best man that sails in such a ship, may be lousy. [Knocking within.

Mat. I’ll be the porter: they shall see a jail cannot hold a brave spirit, I’ll fly high. [Exit.

Bell. How wild is his behaviour! Oh, I fear
He’s spoiled by prison, he’s half damned comes there,
But I must sit all storms: when a full sail
His fortunes spread, he loved me: being now poor,
I’ll beg for him, and no wife can do more.

Orl. The Destinies spin a strong and even thread of both your loves!—The mother’s own face, I ha’ not forgot that. [Aside.] I’m an old man, sir, and am troubled with a whoreson salt rheum, that I cannot hold my water.—Gentlewoman, the last man I served was your father.

Bell. My father? any tongue that sounds his name,
Speaks music to me; welcome, good old man!
How does my father? lives he? has he health?
How does my father?—I so much do shame him,
So much do wound him, that I scarce dare name him. [Aside.

Orl. The rheum still, sir, nothing else; I should be well seasoned, for mine eyes lie in brine. Look you, sir, I have a suit to you.

Orl. Nay, look you, sir, I know, when all sins are old in us, and go upon crutches, that covetousness does but then lie in her cradle; ’tis not so with me. Lechery loves to dwell in the fairest lodging, and covetousness in the oldest buildings, that are ready to fall: but my white head, sir, is no inn for such a gossip. If a serving-man at my years, that has sailed about the world, be not stored with biscuit enough to serve him the voyage out of his life, and to bring him East home, ill pity but all his days should be fasting days. I care not so much for wages, for I have scraped a handful of gold together. I have a little money, sir, which I would put into your worship’s hands, not so much to make it more—

Mat. No, no, you say well, thou sayest well; but I must tell you,—how much is the money, sayest thou?

Mat. Twenty pound? Let me see: that shall bring thee in, after ten per centum per annum.

Orl. No, no, no, sir, no: I cannot abide to have money engender: fie upon this silver lechery, fie; if I may have meat to my mouth, and rags to my back, and a flock-bed to snort upon when I die, the longer liver take all.

Mat. A good old boy, i’faith! If thou servest me, thou shall eat as I eat, drink as I drink, lie as I lie, and ride as I ride.

Mat. Front, what dost thou think on’t? This good old lad here shall serve me.

Bell. Alas, Matheo, wilt thou load a back
That is already broke?

Mat. Peace, pox on you, peace. There’s a trick in’t, I fly high, it shall be so, Front, as I tell you: give me thy hand, thou shalt serve me i’faith: welcome: as for your money—

Orl. Safe! an’ twere ten thousand ducats, your worship should be my cash-keeper; I have heard what your worship is, an excellent dunghill cock, to scatter all abroad; but I’ll venture twenty pounds on’s head. [Gives money to Matheo.

Mat. And didst thou serve my worshipful father-in-law, Signor Orlando Friscobaldo, that madman, once?

Orl. No matter an you ne’er see him; it’s an arrant grandee, a churl, and as damned a cut-throat.

Bell. Thou villain, curb thy tongue! thou art a Judas,
To sell thy master’s name to slander thus.

Mat. And an old knave. There’s more deceit in him than in sixteen ’pothecaries: it’s a devil; thou mayest beg, starve, hang, damn! does he send thee so much as a cheese?

Orl. Or so much as a gammon of bacon,
He’ll give it his dogs first.

Mat. A jail, a jail.

Orl. A Jew, a Jew, sir.

Orl. An English mastiff, sir.

Mat. Pox rot out his old stinking garbage!

Bell. Art not ashamed to strike an absent man thus?
Art not ashamed to let this vile dog bark,
And bite my father thus? I’ll not endure it.
Out of my doors, base slave!

Mat. Your doors? a vengeance! I shall live to cut that old rogue’s throat, for all you take his part thus.

Mat. God’s-so, my lord, your lordship is most welcome,
I’m proud of this, my lord.

Hip. Was bold to see you.
Is that your wife?

Mat. Pacheco, fine name; thou seest, Pacheco, I keep company with no scoundrels, nor base fellows.

Hip. I sent by him a diamond and a letter,
Did you receive them?

Bell. Yes, my lord, I did.

Hip. Read you the letter?

Bell. O’er and o’er ’tis read.

Hip. And, faith, your answer?

Bell. Now the time’s not fit,
You see, my husband’s here.

Hip. I’ll now then leave you,
And choose mine hour; but ere I part away,
Hark you, remember I must have no nay—
Matheo, I will leave you.

Mat. A glass of wine.

Hip. Not now, I’ll visit you at other times.
You’re come off well, then?

Mat. Excellent well. I thank your lordship: I owe you my life, my lord; and will pay my best blood in any service of yours.

Hip. I’ll take no such dear payment. Hark you, Matheo, I know the prison is a gulf. If money run low with you, my purse is your’s: call for it.

Mat. Faith, my lord, I thank my stars, they send me down some; I cannot sink, so long these bladders hold.

Hip. I will not see your fortunes ebb, pray, try.
To starve in full barns were fond [253] modesty.

[Gives to Friscobaldo, who opens the door, first money, then a purse, and exit.

Orl. O noble spirit, if no worse guests here dwell,
My blue coat sits on my old shoulders well.

Mat. The only royal fellow, he’s bounteous as the Indies, what’s that he said to thee, Bellafront?

Mat. Nothing? it’s well: tricks! that I must be beholden to a scald hot-livered goatish gallant, to stand with my cap in my hand, and vail bonnet, when I ha’ spread as lofty sails as himself. Would I had been hanged. Nothing? Pacheco, brush my cloak.

Mat. Come, we’ll fly high.
Nothing? There is a whore still in thy eye. [Exit.

Orl. My twenty pounds fly high, O wretched woman!
This varlet’s able to make Lucrece common. [Aside.
How now, mistress? has my master dyed you into this sad colour?

Bell. Fellow, begone I pray thee; if thy tongue
Itch after talk so much, seek out thy master.
Thou’rt a fit instrument for him.

Orl. Zounds, I hope he will not play upon me!

Bell. Play on thee? no, you two will fly together,
Because you’re roving arrows of one feather.
Would thou wouldst leave my house, thou ne’er shalt please me!
Weave thy nets ne’er so high,
Thou shalt be but a spider in mine eye.
Thou’rt rank with poison, poison tempered well
Is food for health; but thy black tongue doth swell
With venom, to hurt him that gave thee bread:
To wrong men absent, is to spurn the dead.
And so did’st thou my master, and my father.

Orl. You have small reason to take his part; for I have heard him say five hundred times, you were as arrant a whore as ever stiffened tiffany neckcloths in water-starch upon a Saturday i’ th’ afternoon.

Bell. Let him say worse, when for the earth’s offence
Hot vengeance through the marble clouds is driven,
Is’t fit earth shoot again those darts at heaven?

Orl. And so if your father call you whore you’ll not call him old knave:—Friscobaldo, she carries thy mind up and down; she’s thine own flesh, blood, and bone. [Aside] Troth, mistress, to tell you true, the fireworks that ran from me upon lines against my good old master, your father, were but to try how my young master, your husband, loved such squibs: but it’s well known, I love your father as myself; I’ll ride for him at mid-night, run for you by owl-light; I’ll die for him, drudge for you; I’ll fly low, and I’ll fly high, as my master says, to do you good, if you’ll forgive me.

Orl. Nay, if you were made of marble, a good stone-cutter might cut you. I hope the twenty pound I delivered to my master, is in a sure hand.

Orl. I see my young master is a mad-cap, and a bonus socius. I love him well, mistress: yet as well as I love him, I’ll not play the knave with you; look you, I could cheat you of this purse full of money; but I am an old lad, and I scorn to cony-catch [254]: yet I ha’ been dog at a cony in my time. [Gives purse.

Orl. The gentleman that went away, whispered in mine ear, and charged me to give it you.

Orl. ’Tis like so: it may be, he thinks you want money, and therefore bestows his alms bravely, like a lord.

Bell. He thinks a silver net can catch the poor;
Here’s bait to choke a nun, and turn her whore.
Wilt thou be honest to me?

Bell. Thou to this lord shalt go, commend me to him,
And tell him this, the town has held out long,
Because within ’twas rather true than strong.
To sell it now were base; Say ’tis no hold
Built of weak stuff, to be blown up with gold.
He shall believe thee by this token, or this;
If not, by this. [Giving purse, ring and letters.

Bell. This is all.

Orl. Mine own girl still! [Aside.

Bell. A star may shoot, not fall. [Exit.

Orl. A star? nay, thou art more than the moon, for thou hast neither changing quarters, nor a man standing in thy circle with a bush of thorns. Is’t possible the Lord Hippolito, whose face is as civil as the outside of a dedicatory book, should be a muttonmonger?[255] A poor man has but one ewe, and this grandee sheep-biter leaves whole flocks of fat wethers, whom he may knock down, to devour this. I’ll trust neither lord nor butcher with quick flesh for this trick; the cuckoo, I see now, sings all the year, though every man cannot hear him; but I’ll spoil his notes. Can neither love-letters, nor the devil’s common pick-locks, gold, nor precious stones make my girl draw up her percullis?[256] Hold out still, wench.

All are not bawds, I see now, that keep doors,
Nor all good wenches that are marked for whores. [Exit.

SCENE II.—Before Candido’s Shop.

Lod. Come, come, come, what do ye lack, sir? what do ye lack, sir? what is’t ye lack, sir? Is not my worship well suited? did you ever see a gentleman better disguised?

Lod. Yes, but when he has been drunk. There be prentices would make mad gallants, for they would spend all, and drink, and whore, and so forth; and I see we gallants could make mad prentices. How does thy wife like me? Nay, I must not be so saucy, then I spoil all: pray you how does my mistress like me?

Lod. And they that are taken for such are commonly the arrantest knaves: but to our comedy, come.

Cand. I shall not act it; chide, you say, and fret,
And grow impatient: I shall never do’t.

Cand. Were I a painter, that should live by drawing
Nothing but pictures of an angry man,
I should not earn my colours; I cannot do’t.

Lod. Remember you’re a linen-draper, and that if you give your wife a yard, she’ll take an ell: give her not therefore a quarter of your yard, not a nail.

Cand. Say I should turn to ice, and nip her love
Now ’tis but in the bud.

Lod. Well, say she’s nipt.

Cand. It will so overcharge her heart with grief,
That like a cannon, when her sighs go off,
She in her duty either will recoil,
Or break in pieces and so die: her death,
By my unkindness might be counted murder.

Lod. Die? never, never. I do not bid you beat her, nor give her black eyes, nor pinch her sides; but cross her humours. Are not baker’s arms the scales of justice? yet is not their bread light? and may not you, I pray, bridle her with a sharp bit, yet ride her gently?

Cand. Well, I will try your pills,
Do you your faithful service, and be ready
Still at a pinch to help me in this part,
Or else I shall be out clean.

Lod. Come, come, I’ll prompt you.

Cand. I’ll call her forth now, shall I?

Lod. Do, do, bravely.

Cand. Luke, I pray, bid your mistress to come hither.

Lod. Luke, I pray, bid your mistress to come hither.

Cand. Sirrah, bid my wife come to me: why, when?[257]

1st Pren. [Within] Presently, sir, she comes.

Lod. La, you, there’s the echo! she comes.

Bride. What is your pleasure with me?

Cand. Marry, wife,
I have intent; and you see this stripling here,
He bears good will and liking to my trade,
And means to deal in linen.

Lod. Yes, indeed, sir, I would deal in linen, if my mistress like me so well as I like her.

Cand. I hope to find him honest, pray; good wife, look that his bed and chamber be made ready.

SCENE III.—A Room in Candido’s House. Candido, the Bride and Guests discovered at dinner; Prentices waiting on them.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.—A Room in Matheo’s House.

SCENE II.—Before Candido’s Shop.