[Exeunt Trapdoor and Tearcat.

L. Nol. Moll, what was in that canting song?

Moll. Troth, my lord, only a praise of good drink, the only milk which these wild beasts love to suck, and thus it was:

A rich cup of wine,
O it is juice divine!
More wholesome for the head
Than meat, drink, or bread:
To fill my drunken pate
With that, I’d sit up late;
By the heels would I lie,
Under a lowsy hedge die,
Let a slave have a pull
At my whore, so I be full
Of that precious liquor:

and a parcel of such stuff, my lord, not worth the opening.

Enter a Cutpurse very gallant,[1182] with four or five others, one having a wand.

L. Nol. What gallant comes yonder?

S. Tho. Mass, I think I know him; ’tis one of Cumberland.

First Cut. Shall we venture to shuffle in amongst yon heap of gallants, and strike?[1183]

Sec. Cut. ’Tis a question whether there be any silver shells[1184] amongst them, for all their satin outsides.

The Rest. Let’s try.

Moll. Pox on him, a gallant? Shadow me, I know him; ’tis one that cumbers the land indeed: if he swim near to the shore of any of your pockets, look to your purses.

L. Nol.
S. Beau., &c.[1185] } Is’t possible?

Moll. This brave[1182] fellow is no better than a foist.

L. Nol.
S. Beau., &c. } Foist! what’s that?

Moll. A diver with two fingers, a pick-pocket; all his train study the figging-law,[1186] that’s to say, cutting of purses and foisting. One of them is a nip; I took him once i’ the two-penny gallery[1187] at the Fortune: then there’s a cloyer, or snap, that dogs any new brother in that trade, and snaps will have half in any booty. He with the wand is both a stale, whose office is to face a man i’ the streets, whilst shells are drawn by another, and then with his black conjuring rod in his hand, he, by the nimbleness of his eye and juggling stick, will, in cheaping a piece of plate at a goldsmith’s stall, make four or five rings mount from the top of his caduceus, and, as if it were at leap-frog, they skip into his hand presently.

Sec. Cut. Zounds, we are smoked!

The Rest.[1188] Ha!

Sec. Cut. We are boiled,[1189] pox on her! see, Moll, the roaring drab!

First Cut. All the diseases of sixteen hospitals boil her!—Away!

Moll. Bless you, sir.

First Cut. And you, good sir.

Moll. Dost not ken me, man?

First Cut. No, trust me, sir.

Moll. Heart, there’s a knight, to whom I’m bound for many favours, lost his purse at the last new play i’ the Swan,[1190] seven angels[1191] in’t: make it good, you’re best; do you see? no more.

First Cut. A synagogue[1192] shall be called, mistress Mary; disgrace me not; pacus palabros,[1193] I will conjure for you: farewell. Exit with his companions.

Moll. Did not I tell you, my lord?

L. Nol. I wonder how thou camest to the knowledge of these nasty villains.

S. Tho. And why do the foul mouths of the world call thee Moll Cutpurse? a name, methinks, damned and odious.

Moll. Dare any step forth to my face and say,
I’ve ta’en thee doing so, Moll? I must confess,
In younger days, when I was apt to stray,
I’ve sat amongst such adders; seen their stings,
As any here might, and in full play-houses
Watch’d their quick-diving hands, to bring to shame
Such rogues, and in that stream met an ill name.
When next, my lord, you spy any one of those,
So he be in his art a scholar, question him;
Tempt him with gold to open the large book
Of his close villanies; and you yourself shall cant
Better than poor Moll can, and know more laws
Of cheators, lifters, nips, foists, puggards, curbers,[1194]
With all the devil’s black-guard,[1195] than it’s fit
Should be discover’d to a noble wit.
I know they have their orders, offices,
Circuits, and circles, unto which they’re bound
To raise their own damnation in.
J. Dap. How dost thou know it?
Moll. As you do; I shew’t you, they to me shew it.
Suppose, my lord, you were in Venice——
L. Nol. Well.
Moll. If some Italian pander there would tell
All the close tricks of courtesans, would not you
Hearken to such a fellow?
L. Nol. Yes.
Moll. And here,
Being come from Venice, to a friend most dear
That were to travel thither, you’d proclaim
Your knowledge in those villanies, to save
Your friend from their quick danger: must you have
A black ill name, because ill things you know?
Good troth, my lord, I’m made Moll Cutpurse so.
How many are whores in small ruffs and still looks!
How many chaste whose names fill Slander’s books!
Were all men cuckolds whom gallants in their scorns
Call so, we should not walk for goring horns.
Perhaps for my mad going some reprove me;
I please myself, and care not else who love[1196] me.

L. Nol.
S. Beau., &c. } A brave mind, Moll, i’faith!

S. Tho. Come, my lord, shall’s to the ordinary?
L. Nol. Ay, ’tis noon sure.

Moll. Good my lord, let not my name condemn me to you, or to the world: a fencer I hope may be called a coward; is he so for that? If all that have ill names in London were to be whipt, and to pay but twelve-pence a-piece to the beadle, I would rather have his office than a constable’s.

J. Dap. So would I, captain Moll: ’twere a sweet tickling office, i’faith. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Garden attached to Sir Alex. Wengrave’s house.
Enter Sir Alexander Wengrave, Goshawk, Greenwit, and others.
S. Alex. My son marry a thief, that impudent girl,
Whom all the world stick their worst eyes upon!
Green. How will your care prevent it?
Gos. ’Tis impossible:
They marry close, they’re gone, but none knows whither.
S. Alex. O gentlemen, when have[1197] a father’s heart-strings
Enter Servant.
Held out so long from breaking?—Now what news, sir?
Ser. They were met upo’ th’ water an hour since, sir,
Putting in towards the Sluice.
S. Alex. The Sluice? come, gentlemen,
’Tis Lambeth works against us. [Exit Servant.
Green. And that Lambeth
Joins more mad matches than your six wet towns[1198]
’Twixt that and Windsor Bridge, where fares lie soaking.
S. Alex. Delay no time, sweet gentlemen: to Blackfriars!
We’ll take a pair of oars, and make after ’em.
Enter Trapdoor.
Trap. Your son and that bold masculine ramp[1199] my mistress
Are landed now at Tower.
S. Alex. Hoyda, at Tower?
Trap. I heard it now reported.
S. Alex. Which way, gentlemen,
Shall I bestow my care? I’m drawn in pieces
Betwixt deceit and shame.
Enter Sir Guy Fitzallard.
S. Guy. Sir Alexander,
You are well met, and most rightly servèd;
My daughter was a scorn to you.
S. Alex. Say not so, sir.
S. Guy. A very abject she, poor gentlewoman!
Your house had been dishonour’d. Give you joy, sir,
Of your son’s gascoyne-bride![1200] you’ll be a grandfather shortly
To a fine crew of roaring sons and daughters;
’Twill help to stock the suburbs passing well, sir.
S. Alex. O, play not with the miseries of my heart!
Wounds should be drest and heal’d, not vex’d, or left
Wide open, to the anguish of the patient,
And scornful air let in; rather let pity
And advice charitably help to refresh ’em.
S. Guy. Who’d place his charity so unworthily?
Like one that gives alms to a cursing beggar:
Had I but found one spark of goodness in you
Toward my deserving child, which then grew fond
Of your son’s virtues, I had eas’d you now;
But I perceive both fire of youth and goodness
Are rak’d up in the ashes of your age,
Else no such shame should have come near your house,
Nor such ignoble sorrow touch your heart.
S. Alex. If not for worth, for pity’s sake assist me!
Green. You urge a thing past sense; how can he help you?
All his assistance is as frail as ours:
Full as uncertain where’s the place that holds ’em;
One brings us water-news; then comes another
With a full-charg’d mouth, like a culverin’s voice,
And he reports the Tower: whose sounds are truest?
Gos. In vain you flatter him.—Sir Alexander——
S. Guy. I flatter him? gentlemen, you wrong me grossly.
Green. He does it well, i’faith.
S. Guy. Both news are false,
Of Tower or water; they took no such way yet.
S. Alex. O strange! hear you this, gentlemen? yet more plunges.[1201]
S. Guy. They’re nearer than you think for, yet more close
Than if they were further off.
S. Alex. How am I lost
In these distractions!
S. Guy. For your speeches, gentlemen,
In taxing me for rashness, ’fore you all
I will engage my state to half his wealth,
Nay, to his son’s revenues, which are less,
And yet nothing at all till they come from him,
That I could, if my will stuck to my power,
Prevent this marriage yet, nay, banish her
For ever from his thoughts, much more his arms.
S. Alex. Slack not this goodness, though you heap upon me
Mountains of malice and revenge hereafter!
I’d willingly resign up half my state to him,
So he would marry the meanest drudge I hire.
Green. He talks impossibilities, and you believe ’em.
S. Guy. I talk no more than I know how to finish,
My fortunes else are his that dares stake with me.
The poor young gentleman I love and pity;
And to keep shame from him (because the spring
Of his affection was my daughter’s first,
Till his frown blasted all), do but estate him
In those possessions which your love and care
Once pointed out for him, that he may have room
To entertain fortunes of noble birth,
Where now his desperate wants cast[1202] him upon her;
And if I do not, for his own sake chiefly,
Rid him of this disease that now grows on him,
I’ll forfeit my whole state, before these gentlemen.
Green. Troth, but you shall not undertake such matches;
We’ll persuade so much with you.
S. Alex. Here’s my ring; [Gives ring.
He will believe this token. ’Fore these gentlemen
I will confirm it fully: all those lands
My first love ’lotted him, he shall straight possess
In that refusal.
S. Guy. If I change it not,
Change me into a beggar.
Green. Are you mad, sir?
S. Guy. ’Tis done.
Gos. Will you undo yourself by doing,
And shew a prodigal trick in your old days?
S. Alex. ’Tis a match, gentlemen.
S. Guy. Ay, ay, sir, ay.
I ask no favour, trust to you for none;
My hope rests in the goodness of your son. [Exit.
Green. He holds it up well yet.
Gos. Of an old knight, i’faith.
S. Alex. Curst be the time I laid his first love barren,
Wilfully barren, that before this hour
Had sprung forth fruits of comfort and of honour!
He lov’d a virtuous gentlewoman.
Enter Moll in her male dress.
Gos. Life, here’s Moll!
Green. Jack?
Gos. How dost thou, Jack?
Moll. How dost thou, gallant?
S. Alex. Impudence, where’s my son?
Moll. Weakness, go look him.
S. Alex. Is this your wedding gown?
Moll. The man talks monthly:[1203]
Hot broth and a dark chamber for the knight!
I see he’ll be stark mad at our next meeting. [Exit.
Gos. Why, sir, take comfort now, there’s no such matter,
No priest will marry her, sir, for a woman
Whiles that shape’s on; and it was never known
Two men were married and conjoin’d in one:
Your son hath made some shift to love another.
S. Alex. Whate’er she be, she has my blessing with her:
May they be rich and fruitful, and receive
Like comfort to their issue as I take
In them! has pleas’d me now; marrying not this,
Through a whole world he could not choose amiss.
Green. Glad you’re so penitent for your former sin, sir.
Gos. Say he should take a wench with her smock-dowry,
No portion with her but her lips and arms?
S. Alex. Why, who thrive better, sir? they have most blessing,
Though other have more wealth, and least repent:
Many that want most know the most content.
Green. Say he should marry a kind youthful sinner?
S. Alex. Age will quench that; any offence but theft
And drunkenness, nothing but death can wipe away;
Their sins are green even when their heads are grey.
Nay, I despair not now; my heart’s cheer’d, gentlemen;
No face can come unfortunately to me.—
Re-enter Servant.
Now, sir, your news?
Ser. Your son, with his fair bride,
Is near at hand.
S. Alex. Fair may their fortunes be!
Green. Now you’re resolv’d,[1204] sir, it was never she.
S. Alex. I find it in the music of my heart.
Enter Sebastian Wengrave leading in Moll in her female dress and masked, and Sir Guy Fitzallard.
See where they come.
Gos. A proper lusty presence, sir.
S. Alex. Now has he pleas’d me right: I always counsell’d him
To choose a goodly, personable creature:
Just of her pitch was my first wife his mother.
Seb. Before I dare discover my offence,
I kneel for pardon. [Kneels.
S. Alex. My heart gave it thee
Before thy tongue could ask it:
Rise; thou hast rais’d my joy to greater height
Than to that seat where grief dejected it.
Both welcome to my love and care for ever!
Hide not my happiness too long; all’s pardon’d;
Here are our friends.—Salute her, gentlemen.
[They unmask her.
All. Heart, who’s this? Moll!
S. Alex. O my reviving shame! is’t I must live
To be struck blind? be it the work of sorrow,
Before age take’t in hand!
S. Guy. Darkness and death!
Have you deceiv’d me thus? did I engage
My whole estate for this?
S. Alex. You ask’d no favour,
And you shall find as little: since my comforts
Play false with me, I’ll be as cruel to thee
As grief to fathers’ hearts.
Moll. Why, what’s the matter with you,
’Less too much joy should make your age forgetful?
Are you too well, too happy?
S. Alex. With a vengeance!
Moll. Methinks you should be proud of such a daughter,
As good a man as your son.
S. Alex. O monstrous impudence!
Moll. You had no note before, an unmark’d knight;
Now all the town will take regard on you,
And all your enemies fear you for my sake:
You may pass where you list, through crowds most thick,
And come off bravely with your purse unpick’d.
You do not know the benefits I bring with me;
No cheat dares work upon you with thumb[1205] or knife,
While you’ve a roaring girl to your son’s wife.
S. Alex. A devil rampant!
S. Guy. Have you so much charity
Yet to release me of my last rash bargain,
And I’ll give in your pledge?
S. Alex. No, sir, I stand to’t;
I’ll work upon advantage, as all mischiefs
Do upon me.
S. Guy. Content. Bear witness all, then,
His are the lands; and so contention ends:
Here comes your son’s bride ’twixt two noble friends.

Enter Lord Noland and Sir Beauteous Ganymede with Mary Fitzallard between them; Gallipot, Tiltyard, Openwork, and their Wives.

Moll. Now are you gull’d as you would be; thank me for’t,
I’d a forefinger in’t.
Seb. Forgive me, father!
Though there before your eyes my sorrow feign’d,
This still was she for whom true love complain’d.
S. Alex. Blessings eternal, and the joys of angels,
Begin your peace here to be sign’d in heaven!
How short my sleep of sorrow seems now to me,
To this eternity of boundless comforts,
That finds no want but utterance and expression!
My lord, your office here appears so honourably,
So full of ancient goodness, grace, and worthiness,
I never took more joy in sight of man
Than in your comfortable presence now.
L. Nol. Nor I more delight in doing grace to virtue
Than in this worthy gentlewoman your son’s bride,
Noble Fitzallard’s daughter, to whose honour
And modest fame I am a servant vow’d;
So is this knight.
S. Alex. Your loves make my joys proud.
Bring forth those deeds of land my care laid ready,
[Exit Servant, who presently returns with deeds.'
And which, old knight, thy nobleness may challenge,
Join’d with thy daughter’s virtues, whom I prize now
As dearly as that flesh I call mine own.
Forgive me, worthy gentlewoman; ’twas my blindness:
When I rejected thee, I saw thee not;
Sorrow and wilful rashness grew like films
Over the eyes of judgment; now so clear
I see the brightness of thy worth appear.
Mary. Duty and love may I deserve in those!
And all my wishes have a perfect close.
S. Alex. That tongue can never err, the sound’s so sweet.
Here, honest son, receive into thy hands
The keys of wealth, possession of those lands
Which my first care provided; they’re thine own;
Heaven give thee a blessing with ’em! the best joys
That can in worldly shapes to man betide
Are fertile lands and a fair fruitful bride,
Of which I hope thou’rt sped.
Seb. I hope so too, sir.
Moll. Father and son, I ha’ done you simple service here.
Seb. For which thou shalt not part, Moll, unrequited.
S. Alex. Thou’rt a mad girl, and yet I cannot now
Condemn thee.
Moll. Condemn me? troth, and[1206] you should, sir,
I’d make you seek out one to hang in my room:
I’d give you the slip at gallows, and cozen the people.
Heard you this jest, my lord?
L. Nol. What is it, Jack?
Moll. He was in fear his son would marry me,
But never dreamt that I would ne’er agree.
L. Nol. Why, thou had’st a suitor once, Jack: when wilt marry?
Moll. Who, I, my lord? I’ll tell you when, i’faith;
When you shall hear
Gallants void from sergeants’ fear,
Honesty and truth unslander’d,
Woman mann’d, but never pander’d,
Cheats[1207] booted, but not coach’d,
Vessels older ere they’re broach’d;
If my mind be then not varied,
Next day following I’ll be married.
L. Nol. This sounds like doomsday.
Moll. Then were marriage best;
For if I should repent, I were soon at rest.
S. Alex. In troth thou’rt a good wench: I’m sorry now
The opinion was so hard I conceiv’d of thee:
Enter Trapdoor.
Some wrongs I’ve done thee.
Trap. Is the wind there now?
’Tis time for me to kneel and confess first,
For fear it come too late, and my brains feel it.
[Aside.
Upon my paws I ask you pardon, mistress!
Moll. Pardon! for what, sir? what has your rogueship done now?
Trap. I’ve been from time to time hir’d to confound you
By this old gentleman.
Moll. How?
Trap. Pray, forgive him:
But may I counsel you, you should never do’t.
Many a snare t’ entrap your worship’s life
Have I laid privily; chains, watches, jewels;
And when he saw nothing could mount you up,
Four hollow-hearted angels[1208] he then gave you,
By which he meant to trap you, I to save you.
S. Alex. To all which shame and grief in me cry guilty.
Forgive me: now I cast the world’s eyes from me,
And look upon thee freely with mine own,
I see the most of many wrongs before me,[1209]
Cast from the jaws of Envy and her people,
And nothing foul but that. I’11 never more
Condemn by common voice, for that’s the whore
That deceives man’s opinion, mocks his trust,
Cozens his love, and makes his heart unjust.
Moll. Here be the angels, gentlemen; they were
As a musician: I pursue no pity;
Follow the law, and[1210] you can cuck[1211] me, spare not;
Hang up my viol by me, and I care not.
S. Alex. So far I’m sorry, I’ll thrice double ’em,
To make thy wrongs amends.
Come, worthy friends, my honourable lord,
Sir Beauteous Ganymede, and noble Fitzallard,
And you kind gentlewomen,[1212] whose sparkling presence
Are glories set in marriage, beams of society,
For all your loves give lustre to my joys:
The happiness of this day shall be remember’d
At the return of every smiling spring;
In my time now ’tis born; and may no sadness
Sit on the brows of men upon that day,
But as I am, so all go pleas’d away! [Exeunt omnes.

EPILOGUE.

A painter having drawn with curious art
The picture of a woman, every part
Limn’d to the life, hung out the piece to sell.
People who pass’d along, viewing it well,
Gave several verdicts on it: some disprais’d
The hair; some said the brows too high were rais’d;
Some hit her o’er the lips, mislik’d their colour;
Some wish’d her nose were shorter; some, the eyes fuller;
Others said roses on her cheeks should grow,
Swearing they look’d too pale; others cried no.
The workman still, as fault was found, did mend it,
In hope to please all: but this work being ended,
And hung open at stall, it was so vile,
So monstrous, and so ugly, all men did smile
At the poor painter’s folly. Such, we doubt,
Is this our comedy: some perhaps do flout
The plot, saying, ’tis too thin, too weak, too mean;
Some for the person will revile the scene,
And wonder that a creature of her being
Should be the subject of a poet, seeing
In the world’s eye none weighs so light: others look
For all those base tricks, publish’d in a book[1213]
Foul as his brains they flow’d from, of cutpurse[s],
Of nips and foists, nasty, obscene discourses,
As full of lies as empty of worth or wit,
For any honest ear or eye unfit.
And thus,
If we to every brain that’s humorous
Should fashion scenes, we, with the painter, shall,
In striving to please all, please none at all.
Yet for such faults as either the writer’s wit
Or negligence of the actors do commit,
Both crave your pardons: if what both have done
Cannot full pay your expectation,
The Roaring Girl herself, some few days hence,
Shall on this stage give larger recompence.
Which mirth that you may share in, herself does woo you,
And craves this sign, your hands to beckon her to you.
END OF VOL. II.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY LEVEY, ROBSON, AND FRANKLYN,
46 St. Martin’s Lane.
Footnotes

1. Kix] I may just remark that this name is intended to describe the person who bears it, an elderly gentleman: kix (or, as it is generally written, kex) means a dry stalk.

2. bring] Old eds. “brings.”

3. ordinary] See note, vol. i. p. 389.