[Exeunt. Franklin senior, Franklin junior,
and George.
(Scene changes[976] to a room in Sir F. Cressingham’s house.)
Enter Saunder.

Is my father stirring?

Saun. Yes, sir: my lady wonders you are thus chargeable to your father, and will not direct yourself unto some gainful study, may quit him of your dependance.

G. Cres. What study?

Saun. Why, the law; that law that takes up most a' the wits i' the kingdom, not for most good but most gain; or divinity, I have heard you talk well, and I do not think but you’d prove a singular fine churchman.

G. Cres. I should prove a plural better, if I could attain to fine benefices.

Saun. My lady, now she has money, is studying to do good works; she talked last night what a goodly act it was of a countess[977]—Northamptonshire breed belike, or thereabouts—that to make Coventry a corporation, rode through the city naked, and by daylight.

G. Cres. I do not think but you have ladies living would discover as much in private, to advance but some member of a corporation.

Saun. Well, sir, your wit is still goring at my lady’s projects: here’s your father.

Enter Sir Francis Cressingham.

Sir F. Cres. Thou comest to chide me, hearing how like a ward I am handled since the sale of my land.

G. Cres. No, sir, but to turn your eyes into your own bosom.

Sir F. Cres. Why, I am become my wife’s pensioner; am confined to a hundred mark[978] a-year, t' one suit, and one man to attend me.

Saun. And is not that enough for a private gentleman?

Sir F. Cres. Peace, sirrah, there is nothing but knave speaks in thee:—and my two poor children must be put forth to ’prentice!

G. Cres. Ha! to ’prentice? sir, I do not come to grieve you, but to shew how wretched your estate was, that you could not come to see order until foul disorder pointed the way to’t;

So inconsiderate,[979] yet so fruitful still
Is dotage to beget its own destruction.

Sir F. Cres. Surely I am nothing, and desire[980] to be so.—Pray thee, fellow, entreat her only to be quiet; I have given her all my estate on that condition.

Saun. Yes, sir, her coffers are well lin’d, believe me.
Sir F. Cres. And yet she’s not contented: we observe
The moon is ne’er so pleasant and so clear
As when she’s at the full.
G. Cres. You did not use
My mother with this observance; you are like
The frogs, who, weary of their quiet king,
Consented to th' election of the stork,
Who in the end devour’d them.
Sir F. Cres. You may see
How apt man is to forfeit all his judgment
Upon the instant of his fall.
G. Cres. Look up, sir.
Sir F. Cres. O, my heart’s broke! weighty are injuries
That come from an enemy, but those are deadly
That come from a friend, for we see commonly
Those are ta’en most to heart. She comes.
G. Cres. What a terrible eye she darts on us!
Enter Lady Cressingham.

Sir F. Cres. O, most natural for lightning to go before the thunder.

L. Cres. What! are you in council? are ye levying faction against us?

Sir F. Cres. Good friend——

L. Cres. Sir, sir, pray, come hither; there is winter in your looks, a latter winter; do you complain to your kindred? I'll make you fear extremely, to shew you have any cause to fear.—Are the bonds sealed for the six thousand pounds I put forth to use?

Saun. Yes, madam.

L. Cres. The bonds were made in my uncle’s name?

Saun. Yes.

L. Cres. ’Tis well.

Sir F. Cres. ’Tis strange though.

L. Cres. Nothing strange; you’ll think the allowance I have put you to as strange, but your judgment cannot reach the aim I have in’t: you were pricked last year to be high sheriff, and what it would have cost you I understand now; all this charge, and the other by the sale of your land, and the money at my dispose, and your pension so small, will settle you in quiet, make you master of a retired life; and our great ones may think you a politic man, and that you are aiming at some strange business, having made all over.

Sir F. Cres. I must leave you: man is never truly awake till he be dead!

[Exeunt. Sir F. Cressingham and Saunder./

G. Cres. What a dream have you made of my father!

L. Cres. Let him be so, and keep the proper place of dreams, his bed, until I raise him.

G. Cres. Raise him! not unlikely; ’tis you have ruined him.

L. Cres. You do not come to quarrel?

G. Cres. No, certain, but to persuade you to a thing, that, in the virtue of it, nobly carries its own commendation, and you shall gain much honour by it, which is the recompence of all virtuous actions,—to use my father kindly.

L. Cres. Why, does he complain to you, sir?

G. Cres. Complain? why should a king complain for any thing, but for his sins to heaven? the prerogative of husband is like to his over his wife.

L. Cres. I'm full of business, sir, and will not mind you.

G. Cres. I must not leave you thus; I tell you, mother, ’tis dangerous to a woman when her mind raises her to such height, it makes her only capable of her own merit, nothing of duty. O, ’twas a strange, unfortunate o’erprizing your beauty, brought him, otherwise discreet, into the fatal neglect of his poor children! What will you give us of the late sum you received?

L. Cres. Not a penny; away, you are troublesome and saucy.

G. Cres. You are too cruel: denials even from princes, who may do what they list, should be supplied with a gracious verbal usage, that, though they do not cure the sore, they may abate the sense of’t: the wealth you seem to command over is his, and he, I hope, will dispose of’t to our use.

L. Cres. When he can command my will.

G. Cres. Have you made him so miserable, that he must take a law from his wife?

L. Cres. Have you not had some lawyers forced to groan under the burden?

G. Cres. O, but the greater the women, the more visible are their vices!

L. Cres. So, sir,
You’ve been so bold: by all can bind an oath,
And I'll not break it, I'll not be the woman
To you hereafter you expected.
G. Cres. Be not;
Be not yourself, be not my father’s wife,
Be not my lady Cressingham, and then
I'll thus speak to you, but you must not answer
In your own person.
L. Cres. A fine puppet-play!

G. Cres. Good madam, please you, pity the distress of a poor gentleman, that is undone by a cruel mother-in-law; you do not know her, nor does she deserve the knowledge of any good one, for she does not know herself; you would sigh for her that e’er she took you[r] sex, if you but heard her qualities.

L. Cres. This is a fine crotchet.

G. Cres. Envy and pride flow in her painted breasts, she gives no other suck; all her attendants do not belong to her husband; his money is hers, marry, his debts are his own: she bears such sway, she will not suffer his religion be his own, but what she please to turn it to.

L. Cres. And all this while I am the woman you libel against.

G. Cres. I remember, ere the land was sold, you talked of going to Ireland; but should you touch there, you would die presently.

L. Cres. Why, man?

G. Cres. The country brooks no poison:[981] go,
You’ll find how difficult a thing it is
To make a settled or assur’d estate
Of things ill-gotten: when my father’s dead,
The curse of lust and riot follow you!
Marry some young gallant that may rifle you;
Yet add one blessing to your needy age,
That you may die full of repentance.
L. Cres. Ha, ha, ha!
G. Cres. O, she is lost to any kind of goodness!
[Exeunt severally.

SCENE III.

A room.[982]
Enter Lord Beaufort and Knavesby.
L. Beau. Sirrah, begone! you’re base.
Kna. Base, my good lord?
’Tis a ground part in music, trebles, means,[983]
All is but fiddling:[984] your honour bore a part,
As my wife says, my lord.
L. Beau. Your wife’s a strumpet!
Kna. Ah ha! is she so? I am glad to hear it;
Open confession, open payment;
The wager’s mine then, a hundred a-year, my lord;
I said so before, and stak’d my head against it:
Thus after darksome night the day is come, my lord.
L. Beau. Hence, hide thy branded head; let no day see thee,
Nor thou any but thy execution-day.
Kna. That’s the day after washing-day; once a-week
I see’t at home, my lord.
L. Beau. Go home and see
Thy prostituted wife—for sure ’tis so—Now
folded in a boy’s adultery,
My page, on whom the hot-rein’d harlot doats:
This night he hath been her attendant; my house
He is fled from, and must no more return:
Go, and make haste, sir, lest your reward be lost
For want of looking to.
Kna. My reward lost?
Is there nothing due for what is past, my lord?
L. Beau. Yes, pander, wittol,[985] macrio,[986] basest of knaves,
Thou bolster-bawd to thine own infamy!
Go, I've no more about me at this time;
When I am better stor’d thou shalt have more,
Where’er I meet thee.
Kna. Pander, wittol, macrio, base knave, bolster-bawd!
here is but five mark toward a hundred
a-year; this is poor payment. If lords may be trusted
no better than thus, I will go home and cut my
wife’s nose off; I will turn over a new leaf, and
hang up the page; lastly, I will put on a large pair
of wet-leather boots, and drown myself; I will sink
at Queen-hive,[987] and rise again at Charing Cross,
contrary to the statute in Edwardo primio. [Exit.

Enter Franklin senior, Franklin junior disguised as before, George, and several Creditors.

Frank. sen. Good health to your lordship!

L. Beau. Master Franklin, I heard of your arrival, and the cause of this your sad appearance.

Frank. sen. And ’tis no more than as your honour says, indeed, appearance; it has more form than feeling sorrow, sir, I must confess: there’s none of these gentlemen, though aliens in blood, but have as large cause of grief as I.

First C. No, by your favour, sir, we are well satisfied; there was in his life a greater hope, but less assurance.

Sec. C. Sir, I wish all my debts of no better promise to pay me thus; fifty in the hundred comes fairly homewards.

Frank. jun. Considering hard bargains and dead commodities, sir.

Sec. C. Thou sayest true, friend—and from a dead debtor, too.

L. Beau. And so you have compounded and agreed all your son’s riotous debts?

Frank. sen. There’s behind but one cause of worse condition; that done, he may sleep quietly.

First C. Yes, sure, my lord, this gentleman is come a wonder to us all, that so fairly, with half a loss, could satisfy those debts were dead, even with his son, and from whom we could have nothing claimed.

Frank. sen. I shewed my reason; I would have a good name live after him, because he bore my name.

Sec. C. May his tongue perish first—and that will spoil his trade—that first gives him a syllable of ill!

L. Beau. Why, this is friendly.

Enter Water-Camlet.
W.-Cam. My lord!
L. Beau. Master Camlet! very welcome.
W.-Cam. Master Franklin, I take it: these gentlemen
I know well, good master Pennystone, master
Philip, master Cheyney: I am glad I shall take
my leave of so many of my good friends at once.
Your hand first, my lord—fare you well, sir—nay,
I must have all your hands to my pass.
[Taking their hands.

Geo. Will you have mine too, sir?

W.-Cam. Yes, thy two hands, George, and, I think, two honest hands of a tradesman, George, as any between Cornhill and Lombard Street.

Geo. Take heed what you say, sir, there’s Birchin Lane between ’em.

L. Beau. But what’s the cause of this, master Camlet?

W.-Cam. I have the cause in handling now, my lord; George, honest George, is the cause, yet no cause of George’s; George is turned away one way, and I must go another.

L. Beau. And whither is your way, sir?

W.-Cam. E'en to seek out a quiet life, my lord: I do hear of a fine peaceable island.

L. Beau. Why, ’tis the same you live in.

W.-Cam. No; ’tis so fam’d,
But we th' inhabitants find it not so:
The place I speak of[988] has been kept with thunder,
With frightful lightnings, amazing noises;
But now, th' enchantment broke, ’tis the land of peace,
Where hogs and tobacco yield fair increase.

L. Beau. This is a little wild, methinks.

W.-Cam. Gentlemen, fare you well, I am for the Bermudas.

L. Beau. Nay, good sir, stay: and is that your only cause, the loss of George?

W.-Cam. The loss of George, my lord? make you that no cause? why, but examine, would it not break the stout heart of a nobleman to lose his george,[989] much more the tender bosom of a citizen?

L. Beau. Fie, fie, I'm sorry your gravity should run back to lightness thus: you go to the Bermothes![990]

Frank. sen. Better to Ireland, sir.

W.-Cam. The land of Ire? that’s too near home; my wife will be heard from Hellbree to Divelin.[991]

Frank. sen. Sir, I must of necessity a while detain you: I must acquaint you with a benefit that’s coming towards you; you were cheated of some goods of late—come, I'm a cunning man, and will help you to the most part again, or some reasonable satisfaction.

W.-Cam. That’s another cause of my unquiet life, sir; can you do that, I may chance stay another tide or two.

Enter Mistress Water-Camlet.

My wife! I must speak more private with you—by forty foot, pain of death, I dare not reach her! no words of me, sweet gentlemen. [Slips behind the arras.

Geo. I had need hide too. [Follows W.-Camlet.

Mis. W.-Cam. O, my lord, I have scarce tongue enough yet to tell you—my husband, my husband’s gone from me! your warrant, good my lord! I never had such need of your warrant; my husband’s gone from me!

L. Beau. Going he is, ’tis true, has ta’en his leave of me and all these gentlemen, and ’tis your sharp tongue that whips him forwards.

Mis. W.-Cam. A warrant, good my lord!

L. Beau. You turn away his servants, such on whom his estate depends, he says, who know his books, his debts, his customers; the form and order of all his affairs you make orderless—chiefly, his George you have banished from him.

Mis. W.-Cam. My lord, I will call George again.

Geo. [behind the arras] Call George again!

L. Beau. Why, hark you, how high-voiced you are, that raise an echo from my cellarage, which we with modest loudness cannot!

Mis. W.-Cam. My lord, do you think I speak too loud?

Geo. [behind the arras] Too loud!

L. Beau. Why, hark, your own tongue answers you, and reverberates your words into your teeth!

Mis. W.-Cam. I will speak lower all the days of my life; I never found the fault in myself till now: your warrant, good my lord, to stay my husband!

L. Beau. Well, well, it shall o’ertake him ere he pass Gravesend, provided that he meet his quietness at home, else he’s gone again.

Frank. sen. And withal to call George again.

Mis. W.-Cam. I will call George again.

Geo. [behind the arras] Call George again!

L. Beau. See, you are rais’d again, the echo tells you!

Mis. W.-Cam. I did forget myself indeed, my lord; this is my last fault: I will go make a silent inquiry after George, I will whisper half a score porters in the ear, that shall run softly up and down the city to seek him. Be wi' ye, my lord- bye all, gentlemen. [Exit.

L. Beau. George, your way lies before you now [George comes from behind the arras]; cross the street, and come into her eyes; your master’s journey will be stayed.

Geo. I'll warrant you bring it to better subjection yet.

[Exit.

L. Beau. These are fine flashes! [Water-Camlet comes from behind the arras.]—How now, master Camlet?

W.-Cam. I had one ear lent to youward, my lord,
And this o' th' other[992] side; both sounded sweetly:
I've whole recover’d my late losses, sir;
The one half paid, the other is forgiven.
L. Beau. Then your journey is stayed?
W.-Cam. Alas, my lord, that was a trick of age!
For I had left never a trick of youth
Like it, to succour me.
Enter Sweetball with Knavesby.

L. Beau. How now? what new object’s here?

Sweet. The next man we meet shall judge us.

Kna. Content, though he be but a common councilman.

L. Beau. The one’s a knave, I could know him at twelve score distance.

Frank. sen. And t’other’s a barber-surgeon, my lord.

Kna. I'll go no further; here is the honourable lord that I know will grant my request. My lord—

Sweet. Peace; I will make it plain to his lordship. My lord, a covenant by jus jurandum is between us; he is to suffocate my respiration by his capistrum, and I to make incision so far as mortification by his jugulars.

L. Beau. This is not altogether so plain neither, sir.

Sweet. I can speak no plainer, my lord, unless I wrong mine art.

Kna. I can, my lord, I know some part of the law: I am to take him in this place where I find him, and lead him from hence to the place of execution, and there to hang him till he dies; he in equal courtesy is to cut my throat with his razor, and there’s an end of both on’s.

Sweet. There is the end, my lord, but we want the beginning: I stand upon it to be strangled first, before I touch either his gula or cervix.

Kna. I am against it, for how shall I be sure to have my throat cut after he’s hanged?

L. Beau. Is this a condition betwixt you?

Kna. A firm covenant, signed and sealed by oath and handfast, and wants nothing but agreement.

L. Beau. A little pause: what might be the cause on either part?

Sweet. My passions are grown to putrefaction, and my griefs are gangrened; master Camlet has scarified me all over, besides the loss of my new brush.

Kna. I am kept out of mine own castle, my wife keeps the hold against me; your page, my lord, is her champion: I summoned a parle[993] at the window, was answered with defiance: they confess they have lain together, but what they have done else, I know not.

L. Beau. Thou canst have no wrong that deserves pity, thou art thyself so bad.

Kna. I thank your honour for that; let me have my throat cut then.

W.-Cam. Sir, I can give you a better remedy than his capistrum;—your ear a little.

Enter Mistress Knavesby, and Mistress George Cressingham in female attire.

Mis. Kna. I come with a bold innocence to answer
The best and worst that can accuse me here.
L. Beau. Your husband.
Mis. Kna. He’s the worst, I dare his worst.
Kna. Your page, your page.
Mis. Kna. We lay together in bed,
It is confess’d; you and your ends of law
Make[994] worser of’t, I did it for reward.
L. Beau. I'll hear no more of this.—Come, gentlemen,
will you walk?
Enter George Cressingham.
G. Cres. My lord, a little stay; you’ll see a sight
That neighbour amity will be much pleas’d with:
It is already come;[995] my father, sir.
Enter Sir Francis Cressingham in rich apparel.
L. Beau. There must be cause, certain, for this good change.—
Sir, you are bravely[996] met;
This is the best I ever saw you at.[997]
Sir F. Cres. My lord, I am amazement to myself:
I slept in poverty, and am awake
Into this wonder: how I came[998] thus brave,
My dreams did not so much as tell me of;
I am of my kind son’s new making up;
It exceeds the pension much that yesternight
Allow’d me, and my pockets centupled;
But I'm my son’s child, sir, he knows of me
More than I do myself.
G. Cres. Sir, you yet have
But earnest of your happiness, a pinnace
Fore-riding a goodly vessel, by this near anchor,
Bulk’d like a castle, and with jewels fraught—
Joys above jewels, sir—from deck to keel:
Make way for the receipt; empty your bosom
Of all griefs and troubles; leave not a sigh
To beat her back again; she is so stor’d,
Y'had need have room enough to take her lading.
Sir F. Cres. If one commodity be wanting now,
All this is nothing.
G. Cres. Tush, that must out too:
There must be no remembrance, not the thought
That ever youth in woman did abuse you,
That e’er your children had a stepmother,
That you sold lands to please your punishment,
That you were circumscrib’d and taken in,
Abridg’d the large extendure of your grounds,
And put into the pin-fold that belong’d to’t,
That your son did cheat for want of maintenance;
That he did beg you shall remember only,
For I have begg’d off all these troubles from you.
L. Beau. This was a good week’s labour.
G. Cres. Not an hour’s, my lord, but ’twas a happy one.—
See, sir, a new day shines on you.

Enter Lady Cressingham in civil[999] habit, Maria and Edward very gallant, and Saunder.

L. Cres. O sir,
Your son has robb’d me——
Sir F. Cres. Ha, that way I instructed!
G. Cres. Nay, hear her, sir.
L. Cres. Of my good purpose, sir;
He hath forc’d out of me what lay conceal’d,
Ripen’d my pity with his dews of duty:
Forgive me, sir, and but keep the number
Of every grief that I have pain’d you with,
I'll ten-fold pay with fresh obedience.
W.-Cam. O that my wife were here to learn this lesson!

L. Cres. Your state[1000] is not abated, what was yours is still your own; and take the cause withal of my harsh-seeming usage,—it was to reclaim faults in yourself, the swift consumption of many large revenues, gaming; that of not much less speed, burning up house and land, not casual, but cunning fire, which, though it keeps the chimney, and outward shews like hospitality, is only devourer on’t, consuming chemistry,—there I have made you a flat banquerout,[1001] all your stillatories and labouring minerals are demolished—that part of hell in your house is extinct;

Put out your desire with them, and then these feet
Shall level with my hands until you raise
My stoop’d humility to higher grace,
To warm these lips with love, and duty do
To every silver hair, each one shall be
A senator to my obedience.
Sir F. Cres. All this I knew[1002] before: whoe’er of you
That had but one ill thought of this good woman,
You owe a knee to her, and she is merciful
If she forgive you.
Re-enter George and Mistress Water-Camlet.

L. Beau. That shall be private penance, sir; we’ll all joy in public with you.

Geo. On the conditions I tell you, not else.

Mis. W.-Cam. Sweet George, dear George, any conditions.

W.-Cam. My wife!

Frank. sen. Peace; George is bringing her to conditions.

W.-Cam. Good ones, good George!

Geo. You shall never talk your voice above the key sol, sol, sol.

Mis. W.-Cam. Sol, sol, sol—ay, George.

Geo. Say, Welcome home, honest George, in that pitch.

Mis. W.-Cam. Welcome home, honest George!

Geo. Why, this is well now.

W.-Cam. That’s well indeed, George.

Geo. Rogue nor rascal must never come out of your mouth.

Mis. W.-Cam. They shall never come in, honest George.

Geo. Nor I will not have you call my master plain husband, that’s too coarse; but as your gentlewomen in the country use, and your parsons' wives in the town,—’tis comely, and shall be customed in the city,—call him master Camlet at every word.

Mis. W.-Cam. At every word, honest George.

Geo. Look you, there he is, salute him then.

Mis. W.-Cam. Welcome home, good master Camlet!

W.-Cam. Thanks, and a thousand,[1003] sweet—wife, I may say, honest George?

Geo. Yes, sir, or bird, or chuck, or heart’s-ease, or plain Rachel; but call her Rac no more, so long as she is quiet.

W.-Cam. God-a-mercy, sha’t have thy new suit a' Sunday, George.

Mis. W.-Cam. George shall have two new suits, master Camlet.

W.-Cam. God-a-mercy, i’faith, chuck.

Sweet. Master Camlet, you and I are friends, all even betwixt us?

W.-Cam. I do acquit thee, neighbour Sweetball.

Sweet. I will not be hanged then—Knavesby, do thy worst; nor I will not cut thy throat.

Kna. I must do’t myself.

Sweet. If thou comest to my shop, and usurpest my chair of maintenance, I will go as near as I can, but I will not do’t.

G. Cres. No, ’tis I must cut Knavesby’s throat, for slandering a modest gentlewoman and my wife, in shape of your page, my lord; in her own I durst not place her so near your lordship.

L. Beau. No more of that, sir; if your ends have acquired their own events, crown ’em with your own joy.

G. Cres. Down a' your knees, Knavesby, to your wife; she’s too honest for you.

Sweet. Down, down, before you are hanged, 'twill be too late afterwards, and long thou canst not ’scape it.