The Project Gutenberg eBook of Beaumont & Fletcher's Works (5 of 10), by Francis Beaumont, John Fletcher.

Now Sir, what is your business? pray be short; for I have other
Matters of more moment to call me from ye.

Fa. If you but look upon me like a Daughter
And keep that love about ye that makes good
A Fathers hope, you'l quickly find my business,
And what I would say to you, and before
I ask, will be a giver: say that sleep,
I mean that love, or be but num'd within ye,
The nature of my want is such a searcher,
And of so mighty power, that where he finds
This dead forgetfulness, it works so strongly,
That if the least heat of a childs affection
Remain unperish'd, like another nature,
It makes all new again; pray do not scorn me,
Nor seem to make your self a greater business
Than my relieving.

Lel. If you were not old
I should laugh at ye; what a vengeance ails ye
To be so childish to imagine me
A founder of old fellows? make him drink, wench,
And if there be any cold meat in the Buttery,
Give him some broken bread, and that, and rid him.

Fa. Is this a childs love? or a recompence
Fit for a Fathers care? O Lelia,
Had I been thus unkind, thou hadst not been;
Or like me miserable: But 'tis impossible
Nature should dye so utterly within thee,
And lose her promises; thou art one of those
She set her stamp more excellently on,
Than common people, as fore-telling thee,
A general example of her goodness;
Or say she could lye, yet Religion
(For love to Parents is Religious)
Would lead thee right again: Look well upon me,
I am the root that gave thee nourishment,
And made thee spring fair, do not let me perish
Now I am old and sapless.

Lelia. As I live
I like ye far worse now ye grow thus holy,
I grant you are my Father; am I therefore
Bound to consume my self, and be a Beggar
Still in relieving you? I do not feel
Any such mad compassion yet within me.

Fa. I gave up all my state to make yours thus.

Lel. 'Twas as ye ought to do, and now ye cry for't
As children do for babies back again.

Fath. How wouldst thou have me live?

Lel. I would not have ye,
Nor know no reason Fathers should desire
To live, and be a trouble, when children
Are able to inherit, let them dye,
'Tis fit, and lookt for, that they should do so.

Fa. Is this your comfort?

Lel. All that I feel yet.

Fa. I will not curse thee.

Lel. If you do I care not.

Fa. Pray you give me leave to weep.

Lel. Why pray take leave,
If it be for your ease.

Fa. Thy Mother dyed,
Sweet peace be with her, in a happy time.

Lel. She did, Sir, as she ought to do, would you
Would take the pains to follow; what should you,
Or any old man do wearing away
In this world with Diseases, and desire
Only to live to make their Children scourge-sticks,
And hoard up mill-mony? me thinks a Marble
Lyes quieter upon an old mans head
Than a cold fit o'th' Palsey.

Fa. O good Heaven!
To what an impudence thou wretched woman,
Hast thou begot thy self again! well, justice
Will punish disobedience.

Lel. You mistake, Sir;
'Twill punish Beggars, fye for shame go work,
Or serve, you are grave enough to be a Porter
In some good man of worships house, and give
Sententious answers to the comers in.
A pretty place; or be of some good Consort,
You had a pleasant touch o'th' Cittern once,
If idleness have not bereft you of it:
Be any thing but old and Beggarly,
Two sins that ever do outgrow compassion;
If I might see you offer at a course
That were a likely one, and shew'd some profit,
I would not stick for ten Groats, or a Noble.

Fath. Did I beget this woman?

Lel. Nay, I know not:
And till I know, I will not thank you for't;
How ever, he that got me had the pleasure,
And that me thinks, is a reward sufficient.

Fath. I am so strangely strucken with amazement,
I know not where I am, nor what I am.

Lel. You had best take fresh air some where else, 'twill bring ye
Out of your trance the sooner.

Fath. Is all this
As you mean, Lelia?

Lel. Yes believe me is it,
For yet I cannot think you are so foolish,
As to imagine you are young enough
To be my heir, or I so old to make
A Nurse at these years for you, and attend
While you sup up my state in penny pots
Of Malmsey: when I am excellent at Cawdles,
And Cullices, and have enough spare gold
To boil away, you shall be welcome to me;
'Till when I'd have you be as merry, Sir,
As you can make your self with that you have,
And leave to trouble me with these relations,
Of what you have been to me, or you are,
For as I hear them, so I lose them; this
For [a]ught I know yet, is my resolution.

Fath. Well, God be with thee, for I fear thy end
Will be a strange example. [Exit Father.

Lel. Fare ye well, Sir;
Now would some poor tender hearted fool have wept,
Relented, and have been undone: such Children
(I thank my understanding) I hate truly,
For by my troth I had rather see their tears
Than feel their pities: my desires and ends
Are all the Kindred that I have, and friends.

Is he departed?

Wom. Yes, but here's another.

Lel. Not of his tribe I hope; bring me no more
I would wish you such as he is; if thou seest
They look like men of worth, and state, and carry
Ballast of both sides like tall Gentlemen
Admit 'em, but no snakes to poyson us
With poverty; wench you must learn a wise rule,
Look not upon the youths of men, and making,
How they descend in bloud, nor let their tongues,
Though they strike suddainly, and sweet as musick
Corrupt thy fancy: see, and say them fair too,
But ever keep thy self without their distance,
Unless the love thou swallow be a pill
Gilded to hide the bitterness it brings,
Then fall on without fear, wench, yet so wisely
That one encounter cloy him not; nor promise
His love hath made thee more his, than his monies;
Learn this and thrive,
Then let thine honour ever
(For that's the last rule) be so stood upon,
That men may fairly see
'Tis want of means, not vertue makes thee fall;
And if you weep 'twill be a great deal better,
And draw on more compassion, which includes
A greater tenderness of love and bounty:
This is enough at once, digest it well:
Go let him in wench, if he promise profit,
Not else.

O you are welcome my fair Servant,
Upon my troth I have been longing for ye.

Wom. This, by her rule, should be a liberal man,
I see the best on's may learn every day.

Lel. There's none come with you?

Jul. No.

Lel. You do the wiser,
For some that have been here (I name no man)
Out of their malice, more than truth, have done me
Some few ill offices.

Jul. How, Sweet?

Lel. Nay, nothing,
Only have talkt a little wildly of me;
As their unruly Youth directed 'em;
Which though they bite me not, I would have wisht
Had light upon some other that deserv'd 'em.

Jul. Though she deserve this of the loosest tongue
(Which makes my sin the more) I must not see it;
Such is my misery. I would I knew him.

Lel. No, no, let him go,
He is not worth your anger; I must chide you
For being such a stranger to your Mistriss,
Why would you be so, Servant?

Jul. I should chide,
If chiding would work any thing upon you,
For being such a stranger to your Servant,
I mean to his desires; when, my dear Mistress,
Shall I be made a happy man?

Lel. Fye, Servant,
What do you mean? unhand me, or, by Heav'n,
I shall be very angry, this is rudeness.

Jul. 'Twas but a kiss or two, that thus offends you.

Lel. 'Twas more I think, than you have warrant for.

Jul. I am sorry I deserv'd no more.

Lel. You may,
But not this rough way, Servant; we are tender,
And ought in all to be respected so;
If I had been your Horse, or Whore, you might
Back me with this intemperance; I thought
You had lov'd as worthy men, whose fair affections
Seek pleasures warranted, not pull'd by violence,
Do so no more.

Jul. I hope you are not angry?

Lel. I should be with another man, I am sure,
That durst appear but half thus violent.

Jul. I did not mean to ravish ye.

Lel. You could not.

Jul. You are so willing—

Lel. How?

Jul. Methinks this shadow,
If you had so much shame as fits a woman,
At least of your way, Mistriss, long e're this
Had been laid off to me that understand ye.

Lel. That understand me? Sir, ye understand,
Nor shall, no more of me than modesty
Will, without fear, deliver to a stranger;
You understand I am honest, else I tell ye,
(Though you were better far than Julio)
You, and your understanding are two fools,
But were we Saints, thus we are still rewarded:
I see that Woman had a pretty catch on't,
That had made you the Master of a kindness,
She durst not answer openly; O me!
How easily we Women may be cozen'd!
I took this Julio, as I have a faith,
(This young Dissembler with the sober Vizard)
For the most modest, temper'd Gentleman,
The coolest, quietest, and best Companion;
For such an one I could have wish'd a Woman.

Jul. You have wish'd me ill enough o' conscience,
Make me no worse for shame; I see the more
I work by way of service to obtain ye,
You work the more upon me. Tell me truly
(While I am able to believe a Woman,
For if you use me thus, that faith will perish)
What is your end, and whither you will pull me;
Tell me, but tell me that I may not start at,
And have a cause to curse ye.

Lel. Bless me goodness!
To curse me did you say, Sir? let it be
For too much loving you then, such a curse
Kill me withal, and I shall be a Martyr,
You have found a new way to reward my doting,
And I confess a fit one for my folly,
For you your self, if you have good within ye,
And dare be Master of it, know how dearly
This heart hath held you ever; Oh good Heaven!
That I had never seen that false mans eyes,
That dares reward me thus with fears and curses;
Nor never heard the sweetness of that tongue,
That will, when this is known, yet cozen women;
Curse me, good Julio, curse me bitterly,
I do deserve it for my confidence,
And I beseech thee if thou hast a goodness
Or power yet in thee to confirm thy wishes,
Curse me to earth, for what should I do here
Like a decaying flower, still withering
Under his bitter words, whose kindly heat
Should give my poor heart life? No, curse me, Julio,
Thou canst not do me such a benefit
As that, and well done, that the Heav'ns may hear it.

Jul. O fair tears! were you but as chast as subtil,
Like Bones of Saints, you would work miracles;
What were these women to a man that knew not
The thousand, thousand ways of their deceiving?
What riches had he found? O he would think
Himself still dreaming of a blessedness,
That like continual spring should flourish ever.
For if she were as good as she is seeming,
Or, like an Eagle, could renew her vertues,
Nature had made another world of sweetness.
Be not so griev'd, sweet Mistriss, what I said,
You do, or should know, was but passion;
Pray wipe your eyes and kiss me; take these trifles,
And wear them for me, which are only rich
When you will put them on: indeed I love ye,
Beshrew my sick heart, if I grieve not for ye.

Lel. Will you dissemble still? I am a fool,
And you may easily rule me, if you flatter,
The sin will be your own.

Jul. You know I do not.

Lel. And shall I be so childish once again,
After my late experience of your spight
To credit you? you do not know how deep
(Or if you did you would be kinder to me,)
This bitterness of yours has struck my heart.

Jul. I pray, no more.

Lel. Thus you would do I warrant,
If I were married to you.

Jul. Married to me?
Is that your end?

Lel. Yes, is not that the best end,
And, as all hold, the noblest way of love?
Why do you look so strange, Sir? do not you
Desire it should be so?

Jul. Stay.

Lel. Answer me.

Jul. Farewel. [Exit Julio.

Lel. I! are you there? are all these tears lost then?
Am I so overtaken by a fool
In my best days and tricks? my wise fellow,
I'll make you smart for't as I am a woman,
And if thou beest not timber, yet I'll warm thee;
And is he gone?

Wom. Yes.

Lel. He's not so lightly struck,
To be recovered with a base repentance,
I should be sorry then; Fortune, I prithee
Give me this man but once more in my arms,
And if I lose him, women have no charms. [Exeunt.

Actus Secundus. Scena Prima.

Jac. Seignior, what think you of this sound of Wars?

Fab. As only of a sound; they that intend
To do, are like deep waters that run quietly,
Leaving no face of what they were, behind 'em.
This rumour is too common, and too loud
To carry truth.

Jac. Shall we never live to see
Men look like men again,
Upon a March?
This cold dull rusty peace makes u[s] appear
Like empty Pictures, only the faint shadows
Of what we should be;
Would to Heaven my Mother
Had given but half her will to my begetting,
And made me woman, to sit still and sing,
Or be sick when I list, or any thing
That is too idle for a man to think of;
Would I had been a Whore, 't had been a course
Certain, and (o' my Conscience) of more gain
Than two commands, as I would handle it:
'Faith, I could wish I had been any thing
Rather tha[n] what I am, a Souldier;
A Carrier or a Cobler, when I knew
What 'twas to wear a Sword first; for their trades
Are, and shall be a constant way of life,
While men send Cheeses up, or wear out Buskins.

Fab. Thou art a little too impatient,
And mak'st thy anger a far more vexation
Than the not having Wars; I am a Souldier,
Which is my whole inheritance, yet I
Though I could wish a breach with all the world,
If not dishonourable, I am not so malicious,
To curse the fair peace of my Mother Country;
But thou want'st money, and the first supply
Will bury these thoughts in thee.

Jac. 'Pox o' peace,
It fills the Kingdom full of holydays,
And only feeds the wants of Whores and Pipers;
And makes the idle drunken Rogues get Spinsters:
'Tis true, I may want money, and no little,
And almost Cloaths too; of which if I had both
In full abundance; yet against all peace,
That brings up mischiefs thicker than a shower,
I would speak louder than a Lawyer;
By Heaven, it is the surfeit of all youth,
That makes the toughness, and the strength of Nations
Melt into Women. 'Tis an ease that broods
Thieves, and Bastards only.

Fab. This is more,
(Though it be true) than we ought to lay open,
And savours only of an indiscretion.
Believe me, Captain, such distemper'd spirits
Once out of motion, though they be proof valiant,
If they appear thus violent and fiery,
Breed but their own disgraces; and are nearer
Doubt and suspect in Princes, than rewards.

Jac. 'Tis well they can be near 'em any way.
But call you those true spirits ill affected,
That whilst the wars were, serv'd like walls and ribs
To girdle in the Kingdom?
And now faln
Through a faint Peace into affliction,
Speak but their miseries? come, come, Fabritio,
You may pretend what patience ye please,
And seem to yoak your wants like passions;
But while I know thou art a Souldier,
And a deserver, and no other Harvest
But what thy Sword reaps for thee to come in,
You shall be pleas'd to give me leave to tell ye,
You wish a Devil of this musty peace;
To which Prayer,
As one that's bound in Conscience, and all
That love our trade, I cry, Amen.

Fab. Prithee no more, we shall live well enough,
There's ways enough besides the wars to men
That are not logs, and lye still for the hands
Of others to remove 'em.

Jac. You may thrive, Sir,
Thou art young and handsom yet, and well enough
To please a Widow; thou canst sing, and tell
These foolish love-tales, and indite a little,
And if need be, compile a pretty matter,
And dedicate it to the honourable,
Which may awaken his compassion,
To make ye Clark o'th' Kitchen, and at length,
Come to be married to my Ladies Woman,
After she's crackt i'th' Ring.

Fab. 'Tis very well, Sir.

Jac. But what dost thou think shall become of me,
With all my imperfections? let me dye,
If I think I shall ever reach above
A forlorn Tapster, or some frothy fellow,
That stinks of stale Beer.

Fab. Captain Jacomo,
Why should you think so hardly of your vertues?

Jac. What vertues? by this light, I have no vertue,
But down-right buffetting, what can my face,
That is no better than a ragged Map now
Of where I have march'd and travell'd, profit me?
Unless it be for Ladies to abuse, and say
'Twas spoil'd for want of a Bongrace when I was young,
And now 'twill make a true prognostication
Of what man must be? Tell me of a fellow
That can mend Noses, and complain,
So tall a Souldier should want teeth to his Stomach;
And how it was great pity, that it was,
That he that made my Body was so busied
He could not stay to make my Legs too; but was driven
To clap a pair of Cat-sticks to my Knees, for which
I am indebted to two School-Boys; this
Must follow necessary.

Fab. There's no such matter.

Jac. Then for my Morals, and those hidden pieces,
That Art bestows upon me, they are such,
That when they come to light, I am sure will shame me,
For I can neither write, nor read, nor speak
That any man shall hope to profit by me;
And for my Languages, they are so many,
That put them all together, they will scarce
Serve to beg single Beer in; the plain truth is,
I love a Souldier, and can lead him on,
And if he fight well, I dare make him drunk;
This is my vertue, and if this will do,
I'll scramble yet amongst 'em.

Fab. 'Tis your way
To be thus pleasant still, but fear not, man,
For though the Wars fail, we shall screw our selves
Into some course of life yet.

Jac. Good Fabricio,
Have a quick eye upon me, for I fear
This Peace will make me something that I love not;
For by my troth, though I am plain and dudgion,
I would not be an Ass; and to sell parcels,
I can as soon be hang'd: prithee bestow me,
And speak some little good, though I deserve not.

Fab. Come, we'll consider more; stay, this
Should be another wind-fall of the Wars.

Jac. He looks indeed like an old tatter'd Colours,
That every wind would borrow from the Staff:
These are the hopes we have for all our hurts;
They have not cast his tongue too.

Fath. They that say
Hope never leaves a wretched man that seeks her,
I think are either patient fools, or liers,
I am sure I find it so, for I am master'd,
With such a misery and grief together
That that stay'd Anchor, men lay hold upon
In all their needs, is to me Lead that bows,
Or breaks with every strong sea of my sorrows.
I could now question Heaven (were it well
To look into their Justice) why those faults,
Those heavy sins others provoke 'em with
Should be rewarded on the head of us,
That hold the least alliance to their vices;
But this would be too curious; for I see
Our sufferings, not disputing, is the end,
Reveal'd to us of all these miseries.

Jac. Twenty such holy Hermits in a Camp
Would make 'em all Carthusians, I'll be hang'd
If he know what a Whore is, or a health,
Or have a nature liable to learn,
Or so much honest nurture to be drunk.
I do not think he has the spleen to swear
A greater Oath than Semsters utter Socks with,
S'pur him a question.

Fath. They are strangers both
To me, as I to them I hope; I would not have
Me and my shame together known by any,
I'll rather lie my self unto another.

Fab. I need not ask you, Sir, your Country,
I hear you speak this tongue, 'pray what more are you?
Or have you been? if it be not offensive
To urge ye so far, misery in your years
Gives every thing a tongue to question it.

Fath. Sir, though I could be pleas'd to make my ills
Only mine own, for grieving other men,
Yet to so fair and courteous a demander
That promises compassion, at worst pity,
I will relate a little of my story.
I am a Gentleman, however thus
Poor and unhappy; which believe me, Sir,
Was not born with me; for I well have try'd
Both the extreams of Fortune, and have found
Both dangerous; my younger years provok'd me,
Feeling in what an ease I slept at home,
Which to all stirring spirits is a sickness,
To see far Countrys, and observe their Customs:
I did so, and I travell'd till that course
Stor'd me with language, and some few slight manners,
Scarce worth my money; when an itch possess'd me
Of making Arms my active end of travel.

Fab. But did you so?

Fath. I did, and twenty Winters
I wore the Christian Cause upon my Sword
Against his Enemies, at Buda Siege
Full many a cold Night have I lodg'd in armour,
When all was frozen in me but mine Honour;
And many a day, when both the Sun and Cannon
Strove who should most destroy us; have I stood
Mail'd up in Steel, when my tough sinew shrunk,
And this parch'd Body ready to consume
As soon to ashes, as the Pike I bore;
Want has been to me as another Nature,
Which makes me with this patience still profess it;
And if a Souldier may without vain glory
Tell what h'as done, believe me, Gentlemen,
I could turn over annals of my dangers;
With this poor weakness have I man'd a breach,
And made it firm with so much bloud, that all
I had to bring me off alive was anger;
Thrice was I made a Slave, and thrice redeem'd
At price of all I had; The miseries
Of which times, if I had a heart to tell,
Would make ye weep like Children; but [I]'ll spare ye.

Jac. Fabricio, we two have been Souldiers
Above these fourteen years, yet o' my Conscience,
All we have seen, compar'd to his experience
Has been but cudgel-play, or Cock-fighting.
By all the faith I have in Arms, I reverence
The very poverty of this brave fellow;
Which were enough it self, and his to strengthen
The weakest town against half Christendom.
I was never so asham'd of service
In all my life before, now I consider
What I have done; and yet the Rogues would swear
I was a valiant fellow; I do find
The greatest danger I have brought my life through,
Now I have heard this worthy, was no more
Than stealing of a May-pole, or at worst,
Fighting at single Billet with a Barge-man.

Fab. I do believe him, Jacomo.

Jac. Believe him?
I have no faith within me, if I do not.

Fath. I see they are Souldiers;
And if we may judge by affections,
Brave and deserving men; how they are stir'd
But with a meer relation of what may be?
Since I have won belief, and am not known,
Forgive me, Honour, I'll make use of thee.

Fab. Sir, would I were a man, or great, or able
To look with liberal eyes upon your vertue.

Jac. Let's give him all we have, and leave off prating.
Here, Souldier, there's even five months pay, be merry,
And get thee handsom Cloaths.

Fab. What mean you, Jacomo?

Jac. Ye are a fool,
The very story's worth a hundred pound.
Give him more money.

Fath. Gentlemen, I know not
How I am able to deserve this blessing;
But if I live to see fair days again,
Something I'll do in honour of your goodness,
That shall shew thankfulness, if not desert.

Fab. If you please, Sir, till we procure ye place,
To eat with us, or wear such honest Garments
As our poor means can reach to, you shall be
A welcome man; to say more, were to feed ye
Only with words; we honour what y'have been,
For we are Souldiers, though not near the worth
You spake of lately.

Fath. I do guess ye so,
And knew, unless ye were a Souldier,
Ye could not find the way to know my wants.

Jac. But methinks all this while y'are too temperate;
Do you not tell men sometimes of the dulness
When you are grip't, as now you are with need?
I do, and let them know those silks they wear,
The War weaves for 'em; and the bread they eat
We sow, and reap again to feed their hunger;
I tell them boldly, they are masters of
Nothing but what we fight for; their fair women
Lye playing in their arms, whilst we, like Lares
Defend their pleasures; I am angry too,
And often rail at these forgetful great men
That suffer us to sue for what we ought
To have flung on us, e're we ask.

Fath. I have
Too often told my griefs that way, when all
I reapt, was rudeness of behaviour;
In their opinion men of War that thrive,
Must thank 'em when they rail, and wait to live.

Fab. Come, Sir, I see your wants need more relieving,
Than looking what they are; pray go with us.

Fath. I thank you, Gentlemen; since you are pleas'd
To do a benefit, I dare not cross it,
And what my service or endeavours may
Stand you in stead, you shall command, not pray. [Exeunt.

Jac. So you shall us, I'll to the Taylors with you bodily.

SCENE II.

Lod. Well, if this be true, I'll believe a Woman
When I have nothing else to do.

Piso. 'Tis certain, if there be a way of truth
In blushes, smiles, and commendations;
For by this light, I have heard her praise yond' fellow
In such a pitch, as if sh'ad studied
To crowd the worths of all men into him,
And I imagine these are seldom us'd
Without their special ends, and by a maid
Of her desires and youth.

Fred. It may be so.
She's free, as you, or I am, and may have
By that Prerogative, a liberal choice
In the bestowing of her love.

Lod. Bestowing?
If it be so, she has bestow'd her self
Upon a trim youth, Piso, what do you call him?

Piso. Why, Captain Jacomo.

Lod. O, Captain Jack-boy,
That is the Gentleman.

Fred. I think he be
A Gentleman at worst.

Lod. So think I too,
Would he would mend, Sir.

Fred. And a tall one too.

Lod. Yes, of his teeth; for of my faith I think
They are sharper than his sword, and dare do more
If the Buff meet him fairly.

Fred. Very well.

Piso. Now do I wonder what she means to do
When she has married him.

Lod. Why, well enough;
Trail his Pike under him, and be a Gentlewoman
Of the brave Captains Company.

Fred. Do you hear me?
This woman is my Sister, Gentlemen.

Lod. I am glad she is none of mine; but Frederick
Thou art not such a fool sure to be angry
Unless it be with her; we are thy friends, man.

Fred. I think ye are.

Lod. Yes, 'faith, and do but tell thee
How she will utterly overthrow her credit,
If she continue gracing of this pot-gun.

Piso. I think she was bewitcht, or mad or blind,
She would never have taken such a scar-Crow else
Into protection; of my life he looks
Of a more rusty swarth Complexion
Than an old arming Doublet.

Lod. I would send
His face to the Cutlers then, and have it sanguin'd,
'Twill look a great deal sweeter; then his Nose
I would have shorter, and my reason is,
His face will be ill mounted else.

Piso. For his Body,
I will not be my own Judge, lest I seem
A Railer, but let others look upon't,
And if they find it any other thing
Than a Trunk-sellar, to send wines down in,
Or a long walking bottle, I'll be hang'd for't;
His Hide (for sure he is a Beast) is ranker
Than the Muscovy-Leather, and grain'd like it:
And by all likelihoods he was begotten
Between a stubborn pair of Winter-boots;
His body goes with straps, he is so churlish.

Lod. He's poor and beggarly besides all this,
And of a nature far uncapable
Of any benefit; for his manners cannot
Shew him a way to thank a man that does one,
He's so uncivil; you may do a part
Worthy a Brother, to perswade your Sister
From her undoing; if she prove so foolish
To marry this cast Captain, look to find her
Within a month, where you, or any good man,
Would blush to know her; selling cheese and prunes,
And retail'd Bottle-Ale; I grieve to think,
Because I lov'd her, what a march this Captain
Will set her into.

Fred. You are both, believe me,
Two arrant Knaves, and were it not for taking
So just an execution from his hands
You have bely'd thus, I would swaddle ye,
Till I could draw off both your skins like Scabbards.
That man that you have wrong'd thus, though to me
He be a stranger, yet I know so worthy,
However low in fortune, that his worst parts,
The very wearing of his Cloaths, would make
Two better Gentlemen than you dare be,
For there is vertue in his outward things.

Lod. Belike you love him then?

Fred. Yes marry do I.

Lod. And will be angry for him.

Fred. If you talk,
Or pull your face into a stich again,
As I love truth I shall be very angry.
Do not I know thee, though thou hast some land
To set thee out thus among Gentlemen,
To be a prating, and vain-glorious Ass?
I do not wrong thee now, for I speak truth.
Do not I know thou hast been a cudgel'd Coward,
That has no cure for shame but Cloath of Silver?
And think'st the wearing of a gawdy Suit
Hides all disgraces?

Lod. I understand you not, you hurt not me,
Your anger flies so wide.

Piso. Seignior Frederick,
You much mistake this Gentleman.

Fred. No, Sir.

Piso. If you would please to be less angry,
I would tell you how.

Fred. You had better study, Sir,
How to excuse your self if ye be able,
Or I shall tell you once again.

Piso. Not me, Sir;
For I protest what I have said, was only
To make you understand your Sisters danger.

Lod. He might, if it pleas'd him, conceive it so.

Fred. I might, if it pleas'd me, stand still and hear
My Sister made a May-game, might I not?
And give allowance to your liberal jests
Upon his Person, whose least anger would
Consume a Legion of such wretched people,
That have no more to justifie their actions
But their tongues ends? that dare lie every way
As a Mill grinds? from this hour, I renounce
All part of fellowship that may hereafter
Make me take knowledg of ye, but for Knaves;
And take heed, as ye love whole skins and coxcombs,
How, and to whom, ye prate thus; for this time,
I care not if I spare ye; do not shake,
I will not beat ye, though ye do deserve it
Richly.

Lod. This is a strange Course, Frederick;
But sure you do not, or you would not know us;
Beat us?

Piso. 'Tis somewhat low, Sir, to a Gentleman.

Fred. I'll speak but few words, but I'll make 'em truths;
Get you gone both, and quickly, without murmuring,
Or looking big; and yet before you go,
I will have this confess'd, and seriously,
That you two are two Rascals.

Lod. How?

Fred. Two Rascals.
Come speak it from your hearts, or by this light
My sword shall flye among ye; answer me,
And to the point directly.

Piso. You shall have
Your will for this time: since we see y'are grown
So far untemperate; Let it be so Sir
In your opinion.

Fred. Do not mince the matter,
But speak the words plain; and you Lodovick
That stand so tally on your reputation,
You shall be he shall speak it.

Lod. This is pretty.

Fred. Let me not stay upon't.

Lod. Well we are Rascals,
Yes Piso, we are Rascals. [Ex. Lod. and Piso.

Fred. Get ye gone now, not a word more, y'are Rascals.