A MAD WORLD, MY MASTERS.

A Mad World, my Masters. As it hath bin lately in Action by the Children of Paules. Composed by T. M. London, Printed by H. B. for Walter Bvrre, and are to be sold in Paules Churchyard, at the signe of the Crane. 1608. 4to. A second ed. appeared 1640. 4to.

This drama has been reprinted (most carelessly) in the several editions of Dodsley’s Coll. of Old Plays, vol. v.

A Mad World, my Masters, was licensed by the deputy of Sir George Bucke, 4th Oct. 1608: see Chalmers’s Suppl. Apol., p. 199.

The City Heiress, or Sir Timothy Treatall, 1682, by Mrs. Behn, and The Country Lasses, or the Custom of the Manor, 1715, by Charles Johnson, are partly taken from the present play.

THE PRINTER AND STATIONER
TO THE
GENTLE READER.[721]

Courteous reader, let not the title or name of this comedy be any forestalling or weakening of the worthy author’s judgment, whose known abilities will survive to all posterities, though he be long since dead. I hope the reading thereof shall not prove distasteful unto any in particular, nor hurtful unto any in general; but I rather trust that the language and the plot which you shall find in each scene shall rather be commended and applauded than any way derided or scorned. In the action, which is the life of a comedy, and the glory of the author, it hath been sufficiently expressed to the liking of the spectators and commendations of the actors; who have set it forth in such lively colours, and to the meaning of the gentleman that true penned it, that I dare say few can excel them, though some may equal them. In the reading of one act you guess the consequence; for here is no bombasted or fustian stuff, but every line weighed as with balance, and every sentence placed with judgment and deliberation. All that you can find in the perusal I will give you notice of beforehand, to prevent a censure that may arise in thy reading of this comedy, as also for the excuse of the author; and that is this: here and there you shall find some lines that do answer in metre; which I hope will not prove so disdainful, whereby the book may be so much slighted as not to be read, or the author’s judgment undervalued as of no worth. Consider, gentle reader, it is full twenty years[722] since it was written, at which time metre was most in use, and shewed well upon the conclusion of every act and scene. My prevalent hope desires thy charitable censure, and thereby draws me to be

Thy immutable friend,
J. S.[723]
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Scene, partly London, partly the Country.
A MAD WORLD, MY MASTERS.

ACT I. SCENE I.

A Street.
Enter Follywit, Mawworm, Hoboy, and others.

Maw. Captain, regent, principal!

Hob. What shall I call thee? the noble spark of bounty! the life-blood of society!

Fol. Call me your forecast, you whoresons! when you come drunk out of a tavern, ’tis I must cast your plots into form still; ’tis I must manage the prank, or I’ll not give a louse for the proceeding: I must let fly my civil fortunes, turn wild-brain, lay my wits upo’ th’ tenters, you rascals, to maintain a company of villains, whom I love in my very soul and conscience!

Maw. Aha, our little forecast!

Fol. Hang you, you have bewitched me among you! I was as well given[724] till I fell to be wicked! my grandsire had hope of me: I went all in black; swore but a’ Sundays; never came home drunk but upon fasting-nights to cleanse my stomach. ’Slid, now I’m quite altered! blown into light colours; let out oaths by th’ minute; sit up late till it be early; drink drunk till I am sober; sink down dead in a tavern, and rise in a tobacco-shop: here’s a transformation! I was wont yet to pity the simple, and leave ’em some money: ’slid, now I gull ’em without conscience! I go without order, swear without number, gull without mercy, and drink without measure.

Maw. I deny the last; for if you drink ne’er so much, you drink within measure.

Fol. How prove you that, sir?

Maw. Because the drawers never fill their pots.

Fol. Mass, that was well found out! all drunkards may lawfully say, they drink within measure by that trick. And, now I’m put i’ th’ mind of a trick, can you keep your countenance, villains? Yet I am a fool to ask that; for how can they keep their countenance that have lost their credits?

Hob. I warrant you for blushing, captain.

Fol. I easily believe that, ancient, for thou lost thy colours once. Nay, faith, as for blushing, I think there’s grace little enough amongst you all; ’tis Lent in your cheeks, the flag’s down.[725] Well, your blushing face I suspect not, nor indeed greatly your laughing face, unless you had more money in your purses. Then thus compendiously now. You all know the possibilities of my hereafter fortunes, and the humour of my frolic grandsire, Sir Bounteous Progress, whose death makes all possible to me: I shall have all, when he has nothing; but now he has all, I shall have nothing. I think one mind runs through a million of ’em; they love to keep us sober all the while they’re alive, that when they’re dead we may drink to their healths; they cannot abide to see us merry all the while they’re above ground, and that makes so many laugh at their fathers’ funerals. I know my grandsire has his will in a box, and has bequeathed all to me, when he can carry nothing away; but stood I in need of poor ten pounds now, by his will I should hang myself ere I should get it: there’s no such word in his will, I warrant you, nor no such thought in his mind.

Maw. You may build upon that, captain.

Fol. Then since he has no will to do me good as long as he lives, by mine own will I’ll do myself good before he dies; and now I arrive at the purpose. You are not ignorant, I’m sure, you true and necessary implements of mischief, first, that my grandsire, Sir Bounteous Progress, is a knight of thousands, and therefore no knight since one thousand six hundred;[726] next, that he keeps a house like his name, bounteous, open for all comers; thirdly and lastly, that he stands much upon the glory of his complement,[727] variety of entertainment, together with the largeness of his kitchen, longitude of his buttery, and fecundity of his larder; and thinks himself never happier than when some stiff lord or great countess alights to make light his dishes. These being well mixed together, may give my project better encouragement, and make my purpose spring forth more fortunate: to be short, and cut off a great deal of dirty way, I’ll down to my grandsire like a lord.

Maw. How, captain?

Fol. A French ruff, a thin beard, and a strong perfume will do’t. I can hire blue coats[728] for you all by Westminster clock, and that colour will be soonest believed.

Maw. But prithee, captain——

Fol. Push,[729] I reach past your fathoms:[730] you desire crowns?

Maw. From the crown of our head to the sole of our foot, bully.

Fol. Why carry yourselves but probably, and carry away enough with yourselves.

Enter Penitent Brothel.

Hob. Why, there spoke a Roman captain!—Master Penitent Brothel!

P. Bro. Sweet master Folly-wit! [Exeunt Follywit, Mawworm, Hoboy, &c.] Here’s a mad-brain a’ th’ first,[731] whose pranks scorn to have precedents, to be second to any, or walk beneath any madcap’s inventions; has played more tricks than the cards can allow a man, and of the last stamp too, hating imitation; a fellow, whose only glory is to be prime of the company; to be sure of which, he maintains all the rest: he’s the carrion, and they the kites that gorge upon him.

But why in others do I check wild passions,
And retain deadly follies in myself?
I tax his youth of common receiv’d riot,
Time’s comic flashes, and the fruits of blood;
And in myself soothe up adulterous motions,
And such an appetite that I know damns me,
Yet willingly embrace it—love to Harebrain’s wife,
Over whose hours and pleasures her sick husband,
With a fantastic but deserv’d suspect,
Bestows his serious time in watch and ward;
And therefore I’m constrain’d to use the means
Of one that knows no mean, a courtesan,
One poison for another, whom her husband,
Without suspicion, innocently admits
Into her company, who with tried art
Corrupts and loosens her most constant powers,
Making his jealousy more than half a wittol,[732]
Before his face plotting his own abuse,
To which himself gives aim,[733]
Whilst the broad arrow with the forked head
Misses his brow but narrowly. See, here she comes,
The close courtesan, whose mother is her bawd.
Enter Courtesan.

Cour. Master Penitent Brothel!—

P. Bro. My little pretty lady Gullman, the news, the comfort?

Cour. You’re the fortunate man, sir, knight a’ th’ holland shirt;[734] there wants but opportunity, and she’s wax of your own fashioning. She had wrought herself into the form of your love before my art set finger to her.

P. Bro. Did our affections meet? our thoughts keep time?

Cour. So it should seem by the music: the only jar is in the grumbling bass-viol her husband.

P. Bro. O, his waking suspicion!

Cour. Sigh not, master Penitent; trust the managing of the business with me, ’tis for my credit now to see’t well finished: if I do you no good, sir, you shall give me no money, sir.

P. Bro. I am arrived at the court of conscience; a courtesan! O admirable times! honesty is removed to the common place.[735] [Aside.] Farewell, lady.

[Exit.
Enter Mother.

Mot. How now, daughter?

Cour. What news, mother?

Mot. A token from thy keeper.

Cour. O, from Sir Bounteous Progress: he’s my keeper indeed; but there’s many a piece of venison stolen that my keeper wots not on. There’s no park kept so warily but loses flesh one time or other; and no woman kept so privately but may watch advantage to make the best of her pleasure; and in common reason one keeper cannot be enough for so proud a park as a woman.

Mot. Hold thee there, girl.

Cour. Fear not me, mother.

Mot. Every part of the world shoots up daily into more subtlety; the very spider weaves her cauls with more art and cunning to entrap the fly.

The shallow ploughman can distinguish now
’Twixt simple truth and a dissembling brow;
Your base mechanic fellow can spy out
A weakness in a lord, and learns to flout.
How does’t behove us then that live by slight,[736]
To have our wits wound up to their stretch’d height!
Fifteen times
Thou knowest I have sold thy maidenhead
To make up a dowry for thy marriage, and yet
There’s maidenhead enough for old sir Bounteous still:
He’ll be all his lifetime about it yet,
And be as far to seek when he has done.
The sums that I have told upon thy pillow!
I shall once see those golden days again:
Though fifteen, all thy maidenheads are not gone.
Th’ Italian is not serv’d yet, nor the French:
The British men come for a dozen at once,
They engross all the market: tut, my girl,
’Tis nothing but a politic conveyance,
A sincere carriage, a religious eyebrow,
That throw[737] their charms over the worldling’s senses;
And when thou spiest a fool that truly pities
The false springs of thine eyes,
And honourably doats upon thy love,
If he be rich, set him by for a husband.
Be wisely temper’d, and learn this, my wench,
Who gets th’ opinion[738] for a virtuous name
May sin at pleasure, and ne’er think of shame.
Cour. Mother, I am too deep a scholar grown
To learn my first rules now.
Mot. ’Twill be thy own;
I say no more: peace, hark! remove thyself.
O, the two elder brothers! [Exit Courtesan.
Enter Inesse and Possibility.

Pos. A fair hour, sweet lady!

Mot. Good morrow, gentlemen, master Inesse and master Possibility.

In. Where’s the little sweet lady your daughter?

Mot. Even at her book, sir.

Pos. So religious?

Mot. ’Tis no new motion, sir; sh’as took it from an infant.

Pos. May we deserve a sight of her, lady?

Mot. Upon that condition you will promise me, gentlemen, to avoid all profane talk, wanton compliments, undecent phrases, and lascivious courtings (which I know my daughter will sooner die than endure), I am contented your suits shall be granted.

Pos. Not a bawdy syllable, I protest.

In. Syllable was [well] placed there; for indeed your one syllables are your bawdiest words: prick that down.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Before Harebrain’s House.
Enter Harebrain.
Har. She may make night-work on’t; ’twas well recover’d;[739]
He-cats and courtesans stroll most i’ th’ night:
Her friend may be receiv’d and convey’d forth nightly;
I’ll be at charge
For watch and ward, for watch and ward, i’faith;
And here they come.
Enter Watchmen.
First W. Give your worship good even.
Har. Welcome, my friends; I must deserve your diligence
In an employment serious. The troth is,
There’s[740] a cunning plot laid, but happily discover’d,
To rob my house; the night uncertain when,
But fix’d within the circle of this month;
Nor does this villany consist in numbers,
Or many partners; only some one
Shall, in the form of my familiar friend,
Be receiv’d privately into my house
By some perfidious servant of mine own,
Address’d fit for the practice.
First W. O abominable!
Har. If you be faithful watchmen, shew your goodness,
And with these angels[741] shore up your eyelids:
[Giving money.
Let me not be purloin’d—purloin’d indeed!
The merry Greeks conceive me—there’s[742] a gem
I would not lose,
Kept by th’ Italian under lock and key:
We Englishmen are careless creatures: well,
I have said enough.
Sec. W. And we will do enough, sir.
Har. Why, well said; watch me a good turn now; so, so, so. [Exeunt Watchmen.
Rise villany with the lark, why, ’tis prevented;
Or steal’t by with the leather-winged bat,[743]
The evening cannot save it—peace—
Enter Courtesan.

O, lady Gullman, my wife’s only company, welcome! and how does the virtuous matron, that good old gentlewoman, thy mother? I persuade myself, if modesty be in the world, she has part on’t; a woman of an excellent carriage all her lifetime, in court, city, and country.

Cour. Sh’as always carried it well in those places, sir;—witness three bastards a-piece. [Aside]—How does your sweet bed-fellow, sir? you see I’m her boldest visitant.

Har. And welcome, sweet virgin; the only companion my soul wishes for her. I left her within at her lute; prithee, give her good counsel.

Cour. Alas, she needs none, sir!

Har. Yet, yet, yet, a little of thy instructions will not come amiss to her.

Cour. I’ll bestow my labour, sir.

Har. Do, labour her, prithee. I have conveyed away all her wanton pamphlets; as Hero and Leander, Venus and Adonis;[744] O, two luscious marrow-bone pies for a young married wife! Here, here, prithee, take the Resolution,[745] and read to her a little.

[Gives book.

Cour. Sh’as set up her resolution already, sir.

Har. True, true, and this will confirm it the more: there’s a chapter of hell; ’tis good to read this cold weather: terrify her, terrify her. Go, read to her the horrible punishments for itching wantonness, the pains allotted for adultery; tell her her thoughts, her very dreams are answerable, say so; rip up the life of a courtesan, and shew how loathsome ’tis.

Cour. The gentleman would persuade me in time to disgrace myself, and speak ill of mine own function.

[Aside and exit.
Har. This is the course I take; I’ll teach the married man
A new-selected strain. I admit none
But this pure virgin to her company:
Pooh, that’s enough; I’ll keep her to her stint,
I’ll put her to her pension;
She gets but her allowance, that’s [a] bare one:
Few women but have that beside their own:
Ha, ha, ha! nay, I will[746] put her hard to’t.
Enter Mistress Harebrain and Courtesan.

Mis. H. Fain would I meet the gentleman.

Cour. Push,[747] fain would you meet him! why, you do not take the course.

Har. How earnestly she labours her,
Like a good wholesome sister of the Family![748]
She will prevail, I hope. [Aside.
Cour. Is that the means?
Mis. H. What is the means?
I would as gladly, to enjoy his sight,
Embrace it as the——
Cour. Shall I have hearing? listen.
Har. She’s round with her, i’faith.[749] [Aside.
Cour. When husbands in their rank’st suspicions dwell,
Then ’tis our best art to dissemble well:
Put but these notes in use that I’ll direct you,
He’ll curse himself that e’er he did suspect you.
Perhaps he will solicit you, as in trial,
To visit such and such; still give denial:
Let no persuasions sway you; they’re[750] but fetches
Set to betray you, jealousies, slights,[751] and reaches.
Seem in his sight t’ endure the sight of no man;
Put by all kisses, till you kiss in common:
Neglect all entertain; if he bring in
Strangers, keep you your chamber, be not seen.
If he chance steal upon you, let him find
Some book lie open ’gainst an unchaste mind,
And coted[752] Scriptures; though for your own pleasure
You read some stirring pamphlet, and convey it
Under your skirt, the fittest place to lay it.
This is the course, my wench, t’ enjoy thy wishes;
Here you perform best when you most neglect:
The way to daunt is to outvie suspect.
Manage these principles but with art and life,
Welcome all nations, thou’rt an honest wife.
Har. She puts it home, i’faith, even to the quick:
From her elaborate action I reach that.
I must requite this maid; faith, I’m forgetful.
[Aside.
Mis. H. Here, lady,
Convey my heart unto him in this jewel.
Against you see me next, you shall perceive
I’ve[753] profited; in the mean season tell him
I am a prisoner yet a’ th’ Master’s side,[754]
My husband’s jealousy,
That masters him, as he doth master me;
And as a keeper that locks prisoners up
Is himself prison’d under his own key,
Even so my husband, in restraining me,
With the same ward bars his own liberty.
Cour. I’ll tell him how you wish it, and I’ll wear
My wits to the third pile[755] but all shall clear.
Mis. H. I owe you more than thanks, but that I hope
My husband will requite you.
Cour. Think you so, lady? he has small reason for’t.

Har. What, done so soon? away, to’t again, to’t again, good wench, to’t again; leave her not so: where left you? come.

Cour. Faith, I am weary, sir.
I cannot draw her from her strict opinion
With all the arguments that sense can frame.

Har. No? let me come.—Fie, wife, you must consent.—What opinion is’t? let’s hear.

Cour. Fondly[756] and wilfully she retains that thought,
That every sin is damn’d.

Har. O, fie, fie, wife! pea, pea, pea, pea, how have you lost your time! for shame, be converted. There’s a diabolical opinion indeed! then you may think that usury were damned; you’re a fine merchant, i’faith! or bribery; you know the law well! or sloth; would some of the clergy heard you, i’faith! or pride; you come at court! or gluttony; you’re not worthy to dine at an alderman’s table!

Your only deadly sin’s adultery,
That villanous ringworm, woman’s worst requital;
’Tis only lechery that’s damn’d to th’ pit-hole:
Ah, that’s an arch offence, believe it, squal!
All sins are venial but venereal.
Cour. I’ve said enough to her.
Har. And she will be rul’d by you.
Cour. Faugh!
Har. I’ll pawn my credit on’t. Come hither, lady,
I will not altogether rest ingrateful;
Here, wear this ruby for thy pains and counsel.

Cour. It is not so much worth, sir; I am a very ill counsellor, truly.

Har. Go to, I say.

Cour. You’re to blame, i’faith, sir; I shall ne’er deserve it.

Har. Thou hast done’t already: farewell, sweet virgin; prithee, let’s see thee oftener.

Cour. Such gifts will soon entreat me.

[Aside, and exit.
Har. Wife, as thou lov’st the quiet of my breast,
Embrace her counsel, yield to her advices:
Thou wilt find comfort in ’em in the end;
Thou’lt feel an alteration: prithee, think on’t:
Mine eyes can scarce refrain.
Mis. H. Keep in your dew, sir,
Lest when you would, you want it.
Har. I’ve pawn’d my credit on’t: ah, didst thou know
The sweet fruit once, thou’dst never let it go!
Mis. H. ’Tis that I strive to get.
Har. And still do so. [Exeunt.

ACT II. SCENE I.

A Hall in Sir Bounteous Progress’s Country House.
Enter Sir Bounteous Progress and two Knights.
First K. You have been too much like your name, sir Bounteous.

Sir B. O, not so, good knights, not so; you know my humour: most welcome, good sir Andrew Pollcut;[757] sir Aquitain Colewort, most welcome.

Both. Thanks, good sir Bounteous.

[Exeunt at one door.
At the other door, enter in haste one of Follywit’s companions disguised as a Footman.

Foot. O, cry your worship heartily mercy, sir!

Sir B. How now, linen stockings and threescore mile a-day? whose footman art thou?

Foot. Pray, can your worship tell me—ho, ho, ho!—if my lord be come in yet.

Sir B. Thy lord! what lord?

Foot. My lord Owemuch, sir.

Sir B. My lord Owemuch? I have heard much speech of that lord; has great acquaintance i’ th’ city; that lord has been much followed.

Foot. And is still, sir; he wants no company when he’s in London: he’s free of the mercers, and there’s none of ’em all dare cross him.

Sir B. And[758] they did, he’d turn over a new leaf with ’em; he would make ’em all weary on’t i’ th’ end. Much fine rumour have I heard of that lord, yet had I never the fortune to set eye upon him: art sure he will alight here, footman? I am afraid thou’rt mistook.

Foot. Thinks your worship so, sir? by your leave, sir. [Going.

Sir B. Pooh, passion of me, footman! why, pumps, I say, come back!

Foot. Does your worship call?

Sir B. Come hither, I say. I am but afraid on’t; would it might happen so well! How dost know? did he name the house with the great turret a’ th’ top?

Foot. No, faith, did he not, sir. [Going.

Sir B. Come hither, I say. Did he speak of a cloth-a’-gold chamber?

Foot. Not one word, by my troth, sir. [Going.

Sir B. Come again, you lousy seven-mile-an-hour!

Foot. I beseech your worship, detain me not.

Sir B. Was there no talk of a fair pair of organs,[759] a great gilt candlestick, and a pair of silver snuffers?

Foot. ’Twere sin to belie my lord; I heard no such words, sir.