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

Lod. An ell for my mistress! [Brings an ell wand from the shop. Keep the laws of the noble science, sir, and measure weapons with her; your yard is a plain heathenish weapon; ’tis too short, she may give you a handful, and yet you’ll not reach her.

Cand. Yet I ha’ the longer arm.—Come fall to’t roundly,
And spare not me, wife, for I’ll lay’t on soundly:
If o’er husbands their wives will needs be masters,
We men will have a law to win’t at wasters.[259]

Lod. ’Tis for the breeches, is’t not?

Cand. For the breeches!

Bride. Husband, I’m for you, I’ll not strike in jest.

Bride. But will you sign to one request?

Cand. What’s that?

Bride. Let me give the first blow.

Cand. The first blow, wife? shall I?

Lod. Let her ha’t:
If she strike hard, in to her, and break her pate.

Cand. A bargain: strike!

Bride. Then guard you from this blow,
For I play all at legs, but ’tis thus low. [Kneels.
Behold, I’m such a cunning fencer grown,
I keep my ground, yet down I will be thrown
With the least blow you give me: I disdain
The wife that is her husband’s sovereign.
She that upon your pillow first did rest,
They say, the breeches wore, which I detest:
The tax which she imposed on you, I abate you;
If me you make your master, I shall hate you.
The world shall judge who offers fairest play;
You win the breeches, but I win the day.

Cand. Thou win’st the day indeed, give me thy hand;
I’ll challenge thee no more: my patient breast
Played thus the rebel, only for a jest:
Here’s the rank rider, that breaks colts; ’tis he
Can tame the mad folks, and curst wives easily.

Cand. My man? my master, though his head be bare,
But he’s so courteous, he’ll put off his hair.

Lod. Nay, if your service be so hot a man cannot keep his hair on, I’ll serve you no longer. [Takes off his false hair.

Lod. Yes, faith, wench, I taught him to take thee down: I hope thou canst take him down without teaching;

You ha’ got the conquest, and you both are friends.

Cand. Bear witness else.

Lod. My prenticeship then ends.

Cand. For the good service you to me have done,
I give you all your years.

Lod. I thank you, master.
I’ll kiss my mistress now, that she may say,
My man was bound, and free all in one day. [Exeunt.

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.—An Apartment in Hippolito’s House.

Orl. This madam: my poor mistress has a waste piece of ground, which is her own by inheritance, and left to her by her mother. There’s a lord now that goes about not to take it clean from her, but to enclose it to himself, and to join it to a piece of his lordship’s.

Orl. No more, madam, but what one woman should do for another in such a case. My honourable lord your husband, would do any thing in her behalf, but she had rather put herself into your hands, because you, a woman, may do more with the duke, your father.

Orl. Within a stone’s cast of this place; my mistress, I think, would be content to let him enjoy it after her decease, if that would serve his turn, so my master would yield too; but she cannot abide to hear that the lord should meddle with it in her lifetime.

Orl. Her husband stirs in it underhand: but because the other is a great rich man, my master is loath to be seen in it too much.

Inf. Let her in writing draw the cause at large:
And I will move the duke.

Orl. ’Tis set down, madam, here in black and white already: work it so madam, that she may keep her own without disturbance, grievance, molestation, or meddling of any other; and she bestows this purse of gold on your ladyship.

Inf. Old man, I’ll plead for her, but take no fees:
Give lawyers them, I swim not in that flood;
I’ll touch no gold, till I have done her good.

Orl. I would all proctors’ clerks were of your mind, I should law more amongst them than I do then; here, madam, is the survey, not only of the manor itself, but of the grange-house, with every meadow, pasture, plough-land, cony-burrow, fish-pond, hedge, ditch, and bush, that stands in it. [Gives a letter.

Inf. My husband’s name, and hand and seal at arms
To a love letter? Where hadst thou this writing?

Orl. From the foresaid party, madam, that would keep the foresaid land out of the foresaid lord’s fingers.

Orl. You’re a good huntress, lady; you ha’ found your game already: your lord would fain be a ranger, but my mistress requests you to let him run a course in your own park. If you’ll not do’t for love, then do’t for money! she has no white money, but there’s gold; or else she prays you to ring him by this token, and so you shall be sure his nose will not be rooting other men’s pastures. [Gives purse and ring.

Inf. This very purse was woven with mine own hands;
This diamond on that very night, when he
Untied my virgin girdle, gave I him:
And must a common harlot share in mine?
Old man, to quit thy pains, take thou the gold.

Inf. Cupid himself was sure his secretary;
These lines are even the arrows love let flies,
The very ink dropt out of Venus’ eyes.

Orl. I do not think, madam, but he fetched off some poet or other for those lines, for they are parlous hawks to fly at wenches.

Inf. Here’s honied poison! To me he ne’er thus writ;
But lust can set a double edge on wit.

Orl. Nay, that’s true, madam, a wench will whet any thing, if it be not too dull.

Inf. Oaths, promises, preferments, jewels, gold,
What snares should break, if all these cannot hold?
What creature is thy mistress?

Orl. A little tiny woman, lower than your ladyship by head and shoulders, but as mad a wench as ever unlaced a petticoat: these things should I indeed have delivered to my lord, your husband.

Inf. They are delivered better: why should she
Send back these things?

Inf. Strumpets, like cheating gamesters, will not win
At first: these are but baits to draw him in.
How might I learn his hunting hours?

Orl. The Irish footman can tell you all his hunting hours, the park he hunts in, the doe he would strike; that Irish shackatory [260] beats the bush for him, and knows all; he brought that letter, and that ring; he is the carrier.

Inf. How much cost those satins,
And cloth of silver, which my husband sent by you
To a low gentlewoman yonder?

Bry. Faat satins? faat silvers, faat low gentlefolks? dow pratest dow knowest not what, i’faat, la.

Bry. By dis hand and bod dow saist true, if I did so, oh how? I know not a letter a’ de book i’faat, la.

Inf. Did your lord never send you with a ring, sir,
Set with a diamond?

Bry. Never, sa crees[261] fa’ me, never! he may run at a towsand rings i’faat, and I never hold his stirrup, till he leap into de saddle. By Saint Patrick, madam, I never touch my lord’s diamond, nor ever had to do, i’faat, la, with any of his precious stones.

Bry. Slawne loot,[262] fare de well, fare de well. Ah marragh frofat boddah breen![263] [Exit.

Inf. If you’ll needs know, it was about the clock:
How works the day, my lord, pray, by your watch?

Inf. How, two? I’m scarce at one.

Hip. One of us then goes false.

Inf. Then sure ’tis you,
Mine goes by heaven’s dial, the sun, and it goes true.

Hip. I think, indeed, mine runs somewhat too fast.

Inf. Set it to mine at one then.

Hip. One? ’tis past:
’Tis past one by the sun.

Inf. Faith, then, belike,
Neither your clock nor mine does truly strike;
And since it is uncertain which goes true,
Better be false at one, than false at two.

Hip. You’re very pleasant, madam.

Inf. Yet not merry.

Hip. Why, Infelice, what should make you sad?

Inf. Nothing, my lord, but my false watch: pray, tell me,—
You see, my clock or yours is out of frame,
Must we upon the workmen lay the blame,
Or on ourselves that keep them?

Hip. Faith on both.
He may by knavery spoil them, we by sloth.
But why talk you all riddle thus? I read
Strange comments in those margins of your looks:
Your cheeks of late are like bad printed books,
So dimly charactered, I scarce can spell
One line of love in them. Sure all’s not well.

Inf. All is not well indeed, my dearest lord;
Lock up thy gates of hearing, that no sound
Of what I speak may enter.

Hip. What means this?

Inf. Or if my own tongue must myself betray,
Count it a dream, or turn thine eyes away,
And think me not thy wife. [Kneels.

Hip. Why do you kneel?

Inf. Earth is sin’s cushion: when the sick soul feels
Herself growing poor, then she turns beggar, cries,
And kneels for help: Hippolito, for husband
I dare not call thee, I have stolen that jewel
Of my chaste honour, which was only thine,
And given it to a slave.

Inf. On thy pillow
Adultery and lust have slept, thy groom
Hath climbed the unlawful tree, and plucked the sweets,
A villain hath usurped a husband’s sheets.

Hip. S’death, who?—a cuckold!—who?

Inf. This Irish footman.

Hip. Worse than damnation! a wild kerne,[264] a frog,
A dog: whom I’ll scarce spurn. Longed you for shamrock?
Were it my father’s father, heart, I’ll kill him,
Although I take him on his death-bed gasping
’Twixt Heaven and hell! a shag-haired cur! Bold strumpet,
Why hang’st thou on me? think’st I’ll be a bawd
To a whore, because she’s noble?

Inf. I beg but this,
Set not my shame out to the world’s broad eye,
Yet let thy vengeance, like my fault, soar high,
So it be in darkened clouds.

Hip. Darkened! my horns
Cannot be darkened, nor shall my revenge.
A harlot to my slave? the act is base,
Common, but foul, so shall not thy disgrace.
Could not I feed your appetite? O women
You were created angels, pure and fair;
But since the first fell, tempting devils you are,
You should be men’s bliss, but you prove their rods:
Were there no women, men might live like gods;
You ha’ been too much down already; rise,
Get from my sight, and henceforth shun my bed;
I’ll with no strumpet’s breath be poisonèd.
As for your Irish lubrican, that spirit
Whom by preposterous charms thy lust hath raised
In a wrong circle, him I’ll damn more black
Then any tyrant’s soul.

Hip. Tell me, didst thou bait hooks to draw him to thee,
Or did he bewitch thee?

Inf. The slave did woo me.

Hip. Tu-whoos in that screech-owl’s language. Oh, who’d trust
Your cork-heeled sex? I think to sate your lust,
You’d love a horse, a bear, a croaking toad,
So your hot itching veins might have their bound:
Then the wild Irish dart [265] was thrown? Come, how?
The manner of this fight?

Inf. ’Twas thus, he gave me this battery first.—Oh, I
Mistake—believe me, all this in beaten gold;
Yet I held out, but at length thus was charmed. [Gives letter, purse and ring.
What? change your diamond, wench, the act is base,
Common, but foul, so shall not your disgrace:
Could not I feed your appetite? O men,
You were created angels, pure and fair,
But since the first fell, worse than devils you are.
You should our shields be, but you prove our rods.
Were there no men, women might live like gods.
Guilty, my lord?

Hip. Yes, guilty my good lady.

Inf. Nay, you may laugh, but henceforth shun my bed,
With no whore’s leavings I’ll be poisonèd. [Exit.

Hip. O’er-reached so finely? ’Tis the very diamond
And letter which I sent: this villany
Some spider closely weaves, whose poisonèd bulk
I must let forth. Who’s there without?

Ser. [Within.] My lord calls?

Hip. Send me the footman.

Ser. [Within.] Call the footman to my lord,—Bryan, Bryan!

Hip. It can be no man else, that Irish Judas,
Bred in a country where no venom prospers
But in the nation’s blood, hath thus betrayed me.

Slave, get you from your service.

Bry. Faat meanest thou by this now?

Hip. Question me not, nor tempt my fury, villain
Couldst thou turn all the mountains in the land,
To hills of gold, and give me: here thou stayest not.

Bry. Ay, do predy, I had rather have thee make a scabbard of my guts, and let out all de Irish puddings in my poor belly, den to be a false knave to de, i’faat! I will never see dine own sweet face more. A mawhid deer a gra,[266] fare dee well, fare dee well; I will go steal cows again in Ireland. [Exit.

Hip. He’s damned that raised this whirlwind, which hath blown
Into her eyes this jealousy: yet I’ll on,
I’ll on, stood armed devils staring in my face,
To be pursued in flight, quickens the race,
Shall my blood-streams by a wife’s lust be barred?
Fond [267] woman, no: iron grows by strokes more hard;
Lawless desires are seas scorning all bounds,
Or sulphur, which being rammed up, more confounds,
Struggling with madmen madness nothing tames,
Winds wrestling with great fires incense the flames. [Exit.

SCENE II.—A Room in Matheo’s House.

Orl. Has taken a younger brother’s purge, forsooth, and that works with him.

Orl. He has given up his cloak, and his rapier is bound to the peace: If you look a little higher, you may see that another hath entered into hatband for him too. Six and four have put him into this sweat.

Orl. ’Tis put over by exchange; his doublet was going to be translated, but for me. If any man would ha’ lent but half a ducat on his beard, the hair of it had stuffed a pair of breeches by this time; I had but one poor penny, and that I was glad to niggle out, and buy a holly-wand to grace him through the street. As hap was, his boots were on, and them I dustied, to make people think he had been riding, and I had run by him.

Mat. Oh rogue, of what devilish stuff are these dice made of,—the parings of the devil’s corns of his toes, that they run thus damnably?

Mat. If any handicraft’s-man was ever suffered to keep shop in hell, it will be a dice-maker; he’s able to undo more souls than the devil; I played with mine own dice, yet lost. Ha’ you any money?

Mat. Must have money, must have some, must have a cloak, and rapier, and things. Will you go set your lime-twigs, and get me some birds, some money?

Mat. You will not then? Must have cash and pictures, do ye hear, frailty? shall I walk in a Plymouth cloak,[268] that’s to say, like a rogue, in my hose and doublet, and a crabtree cudgel in my hand, and you swim in your satins? Must have money, come! [Taking off her gown.

Bell. Undo me? Yes, yes, at these riflings I
Have been too often.

Mat. Help to flay, Pacheco.

Orl. Flaying call you it?

Mat. I’ll pawn you, by th’ lord, to your very eyebrows.

Bell. With all my heart, since Heaven will have me poor,
As good be drowned at sea, as drowned at shore.

Mat. Oh! it’s summer, it’s summer; your only fashion for a woman now is to be light, to be light.

Mat. Thine? I’ll starve first, I’ll beg first; when I touch a penny of that, let these fingers’ ends rot.

Orl. So they may, for that’s past touching. I saw my twenty pounds fly high. [Aside.

Mat. The gown stood me in above twenty ducats, borrow ten of it. Cannot live without silver.

Orl. I’ll make what I can of it, sir, I’ll be your broker,—
But not your damned broker: Oh thou scurvy knave!
What makes a wife turn whore, but such a slave? [Aside and exit with Bellafront’s gown.

Mat. How now, little chick, what ailest, weeping for a handful of tailor’s shreds? pox on them, are there not silks enow at mercer’s?

Bell. I care not for gay feathers, I.

Mat. What dost care for then? why dost grieve?

Bell. Why do I grieve? A thousand sorrows strike
At one poor heart, and yet it lives. Matheo,
Thou art a gamester, prithee, throw at all,
Set all upon one cast. We kneel and pray,
And struggle for life, yet must be cast away.
Meet misery quickly then, split all, sell all,
And when thou’st sold all, spend it; but I beseech thee
Build not thy mind on me to coin thee more,
To get it wouldst thou have me play the whore?

Mat. ’Twas your profession before I married you.

Bell. Umh? it was indeed: if all men should be branded
For sins long since laid up, who could be saved?
The quarter-day’s at hand, how will you do
To pay the rent, Matheo?

Mat. Why? do as all of our occupation do against quarter-days: break up house, remove, shift your lodgings: pox a’ your quarters!

Mat. Signor Lodovico? how does my little Mirror of Knighthood?[269] this is kindly done i’faith: welcome, by my troth.

Lod. And how dost, frolic?—Save you fair lady.—
Thou lookest smug and bravely, noble Mat.

Mat. Drink and feed, laugh and lie warm.

Lod. Is this thy wife?

Mat. A poor gentlewoman, sir, whom I make use of a’nights.

Lod. Pay custom to your lips, sweet lady. [Kisses her.

Mat. Borrow some shells [270] of him—some wine, sweetheart.

Lod. I’ll send for’t then, i’faith.

Lod. Here! (Offering money,) or I’ll not stay, I protest; trouble the gentlewoman too much? [Gives money to Bellafront, who goes out.

Lod. And no doubt shall again.
The divine powers never shoot darts at men
Mortal, to kill them.

Mat. You say true.

Lod. Why should we grieve at want? Say the world made thee
Her minion, that thy head lay in her lap,
And that she danced thee on her wanton knee,
She could but give thee a whole world: that’s all,
And that all’s nothing; the world’s greatest part
Cannot fill up one corner of thy heart.
Say three corners were all filled, alas!
Of what art thou possessed, a thin blown glass:
Such as is by boys puffed into the air.
Were twenty kingdoms thine, thou’dst live in care:
Thou couldst not sleep the better, nor live longer,
Nor merrier be, nor healthfuller, nor stronger.
If, then, thou want’st, thus make that want thy pleasure,
No man wants all things, nor has all in measure.

Mat. I am the most wretched fellow: sure some left-handed priest hath christened me, I am so unlucky; I am never out of one puddle or another; still falling.

Fill out wine to my little finger.
With my heart, i’faith. [Drinks.

Lod. Thanks, good Matheo.
To your own sweet self. [Drinks.

Orl. All the brokers’ hearts, sir, are made of flint. I can with all my knocking strike but six sparks of fire out of them; here’s six ducats, if you’ll take them.

Mat. Give me them! [Taking money.] An evil conscience gnaw them all! moths and plagues hang upon their lousy wardrobes!

Mat. A sort of rascals are in my debt, God knows what, and they feed me with bits, with crumbs, a pox choke them.

Lod. A word, Matheo; be not angry with me;
Believe it that I know the touch of time,
And can part copper though it be gilded o’er,
From the true gold: the sails which thou dost spread,
Would show well if they were not borrowèd.
The sound of thy low fortunes drew me hither,
I give my self unto thee; prithee, use me,
I will bestow on you a suit of satin,
And all things else to fit a gentleman,
Because I love you.

Mat. Thanks, good, noble knight!

Lod. Call on me when you please; till then farewell. [Exit.

Mat. Hast angled? hast cut up this fresh salmon?

Bell. Wouldst have me be so base?

Mat. It’s base to steal, its base to be a whore:
Thou’lt be more base, I’ll make thee keep a door.[271] [Exit.

Orl. Nay then, it’s well. I set my brains upon an upright last; though my wits be old, yet they are like a withered pippin, wholesome. Look you, mistress, I told him I had but six ducats of the knave broker, but I had eight, and kept these two for you.

Orl. Sell his wife’s clothes from her back? does any poulterer’s wife pull chickens alive? He riots all abroad, wants all at home: he dices, whores, swaggers, swears, cheats, borrows, pawns: I’ll give him hook and line, a little more for all this;

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.—An Apartment in Hippolito’s House.

SCENE II.—A Room in Matheo’s House.