A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE.

A Chast Mayd in Cheape-side. A Pleasant conceited Comedy neuer before printed. As it hath beene often acted at the Swan on the Banke-side, by the Lady Elizabeth her Seruants. By Thomas Midelton Gent. London, Printed for Francis Constable dwelling at the signe of the Crane in Pauls Church-yard. 1630. 4to.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Scene, London.
A CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Yellowhammer’s Shop.
Enter Maudlin and Moll.

Maud. Have you played over all your old lessons o' the virginals?[3]

Moll. Yes.

Maud. Yes? you are[4] a dull maid a' late; methinks you had need have somewhat to quicken your green sickness—do you weep?—a husband: had not such a piece of flesh been ordained, what had us wives been good for? to make salads, or else cried up and down for samphire. To see the difference of these seasons! when I was of your youth, I was lightsome and quick two years before I was married. You fit for a knight’s bed! drowsy-browed, dull-eyed, drossy-spirited! I hold my life you have forgot your dancing: when was the dancer with you?

Moll. The last week.

Maud. Last week? when I was of your board[5]
He miss’d me not a night; I was kept at it;
I took delight to learn, and he to teach me;
Pretty brown gentleman! he took pleasure in my company:
But you are dull, nothing comes nimbly from you;
You dance like a plumber’s daughter, and deserve
Two thousand pound in lead to your marriage,
And not in goldsmith’s ware.
Enter Yellowhammer.
Yel. Now, what’s the din
Betwixt mother and daughter, ha?
Maud. Faith, small;
Telling your daughter, Mary, of her errors.
Yel. Errors? nay, the city cannot hold you, wife,
But you must needs fetch words from Westminster:
I ha'[6] done, i’faith.
Has no attorney’s clerk been here a' late,
And chang’d his half-crown-piece his mother sent him,
Or rather cozen’d you with a gilded twopence,
To bring the word in fashion for her faults
Or cracks in duty and obedience?
Term ’em even so, sweet wife,
As there’s no woman made without a flaw;
Your purest lawns have frays, and cambrics bracks.[7]
Maud. But ’tis a husband solders up all cracks.
Moll. What, is he come, sir?
Yel. Sir Walter’s come: he was met
At Holborn Bridge, and in his company
A proper fair young gentlewoman, which I guess,
By her red hair and other rank descriptions,
To be his landed niece, brought out of Wales,
Which Tim our son, the Cambridge-boy, must marry:
’Tis a match of sir Walter’s own making,
To bind us to him and our heirs for ever.
Maud. We’re honour’d then, if this baggage would be humble,
And kiss him with devotion when he enters.
I cannot get her for my life
To instruct her hand thus, before and after,—
Which a knight will look for,—before and after:
I've told her still ’tis the waving of a woman
Does often move a man, and prevails strongly.
But, sweet, ha' you sent to Cambridge? has Tim word on’t?
Yel. Had word just the day after, when you sent him
The silver spoon to eat his broth in the hall
Amongst the gentlemen-commoners.
Maud. O, ’twas timely.
Enter Porter.
Yel. How now?
Por. A letter from a gentleman in Cambridge.
[Gives letter to Yellowhammer.
Yel. O, one of Hobson’s porters:[8] thou art welcome.—
I told thee, Maud, we should hear from Tim. [Reads]
Amantissimis carissimisque ambobus parentibus, patri
et matri.
Maud. What’s the matter?
Yel. Nay, by my troth, I know not, ask not me:
He’s grown too verbal; this learning's a great witch.

Maud. Pray, let me see it; I was wont to understand him. [Reads] Amantissimis carissimis, he has sent the carrier’s man, he says; ambobus parentibus, for a pair of boots; patri et matri, pay the porter, or it makes no matter.

Por. Yes, by my faith, mistress; there’s no true construction in that: I have took a great deal of pains, and come from the Bell[9] sweating. Let me come to’t, for I was a scholar forty years ago; ’tis thus, I warrant you: [reads] Matri, it makes no matter; ambobus parentibus, for a pair of boots; patri, pay the porter; amantissimis carissimis, he’s the carrier’s man, and his name is Sims; and there he says true, forsooth, my name is Sims indeed; I have not forgot all my learning: a money-matter, I thought I should hit on’t.

Yel. Go, thou’rt an old fox; there’s a tester[10] for thee.

[Gives money.

Por. If I see your worship at Goose-fair, I have a dish of birds for you.

Yel. Why, dost dwell at Bow?

Por. All my lifetime, sir; I could ever say bo to a goose. Farewell to your worship. [Exit.

Yel. A merry porter!

Maud. How can he choose but be so,
Coming with Cambridge-letters from our son Tim?

Yel. What’s here? maximus diligo; faith, I must to my learned counsel with this gear,[11] ’twill ne’er be discerned else.

Maud. Go to my cousin then, at Inns-of-court.
Yel. Fie, they are all for French, they speak no Latin.
Maud. The parson then will do it.
Yel. Nay, he disclaims it,
Calls Latin papistry, he will not deal with it.—
Enter a Gentleman.
What is’t you lack,[12] gentleman?
Gent. Pray, weigh this chain.
[Gives chain, which Yellowhammer weighs.
Enter Sir Walter Whorehound, Welshwoman, and Davy.
Sir Wal. Now, wench, thou art welcome
To the heart of the city of London.
Welsh. Dugat a whee.
Sir Wal. You can thank me in English, if you list.
Welsh. I can, sir, simply.
Sir Wal. ’Twill serve to pass, wench;
’Twas strange that I should lie with thee so often,
To leave thee without English, that were unnatural.
I bring thee up to turn thee into gold, wench,
And make thy fortune shine like your bright trade;
A goldsmith’s shop sets out a city maid.—
Davy Dahanna, not a word.
Davy. Mum, mum, sir.
Sir Wal. Here you must pass for a pure virgin.
Davy. Pure Welsh virgin!
She lost her maidenhead in Brecknockshire. [Aside.
Sir Wal. I hear you mumble, Davy.
Davy. I have teeth, sir;
I need not mumble yet this forty years.
Sir Wal. The knave bites plaguily!
Yel. What’s your price, sir?
Gent. A hundred pound, sir.
Yel. A hundred marks[13] the utmost;
’Tis not for me else.—What, sir Walter Whorehound?
[Exit Gentleman.
Moll. O death! [Exit.
Maud. Why, daughter—Faith, the baggage [is]
A bashful girl, sir; these young things are shame-fac’d;
Besides, you have a presence, sweet sir Walter,
Able to daunt a maid brought up i' the city:
A brave court-spirit makes our virgins quiver,
And kiss with trembling thighs; yet see, she comes, sir.
Re-enter Moll.
Sir Wal. Why, how now, pretty mistress? now I've caught you:
What, can you injure so your time to stray
Thus from your faithful servant?
Yel. Pish, stop your words, good knight,—'twill make her blush else,—
Which wound[14] too high for the daughters of the freedom.
Honour and faithful servant! they are compliments
For the worthies of Whitehall or Greenwich;
E'en plain, sufficient subsidy-words serve[15] us, sir.
And is this gentlewoman your worthy niece?
Sir Wal. You may be bold with her on these terms, ’tis she, sir,
Heir to some nineteen mountains.
Yel. Bless us all!
You overwhelm me, sir, with love and riches.
Sir Wal. And all as high as Paul’s.
Davy. Here’s work, i’faith! [Aside.
Sir Wal. How sayst thou, Davy?
Davy. Higher, sir, by far;
You cannot see the top of ’em.
Yel. What, man!—
Maudlin, salute this gentlewoman, our daughter,
If things hit right.
Enter Touchwood junior.
Touch. jun. My knight, with a brace of footmen,
Is come, and brought up his ewe-mutton to find
A ram at London; I must hasten it,
Or else pick[16] a' famine; her blood is mine,
And that’s the surest. Well, knight, that choice spoil
Is only kept for me. [Aside.

Moll. Sir——

Touch. jun. Turn[17] not to me till thou mayst lawfully; it but whets my stomach, which is too sharp-set already. Read that note carefully [giving letter to Moll]; keep me from suspicion still, nor know my zeal but in thy heart:

Read, and send but thy liking in three words;
I'll be at hand to take it.
Yel. O turn, sir, turn.[18]
A poor, plain boy, an university man;
Proceeds next Lent to a bachelor of art;
He will be call’d sir Yellowhammer then
Over all Cambridge, and that’s half a knight.
Maud. Please you, draw near
And taste the welcome of the city, sir.
Yel. Come, good sir Walter, and your virtuous niece here.
Sir Wal. ’Tis manners to take kindness.
Yel. Lead ’em in, wife.
Sir Wal. Your company, sir?
Yel. I'll give’t you instantly.

[Exeunt Maudlin, Sir W. Whorehound, Welchwoman, and Davy.

Touch. jun. How strangely busy is the devil and riches!
Poor soul! kept in too hard, her mother’s eye
Is cruel toward her, being to him.
'Twere a good mirth now to set him a-work
To make her wedding-ring; I must about it:
Rather than the gain should fall to a stranger,
’Twas honesty in me t' enrich my father. [Aside.
Yel. The girl is wondrous peevish. I fear nothing
But that she’s taken with some other love,
Then all’s quite dash’d: that must be narrowly look’d to;
We cannot be too wary in our children.— [Aside.
What is’t you lack?[19]
Touch. jun. O, nothing now; all that I wish is present:
I'd have a wedding-ring made for a gentlewoman
With all speed that may be.
Yel. Of what weight, sir?
Touch. jun. Of some half ounce, stand fair
And comely, with the spark of a diamond;
Sir, ’twere pity to lose the least grace.
Yel. Pray, let’s see it.
[Takes stone from Touchwood junior.
Indeed, sir, ’tis a pure one.
Touch. jun. So is the mistress.
Yel. Have you the wideness of her finger, sir?
Touch. jun. Yes, sure, I think I have her measure about me:
Good faith, ’tis down, I cannot shew it you;
I must pull too many things out to be certain.
Let me see—long and slender, and neatly jointed;
Just such another gentlewoman—that’s your daughter, sir?
Yel. And therefore, sir, no gentlewoman.
Touch. jun. I protest
I ne’er saw two maids handed more alike;
I'll ne’er seek farther, if you’ll give me leave, sir.
Yel. If you dare venture by her finger, sir.
Touch. jun. Ay, and I'll bide all loss, sir.
Yel. Say you so, sir?
Let us see.—Hither, girl.
Touch. jun. Shall I make bold
With your finger, gentlewoman?
Moll. Your pleasure, sir.
Touch. jun. That fits her to a hair, sir.
[Trying ring on Moll’s finger.
Yel. What’s your posy now, sir?
Touch. jun. Mass, that’s true: posy? i’faith, e’en thus, sir:
Love that’s wise
Blinds parents' eyes.
Yel. How, how? if I may speak without offence, sir,
I hold my life——
Touch. jun. What, sir?
Yel. Go to,—you’ll pardon me?
Touch. jun. Pardon you? ay, sir.
Yel. Will you, i’faith?
Touch. jun. Yes, faith, I will.
Yel. You’ll steal away some man’s daughter: am I near you?
Do you turn aside? you gentlemen are mad wags!
I wonder things can be so warily carried,
And parents blinded so: but they’re serv’d right,
That have two eyes and were so dull a' sight.
Touch. jun. Thy doom take hold of thee! [Aside.
Yel. To-morrow noon
Shall shew your ring well done.
Touch. jun. Being so, ’tis soon.—
Thanks, and your leave, sweet gentlewoman.
Moll. Sir, you’re welcome.—
[Exit Touchwood junior.
O were I made of wishes, I went with thee! [Aside.
Yel. Come now, we’ll see how the rules[20] go within.
Moll. That robs my joy; there I lose all I win.
[Aside. Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A hall in Allwit’s house.
Enter Davy and Allwit severally.
Davy. Honesty wash my eyes! I've spied a wittol.[21]
[Aside.
Allwit. What, Davy Dahanna? welcome from North Wales, i’faith!
And is sir Walter come?
Davy. New come to town, sir.
Allwit. In to the maids, sweet Davy, and give order
His chamber be made ready instantly.
My wife’s as great as she can wallow, Davy, and longs
For nothing but pickled cucumbers and his coming;
And now she shall ha’t, boy.
Davy. She’s sure of them, sir.
Allwit. Thy very sight will hold my wife in pleasure
Till the knight come himself; go in, in, in, Davy.
[Exit Davy.
The founder’s come to town: I'm like a man
Finding a table furnish’d to his hand,
As mine is still to me, prays for the founder,—
Bless the right worshipful the good founder’s life!
I thank him, has maintain’d my house this ten years;
Not only keeps my wife, but ’a keeps me
And all my family; I'm at his table:
He gets me all my children, and pays the nurse
Monthly or weekly; puts me to nothing, rent,
Nor church-duties, not so much as the scavenger:
The happiest state that ever man was born to!
I walk out in a morning; come to breakfast,
Find excellent cheer; a good fire in winter;
Look in my coal-house about midsummer eve,
That’s full, five or six chaldron new laid up;
Look in my back-yard, I shall find a steeple
Made up with Kentish faggots, which o’erlooks
The water-house and the windmills: I say nothing,
But smile and pin the door. When she lies in,
As now she’s even upon the point of grunting,
A lady lies not in like her; there’s her embossings,
Embroiderings, spanglings, and I know not what,
As if she lay with all the gaudy-shops[22]
In Gresham’s Burse[23] about her; then her restoratives,
Able to set up a young pothecary,
And richly stock the foreman of a drug-shop;
Her sugar by whole loaves, her wines by rundlets.
I see these things, but, like a happy man,
I pay for none at all; yet fools think’s[24] mine;
I have the name, and in his gold I shine:
And where[25] some merchants would in soul kiss hell
To buy a paradise for their wives, and dye
Their conscience in the bloods of prodigal heirs
To deck their night-piece, yet all this being done,
Eaten with jealousy to the inmost bone,—
As what affliction nature more constrains,
Than feed the wife plump for another’s veins?—
These torments stand I freed of; I'm as clear
From jealousy of a wife as from the charge:
O, two miraculous blessings! ’tis the knight
Hath took that labour all out of my hands:
I may sit still and play; he’s jealous for me,
Watches her steps, sets spies; I live at ease,
He has both the cost and torment: when the string[26]
Of his heart frets, I feed, laugh, or sing,
La dildo, dildo la dildo, la dildo dildo de dildo!
[Sings.
Enter two Servants.
First Ser. What, has he got a singing in his head now?
Sec. Ser. Now’s out of work, he falls to making dildoes.
Allwit. Now, sirs, sir Walter’s come.
First Ser. Is our master come?
Allwit. Your master! what am I?
First Ser. Do not you know, sir?
Allwit. Pray, am not I your master?
First Ser. O, you’re but
Our mistress’s husband.
Allwit. Ergo, knave, your master.
First Ser. Negatur argumentum.—Here comes sir Walter:
Enter Sir Walter and Davy.
Now ’a stands bare as well as we; make the most of him,
He’s but one peep above a serving-man,
And so much his horns make him.
Sir Wal. How dost, Jack?
Allwit. Proud of your worship’s health, sir.
Sir Wal. How does your wife?
Allwit. E'en after your own making, sir;
She’s a tumbler, ’afaith, the nose and belly meet.[27]
Sir Wal. They’ll part in time again.
Allwit. At the good hour they will, and[28] please your worship.
Sir Wal. Here, sirrah, pull off my boots.—Put on,[29] put on, Jack.
[Servant pulls off his boots.
Allwit. I thank your kind worship, sir.
Sir Wal. Slippers! heart, you are sleepy!
[Servant brings slippers.
Allwit. The game begins already. [Aside.
Sir Wal. Pish, put on, Jack.
Allwit. Now I must do’t, or he’ll be as angry now,
As if I had put it on at first bidding;
’Tis but observing,
’Tis but observing a man’s humour once,
And he may ha' him by the nose all his life. [Aside.
Sir Wal. What entertainment has lain open here?
No strangers in my absence?
First Ser. Sure, sir, not any.
Allwit. His jealousy begins: am not I happy now,
That can laugh inward whilst his marrow melts? [Aside.
Sir Wal. How do you satisfy me?
First Ser. Good sir, be patient!
Sir Wal. For two months' absence I'll be satisfied.
First Ser. No living creature enter’d——
Sir Wal. Enter’d? come, swear!
First Ser. You will not hear me out, sir——
Sir Wal. Yes, I'll hear’t out, sir.
First Ser. Sir, he can tell himself——
Sir Wal. Heart, he can tell?
Do you think I'll trust him? as a usurer
With forfeited lordships:—him? O monstrous injury!
Believe him? can the devil speak ill of darkness?—
What can you say, sir?
Allwit. Of my soul and conscience, sir,
She’s a wife as honest of her body to me
As any lord’s proud lady [e’er] can be!
Sir Wal. Yet, by your leave, I heard you were once offering
To go to bed to her.
Allwit. No, I protest, sir!
Sir Wal. Heart, if you do, you shall take all!
I'll marry.
Allwit. O, I beseech you, sir!
Sir Wal. That wakes the slave,
And keeps his flesh in awe. [Aside.
Allwit. I'll stop that gap
Where’er I find it open: I have poison’d
His hopes in marriage already [with]
Some old rich widows, and some landed virgins;
And I'll fall to work still before I'll lose him;
He’s yet too sweet to part from. [Aside.
Enter Wat and Nick.
Wat. God-den,[30] father.
Allwit. Ha, villain, peace!
Nick. God-den, father.
Allwit. Peace, bastard!
Should he hear ’em! [Aside.]—These are two foolish children,
They do not know the gentleman that sits there.

Sir Wal. O, Wat—how dost, Nick? go to school, ply your books, boys, ha?

Allwit. Where’s your legs, whoresons?—They should kneel indeed,
If they could say their prayers.
Sir Wal. Let me see, stay,—
How shall I dispose of these two brats now
When I am married? for they must not mingle
Amongst my children that I get in wedlock;
'Twill make foul work that, and raise many storms.
I will bind Wat prentice to a goldsmith,
My father Yellowhammer, as fit as can be;
Nick with some vintner; good, goldsmith and vintner;
There will be wine in bowls, i’faith. [Aside.
Enter Mistress Allwit.
Mis. All. Sweet knight,
Welcome! I've all my longings now in town;
Now welcome the good hour!
Sir Wal. How cheers my mistress?
Mis. All. Made lightsome e’en by him that made me heavy.
Sir Wal. Methinks she shews gallantly, like a moon at full, sir.

Allwit. True, and if she bear a male child, there’s the man in the moon, sir.

Sir Wal. ’Tis but the boy in the moon yet, good-man calf.
Allwit. There was a man, the boy had ne’er been there else.
Sir Wal. It shall be yours, sir.
Allwit. No, by my troth, I'll swear
It’s none of mine; let him that got it keep it!—
Thus do I rid myself of fear,[31]
Lie soft, sleep hard, drink wine, and eat good cheer.
[Aside. Exeunt.

ACT II. SCENE I.