[Holding up yard-measure.

Sweet. Now you come to the purpose; ’tis that I must see indeed.

Ral. You shall feel it, sir: death, give me my fifty pounds or my ware again, or I'll measure out your anatomy by the yard!

Sweet. Boy, my cauterizing iron red hot!

Re-enter Boy with the iron.

Boy. ’Tis here, sir.

Sweet. If you go further, I take my dismembering knife.

Ral. Where’s the knight, your cousin? the thief and the tailor, with my cloth-of-gold and tissue?

Boy. The gentleman that sent away his man with the stuffs is gone a pretty while since; he has carried away our new brush.

Sweet. O that brush hurts my heart’s side! Cheated, cheated! he told me that your virga had a burning fever.

Ral. Pox on your virga, barber!

Sweet. And that you would be bashful, and ashamed to shew your head.

Ral. I shall so hereafter; but here it is, you see, yet, my head, my hair, and my wit; and here are my heels that I must shew to my master, if the cheaters be not found: and, barber, provide thee plasters, I will break thy head with every basin under the pole. [Exit.

Sweet. Cool the luxinium,[920] and quench the cauterizer;
I'm partly out of my wits, and partly mad;
My razor’s at my heart: these storms will make
My sweet-balls stink, my harmless basins shake. [Exeunt.

ACT III. SCENE I.

An apartment in Lord Beaufort’s house.

Enter Mistress George Cressingham disguised as a page, and Mistress Knavesby.

Mis. G. Cres. You’re welcome, mistress, as I may speak it,
But my lord will give’t a sweeter emphasis;
I'll give him knowledge of you. [Going.
Mis. Kna. Good sir, stay,
Methinks it sounds sweetest upon your tongue;
I'll wish you to go no further for my welcome.
Mis. G. Cres. Mine! it seems you never heard good music,
That commend a bagpipe: hear his harmony!
Mis. Kna. Nay, good now, let me borrow of your patience,
I'll pay you again before I rise to-morrow:
If it please you[921]——
Mis. G. Cres. What would you, forsooth?
Mis. Kna. Your company, sir.

Mis. G. Cres. My attendance you should have, mistress, but that my lord expects it, and ’tis his due.

Mis. Kna. And must be paid upon the hour? that’s too strict; any time of the day will serve.

Mis. G. Cres. Alas, ’tis due every minute! and paid, ’tis due again, or else I forfeit my recognisance, the cloth I wear of his.

Mis. Kna. Come, come; pay it double at another time, and ’twill be quitted; I have a little use of you.

Mis. G. Cres. Of me, forsooth? small use can be made of me: if you have suit to my lord, none can speak better for you than you may yourself.

Mis. Kna. O, but I am bashful.

Mis. G. Cres. So am I, in troth, mistress.

Mis. Kna. Now I remember me, I have a toy to deliver your lord that’s yet unfinished, and you may further me: pray you, your hands, while I unwind this skein of gold from you; ’twill not detain you long.

[Putting skein on Mis. G. Cressingham’s hands.

Mis. G. Cres. You wind me into your service prettily: with all the haste you can, I beseech you.

Mis. Kna. If it tangle not, I shall soon have done.

Mis. G. Cres. No, it shall not tangle, if I can help it, forsooth.

Mis. Kna. If it do, I can help it; fear not: this thing of long length you shall see I can bring you to a bottom.

Mis. G. Cres. I think so too; if it be not bottomless, this length will reach it.

Mis. Kna. It becomes you finely; but I forewarn you, and remember it, your enemy gain not this advantage of you; you are his prisoner then; for, look you, you are mine now, my captive manacled, I have your hands in bondage.[922]

Mis. G. Cres. ’Tis a good lesson, mistress, and I am perfect in it; another time I'll take out this, and learn another: pray you, release me now.

Mis. Kna. I could kiss you now, spite of your teeth, if it please me.

Mis. G. Cres. But you could not, for I could bite you with the spite of my teeth, if it pleases me.

Mis. Kna. Well, I'll not tempt you so far, I shew it but for rudiment.

Mis. G. Cres. When I go a-wooing, I'll think on’t again.

Mis. Kna. In such an hour I learnt it: say I should,
In recompence of your hands' courtesy,
Make you a fine wrist-favour of this gold,
With all the letters of your name emboss’d
On a soft tress of hair, which I shall cut
From mine own fillet, whose ends should meet and close
In a fast true-love knot, would you wear it
For my sake, sir?
Mis. G. Cres. I think not, truly, mistress;
My wrists have enough of this gold already;
Would they were rid on’t yet! pray you, have done;
In troth, I'm weary.
Mis. Kna. And what a virtue
Is here express’d in you, which had lain hid
But for this trial: weary of gold, sir?
O that the close engrossers of this treasure
Could be so free to put it off of hand!
What a new-mended world would here be!
It shews a generous condition[923] in you;
In sooth, I think I shall love you dearly for’t.
Mis. G. Cres. But if they were in prison, as I am,
They would be glad to buy their freedom with it.
Mis. Kna. Surely no; there are that, rather than release
This dear companion, do lie in prison
With it, yes, and will die in prison too.

Mis. G. Cres. ’Twere pity but the hangman did enfranchise both.

Enter Lord Beaufort.

L. Beau. Selenger, where are you?

Mis. G. Cres. E'en here, my lord.—Mistress, pray you, my liberty; you hinder my duty to my lord.

L. Beau. [taking off his hat] Nay, sir, one courtesy shall serve us both
At this time; you are busy, I perceive;
When next your leisure[924] serves you, I'd employ you.

Mis. G. Cres. You must pardon me, my lord; you see I am entangled here.—Mistress, I protest I'll break prison, if you free me not: take you no notice?

Mis. Kna. O, cry your honour mercy!—You are now at liberty, sir. [Releasing her hands.

Mis. G. Cres. And I'm glad on’t; I'll ne’er give both my hands at once again to a woman’s command; I'll put one finger in a hole rather.

L. Beau. Leave us.

Mis. G. Cres. Free leave have you, my lord, so I think you may have.—Filthy beauty, what a white witch thou art! [Exit.

L. Beau. Lady, you’re welcome.
Mis. Kna. I did believe[925] it from your page, my lord.
L. Beau. Your husband sent you to me?
Mis. Kna. He did, my lord;
With duty and commends unto your honour,
Beseeching you to use me very kindly,
By the same token your lordship gave him grant
Of a new lease of threescore pounds a-year,
Which he and his should forty years enjoy.
L. Beau. The token’s true; and for your sake, lady,
’Tis likely to be better’d; not alone the lease,
But the fee-simple may be his and yours.
Mis. Kna. I have a suit unto your lordship too,
Only myself concerns.
L. Beau. ’Twill be granted, sure,
Though it outvalue thy husband’s.
Mis. Kna. Nay, ’tis small charge;
Only your good will and good word, my lord.
L. Beau. The first is thine confirm’d; the second, then,
Cannot stay long behind.
Mis. Kna. I love your page, sir.
L. Beau. Love him! for what?
Mis. Kna. O the great wisdoms that
Our grandsires had! do you ask me reason for’t?
I love him ’cause I like him, sir.
L. Beau. My page!
Mis. Kna. In mine eye he is a most delicate youth,
But in my heart a thing that it would bleed for.
L. Beau. Either your eye’s blinded or your remembrance broken;
Call to mind wherefore you came hither, lady.
Mis. Kna. I do, my lord; for love; and I'm in profoundly.
L. Beau. You trifle, sure; do you long for unripe fruit?
'Twill breed diseases in you.
Mis. Kna. Nothing but worms
In my belly, and there’s a seed to expel them;
In mellow, falling fruit I find no relish.
L. Beau. ’Tis true the youngest vines yield[926] the most clusters,
But the old ever the sweetest grapes.
Mis. Kna. I can taste of both, sir;
But with the old I am the soonest cloy’d,
The green keep still an edge on appetite.
L. Beau. Sure you’re a common creature.
Mis. Kna. Did you doubt it?
Wherefore came I hither else? did you think
That honesty only had been immur’d for you,
And I should bring it as an offertory
Unto your shrine of lust? As ’twas, my lord,
’Twas meant to you, had not the slippery wheel
Of fancy[927] turn’d when I beheld your page;
Nay, had I seen another before him
In mine eyes better grace, he had been forestall’d;
But as it is—all my strength cannot help—
Beseech you, your good will and good word, my lord;
You may command him, sir; if not affection,
Yet his body; and I desire but that:
Do it, and I'll command myself your prostitute.
L. Beau. You’re a base strumpet! I succeed my page!
Mis. Kna. O, that’s no wonder, my lord; the servant oft
Tastes to his master of the daintiest dish
He brings to him: beseech you, my lord——
L. Beau. You’re a bold mischief; and to make me your spokesman,
Your procurer to my servant!
Mis. Kna. Do you shrink at that?
Why, you’ve done worse without the sense of ill,
With a full, free conscience of a libertine:
Judge your own sin;
Was it not worse, with a damn’d broking-fee
To corrupt a[928] husband, ’state him a pander
To his own wife, by virtue of a lease
Made to him and your bastard issue, could you get ’em?
What a degree of baseness call you this?
’Tis a poor sheep-steal[er] provok’d by want
Compar’d unto a capital traitor: the master
To his servant may be recompens’d, but the husband
To his wife never.
L. Beau. Your husband shall smart for this. [Exit.
Mis. Kna. Hang him, do! you have brought him to deserve it;
Bring him to the punishment, there I'll join with you;
I loathe him to the gallows! hang your page too;
One mourning-gown shall serve for both of them.
This trick hath kept mine honesty secure;
Best soldiers use policy: the lion’s skin
Becomes the body not[929] when ’tis too great,
But then the fox’s may sit close and neat. [Exit.

SCENE II.

A Street.
Enter Sweetball, Flesh-hook, and Counterbuff.

Sweet. Now, Flesh-hook, use thy talon, set upon his right shoulder; thy sergeant, Counterbuff, at the left; grasp in his jugulars; and then let me alone to tickle his diaphragma.

Flesh. You are sure he has no protection, sir?

Sweet. A protection to cheat and cozen! there was never any granted to that purpose.

Flesh. I grant you that too, sir; but that use has been made of ’em.

Coun. Marry has there, sir; how could else so many broken bankrupts play up and down by their creditors' noses, and we dare not touch ’em?

Sweet. That’s another case, Counterbuff; there’s privilege to cozen, but here cozenage went before, and there’s no privilege for that: to him boldly, I will spend all the scissors in my shop, but I'll have him snapt.

Coun. Well, sir, if he come within the length of large mace once, we’ll teach him to cozen.

Sweet. Marry, hang him! teach him no more cozenage, he’s too perfect in’t already; go gingerly about it; lay your mace on gingerly, and spice him soundly.

Coun. He’s at the tavern, you say?

Sweet. At the Man in the Moon, above stairs; so soon as he comes down, and the bush[930] left at his back, Ralph is the dog behind him; he watches to give us notice: be ready then, my dear bloodhounds; you shall deliver him to Newgate, from thence to the hangman: his body I will beg of the sheriffs, for at the next lecture I am likely to be the master of my anatomy; then will I vex every vein about him; I will find where his disease of cozenage lay, whether in the vertebræ or in os coxendix;[931] but I guess I shall find it descend from humore, through the thorax, and lie just at his fingers'-ends.

Enter Ralph.

Ral. Be in readiness, for he’s coming this way, alone too; stand to’t like gentlemen and yeomen: so soon as he is in sight, I'll go fetch my master.

Sweet. I have had a conquassation in my cerebrum ever since the disaster, and now it takes me again; if it turn to a megrim, I shall hardly abide the sight of him.

Ral. My action of defamation shall be clapt on him too; I will make him appear to’t in the shape of a white sheet, all embroidered over with peccavis: look about, I'll go fetch my master. [Exit.

Enter Franklin junior.

Coun. I arrest you, sir.

Frank. jun. Ha! qui va là? que pensez-vous faire, messieurs? me voulez-vous dérober? je n’ai point d’argent; je suis un pauvre gentilhomme François.

Sweet. Whoop! pray you, sir, speak English; you did when you bought cloth-of-gold at six nihils a-yard, when Ralph’s præputium was exulcerated.

Frank. jun. Que voulez-vous? me voulez-vous tuer? les François ne sont point ennemis: voilà ma bourse; que voulez-vous d’avantage?

Coun. Is not your name Franklin, sir?

Frank. jun. Je n’ai point de joyaux que cestui-ci, et c’est à monsieur l’ambassadeur; il m’envoie à ses affaires, et vous empêchez mon service.

Coun. Sir, we are mistaken, for ought I perceive.

Enter Water-Camlet with Ralph, hastily.

W.-Cam. So, so; you have caught him, that’s well.—How do you, sir?

Frank. jun. Vous semblez être un homme courtois, je vous prie entendez mes affaires; il y a ici deux ou trois canailles qui m’ont assiégé, un pauvre étranger, qui ne leur ai fait nul mal; ni donné mauvaise parole, ni tiré mon épée; l’un me prend par une épaule, et me frappe deux livres pesant; l’autre me tire par le bras, il parle je ne sais quoi: je leur ai donné ma bourse, et s’ils ne me veulent point laisser aller, que ferai-je, monsieur?

W.-Cam. This is a Frenchman, it seems, sirs.

Coun. We can find no other in him, sir; and what that is we know not.

W.-Cam. He’s very like the man we seek for, else my lights go false.

Sweet. In your shop[932] they may, sir, but here they go true; this is he.

Ral. The very same, sir; as sure as I am Ralph, this is the rascal.

Coun. Sir, unless you will absolutely challenge him the man, we dare not proceed further.

Flesh. I fear we are too far already.

W.-Cam. I know not what to say to’t.

Enter Margarita.

Mar. Bon jour, bon jour, gentilhommes.

Sweet. How now? more news from France?

Frank. jun. Cette femme ici est de mon pays.—Madame, je vous prie leur dire mon pays; ils m’ont retargé,[933] je ne sais pourquoi.

Mar. Etes-vous de France, monsieur?

Frank. jun. Madame, vrai est, que je les ai trompés, et suis arrêté, et n’ai nul moyen d'échapper qu’en changeant mon langage: aidez-moi en cette affaire; je vous connois bien, où vous tenez un bordeau; vous et les votres en serez de mieux.

Mar. Laissez faire à moi. Etes-vous de Lyons, dites-vous?

Frank. jun. De Lyon, ma chère dame.

Mar. Mon cousin! je suis bien aise de vous voir en bonne disposition. [Re-enter

Frank. jun. Ma cousine!

W.-Cam. This is a Frenchman sure.

Sweet. If he be, ’tis the likest an Englishman that ever I saw, all his dimensions, proportions; had I but the dissecting of his heart, in capsula cordis could I find it now; for a Frenchman’s heart is more quassative and subject to tremor than an Englishman’s.

W.-Cam. Stay, we’ll further inquire of this gentlewoman.—Mistress, if you have so much English to help us with—as I think you have, for I have long seen you about London—pray, tell us, and truly tell us, is this gentleman a natural Frenchman or no?

Mar. Ey, begar, de Frenchman, born à Lyons, my cozin.

W.-Cam. Your cousin? if he be not your cousin, he’s my cousin, sure.

Mar. Ey connosh his père, what you call his fadre; he sell poissons.

Sweet. Sell poisons? his father was a ’pothecary then.

Mar. No, no, poissons,—what you call fish, fish.

Sweet. O, he was a fishmonger.

Mar. Oui, oui.

W.-Cam. Well, well, we are mistaken, I see; pray you, so tell him, and request him not to be offended; an honest man may look like a knave, and be ne’er the worse for’t: the error was in our eyes, and now we find it in his tongue.

Mar. J'essayerai encore une fois, monsieur cousin, pour votre sauveté; allez-vous en; votre liberté est suffisante: je gagnerai le reste pour mon devoir, et vous aurez votre part à mon école; j’ai une fille qui parle un peu François; elle conversera avec vous à la Fleur-de-Lis en Turnbull Street.[934] Mon cousin, ayez soin de vous-même, et trompez ces ignorans.

Frank. jun. Cousin, pour l’amour de vous, et principalement pour moi, je suis content de m’en aller: je trouverai votre école; et si vos écoliers me sont agréables, je tirerai à l'épée seule; et si d’aventure je la rompe, je payerai dix sous; et pour ce vieux fol, et ces deux canailles, ce poulain snip-snap, et l’autre bonnet rond, je les verrai pendre premier que je les vois. [Exit.

W.-Cam. So, so, she has got him off, but I perceive much anger in his countenance still.—And what says he, madam?

Mar. Moosh, moosh anger; but ey connosh heer lodging shall cool him very well; dere is a kinswomans can moosh allay heer heat and heer spleen; she shall do for my saka, and he no trobla you.

W.-Cam. [giving money] Look, there is earnest, but thy reward’s behind; come to my shop, the Holy Lamb in Lombard Street: thou hast one friend more than e’er thou hadst.

Mar. Tank u, monsieur, shall visit u; ey make all pacifie: à votre service très humblement,—tree, four, five fool of u. [Aside, and exit.

W.-Cam. What’s to be done now?

Coun. To pay us for our pains, sir; and better reward us, that we may be provided against further danger that may come upon ’s for false imprisonment.

W.-Cam. All goes false, I think. What do you, neighbour Sweetball?

Sweet. I must phlebotomise, sir, but my almanac says the sign is in Taurus; I dare not cut my own throat; but if I find any precedent that ever barber hanged himself, I'll be the second example.

Ral. This was your ill luxinium,[935] barber, to cause all to be cheated.

Coun. What say you to us, sir?

W.-Cam. Good friends, come to me at a calmer hour,
My sorrows lie in heaps upon me now:
What you have, keep; if further trouble follow,
I'll take it on me: I would be press’d to death.

Coun. Well, sir, for this time we’ll leave you.

Sweet. I will go with you, officers; I will walk with you in the open street, though it be a scandal to me; for now I have no care of my credit, a cacokenny[936] is run all over me.

[Exeunt. Sweetball, Flesh-hook, and Counterbuff.

W.-Cam. What shall we do now, Ralph?

Ral. Faith, I know not, sir: here comes George, it may be he can tell you.

W.-Cam. And there I look for more disaster still;
Yet George appears in a smiling countenance.
Enter George.

Ralph, home to the shop; leave George and I together.

Ral. I am gone, sir. [Exit.

W.-Cam. Now, George, what better news eastward? all goes ill t’other way.

Geo. I bring you the best news that ever came about your ears in your life, sir.

W.-Cam. Thou puttest me in good comfort, George.

Geo. My mistress, your wife, will never trouble you more.

W.-Cam. Ha! never trouble me more? of this, George, may be made a sad construction; that phrase we sometimes use when death makes the separation; I hope it is not so with her, George?

Geo. No, sir, but she vows she’ll never come home again to you; so you shall live quietly; and this I took to be very good news, sir.

W.-Cam. The worst that could be this, candied poison:
I love her, George, and I am bound to do so;
The tongue’s bitterness must not separate
United[937] souls: ’twere base and cowardly
For all to yield to the small tongue’s assault:
The whole building must not be taken down
For the repairing of a broken window.

Geo. Ay, but this is a principal, sir: the truth is, she will be divorced, she says, and is labouring with her cousin Knave—what do you call him? I have forgotten the latter end of his name.

W.-Cam. Knavesby, George.

Geo. Ay, Knave, or Knavesby, one I took it to be.

W.-Cam. Why, neither rage nor envy can make a cause, George.

Geo. Yes, sir; not only at your person, but she shoots at your shop too; she says you vent ware that is not warrantable, braided ware, and that you give not London measure; women, you know, look for more than a bare yard: and then you keep children in the name of your own, which she suspects came not in at the right door.

W.-Cam. She may as well suspect immaculate truth
To be curs’d falsehood.

Geo. Ay, but if she will, she will; she’s a woman, sir.

W.-Cam. ’Tis most true, George: well, that shall be redress’d;
My cousin Cressingham must yield me pardon,

The children shall home again, and thou shalt conduct 'em, George.

Geo. That done, I'll be bold to venture once more for her recovery, since you cannot live at liberty, but because you are a rich citizen, you will have your chain about your neck: I think I have a device will bring you together by th' ears again, and then look to ’em as well as you can.

W.-Cam. O George, ’mongst all my heavy troubles, this
Is the groaning weight; but restore my wife![938]
Geo. Although you ne’er lead hour of quiet life.
W.-Cam. I will endeavour ’t, George; I'll lend her will
A power and rule to keep all hush’d and still:
Eat we all sweetmeats, we are soonest rotten.
Geo. A sentence! pity ’t should have been forgotten!
[Exeunt.

ACT IV. SCENE I.

A room in Sir Francis Cressingham′s house.
Enter Sir Francis Cressingham and Surveyor severally.

Sur. Where’s master steward?

Sir F. Cres. Within: what are you, sir?

Sur. A surveyor, sir.

Sir F. Cres. And an almanac-maker, I take it: can you tell me what foul weather is toward?[939]

Sur. Marry, the foulest weather is, that your land is flying away. [Exit.

Sir F. Cres. A most terrible prognostication! All the resort, all the business to my house is to my lady and master steward, whilst sir Francis stands for a cipher; I have made away myself and my power, as if I had done it by deed of gift: here comes the comptroller of the game.

Enter Saunder.

Saun. What, are you yet resolved to translate this unnecessary land into ready money?

Sir F. Cres. Translate it!

Saun. The conveyances are drawn, and the money ready: my lady sent me to you to know directly if you meant to go through in the sale; if not, she resolves of another course.

Sir F. Cres. Thou speakest this cheerfully, methinks; whereas faithful servants were wont to mourn when they beheld the lord that fed and cherished them, as[940] by cursed enchantment, removed into another blood. Cressingham of Cressingham has continued many years, and must the name sink now?

Saun. All this is nothing to my lady’s resolution; it must be done, or she’ll not stay in England: she would know whether your son be sent for, that must likewise set his hand to the sale; for otherwise the lawyers say there cannot be a sure conveyance made to the buyer.

Sir F. Cres. Yes, I have sent for him; but, I pray thee, think what a hard task ’twill be for a father to persuade his son and heir to make away his inheritance.

Saun. Nay, for that, use your own logic; I have heard you talk at the sessions terribly against deer-stealers, and that kept you from being put out of the commission. [Exit.

Sir F. Cres. I do live to see two miseries; one to be commanded by my wife, the other to be censured by my slave.

Enter George Cressingham.

G. Cres. That which I have wanted long, and has been cause of my irregular courses, I beseech you let raise me from the ground. [Kneels.

Sir F. Cres. [raising him and giving money] Rise, George; there’s a hundred pounds for you, and my blessing, with these your mother’s favour: but I hear your studies are become too licentious of late.

G. Cres. Has heard of my cozenage. [Aside.

Sir F. Cres. What’s that you are writing?

G. Cres. Sir, not any thing.

Sir F. Cres. Come, I hear there’s something coming forth of yours will be your undoing.

G. Cres. Of mine?

Sir F. Cres. Yes, of your writing; somewhat you should write will be dangerous to you. I have a suit to you.

G. Cres. Sir, my obedience makes you commander in all things.

Sir F. Cres. I pray, suppose I had committed some fault, for which my life and sole estate were forfeit to the law, and that some great man near the king should labour to get my pardon, on condition he might enjoy my lordship, could you prize your father’s life above the grievous loss of your inheritance?

G. Cres. Yes, and my own life at stake too.

Sir F. Cres. You promise fair; I come now to make trial of it. You know I have married one whom I hold so dear, that my whole life is nothing but a mere estate depending upon her will and her affections to me; she deserves so well, I cannot longer merit than durante bene placita: ’tis her pleasure, and her wisdom moves in’t too, of which I'll give you ample satisfaction hereafter, that I sell the land my father left me: you change colour! I have promised her to do’t; and should I fail, I must expect the remainder of my life as full of trouble and vexation as the suit for a divorce: it lies in you, by setting of your hand unto the sale, to add length to his life that gave you yours.

G. Cres. Sir, I do now[941] ingeniously perceive why you said lately somewhat I should write would be my undoing, meaning, as I take it, setting my hand to this assurance. O, good sir, shall I pass away my birthright? O, remember there is a malediction denounced against it in holy writ! Will you, for her pleasure, the inheritance of desolation leave to your posterity? think how compassionate the creatures of the field, that only live on the wild benefits of nature,[942] are unto their young ones; think likewise you may have more children by this woman, and by this act you undo them too. ’Tis a strange precedent this, to see an obedient son labouring good counsel to the father; but know, sir, that the spirits of my great-grandfather and your father move[943] at this present in me, and what they bequeathed you on their[944] deathbed, they charge you not to give away in the dalliance of a woman’s bed. Good sir, let it not be thought presumption in me that I have continued my speech unto this length; the cause, sir, is urgent, and, believe it, you shall find her beauty as malevolent unto you as a red morning, that doth still foretell a foul day to follow. O, sir, keep your land! keep that to keep your name immortal, and you shall see