[Exeunt Jack Dapper, Laxton, Goshawk, and Greenwit.
Enter Gallipot, Tiltyard, and Servants, with water-spaniels and a duck.

Tilt. Come, shut up your shops. Where’s master Openwork?

Mis. G. Nay, ask not me, master Tiltyard.

Tilt. Where’s his water-dog? puh—pist[1000]—hur—hur—pist!

Gal. Come, wenches, come; we’re going all to
Hogsdon.
Mis. G. To Hogsdon, husband?
Gal. Ay, to Hogsdon, pigsnie.[1001]
Mis. G. I’m not ready, husband.
Gal. Faith, that’s well—hum—pist—pist.—
[Spits in the dog’s mouth.
Come, mistress Openwork, you are so long!

Mis. O. I have no joy of my life, master Gallipot.

Gal. Push,[1002] let your boy lead his water-spaniel along, and we’ll shew you the bravest sport at Parlous Pond.[1003]—Hey, trug, hey, trug, hey, trug![1004] here’s the best duck in England, except my wife; hey, hey, hey! fetch, fetch, fetch!—

Come, let’s away:[1005]
Of all the year this is the sportful’st day.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Street.
Enter Sebastian Wengrave.
Seb. If a man have a free will, where should the use
More perfect shine than in his will to love?
All creatures have their liberty in that,
Enter behind Sir Alex. Wengrave listening.
Though else kept under servile yoke and fear;
The very bond-slave has his freedom there.
Amongst a world of creatures voic’d and silent,
Must my desires wear fetters?—Yea, are you
So near? then I must break with my heart’s truth,
Meet grief at a back way.—Well: why, suppose
The two-leav’d[1006] tongues of slander or of truth
Pronounce Moll loathsome; if before my love
She appear fair, what injury have I?
I have the thing I like: in all things else
Mine own eye guides me, and I find ’em prosper.
Life! what should ail it now? I know that man
Ne’er truly loves,—if he gainsay’t he lies,—
That winks and marries with his father’s eyes:
I’ll keep mine own wide open.
Enter Moll, and a Porter with a viol on his back.
S. Alex. Here’s brave wilfulness!
A made match! here she comes; they met a’ purpose.
[Aside.

Por. Must I carry this great fiddle to your chamber, mistress Mary?

Moll. Fiddle, goodman hog-rubber? Some of these porters bear so much for others, they have no time to carry wit for themselves.

Por. To your own chamber, mistress Mary?

Moll. Who’ll hear an ass speak? whither else, goodman pageant-bearer? They’re people of the worst memories!

[Exit Porter.
Seb. Why, ’twere too great a burden, love, to have them
Carry things in their minds and a’ their backs together.
Moll. Pardon me, sir, I thought not you so near.
S. Alex. So, so, so! [Aside.
Seb. I would be nearer to thee, and in that fashion
That makes the best part of all creatures honest:
No otherwise I wish it.

Moll. Sir, I am so poor to requite you, you must look for nothing but thanks of me: I have no humour to marry; I love to lie a’ both sides a’ th’ bed myself: and again, a’ th’ other side, a wife, you know, ought to be obedient, but I fear me I am too headstrong to obey; therefore I’ll ne’er go about it. I love you so well, sir, for your good will, I’d be loath you should repent your bargain after; and therefore we’ll ne’er come together at first. I have the head now of myself, and am man enough for a woman: marriage is but a chopping and changing, where a maiden loses one head, and has a worse i’ th’ place.

S. Alex. The most comfortablest answer from a roaring girl
That ever mine ears drunk in! [Aside.
Seb. This were enough
Now to affright a fool for ever from thee,
When ’tis the music that I love thee for.
S. Alex. There’s a boy spoils all again! [Aside.

Moll. Believe it, sir, I am not of that disdainful temper but I could love you faithfully.

S. Alex. A pox on you for that word! I like you not now,
You’re a cunning roarer, I see that already. [Aside.

Moll. But sleep upon this once more, sir; you may chance shift a mind to-morrow: be not too hasty to wrong yourself; never while you live, sir, take a wife running; many have run out at heels that have done’t. You see, sir, I speak against myself; and if every woman would deal with their suitor so honestly, poor younger brothers would not be so often gulled with old cozening widows, that turn o’er all their wealth in trust to some kinsman, and make the poor gentleman work hard for a pension. Fare you well, sir.

Seb. Nay, prithee, one word more.
S. Alex. How do I wrong this girl! she puts him off still. [Aside.

Moll. Think upon this in cold blood, sir: you make as much haste as if you were a-going upon a sturgeon voyage. Take deliberation, sir; never choose a wife as if you were going to Virginia.[1007]

Seb. And so[1008] we parted: my too-cursed fate!
S. Alex. She is but cunning, gives him longer time in’t. [Aside.
Enter Tailor.

Tai. Mistress Moll, mistress Moll! so ho, ho, so ho!

Moll. There, boy, there, boy! what dost thou go a-hawking after me with a red clout on thy finger?

Tai. I forgot to take measure on you for your new breeches.

S. Alex. Hoyda, breeches? what, will he marry a monster with two trinkets? what age is this! if the wife go in breeches, the man must wear long coats[1009] like a fool. [Aside.

Moll. What fiddling’s here! would not the old pattern have served your turn?

Tai. You change the fashion: you say you’ll have the great Dutch slop,[1010] mistress Mary.

Moll. Why, sir, I say so still.

Tai. Your breeches, then, will take up a yard more.

Moll. Well, pray, look it be put in then.

Tai. It shall stand round and full, I warrant you.

Moll. Pray, make ’em easy enough.

Tai. I know my fault now, t’other was somewhat stiff between the legs; I’ll make these open enough, I warrant you.

S. Alex. Here’s good gear towards![1011] I have brought up my son to marry a Dutch slop and a French doublet; a codpiece daughter! [Aside.

Tai. So, I have gone as far as I can go.

Moll. Why, then, farewell.

Tai. If you go presently to your chamber, mistress Mary, pray, send me the measure of your thigh by some honest body.

Moll. Well, sir, I’ll send it by a porter presently. [Exit.

Tai. So you had need, it is a lusty one; both of them would make any porter’s back ache in England.

[Exit.
Seb. I have examin’d the best part of man,
Reason and judgment; and in love, they tell me,
They leave me uncontroll’d: he that is sway’d
By an unfeeling blood, past heat of love,
His spring-time must needs err; his watch ne’er goes right
That sets his dial by a rusty clock.
S. Alex. [coming forward] So; and which is that rusty clock, sir, you?
Seb. The clock at Ludgate, sir; it ne’er goes true.
S. Alex. But thou go’st falser; not thy father’s cares
Can keep thee right: when that insensible work
Obeys the workman’s art, lets off the hour,
And stops again when time is satisfied:
But thou runn’st on; and judgment, thy main wheel,
Beats by all stops, as if the work would break,
Begun with long pains for a minute’s ruin:
Much like a suffering man brought up with care,
At last bequeath’d to shame and a short prayer.
Seb. I taste you bitterer than I can deserve, sir.
S. Alex. Who has bewitch[’d] thee, son? what devil or drug
Hath wrought upon the weakness of thy blood,
And betray’d all her hopes to ruinous folly?
O, wake from drowsy and enchanted shame,
Wherein thy soul sits, with a golden dream
Flatter’d and poison’d! I am old, my son;
O, let me prevail quickly!
For I have weightier business of mine own
Than to chide thee: I must not to my grave
As a drunkard to his bed, whereon he lies
Only to sleep, and never cares to rise:
Let me despatch in time; come no more near her.
Seb. Not honestly? not in the way of marriage?
S. Alex. What sayst thou? marriage? in what place? the Sessions-house?
And who shall give the bride, prithee? an indictment?
Seb. Sir, now ye take part with the world to wrong her.
S. Alex. Why, wouldst thou fain marry to be pointed at?
Alas, the number’s great! do not o’erburden’t.
Why, as good marry a beacon on a hill,
Which all the country fix their eyes upon,
As her thy folly doats on. If thou long’st
To have the story of thy infamous fortunes
Serve for discourse in ordinaries and taverns,
Thou’rt in the way; or to confound thy name,
Keep on, thou canst not miss it; or to strike
Thy wretched father to untimely coldness,
Keep the left hand still, it will bring thee to’t.
Yet, if no tears wrung from thy father’s eyes,
Nor sighs that fly in sparkles from his sorrows,
Had power to alter what is wilful in thee,
Methinks her very name should fright thee from her,
And never trouble me.
Seb. Why, is the name of Moll so fatal, sir?
S. Alex. Many one,[1012] sir, where suspect is enter’d;
For, seek all London from one end to t’other,
More whores of that name than of any ten other.
Seb. What’s that to her? let those blush for themselves:
Can any guilt in others condemn her?
I’ve vow’d to love her: let all storms oppose me
That ever beat against the breast of man,
Nothing but death’s black tempest shall divide us.
S. Alex. O, folly that can doat on nought but shame!
Seb. Put case, a wanton itch runs through one name
More than another; is that name the worse,
Where honesty sits possest in’t? it should rather
Appear more excellent, and deserve more praise,
When through foul mists a brightness it can raise.
Why, there are of the devils honest gentlemen
And well descended, keep an open house,
And some a’ th’ good man’s[1013] that are arrant knaves.
He hates unworthily that by rote contemns,
For the name neither saves nor yet condemns;
And for her honesty, I’ve made such proof on’t
In several forms, so nearly watch’d her ways,
I will maintain that strict against an army,
Excepting you, my father. Here’s her worst,
Sh’as a bold spirit that mingles with mankind,
But nothing else comes near it: and oftentimes
Through her apparel somewhat shames her birth;
But she is loose in nothing but in mirth:
Would all Molls were no worse!
S. Alex. This way I toil in vain, and give but aim[1014]
To infamy and ruin: he will fall;
My blessing cannot stay him: all my joys
Stand at the brink of a devouring flood,
And will be wilfully swallow’d, wilfully.
But why so vain let all these tears be lost?
I’ll pursue her to shame, and so all’s crost.
[Aside, and exit.
Seb. He’s gone with some strange purpose, whose effect
Will hurt me little if he shoot so wide,
To think I love so blindly: I but feed
His heart to this match, to draw on the other,
Wherein my joy sits with a full wish crown’d,
Only his mood excepted, which must change
By opposite policies, courses indirect;
Plain dealing in this world takes no effect.
This mad girl I’ll acquaint with my intent,
Get her assistance, make my fortunes known:
’Twixt lovers’ hearts she’s a fit instrument,
And has the art to help them to their own.
By her advice, for in that craft she’s wise,
My love and I may meet, spite of all spies. [Exit.

ACT III. SCENE I.

Gray’s Inn Fields.
Enter Laxton and Coachman.

Lax. Coachman.

Coach. Here, sir.

Lax. There’s a tester[1015] more; prithee drive thy coach to the hither end of Marybone-park, a fit place for Moll to get in.

Coach. Marybone-park, sir?

Lax. Ay, it’s in our way, thou knowest.

Coach. It shall be done, sir.

Lax. Coachman.

Coach. Anon, sir.

Lax. Are we fitted with good phrampel[1016] jades?

Coach. The best in Smithfield, I warrant you, sir.

Lax. May we safely take the upper hand of any coached velvet cap, or tuftaffety jacket? for they keep a vild[1017] swaggering in coaches now-a-days; the highways are stopt with them.

Coach. My life for yours, and baffle[1018] ’em too, sir: why, they are the same jades believe it, sir, that have drawn all your famous whores to Ware.

Lax. Nay, then they know their business; they need no more instructions.

Coach. They’re so used to such journeys, sir, I never use whip to ’em; for if they catch but the scent of a wench once, they run like devils. [Exit.[1019]

Lax. Fine Cerberus! that rogue will have the start of a thousand ones; for whilst others trot a’ foot, he’ll ride prancing to hell upon a coach-horse. Stay, ’tis now about the hour of her appointment, but yet I see her not. [The clock strikes three.] Hark! what’s this? one, two, three: three by the clock at Savoy; this is the hour, and Gray’s Inn Fields the place, she swore she’d meet me. Ha! yonder’s two Inns-a’-court men with one wench, but that’s not she; they walk toward Islington out of my way. I see none yet drest like her; I must look for a shag ruff, a freize jerken, a short sword, and a safeguard,[1020] or I get none. Why, Moll, prithee, make haste, or the coachman will curse us anon.

Enter Moll, dressed as a man.

Moll. O, here’s my gentleman! If they would keep their days as well with their mercers as their hours with their harlots, no bankrout[1021] would give seven score pound for a sergeant’s place; for would you know a catchpoll rightly derived, the corruption of a citizen is the generation of a sergeant. How his eye hawks for venery! [Aside.]—Come, are you ready, sir?

Lax. Ready? for what, sir?

Moll. Do you ask that now, sir?
Why was this meeting ’pointed?

Lax. I thought you mistook me, sir: you seem to be some young barrister;

I have no suit in law, all my land’s sold;
I praise heaven for’t, ’t has rid me of much trouble.
Moll. Then I must wake you, sir; where stands the coach?
Lax. Who’s this? Moll, honest Moll?
Moll. So young, and purblind?
You’re an old wanton in your eyes, I see that.

Lax. Thou’rt admirably suited for the Three Pigeons at Brainford.[1022] I’ll swear I knew thee not.

Moll. I’ll swear you did not; but you shall know me now.

Lax. No, not here; we shall be spied, i’faith; the coach is better: come.

Moll. Stay. [Puts off her cloak.
Lax. What, wilt thou untruss a point,[1023] Moll?
Moll. Yes; here’s the point [Draws her sword.
That I untruss; ’t has but one tag, ’t will serve though
To tie up a rogue’s tongue.
Lax. How!
Moll. There’s the gold
With which you hir’d your hackney, here’s her pace;
She racks hard, and perhaps your bones will feel it:
Ten angels[1024] of mine own I’ve put to thine;
Win ’em, and wear ’em.
Lax. Hold, Moll! mistress Mary——
Moll. Draw, or I’ll serve an execution on thee,
Shall lay thee up till doomsday.

Lax. Draw upon a woman! why, what dost mean, Moll?

Moll. To teach thy base thoughts manners: thou’rt one of those
That thinks each woman thy fond flexible whore;
If she but cast a liberal[1025] eye upon thee,
Turn back her head, she’s thine; or amongst company
By chance drink first to thee, then she’s quite gone,
There is no means to help her: nay, for a need,
Wilt swear unto thy credulous fellow-lechers,
That thou art more in favour with a lady
At first sight than her monkey all her lifetime.
How many of our sex, by such as thou,
Have their good thoughts paid with a blasted name
That never deserv’d loosely, or did trip
In path of whoredom beyond cup and lip!
But for the stain of conscience and of soul,
Better had women fall into the hands
Of an act silent than a bragging nothing;
There is no mercy in’t. What durst move you, sir,
To think me whorish? a name which I’d tear out
From the high German’s throat,[1026] if it lay leiger[1027] there
To despatch privy slanders against me.
In thee I defy all men, their worst hates
And their best flatteries, all their golden witchcrafts,
With which they entangle the poor spirits of fools,
Distressed needle-women and trade-fallen wives;
Fish that must needs bite, or themselves be bitten:
Such hungry things as these may soon be took
With a worm fasten’d on a golden hook:
Those are the lecher’s food, his prey; he watches
For quarrelling wedlocks[1028] and poor shifting sisters;
’Tis the best fish he takes. But why, good fisherman,
Am I thought meat for you, that never yet
Had angling rod cast towards me? ’cause, you’ll say,
I’m given to sport, I’m often merry, jest:
Had mirth no kindred in the world but lust,
O shame take all her friends then! but howe’er
Thou and the baser world censure my life,
I’ll send ’em word by thee, and write so much
Upon thy breast, ’cause thou shalt bear’t in mind,
Tell them ’twere base to yield where I have conquer’d;
I scorn to prostitute myself to a man,
I that can prostitute a man to me;
And so I greet thee.
Lax. Hear me——
Moll. Would the spirits
Of all my sland[er]ers were clasp’d in thine,
That I might vex an army at one time! [They fight.
Lax. I do repent me; hold!
Moll. You’ll die the better Christian then.
Lax. I do confess I have wronged thee, Moll.
Moll. Confession is but poor amends for wrong,
Unless a rope would follow.
Lax. I ask thee pardon.
Moll. I’m your hir’d whore, sir!
Lax. I yield both purse and body.
Moll. Both are mine,
And now at my disposing.
Lax. Spare my life!

Moll. I scorn to strike thee basely.

Lax. Spoke like a noble girl, i’faith!—Heart, I think I fight with a familiar,[1029] or the ghost of a fencer. Sh’as wounded me gallantly. Call you this a lecherous viage?[1030] here’s blood would have served me this seven year in broken heads and cut fingers; and it now runs all out together. Pox a’ the Three Pigeons![1031] I would the coach were here now to carry me to the chirurgeon’s. [Aside, and exit.

Moll. If I could meet my enemies one by one thus,
I might make pretty shift with ’em in time,
And make ’em know she that has wit and spirit,
May scorn
To live beholding[1032] to her body for meat;
Or for apparel, like your common dame,
That makes shame get her clothes to cover shame.
Base is that mind that kneels unto her body,
As if a husband stood in awe on’s wife:
My spirit shall be mistress of this house
As long as I have time in’t.—O,
Enter Trapdoor.
Here comes my man that would be: ’tis his hour.
Faith, a good well-set fellow, if his spirit
Be answerable to his umbles:[1033] he walks stiff,
But whether he’ll stand to’t stiffly, there’s the point:
Has a good calf for’t; and ye shall have many a woman
Choose him she means to make her head by his calf:
I do not know their tricks in’t. Faith, he seems
A man without; I’ll try what he’s within.
Trap. She told me Gray’s Inn Fields, ’twixt three and four;
I’ll fit her mistress-ship with a piece of service:
I’m hir’d to rid the town of one mad girl.
[Moll jostles him.
What a pox ails you, sir?
Moll. He begins like a gentleman.
Trap. Heart, is the field so narrow, or your eyesight—
Life, he comes back again!

Moll. Was this spoke to me, sir?

Trap. I cannot tell, sir.

Moll. Go, you’re a coxcomb!

Trap. Coxcomb?

Moll. You’re a slave!

Trap. I hope there’s law for you, sir.

Moll. Yea, do you see, sir? [Turns his hat.

Trap. Heart, this is no good dealing! pray, let me know what house you’re of.

Moll. One of the Temple, sir. [Fillips him.

Trap. Mass, so methinks.

Moll. And yet sometime I lie about Chick Lane.

Trap. I like you the worse because you shift your lodging so often: I’ll not meddle with you for that trick, sir.

Moll. A good shift; but it shall not serve your turn.

Trap. You’ll give me leave to pass about my business, sir?

Moll. Your business? I’ll make you wait on me
Before I ha’ done, and glad to serve me too.

Trap. How, sir? serve you? not if there were no more men in England.

Moll. But if there were no more women in England,
I hope you’d wait upon your mistress then?

Trap. Mistress?

Moll. O, you’re a tried spirit at a push, sir!

Trap. What would your worship have me do?

Moll. You a fighter!

Trap. No, I praise heaven, I had better grace and more manners.

Moll. As how, I pray, sir?

Trap. Life, ’thad been a beastly part of me to have drawn my weapons upon my mistress; all the world would ’a cried shame of me for that.

Moll. Why, but you knew me not.

Trap. Do not say so, mistress; I knew you by your wide straddle, as well as if I had been in your belly.

Moll. Well, we shall try you further; i’ th’ mean time
We give you entertainment.
Trap. Thank your good mistress-ship.
Moll. How many suits have you?
Trap. No more suits than backs, mistress.
Moll. Well, if you deserve, I cast off this, next week,
And you may creep into’t.
Trap. Thank your good worship.
Moll. Come, follow me to St. Thomas Apostle’s:
I’ll put a livery cloak upon your back
The first thing I do.
Trap. I follow, my dear mistress. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Gallipot’s Shop.
Enter Mistress Gallipot as from supper, Gallipot following her.

Gal. What, Pru! nay, sweet Prudence!

Mis. G. What a pruing keep you! I think the baby would have a teat, it kyes[1034] so. Pray, be not so fond of me, leave your city humours; I’m vexed at you, to see how like a calf you come bleating after me.

Gal. Nay, honey Pru, how does your rising up before all the table shew, and flinging from my friends so uncivilly! fie, Pru, fie! come.

Mis. G. Then up and ride, i’faith!

Gal. Up and ride? nay, my pretty Pru, that’s far from my thought, duck: why, mouse,[1035] thy mind is nibbling at something; what is’t? what lies upon thy stomach?

Mis. G. Such an ass as you: hoyda, you’re best turn midwife, or physician! you’re a ’pothecary already, but I’m none of your drugs.

Gal. Thou art a sweet drug, sweetest Pru, and the more thou art pounded, the more precious.

Mis. G. Must you be prying into a woman’s secrets, say ye?

Gal. Woman’s secrets?

Mis. G. What! I cannot have a qualm come upon me, but your teeth water[1036] till your nose hang over it!

Gal. It is my love, dear wife.

Mis. G. Your love? your love is all words; give me deeds: I cannot abide a man that’s too fond over me,—so cookish! Thou dost not know how to handle a woman in her kind.

Gal. No, Pru? why, I hope I have handled—

Mis. G. Handle a fool’s head of your own,—fie, fie!

Gal. Ha, ha, ’tis such a wasp! it does me good now to have her s[t]ing me, little rogue!

Mis. G. Now, fie, how you vex me! I cannot abide these apron husbands;[1037] such cotqueans![1038] you overdo your things, they become you scurvily.

Gal. Upon my life she breeds: heaven knows how I have strained myself to please her night and day. I wonder why we citizens should get children so fretful and untoward in the breeding, their fathers being for the most part as gentle as milch kine. [Aside.]—Shall I leave thee, my Pru?

Mis. G. Fie, fie, fie!

Gal. Thou shalt not be vexed no more, pretty, kind rogue; take no cold, sweet Pru. [Exit.

Mis. G. As your wit has done. Now, master Laxton, shew your head; what news from you? would any husband suspect that a woman crying, Buy any scurvy-grass, should bring love-letters amongst her herbs to his wife? pretty trick! fine conveyance! had jealousy a thousand eyes, a silly woman with scurvy-grass blinds them all.