[Kisses her.

Over. Excellent!—A pox a’ your fortune! [Aside.

Pep. Saucy courting has brought all modest wooing clean out of fashion: you shall have few maids now-a-days got without rough handling, all the town’s so used to’t; and most commonly, too, they’re joined before they’re married, because they’ll be sure to be fast enough.

Over. Sir, since he strives t’ oppose himself against us,
Let’s so combine our friendships in our straits,
By all means graceful, to assist each other;
For, I protest, it shall as much glad me
To see your happiness, and his disgrace,
As if the wealth were mine, the love, the place.
Pep. And with the like faith I reward your friendship;
I’ll break the bawdy ranks of his discourse,
And scatter his libidinous whispers straight.—
Madam——
L. Gold. How cheer you, gentlemen?
Sir G. Lamb. Pox on ’em,
They wak’d me out of a fine sleep! three minutes
Had fasten’d all the treasure in mine arms. [Aside.
Pep. You took no note of this conceit, it seems, madam?
L. Gold. Twelve trenchers,[58] upon every one a month!
January, February, March, April——

Pep. Ay, and their posies under ’em.

L. Gold. Pray, what says May? she’s the spring lady.

Pep. [reads]

Now gallant May,[59] in her array,
Doth make the field pleasant and gay.

Over. [reads]

This month of June use clarified whey
Boil’d with cold herbs, and drink alway.

L. Gold. Drink’t all away, he should say.

Pep. ’Twere much better indeed, and wholesomer for his liver.

Sir G. Lamb. September’s a good one here, madam.

L. Gold. O, have you chose your month? let’s hear’t, sir Gilbert.

Sir G. Lamb. [reads]

Now may’st thou physics safely take,
And bleed, and bathe for thy health’s sake;
Eat figs, and grapes, and spicery,
For to refresh thy members dry.

L. Gold. Thus it is still, when a man’s simple meaning lights among wantons: how many honest words have suffered corruption since Chaucer’s days! a virgin would speak those words then that a very midwife would blush to hear now, if she have but so much blood left to make up an ounce of grace. And who is this ’long on, but such wags as you, that use your words like your wenches? you cannot let ’em pass honestly by you, but you must still have a flirt at ’em.

Pep. You have paid some of us home, madam.

Re-enter Weatherwise.

Wea. If conceit[60] will strike this stroke, have at[61] the widow’s plum-tree! I’ll put ’em down all for a banquet. [Aside.]—Widow and gentlemen, my friends and servants, I make you wait long here for a bachelor’s pittance.

L. Gold. O, sir, you’re pleased to be modest.

Wea. No, by my troth, widow, you shall find it otherwise.

[Music. The banquet[62] is brought in, six of Weatherwise’s tenants carrying the Twelve Signs, Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Virgo, Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius, Capricorn, Aquarius, and Pisces, made of banqueting-stuff.

L. Gold. What, the Twelve Signs!

Wea. These are the signs of my love, widow.

L. Gold. Worse meat would have serv’d us, sir; by my faith,
I’m sorry you should be at such charges, sir,
To feast us a whole month together here.
Wea. Widow, thou’rt welcome a whole month, and ever!
L. Gold. And what be those, sir, that brought in the banquet?
Wea. Those are my tenants; they stand for fasting-days.
Sir G. Lamb. Or the six weeks in Lent.
Wea. You’re i’ the right, sir Gilbert.—
Sweet widow, take your place at Aries here,
That’s the head sign; a widow is the head
Till she be married. [Lady Gold. sits.
L. Gold. What is she then?
Wea. The middle.
L. Gold. ’Tis happy she’s no worse.
Wea. Taurus—sir Gilbert Lambstone, that’s for you;
They say you’re a good town-bull.
Sir G. Lamb. O, spare your friends, sir! [Sits.
Wea. And Gemini for master Pepperton,
He had two boys at once by his last wife.
Pep. I hear the widow find no fault with that, sir. [Sits.
Wea. Cancer, the crab, for master Overdone;
For when a thing’s past fifty, it grows crooked.
[Overdone sits.

L. Gold. Now for yourself, sir.

Wea. Take no care for me, widow;[63] I can be any where: here’s Leo, heart and back; Virgo, guts and belly; I can go lower yet, and yet fare better, since Sagittarius fits me the thighs; I care not if I be about the thighs, I shall find meat enough. [Sits.

L. Gold. But, under pardon, sir,
Though you be lord o’ the feast and the conceit both,
Methinks it had been proper for the banquet
T’ have had the signs all fill’d, and no one idle.

Wea. I know it had; but who’s fault’s that, widow? you should have got you more suitors to have stopt the gaps.

L. Gold. Nay, sure, they should get us, and not we them:
There be your tenants, sir; we are not proud,
You may bid them sit down.

Wea. By the mass, it’s true too!—Then sit down, tenants, once with your hats on; but spare the meat, I charge you, as you hope for new leases: I must make my signs draw out a month yet, with a bit every morning to breakfast, and at full moon with a whole one; that’s restorative: sit round, sit round, and do not speak, sweet tenants; you may be bold enough, so you eat but little. [Tenants sit.]—How like you this now, widow?

L. Gold. It shews well, sir,
And like the good old hospitable fashion.

Pick. How! like a good old hospital? my mistress makes an arrant gull on him. [Aside.

L. Gold. But yet, methinks, there wants clothes for the feet.

Wea. That part’s uncovered yet: push,[64] no matter for the feet.

L. Gold. Yes,[65] if the feet catch cold, the head will feel it.

Wea. Why, then, you may draw up your legs, and lie rounder together.

Sir G. Lamb. Has answered you well, madam!

Wea. And[66] you draw up your legs too, widow, my tenant will feel you there, for he’s one of the calves.

L. Gold. Better and better, sir; your wit fattens as he feeds.

Pick. Sh’as took the calf from his tenant, and put it upon his ground now. [Aside.

Enter Servant.
Wea. How now, my lady’s man? what’s the news, sir?
Ser. Madam, there’s a young gentleman below
Has earnest business to your ladyship.
Wea. Another suitor, I hold my life, widow.
L. Gold. What is he, sir?
Ser. He seems a gentleman,
That’s the least of him, and yet more I know not.
L. Gold. Under the leave o’ the master of the house here,
I would he were admitted.
Wea. With all my heart, widow; I fear him not,
Come cut and long tail.[67] [Exit Servant.
Sir G. Lamb. I have the least fear
And the most firmness, nothing can shake me. [Aside.

Wea. If he be a gentleman, he’s welcome: there’s a sign does nothing, and that’s fit for a gentleman. The feet will be kept warm enough now for you, widow; for if he be a right gentleman, he has his stockings warmed, and he wears socks beside, partly for warmth, partly for cleanliness; and if he observe Fridays too, he comes excellent well, Pisces will be a fine fish-dinner for him.

L. Gold. Why, then, you mean, sir, he shall sit as he comes?

Wea. Ay; and he were a lord, he shall not sit above my tenants; I’ll not have two lords to them, so I may go look my rent in another man’s breeches; I was not brought up to be so unmannerly.

Enter Mistress Low-water, disguised as a gallant gentleman, and Low-water as a serving-man.

Mis. Low. I have picked out a bold time: much good do you, gentlemen.

Wea. You’re welcome, as I may say, sir.

Mis. Low. Pardon my rudeness, madam.

L. Gold. No such fault, sir;
You’re too severe to yourself, our judgment quits you:
Please you to do as we do.

Mis. Low. Thanks, good madam.

L. Gold. Make room, gentlemen.

Wea. Sit still, tenants; I’ll call in all your old leases, and rack you else.

Tenants. O, sweet landlord!

Mis. Low. Take my cloak, sirrah. [Giving cloak to Low-water.]—If any be disturb’d,
I’ll not sit, gentlemen: I see my place.

Wea. A proper woman turned gallant! If the widow refuse me, I care not if I be a suitor to him; I have known those who have been as mad, and given half their living for a male companion. [Aside.

Mis. Low. How? Pisces! is that mine? ’tis a conceited banquet. [Sits.

Wea. If you love any fish, pray, fall to, sir; if you had come sooner, you might have happened among some of the flesh-signs, but now they’re all taken up: Virgo had been a good dish for you, had not one of my tenants been somewhat busy with her.

Mis. Low. Pray, let him keep her, sir; give me meat fresh;
I’d rather have whole fish than broken flesh.
Sir G. Lamb. What say you to a bit of Taurus?
Mis. Low. No, I thank you, sir;
The bull’s too rank for me.
Sir G. Lamb. How, sir?
Mis. Low. Too rank, sir.
Sir G. Lamb. Fie, I shall strike you dumb, like all your fellows.
Mis. Low. What, with your heels or horns?
Sir G. Lamb. Perhaps with both.
Mis. Low. It must be at dead low water,
When I’m dead then.
Low. ’Tis a brave Kate, and nobly spoke of thee! [Aside.

Wea. This quarrel must be drowned.—Pickadill, my lady’s fool.

Pick. Your, your own man, sir.

Wea. Prithee, step in to one of the maids.

Pick. That I will, sir, and thank you too.

Wea. Nay, hark you, sir, call for my sun-cup presently, I’d forgot it.

Pick. How, your sun-cup?—Some cup, I warrant, that he stole out o’ the Sun-tavern. [Aside, and exit.

L. Gold. The more I look on him, the more I thirst for’t;
Methinks his beauty does so far transcend,
Turns the signs back, makes that the upper end.
[Aside.
Wea. How cheer you, widow?—Gentlemen, how cheer you?
Fair weather in all quarters!
The sun will peep anon, I’ve sent one for him;
In the mean time I’ll tell you a tale of these.
This Libra here, that keeps the scale so even,
Was i’ th’ old time an honest chandler’s widow,
And had one daughter which was callèd Virgo,
Which now my hungry tenant has deflower’d.
This Virgo, passing for a maid, was sued to
By Sagittarius there, a gallant shooter,
And Aries, his head rival; but her old
Crabb’d uncle, Cancer here, dwelling in Crooked Lane,
Still crost the marriage, minding to bestow her
Upon one Scorpio, a rich usurer;
The girl, loathing that match, fell into folly
With one Taurus, a gentleman, in Townbull[68] Street,
By whom she had two twins, those Gemini there,
Of which two brats she was brought a-bed in Leo,
At the Red Lion, about Tower Hill:
Being in this distress, one Capricorn,
An honest citizen, pitied her case, and married her
To Aquarius, an old water-bearer,
And Pisces was her living ever after;
At Standard[69] she sold fish, where he drew water.
All. It shall be yours, sir.
L. Gold. Meat and mirth too! you’re lavish;
Your purse and tongue have[70] been at cost to-day, sir.

Sir G. Lamb. You may challenge all comers at these twelve weapons, I warrant you.

Re-enter Pickadill carrying the sun-cup, without his doublet, and with a veil over his face.

Pick. Your sun-cup, call you it? ’tis a simple voyage that I have made here; I have left my doublet within, for fear I should sweat through my jerkin; and thrown a cypress[71] over my face, for fear of sun-burning.

Wea. How now? who’s this? why, sirrah!

Pick. Can you endure it, mistress?

L. Gold. Endure what, fool?

Wea. Fill the cup, coxcomb.

Pick. Nay, an’t be no hotter, I’ll go put on my doublet again. [Exit.

Wea. What a whorson sot is this!—Prithee, fill the cup, fellow, and give’t the widow.

Mis. Low. Sirrah, how stand you?
Bestow your service there upon her ladyship.

[Low-water fills the cup and presents it to Lady Goldenfleece.

L. Gold. What’s here? a sun?
Wea. It does betoken, madam,
A cheerful day to somebody.
L. Gold. It rises
Full in the face of yon[72] fair sign, and yet
By course he is the last must feel the heat. [Aside.
Here, gentlemen, to you all,
For you know the sun must go through the Twelve Signs.
[Drinks.
Wea. Most wittily, widow; you jump with my conceit right,
There’s not a hair between us.
L. Gold. Give it sir Gilbert.
Sir G. Lamb. I am the next through whom the golden flame
Shines, when ’tis spent in thy celestial ram;
The poor feet there must wait and cool awhile.
[Drinks.
Mis. Low. We have our time, sir; joy and we shall meet;
I’ve known the proud neck lie between the feet.
Wea. So, round it goes.
[The others drink in order.
Re-enter Pickadill.

Pick. I like this drinking world well.

Wea. So, fill’t him again.

Pep. Fill’t me! why, I drunk last, sir.

Wea. I know you did; but Gemini must drink twice,
Unless you mean that one of them shall be chok’d.
L. Gold. Fly from my heart all variable thoughts!
She that’s entic’d by every pleasing object,
Shall find small pleasure and as little rest:
This knave hath lov’d me long, he’s best and worthiest;
I cannot but in honour see him requited. [Aside.
Sir Gilbert Lambstone——
Mis. Low. How? pardon me, sweet lady,
That with a bold tongue I strike by your words;
Sir Gilbert Lambstone!
Sir G. Lamb. Yes, sir, that’s my name.
Mis. Low. There should be a rank villain of that name;
Came you out of that house?
Sir G. Lamb. How, sir slave!
Mis. Low. Fall to your bull, leave roaring till anon.

Wea. Yet again! and[73] you love me, gentlemen, let’s have no roaring here. If I had thought that, I’d have sent my bull to the bear-garden.

Pep. Why, so you should have wanted one of your signs.

Wea. But I may chance want two now, and[73] they fall together by the ears.

L. Gold. What’s the strange fire that works in these two creatures?
Cold signs both, yet more hot than all their fellows.

Wea. Ho, Sol in Pisces! the sun’s in New Fish Street; here’s an end of this course.

Pick. Madam, I am bold to remember your worship for a year’s wages and a livery cloak.

L. Gold. How, will you shame me? had you not both last week, fool?

Pick. Ay, but there’s another year past since that.

L. Gold. Would all your wit could make that good, sir!

Pick. I am sure the sun has run through all the Twelve Signs since, and that’s a year; these[74] gentlemen can witness.

Wea. The fool will live, madam.

Pick. Ay, as long as your eyes are open, I warrant him.

Mis. Low. Sirrah.

Low. Does your worship call?

Mis. Low. Commend my love and service to the widow,
Desire her ladyship to taste that morsel.

[Giving letter to Low-water, who carries it to Lady Goldenfleece.

Low. This is the bit I watch’d for all this while,
But it comes duly. [Aside.
Sir G. Lamb. And wherein has this name of mine offended,
That you’re so liberal of your infamous titles,
I but a stranger to thee? it must be known, sir,
Ere we two part.

Mis. Low. Marry, and reason good, sir.

L. Gold. O, strike me cold!—This should be your hand, sir Gilbert?

Sir G. Lamb. Why, make you question of that, madam? ’tis one of the letters I sent you.

L. Gold. Much good do you, gentlemen. [Rising.

Pep.
Over. bracket How now? what’s the matter?

[All rise.

Wea. Look to the widow, she paints white.—Some aqua cœlestis for my lady! run, villain.

Pick. Aqua solister? can nobody help her case but a lawyer, and so many suitors here?

L. Gold. O treachery unmatch’d, unheard of!
Sir G. Lamb. How do you, madam?
L. Gold. O impudence as foul! does my disease
Ask how I do? can it torment my heart,
And look with a fresh colour in my face?
Sir G. Lamb. What’s this, what’s this?
Wea. I am sorry for this qualm, widow.
L. Gold. He that would know a villain when he meets him,
Let him ne’er go to a conjuror; here’s a glass
Will shew him without money, and far truer.—
Preserver of my state, pray, tell me, sir,
That I may pay you all my thanks together,
What blest hap brought that letter to your hand,
From me so fast lock’d in mine enemy’s power.
Mis. Low. I will resolve[75] you, madam. I’ve a kinsman
Somewhat infected with that wanton pity
Which men bestow on the distress of women,
Especially if they be fair and poor;
With such hot charity, which indeed is lust,
He sought t’ entice, as his repentance told me,
Her whom you call your enemy, the wife
To a poor gentleman, one Low-water——
L. Gold. Right, right, the same.
Low. Had it been right, ’t had now been. [Aside.
Mis. Low. And, according to the common rate of sinners,
Offer’d large maintenance, which with her seem’d nothing;
For if she would consent, she told him roundly,
There was a knight had bid more at one minute
Than all his wealth could compass; and withal,
Pluck’d out that letter, as it were in scorn,
Which by good fortune he put up in jest,
With promise that the writ should be returnable
The next hour of his meeting. But, sweet madam,
Out of my love and zeal, I did so practise
The part upon him of an urgent wooer,
That neither he nor that return’d more to her.
Sir G. Lamb. Plague a’ that kinsman! Aside.
Wea. Here’s a gallant rascal!
L. Gold. Sir, you’ve appear’d so noble in this action,
So full of worth and goodness, that my thanks
Will rather shame the bounty of my mind
Than do it honour.—O, thou treacherous villain!
Does thy faith bear such fruit?
Are these the blossoms of a hundred oaths
Shot from thy bosom? was thy love so spiteful,
It could not be content to mock my heart,
Which is in love a misery too much,
But must extend so far to the quick ruin
Of what was painfully got, carefully left me;
And, ’mongst a world of yielding needy women,
Choose no one to make merry with my sorrows,
And spend my wealth on in adulterous surfeits,
But my most mortal enemy! O, despiteful!
Is this thy practice? follow it, ’twill advance thee;
Go, beguile on. Have I so happily found
What many a widow has with sorrow tasted,
Even when my lip touch’d the contracting cup,
Even then to see the spider? ’twas miraculous!
Crawl with thy poisons hence; and for thy sake
I’ll never covet titles and more riches,
To fall into a gulf of hate and laughter:
I’ll marry love hereafter, I’ve enough;
And wanting that, I’ve nothing. There’s thy way.
Over. Do you hear, sir? you must walk.
Pep. Heart, thrust him down stairs!
Wea. Out of my house, you treacherous, lecherous rascal!
Sir G. Lamb. All curses scatter you!

Wea. Life, do you thunder here! [Exit Sir G. Lambstone.] If you had stayed a little longer, I’d have ript out some of my Bull out of your belly again.

Pep. ’Twas a most noble discovery; we must love you for ever for’t.

L. Gold. Sir, for your banquet and your mirth we thank you;—
You, gentlemen, for your kind company;—
But you, for all my merry days to come,
Or this had been the last else.
Mis. Low. Love and fortune
Had more care of your safety, peace, and state, madam.
Wea. Now will I thrust in for’t. [Aside.
Pep. I’m for myself now. [Aside.
Over. What’s fifty years? ’tis man’s best time and season;
Now the knight’s gone, the widow will hear reason.
[Aside.
Low. Now, now, the suitors flatter, hold on, Kate;
The hen may pick the meat while the cocks prate.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A street.
Enter Sandfield, Philip Twilight, and Savourwit.
Phil. If thou talk’st longer, I shall turn to marble,
And death will stop my hearing.
Sand. Horrible fortune!
Sav. Nay, sir, our building is so far defac’d,
There is no stuff left to raise up a hope.
Phil. O, with more patience could my flesh endure
A score of wounds, and all their several searchings,
Than this that thou hast told me!
Sav. Would that Flemish ram
Had ne’er come near our house! there’s no going home
As long as he has a nest there, and his young one,
A little Flanders egg new fledg’d: they gape
For pork, and I shall be made meat for ’em.
Phil. ’Tis not the bare news of my mother’s life—
May she live long and happy!—that afflicts me
With half the violence that the latter draws;
Though in that news I have my share of grief,
As I had share of sin and a foul neglect;
It is my love’s betraying, that’s the sting
That strikes through flesh and spirit; and sense nor wit
From thee, in whom I ne’er saw ebb till now,
Nor comforts from a faithful friend can ease me;
I’ll try the goodness of a third companion,
What he’ll do for me. [Drawing his sword.

Sand. Hold! why, friend——

Sav. Why, master, is this all your kindness, sir? offer to steal into another country, and ne’er take your leave on’s? troth, I take it unkindly at your hands, sir; but I’ll put it up for once. [Sheathing Philip’s sword.] Faith, there was no conscience in this, sir; leave me here to endure all weathers, whilst you make your soul dance like a juggler’s egg upon the point of a rapier! By my troth, sir, you’re to blame in’t; you might have given us an inkling of your journey; perhaps others would as fain have gone as you.

Phil. Burns this clay-lamp of miserable life,
When joy, the oil that feeds it, is dried up?
Enter Lady Twilight, Beveril, and Servants.
L. Twi. He has remov’d his house.
Bev. So it seems, madam.
L. Twi. I’ll ask that gentleman.—Pray, can you tell me, sir,
Which is sir Oliver Twilight’s?
Phil. Few can better, gentlewoman;
It is the next fair house your eye can fix on.
L. Twi. I thank you, sir.—Go on. [Exeunt Servants.]—He had a son
About some ten years since.
Phil. That son still lives.
L. Twi. I pray, how does he, sir?
Phil. Faith, much about my health,—that’s never worse.— [Aside.
If you have any business to him, gentlewoman,
I can cut short your journey to the house;
I’m all that ever was of the same kind.
L. Twi. [embracing him] O, my sweet son! never fell fresher joy
Upon the heart of mother!—This is he, sir.
Bev. My seven-years’ travel has e’en worn him out
Of my remembrance.
Sav. O, this gear’s worse and worse! [Aside.
Phil. I am so wonder-struck at your blest presence,
That, through amaz’d joy, I neglect my duty.