Mis. Low. ’Life, had he not his answer? what strange impudence
Governs in man when lust is lord of him!
Thinks he me mad? ’cause I’ve no monies on earth,
That I’ll go forfeit my estate in heaven,
And live eternal beggar? he shall pardon me,
That’s my soul’s jointure—I’ll starve ere I sell that.
O, is he gone, and left the letter here?
Yet I will read it, more to hate the writer. [Reads.
Mistress Low-water,—If you desire to understand
your own comfort, hear me out ere you refuse me.
I’m in the way now to double the yearly means that
first I offered you; and to stir you more to me, I’ll
empty your enemy’s bags to maintain you; for the
rich widow, the lady Goldenfleece, to whom I have been
a longer suitor than you an adversary,[27] hath given
me so much encouragement lately, insomuch that I am
perfectly assured the next meeting strikes the bargain.
The happiness that follows this ’twere idle to inform
you of; only consent to my desires, and the widow’s notch
shall lie open to you. This much to your heart;
I know you’re wise. Farewell. Thy friend to his
and another’s, Gilbert Lambstone.
In this poor brief
[28] what volumes has he thrust
Of treacherous perjury and adulterous lust!
So foul a monster does this wrong appear,
That I give pity to mine enemy here.
What a most fearful love reigns in some hearts,
That dare oppose all judgment to get means,
And wed rich widows only to keep queans!
What a strange path he takes to my affection,
And thinks’t the nearest way! ’twill never be;
Goes through mine enemy’s ground to come to me.
This letter is most welcome; I repent now
That my last anger threw thee at my feet,
My bosom shall receive thee.
[Putting letter in her bosom.
Enter Sir Gilbert Lambstone.
Sir G. Lamb. ’Tis good policy too
To keep one that so mortally hates the widow;
She’ll have more care to keep it close herself:
And look, what wind her revenge goes withal,
The self-same gale whisks up the sails of love!
I shall lose
[29] much good sport by that. [
Aside.]—Now, my sweet mistress!
Mis. Low. Sir Gilbert! you change suits
[30] oft, you were here
In black but lately.
Sir G. Lamb. My mind never shifts though.
Mis. Low. A foul mind the whilst:
But sure, sir, this is but a dissembling glass
[31]You sent before you; ’tis not possible
Your heart should follow your hand.
Sir G. Lamb. Then may both perish!
Mis. Low. Do not wish that so soon, sir: can you make
A three-months’ love to a rich widow’s bed,
And lay her pillow under a quean’s head?
I know you can’t, howe’er you may dissemble’t;
You’ve a heart brought up better.
Sir G. Lamb. Faith, you wrong me in’t;
You shall not find, it so; I do protest to thee,
I will be lord of all my promises,
And ere ’t be long, thou shalt but turn a key,
And find ’em in thy coffer; for my love
In matching with the widow is but policy
To strengthen my estate, and make me able
To set off all thy kisses with rewards;
That the worst weather our delights behold,
It may hail pearl, and shower the widow’s gold.
Mis. Low. You talk of a brave
[32] world, sir.
Sir G. Lamb. ’Twill seem better
When golden happiness breaks forth itself
Out of the vast part of the widow’s chamber.
Mis. Low. And here it sets.
Sir G. Lamb. Here shall the downfal be;
Her wealth shall rise from her, and set in thee.
Mis. Low. You men have th’ art to overcome poor women;
Pray give my thoughts the freedom of one day,
And all the rest take you.
Sir G. Lamb. I straight obey.—
This bird’s my own! [Aside, and exit.
Mis. Low. There is no happiness but has her season,
Herein
[33] the brightness of her virtue shines:
The husk falls off in time, that long shut
[34] up
The fruit in a dark prison; so sweeps by
The cloud of miseries from wretches’ eyes,
That yet, though faln, at length they see to rise;
The secret powers work wondrously and duly.
Low. Why, how now, Kate?
Mis. Low. O, are you come, sir? husband,
Wake, wake, and let not patience keep thee poor,
Rouse up thy spirit from this falling slumber!
Make thy distress seem but a weeping dream,
And this the opening morning of thy comforts;
Wipe the salt dew off from thy careful eyes,
And drink a draught of gladness next thy heart,
T’ expel the infection of all poisonous sorrows!
Low. You turn me past my senses!
Mis. Low. Will you but second
The purpose I intend, I’ll be first forward;
I crave no more of thee but a following spirit,
Will you but grant me that.
Low. Why, what’s the business
That should transport thee thus?
Mis. Low. Hope of much good,
No fear of the least ill; take that to comfort thee.
Low. Yea?
Mis. Low. Sleep not on’t, this is no slumbering business;
’Tis like the sweating sickness, I must keep
Your eyes still wake, you’re gone if once you sleep.
Low. I will not rest then till thou hast thy wishes.
Mis. Low. Peruse this love-paper as you go. [Giving letter.
Low. A letter? [Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A room in Sir Oliver Twilight’s house.
Enter Sir Oliver Twilight, Sandfield, Philip Twilight, and Savourwit.
Sir O. Twi. Good master Sandfield, for the great affection
You bear toward my girl, I am well pleas’d
You should enjoy her beauty; heaven forbid, sir,
That I should cast away a proper gentleman,
So far in love, with a sour mood or so.
No, no;
I’ll not die guilty of a lover’s neck-cracking.
Marry, as for portion, there I leave you, sir,
To the mercy of your destiny again;
I’ll have no hand in that.
Sand. Faith, something, sir,
Be’t but t’ express your love.
Sir O. Twi. I’ve no desire, sir,
T’ express my love that way, and so rest satisfied;
I pray take heed in urging that too much
You draw not my love from me.
Sand. Fates foresee, sir.
Sir O. Twi. Faith, then you may go, seek out a high steeple,
Or a deep water—there’s no saving of you.
Sav. How naturally he plays upon himself! [Aside.
Sir O. Twi. Marry, if a wedding-dinner, as I told you,
And three years’ board, well lodgèd in mine house,
And eating, drinking, and a sleeping portion,
May give you satisfaction, I’m your man, sir;
Seek out no other.
Sand. I’m content to embrace it, sir,
Rather than hazard languishment or ruin.
Sir O. Twi. I love thee for thy wisdom; such a son-in-law
Will cheer a father’s heart: welcome, sweet master Sandfield.
Whither away, boys? Philip!
[35]Phil. To visit my love, sir,
Old master Sunset’s daughter.
Sir O. Twi. That’s my Philip!—
Ply’t hard, my good boys both, put ’em to’t finely;
One day, one dinner, and one house shall join you.
Sand.
Phil. bracket That’s our desire, sir.
[Exeunt Sandfield and Philip.
Sir O. Twi. Pist!
[36] come hither, Savourwit;
Observe my son, and bring me word, sweet boy,
Whether has a speeding wit or no in wooing.
Sav. That will I, sir.—That your own eyes might tell ye
[37]
I think it speedy; your girl has a round belly. [Exit.
Sir O. Twi. How soon the comfortable shine of joy
Breaks through a cloud of grief!
The tears that I let fall for my dead wife
Are dried up with the beams of my girl’s fortunes:
Her life, her death, and her ten years’ distress,
Are even forgot with me; the love and care
That I ought
[38] her, her daughter sh’ owes
[39] it all;
It can but be bestow’d, and there ’tis well.
How now? what news?
Ser. There’s a Dutch merchant, sir, that’s now come over,
Desires some conference with you.
Sir O. Twi. How! a Dutch merchant?
Pray, send him in to me. [
Exit Servant.]—What news with him, trow?
[40]
Enter Dutch Merchant, with a little Dutch Boy in great slops.[41]
D. Mer. Sir Oliver Twilight?
Sir O. Twi. That’s my name indeed, sir;
I pray, be cover’d,
[42] sir; you’re very welcome.
D. Mer. This is my business, sir; I took into my charge
A few words to deliver to yourself
From a dear friend of yours, that wonders strangely
At your unkind neglect.
Sir O. Twi. Indeed! what might
He be, sir?
D. Mer. Nay, you’re i’ the wrong gender now;
’Tis that distressèd lady, your good wife, sir.
Sir O. Twi. What say you, sir? my wife!
D. Mer. Yes, sir, your wife:
This strangeness now of yours seems more to harden
Th’ uncharitable neglect she tax’d you for.
Sir O. Twi. Pray, give me leave, sir; is my wife alive?
D. Mer. Came any news to you, sir, to the contrary?
Sir O. Twi. Yes, by my faith, did there.
D. Mer. Pray, how long since, sir?
Sir O. Twi. ’Tis now some ten weeks.
D. Mer. Faith, within this month, sir,
I saw her talk and eat; and those, in our calendar,
Are signs of life and health.
Sir O. Twi. Mass, so they are in ours!
D. Mer. And these were the last words her passion
[43] threw me,—
No grief, quoth she, sits to my heart so close
As his unkindness, and my daughter’s loss.
Sir O. Twi. You make me weep and wonder; for I swear
I sent her ransom, and that daughter’s here.
D. Mer. Here! that will come well to lighten her of one grief;
I long to see her, for the piteous moan
Her mother made for her.
Sir O. Twi. That shall you, sir.—
Within there!
Ser. Sir?
Sir O. Twi. Call down my daughter.
Ser. Yes, sir. [Exit.
Sir O. Twi. Here is strange budgelling:
[44] I tell you, sir,
Those that I put in trust were near me too—
A man would think they should not juggle with me—
My own son and my servant; no worse people, sir.
D. Mer. And yet ofttimes, sir, what worse knave to a man
Than he that eats his meat?
Sir O. Twi. Troth, you say true, sir:
I sent ’em simply, and that news they brought,
My wife had left the world; and, with that son
[45]I sent to her, this brought his sister home:
Look you, sir, this is she.
D. Mer. If my eye sin not, sir,
Or misty error falsify the glass,
I saw that face at Antwerp in an inn,
When I set forth first to fetch home this boy.
Sir O. Twi. How? in an inn?
Grace. O, I’m betray’d, I fear! [Aside.
D. Mer. How do you, young mistress?
Grace. Your eyes wrong your tongue, sir,
And make
[46] you sin in both; I am not she.
D. Mer. No? then I ne’er saw face twice.—Sir Oliver Twilight,
I tell you my free thoughts, I fear you’re blinded;
I do not like this story; I doubt much
The sister is as false as the dead mother.
Sir O. Twi. Yea, say you so, sir? I see nothing lets
[47] me
But to doubt so too then.—
So, to your chamber; we have done with you.
Grace. I would be glad you had: here’s a strange storm!—[Aside.
Sift it out well, sir; till anon I leave you, sir. [Exit.
D. Mer. Business commands me hence; but, as a pledge
Of my return, I’ll leave my little son with you,
Who yet takes little pleasure in this country,
’Cause he can speak no English, all Dutch he.
Sir O. Twi. A fine boy; he is welcome, sir, to me.
D. Mer. Where’s your leg and your thanks to
the gentleman?
D. Boy. War es you neighgen an you thonkes you,
Ick donck you, ver ew edermon vrendly kite.
Sir O. Twi. What says he, sir?
D. Mer. He thanks you for your kindness.
Sir O. Twi. Pretty knave!
D. Mer. Had not some business held me by the way,
This news had come to your ear ten days ago.
Sir O. Twi. It comes too soon now, methinks; I’m your debtor.
D. Mer. But I could wish it, sir, for better ware.
Sir O. Twi. We must not be our own choosers in our fortunes.
[Exit Dutch Merchant.
Here’s a cold pie to breakfast! wife alive,
The daughter doubtful, and the money spent!
How am I juggled withal!
Sav. It hits, i’faith, sir;
The work goes even.
Sir O. Twi. O, come, come, come!
Are you come, sir?
Sav. Life, what’s the matter now!
Sir O. Twi. There’s a new reckoning come in since.
Sav. Pox on’t,
I thought all had been paid; I can’t abide
These after-reckonings. [Aside.
Sir O. Twi. I pray, come near, sir, let’s be acquainted with you;
You’re bold enough abroad with my purse, sir.
Sav. No more than beseems manners and good use, sir.
Sir O. Twi. Did not you bring me word, some ten weeks since,
My wife was dead?
Sav. Yes, true, sir, very true, sir.
Sir O. Twi. Pray, stay, and take my horse along with you,—
And with the ransom that I sent for her,
That you redeem’d my daughter?
Sav. Right as can be, sir;
I ne’er found your worship in a false tale yet.
Sir O. Twi. I thank you for your good word, sir; but I’m like
To find your worship now in two at once.
Sav. I should be sorry to hear that.
Sir O. Twi. I believe you, sir:
Within this month my wife was sure alive,
There’s six weeks bated of your ten weeks’ lie;
As has been credibly reported to me
By a Dutch merchant, father to that boy,
But now come over, and the words scarce cold.
Sav. O strange!— [Aside.
’Tis a most rank untruth; where is he, sir?
Sir O. Twi. He will not be long absent.
Sav. All’s confounded!— [Aside.
If he were here, I’d
[48] tell him to his face, sir,
He wears a double tongue, that’s Dutch and English.
Will the boy say’t?
Sir O. Twi. ’Las, he can speak no English.
Sav. All the better; I’ll gabble something to
him. [Aside.]—Hoyste kaloiste, kalooskin ee vou, dar
sune, alla gaskin?
D. Boy. Ick wet neat watt hey zackt; Ick unverston
ewe neat.
Sav. Why, la, I thought as much!
Sir O. Twi. What says the boy?
Sav. He says his father is troubled with an imperfection
at one time of the moon, and talks like a
madman.
Sir O. Twi. What, does the boy say so?
Sav. I knew there was somewhat in’t:
Your wife alive! will you believe all tales, sir?
Sir O. Twi. Nay, more, sir; he told me he saw this wench,
Which you brought home, at Antwerp in an inn;
Tell[s] me, I’m plainly cozen’d of all hands,
’Tis not my daughter neither.
Sav. All’s broke out!— [Aside.
How! not your daughter, sir? I must to’t again.—Quisquinikin
sadlamare, alla pisse kickin sows clows,
hoff tofte le cumber shaw, bouns bus boxsceeno.
D. Boy. Ick an sawth no int hein clappon de heeke,
I dinke ute zein zennon.
Sav. O, zein zennon! Ah ha! I thought how
’twould prove i’ th’ end:—the boy says they never
came near Antwerp, a quite contrary way, round
about by Parma.
Sir O. Twi. What’s the same zein zennon?
Sav. That is, he saw no such wench in an inn:
’tis well I came in such happy time, to get it out of
the boy before his father returned again: pray, be
wary, sir, the world’s subtle; come and pretend a
charitable business in policy, and work out a piece
of money on you.
Sir O. Twi. Mass, art advised of that?
Sav. The age is cunning, sir; beside, a Dutchman
will live upon any ground, and work butter
out of a thistle.
Sir O. Twi. Troth, thou say’st true in that; they’re the best thrivers
In turnips, hartichalks, and cabbishes;
[49]Our English are not like them.
Sav. O fie, no, sir!
Sir O. Twi. Ask him from whence they came when they came hither.
Sav. That I will, sir.—Culluaron lagooso, lageen,
lagan, rufft, punkatee?
D. Boy. Nimd aweigh de cack.
Sav. What, what? I cannot blame him then.
Sir O. Twi. What says he to thee?
Sav. The poor boy blushes for him: he tells me
his father came from making merry with certain of
his countrymen, and he’s a little steeped in English
beer; there’s no heed to be taken of his tongue now.
Sir O. Twi. Hoyday! how com’st thou by all this? I heard him
Speak but three words to thee.
Sav. O sir, the Dutch is a very wide language;
you shall have ten English words even for one; as,
for example, gullder-goose—there’s a word for you,
master!
Sir O. Twi. Why, what’s that same gullder-goose?
Sav. How do you and all your generation?
Sir O. Twi. Why, ’tis impossible! how prove you that, sir?
Sav. ’Tis thus distinguished, sir: gull, how do
you; der, and; goose, your generation.
Sir O. Twi. ’Tis a most saucy language; how cam’st thou by’t?
Sav. I was brought up to London in an eel-ship,
There was the place I caught it first by the tail.—
I shall be tript anon; pox, would I were gone!— [Aside.
I’ll go seek out your son, sir; you shall hear
What thunder he’ll bring with him.
Sir O. Twi. Do, do, Savourwit;
I’ll have you all face to face.
Sav. Cuds me, what else, sir?—
And
[50] you take me so near the net again,
I’ll give you leave to squat
[51] me; I’ve scap’d fairly:
We’re undone in Dutch; all our three months’ roguery
Is now come over in a butter-firkin.
[Aside, and exit.
Sir O. Twi. Never was man so tost between two tales!
I know not which to take, nor which to trust;
The boy here is the likeliest to tell truth,
Because the world’s corruption is not yet
At full years in him; sure he cannot know
What deceit means, ’tis English yet to him:
And when I think again, why should the father
Dissemble for no profit? he gets none,
Whate’er he hopes for, and I think he hopes not.
The man’s in a good case, being old and weary,
He dares not lean his arm on his son’s shoulder,
For fear he lie i’ the dirt, but must be rather
Beholding
[52] to a stranger for his prop.
[Aside.
D. Mer. I make bold once again, sir, for a boy here.
Sir O. Twi. O sir, you’re welcome! pray, resolve
[53] me one thing, sir;
Did you within this month, with your own eyes,
See my wife living?
D. Mer. I ne’er borrow’d any:
Why should you move that question, sir? dissembling
Is no part of my living.
Sir O. Twi. I have reason
To urge it so far, sir—pray, be not angry though—
Because my man, was here since your departure,
Withstands all stiffly; and to make it clearer,
Question’d your boy in Dutch, who, as he told me,
Return’d this answer first to him,—that you
Had imperfection at one time o’ the moon,
Which made you talk so strangely.
D. Mer. How! how’s this?—Zeicke yongon, ick
ben ick quelt medien dullek heght, ee untoit van the
mon, an koot uram’d.
D. Boy. Wee ek heigh lieght in ze bokkas, dee’t site.
D. Mer. Why, la, you, sir, here’s no such thing! he says
He lies in’s throat that says it.
Sir O. Twi. Then the rogue lies in’s throat, for he told me so;
And that the boy should answer at next question,
That you ne’er saw this wench, nor came near Antwerp.
D. Mer. Ten thousand devils!—Zeicke hee ewe
ek kneeght, yongon, dat wee neeky by Antwarpon ne
don cammen no seene de doughter dor.
D. Boy. Ick hub ham hean sulka dongon he zaut,
hei es an skallom an rubbout.
D. Mer. He says he told him no such matter;
he’s a knave and a rascal.
Sir O. Twi. Why, how am I abus’d! Pray, tell me one thing,
What’s gullder-goose in Dutch?
D. Mer. How! gullder-goose? there’s no
Such thing in Dutch; it may be an ass in English.
Sir O. Twi. Hoyday! then am I that ass in plain English;
I’m grossly cozen’d, most inconsiderately!
Pray, let my house receive you for one night,
That I may quit
[54] these rascals, I beseech you, sir.
D. Mer. If that may stead you, sir, I’ll not refuse you.
Sir O. Twi. A thousand thanks, and welcome.—
On whom can fortune more spit out her foam,
Work’d on abroad, and play’d upon at home!
[Exeunt.
ACT II. SCENE I.
A large room in Weatherwise’s house.
Enter Weatherwise while Servants are setting out a table, and Pickadill looking on.
Wea. So, set the table ready; the widow’s i’ the
next room, looking upon my clock with the days
and the months and the change of the moon; I’ll
fetch her in presently.
[Exit.
Pick. She’s not so mad to be fetched in with the
moon, I warrant you: a man must go roundlier to
work with a widow, than to woo her with the hand
of a dial, or stir up her blood with the striking part
of a clock; I should ne’er stand to shew her such
things in chamber.
[Exeunt Servants.
Re-enter Weatherwise handing in Lady Goldenfleece, Sir Gilbert Lambstone, Pepperton, and Overdone.
Wea. Welcome, sweet widow, to a bachelor’s
house here! a single man I, but for two or three
maids that I keep.
L. Gold. Why, are you double with them,
then?
Wea. An exceeding good mourning-wit! women
are wiser than ever they were, since they wore
doublets. You must think, sweet widow, if a man
keep maids, they’re under his subjection.
L. Gold. That’s most true, sir.
Wea. They have no reason to have a lock but
the master must have a key to’t.
L. Gold. To him, sir Gilbert! he fights with me
at a wrong weapon now.
Wea. Nay, and
[55] sir Gilbert strike, my weapon falls,
I fear no thrust but his: here are more shooters,
But they have shot two arrows without heads,
They cannot stick i’ the butt yet: hold out, knight,
And I’ll cleave the black pin in the midst o’ the white.
[Aside, and exit.
L. Gold. Nay, and he led me into a closet, sir,
where he shewed me diet-drinks for several months;
as scurvy-grass for April, clarified whey for June,
and the like.
Sir G. Lamb. O, madam, he is a most necessary
property,[56] an’t be but to save our credit; ten pound
in a banquet.
L. Gold. Go, you’re a wag, sir Gilbert.
Sir G. Lamb. How many there be in the world
of his fortunes, that prick their own calves with
briars, to make an easy passage for others; or,
like a toiling usurer, sets his son a-horseback in
cloth-of-gold breeches, while he himself goes to the
devil a-foot in a pair of old strossers![57]
But shall I give a more familiar sign?
His are the sweetmeats, but the kisses mine.