[Aside.
L. Twi. He’s now to deal with one, sir, that knows truth;
He must be sham’d or quit, there’s no mean saves him.
Sir O. Twi. I hear her come.
L. Twi. [aside to Phil.] You see how hard ’tis now
To redeem good opinion, being once gone;
Be careful then, and keep it when ’tis won.
Now see me take a poison with great joy,
Which, but for thy sake, I should swoon to touch.
Enter Grace.
Grace. What new affliction? am I set to sale
For any one that bids most shame for me? [Aside.
Sir O. Twi. Look you? do you see what stuff they’ve brought me home here?
L. Twi. O bless her, eternal powers! my life, my comforts,
My nine years’ grief, but everlasting joy now!
Thrice welcome to my heart! [embracing Grace] ’tis she indeed.
Sir O. Twi. What, is it?
Phil. I’m unfit to carry a ransom!
Sav. [aside to Grace, who kneels] Down on your knees, to save your belly harmless;
Ask blessing, though you never mean to use it,
But give’t away presently to a beggar-wench.
Phil. My faith is blemish’d, I’m no man of trust, sir!
L. Twi. [raising Grace] Rise with a mother’s blessing!
Sav. All this while
Sh’as rise with a son’s. [Aside.
Sir O. Twi. But soft ye, soft ye, wife!
I pray, take heed you place your blessing right now;
This honest Dutchman here told me he saw her
At Antwerp in an inn.
L. Twi. True, she was so, sir.
D. Mer. Sir, ’tis my quality, what I speak once,
I affirm ever; in that inn I saw her;
That lets[134] her not to be your daughter now.
Sir O. Twi. O sir, is’t come to that!
Sun. Here’s joys ne’er dreamt on!
Sir O. Twi. O master Sunset, I am at the rising
Of my refulgent happiness!—Now, son Sandfield,
Once more and ever!
Sand. I am proud on’t, sir.
Sir O. Twi. Pardon me, boy; I’ve wrong’d thy faith too much.
Sav. Now may I leave my shell, and peep my head forth. [Aside, and advancing.
Sir O. Twi. Where is this Savourwit, that honest whorson,
That I may take my curse from his knave’s shoulders?
Sav. O, sir, I feel you at my very blade here!
Your curse is ten stone weight, and a pound over.
Sir O. Twi. Come, thou’rt a witty varlet and a trusty.
Sav. You shall still find me a poor, faithful fellow, sir,
If you’ve another ransom to send over,
Or daughter to find out.
Sir O. Twi. I’ll do thee right, boy;
I ne’er yet knew thee but speak honest English;
Marry, in Dutch I found thee a knave lately.
Sav. That was to hold you but in play a little,
Till farther truths came over, and I strong;
You shall ne’er find me a knave in mine own tongue,
I’ve more grace in me; I go out of England still
When I take such courses; that shews modesty, sir.
Sir O. Twi. Any thing full of wit and void of harm,
I give thee pardon for; so was that now.
Sav. Faith, now I’m quit,[135] I find myself the nimbler
To serve you so again, and my will’s good;
Like one that lately shook off his old irons,
And cuts a purse at bench to deserve new ones.
Sir O. Twi. Since it holds all the way so fortunate still,
And strikes so even with my first belief,
This is the gentleman, wife, young master Sandfield here,
A man of worthy parts, beside his lands,
Whom I make choice of for my daughter’s bed.
Sav. But he’ll make choice there of another bedfellow.
[Aside.
L. Twi. I wish ’em both the happiness of love, sir.
Sir O. Twi. ’Twas spoke like a good lady! And[136] your memory
Can reach it, wife—but ’tis so long ago too—
Old master Sunset he had a young daughter
When you unluckily left England so,
And much about the age of our girl there,
For both were nurs’d together.
L. Twi. ’Tis so fresh
In my remembrance, now you’ve waken’d it,
As if twelve years were but a twelve hours’ dream.
Sir O. Twi. That girl is now a proper[137] gentlewoman,
As fine a body, wife, as e’er was measur’d
With an indenture cut in farthing steaks.
Sun. O say not so, sir Oliver; you shall pardon me, sir;
I’faith, sir, you’re to blame.
Sir O. Twi. Sings, dances, plays,
Touches an instrument with a motherly grace.
Sun. ’Tis your own daughter that you mean that by.
Sav. There’s open Dutch indeed, and[138] he could take it. [Aside.
Sir O. Twi. This wench, under your leave——
Sun. You have my love in’t.
Sir O. Twi. Is my son’s wife that shall be.
Sav. Thus, I’d hold with’t,
Is your son’s wife that should be master Sandfield’s.
[Aside.
L. Twi. I come in happy time to a feast of marriages.
Sir O. Twi. And now you put’s i’ the mind, the hour draws on
At the new-married widow’s, there we’re look’d for;
There will be entertainments, sports, and banquets,
There these young lovers shall clap hands together;
The seed of one feast shall bring forth another.
Sun. Well said, sir Oliver!
Sir O. Twi. You’re a stranger, sir;
Your welcome will be best.
D. Mer. Good sir, excuse me.
Sir O. Twi. You shall along, faith;[139] you must not refuse me.
[Exeunt all except Lady Twilight, Grace,
Philip Twilight, and Savourwit.
Phil. O, mother, these new joys, that set[140] my soul up—
Which had no means, nor any hope of any—
Have brought me now so far in debt to you,
I know not which way to begin to thank you;
I am so lost in all, I cannot guess
Which of the two my service most constrains,
Your last kind goodness, or your first dear pains.
L. Twi. Love is a mother’s duty to a son,
As a son’s duty is both love and fear.
Sav. I owe you a poor life, madam, that’s all;
Pray, call for’t when you please, it shall be ready for you.
L. Twi. Make much on’t, sir, till then.
Sav. If butter’d sack will. [Aside.
L. Twi. Methinks the more I look upon her, son,
The more thy sister’s face runs in my mind.
Phil. Belike she’s somewhat like her; it makes the better, madam.
L. Twi. Was Antwerp, say you, the first place you found her in?
Phil. Yes, madam: why do you ask?
L. Twi. Whose daughter were you?
Grace. I know not rightly whose, to speak truth, madam.
Sav. The mother of her was a good twigger the whilst.
[Aside.
L. Twi. No? with whom were you brought up then?
Grace. With those, madam,
To whom, I’ve often heard, the enemy sold me.
L. Twi. What’s that?
Grace. Too often have I heard this piteous story,
Of a distressèd mother I had once,
Whose comfortable sight I lost at sea;
But then the years of childhood took from me
Both the remembrance of her and the sorrows.
L. Twi. O, I begin to feel her in my blood!
My heart leaps to be at her. [Aside.]—What was that mother?
Grace. Some said, an English lady; but I know not.
L. Twi. What’s thy name?
Grace. Grace.
L. Twi. May it be so in heaven,
For thou art mine on earth! welcome, dear child,
Unto thy father’s house, thy mother’s arms,
After thy foreign sorrows! [Embracing Grace.
Sav. ’Twill prove gallant! [Aside.
L. Twi. What, son! such earnest-work! I bring thee joy now
Will make the rest shew nothing, ’tis so glorious.
Phil. Why, ’tis not possible, madam, that man’s happiness
Should take a greater height than mine aspires.
L. Twi. No? now you shall confess it: this shall quit thee
From all fears present, or hereafter doubts,
About this business.
Phil. Give me that, sweet mother!
L. Twi. Here, take her then, and set thine arms a-work;
There needs no ’fection,[141] ’tis indeed thy sister.
Phil. My sister!
Sav. Cuds me, I feel the razor! [Aside.
L. Twi. Why, how now, son? how comes a change so soon?
Phil. O, I beseech you, mother, wound me any where
But where you pointed last! that’s present death;
Devise some other miserable torment,
Though ne’er so pitiless, and I’ll run and meet it;
Some way more merciful let your goodness think on,
May steal away my joys, but save my soul:
I’ll willingly restore back every one,
Upon that mild condition; any thing
But what you spake last will be comfortable.
L. Twi. You’re troubled with strange fits in England here;
Your first suit to me did entreat me hardly
To say ’twas she, to have old[142] wrath appeas’d;
And now ’tis known your sister, you’re not pleas’d:
How should I shew myself?
Phil. Say ’tis not she.
L. Twi. Shall I deny my daughter?
Phil. O, you kill me,
Beyond all tortures!
L. Twi. Why do you deal thus with me?
Phil. She is my wife, I married her at Antwerp;
I’ve known the way unto her bed these three months.
Sav. And that’s too much by twelve weeks for a sister.
[Aside.
L. Twi. I understand you now, too soon, too plain!
Phil. O mother, if you love my peace for ever,
Examine her again, find me not guilty!
L. Twi. ’Tis now too late, her words make that too true.
Phil. Her words? shall bare words overthrow a soul?
A body is not cast away so lightly.
How can you know ’tis she—let sense decide it—
She then so young, and both so long divided?
L. Twi. She tells me the sad story.
Phil. Does that throw me?
Many a distress may have the face of yours,
That ne’er was kin to you.
L. Twi. But, however, sir,
I trust you are not married.
Phil. Here’s the witness,
And all the wealth I had with her, this ring,
That join’d our hearts together. [Gives ring.
L. Twi. O, too clear now!
Thou’st brought in evidence to o’erthrow thyself;
Had no one word been spoke, only this shewn,
’T’ad been enough to approv’d[143] her for mine own;
See here, two letters that begun my name
Before I knew thy father: this I gave her,
And, as a jewel, fasten’d to her ear.
Grace. Pardon me, mother, that you find it stray;
I kept it till I gave my heart away.
Phil. O, to what mountain shall I take my flight,
To hide the monster of my sin from sight!
Sav. I’ll to Wales presently, there’s the best hills
To hide a poor knave in. [Aside.
L. Twi. O heap not desperation upon guilt!
Repent yet, and all’s say’d; ’twas but hard chance:
Amongst all sins, heaven pities ignorance,
She’s still the first that has her pardon sign’d;
All sins else see their faults, she’s only blind:
Go to thy chamber, pray, leave off, and win;
One hour’s repentance cures a twelvemonth’s sin.
Grace. O my distressèd husband, my dear brother!
[Exeunt Lady Twilight and Grace.
Phil. O Savourwit, never came sorrow yet
To mankind like it! I’m so far distress’d,
I’ve no time left to give my heart attendance,
Too little all to wait upon my soul.
Before this tempest came, how well I stood,
Full in the beams of blessedness and joy!
The memory of man could never say
So black a storm fell in so bright a day.
I am that man that even life surfeits of;
Or, if to live, unworthy to be seen
By the [most] savage eye-sight: give’s thy hand;
Commend me to thy prayers.
Sav. Next time I say ’em. [Aside.
Phil. Farewell, my honest breast, that crav’st no more
Than possible kindness! that I’ve found thee large in,
And I must ask no more; there wit must stay,
It cannot pass where fate stops up the way:
Joy thrive with thee! I’ll never see thee more.
[Going.
Sav. What’s that, sir? pray, come back, and bring those words with you,
You shall not carry ’em so out of my company:
There’s no last refuge when your father knows it;
There’s no such need on’t yet; stay but till then,
And take one with you that will imitate you
In all the desperate on-sets man dare think on:
Were it to challenge all the wolves in France
To meet at one set battle, I’d be your half in’t;
All beasts of venom,—what you had a mind to,
Your part should be took still: for such a day
Let’s keep ourselves in heart, then am I for you.
In the meantime, to beat off all suspicion,
Let’s to the bride-house too; here’s my petition.
Phil. Thou hast a learning art when all hopes fly;
Let one night waste, there’s time enough left to die.
Sav. A minute’s as good as a thousand year, sir,
To pink a man’s heart like a summer-suit.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A large room in Lady Goldenfleece’s house.
Several Servants discovered placing things in order, and Pickadill looking on.

Pick. Bestir your bones nimbly, you ponderous beef-buttocked knaves; what a number of lazy hinds do I keep company withal! where’s the flesh-colour velvet cushion now for my lady’s pease-porridge-tawny-satin bum? You attendants upon revels!

First Ser. You can prate and domineer well, because you have a privilege[d] place; but I’d fain see you set your hand to’t.

Pick. O base bone-pickers, I set my hand to’t! when did you e’er see a gentleman set his hand to any thing, unless it were to a sheep-skin, and receive a hundred pound for his pains?

Sec. Ser. And afterward lie in the Counter for his pleasure.

Pick. Why, true, sir, ’tis for his pleasure indeed; for, spite of all their teeths, he may lie i’ th’ Hole[144] when he list.

First Ser. Marry, and should for me.

Pick. Ay, thou wouldst make as good a bawd as the best jailor of them all; I know that.

First Ser. How, fool!

Pick. Hark! I must call you knave within; ’tis but staying somewhat the longer for’t. [Exeunt.

Loud music. Enter, arm in arm, Lady Goldenfleece richly dressed, and Mistress Low-water richly attired as a man; after them Sir Oliver Twilight, Sunset, and Dutch Merchant; after them Lady Twilight, Grace, and Jane; after them Philip Twilight, Sandfield, Savourwit, and Low-water, disguised as before.

Mis. Low. This fair assembly is most freely welcome.
Sir O. Twi., &c.[145] Thanks to you, good sir.
L. Gold. Come, my long-wish’d-for madam,
You and this worthy stranger take best welcome;
Your freedom is a second feast to me.
Mis. Low. How is’t with my brother?
Low. The fit holds him still,
Nay, love’s more violent.
Mis. Low. ’Las, poor gentleman!
I would he had my office without money!
If he should offer any, I’d refuse it.
Low. I have the letter ready;
He’s worthy of a place knows[146] how to use it.
Mis. Low. That’s well said.—
Come, ladies—gentlemen—sir Oliver;
Good, seat yourselves: shall we be found unreadiest?
[They sit.
What is yon gentleman with the funeral-face there?
Methinks that look does ill become a bride-house.
Sir O. Twi. Who does your worship mean, sir? my son Philip?
I’m sure he had ne’er less reason to be sad.—
Why are you sad, son Philip?
Phil. How, sir, sad?
You shall not find it so, sir.

Sav. Take heed he do not, then. You must beware how you carry your face in this company; as far as I can see, that young bridegroom has hawk’s eyes, he’ll go nigh to spell sister in your face; if your nose were but crooked enough to serve for an S, he’d find an eye presently, and then he has more light for the rest.

Phil. I’ll learn then to dissemble.

Sav. Nay, and[147] you be to learn that now, you’ll ne’er sit in a branched[148] velvet gown as long as you live; you should have took that at nurse, before your mother weaned you; so do all those that prove great children and batten well. Peace, here comes a scholar indeed; he has learnt it, I warrant you.

Enter Beveril with a pasteboard.
L. Gold. Kind sir, you’re welcome; you take all the pains, sir.
Bev. I wish they were but worthy of the grace
Of your fair presence and this choice assembly:
Here is an abstract, madam, of what’s shewn,
Which I commend to your favour. [Giving pasteboard.
L. Gold. Thank you for’t, sir.
Bev. I would I durst present my love as boldly!
[Aside.
Mis. Low. My honest brother! [Aside.
L. Gold. Look thee here, sweetheart.
Mis. Low. What’s there, sweet madam?
Bev. Music, and we’re ready.

[After loud music for a while, a thing like a globe opens on one side of the stage, and flashes out fire; then Sir G. Lambstone, in the character of Fire, issues from it, with yellow hair and beard intermingled with streaks like wild flames, a three-pointed fire in his hand; and, at the same time, Weatherwise, as Air, comes down, hanging by a cloud, with a coat made like an almanac, all the twelve moons set in it, and the four quarters, winter, spring, summer, and autumn, with change of weathers, rain, lightning, tempest, &c.; and from under the stage, on different sides at the farther end, rise Overdone as Water, and Pepperton as Earth; Water with green flags upon his head standing up instead of hair, and a beard of the same, with a chain of pearl; Earth with a number of little things resembling trees, like a thick grove, upon his head, and a wedge of gold in his hand, his garment of a clay colour. Beveril stands behind and gives Sir G. Lambstone the first words of his speech.

Bev. The flame of zeal——
Sir G. Lamb. The wicked fire of lust
Does now spread heat through water, air, and dust.
Bev. How! he’s out in the beginning. [Aside.]—The wheel of time—
Wea. The devil set fire o’ the distaff. [Aside.
Sir G. Lamb. I that was wont in elder times to pass
For a bright angel—so they call’d me then—
Now so corrupted with the upstart fires
Of avarice, luxury, and inconstant heats,
Struck from the bloods of cunning clap-faln daughters,
Night-walking wives, but, most, libidinous widows,
That I, that purify even gold itself,
Have the contemptible dross thrown in my face,
And my bright name walk common in disgrace.
How am I us’d a’ late, that I’m so handled,—
Thrust into alleys, hospitals, and tubs!
I was once a name of comfort, warm’d great houses,
When charity was landlord; I’ve given welcome
To forty russet yeomen at a time,
In a fair Christmas hall. How am I chang’d!
The chimneys are swept up, the hearth as cold
As the forefathers’ charity in the son;
All the good, hospitable heat now turns
To my young landlord’s lust, and there it burns:
Rich widows, that were wont to choose by gravity
Their second husbands, not by tricks of blood,
Are now so taken with loose Aretine flames
Of nimble wantonness and high-fed pride,
They marry now but the third part of husbands,
Boys, smooth-fac’d catamites, to fulfil their bed,
As if a woman should a woman wed.
These are the fires a’ late my brightness darks,
And fills the world so full of beggarly sparks.
Bev. Hea[r]t, how am I disgrac’d! what rogue should this be?
L. Gold. By my faith, monsieur Fire, you’re a hot whorson!
Mis. Low. I fear my brother is beside his wits,
He would not be so senseless to rail thus else. [Aside.
Wea. After this heat, you madams fat and fair,
Open your casements wide, and take in air;
But not that air false women make up oaths with,
No, nor that air gallants perfume their clothes with;
I am that air that keeps about the clouds,
None of my kindred was smelt out in crowds;
Not any of our house was ever tainted,
When many a thousand of our foes have fainted:
Yet some there are that be my chief polluters,
Widows that falsify their faith to suitors,
And will give fair words when the sign’s in Cancer,
But, at the next remove, a scurvy answer;
Come to the poor men’s houses, eat their banquet,
And at night with a boy tost in a blanket;
Nay, shall I come more near? perhaps at noon,
For here I find a spot full in the moon:
I know youth’s trick; what’s she that can withstand it,
When Mercury reigns, my lady’s chamber-planet?
He that believes a widow’s words shall fail,
When Venus’ gown-skirts sweep[149] the Dragon’s tail;
Fair weather the first day she makes to any,
The second cloudy, and the third day rainy;
The fourth day a great storm, lightning, and thunder;
A bolt strikes the suitor, a boy keeps her under.
Bev. ’Life, these are some counterfeit slaves crept in their rooms,
A’ purpose for disgrace! they shall all share with me:
Heart, who the devil should these be? [Exit.
L. Gold. My faith, gentlemen,
Air has perfum’d the room well!
Sir O. Twi. So methinks, madam.
Sav. A man may smell her meaning two rooms off,
Though his nose wanted reparations,
And the bridge left at Shoreditch, as a pledge
For rosa solis, in a bleaking-house.[150] [Aside.
Mis. Low. Life, what should be his meaning in’t?
Low. I wonder.
Over. Methinks this room should yet retain such heat,
Struck out from the first ardour, and so glow yet,
You should desire my company, wish for water,
That offers here to serve your several pipes,
Without constraint of mill or death of water-house.
What if I sprinkled on the widow’s cheeks
A few cool drops, to lay the guilty heat
That flashes from her conscience to her face;
Would’t not refresh her shame? From such as she
I first took weakness and inconstancy;
I sometimes swell above my banks and spread,
They’re commonly with child before they’re wed;
In me the Sirens sing before they play,
In her more witchcraft, for her smiles betray;
Where I’m least seen, there my most danger lies,
So in those parts hid most from a man’s eyes,
Her heart, her love, or what may be more close;
I know no mercy, she thinks that no loss;
In her poor gallants, pirates thrive in me;
I help to cast away, and so does she.
L. Gold. Nay, and[151] you can hold nothing, sweet sir Water,
I’ll wash my hands a’ you ever hereafter.
Pep. Earth stands for a full point, me you should hire
To stop the gaps of Water, Air, and Fire:
I love muck well, but your first husband better,
Above his soul he lov’d it, as his end
Did fearfully witness it; at his last gasp
His spirit flam’d as it forsook his breast,
And left the sparkles quarrelling ’bout his lips,
Now of such metal the devil makes him whips;
He shall have gold enough to glut his soul,
And as for earth, I’ll stop his crane’s throat full:
The wealth he left behind him, most men know,
He wrung inconscionably from the rights
Of poor men’s livings, he drunk dry their brows;
That liquor has a curse, yet nothing sweeter;
When your posterity drinks, then ’twill taste bitter.
Sir G. Lamb. And now to vex, ’gainst nature, form, rule, place,
See once four warring[152] elements all embrace!
[The Elements embrace.

Re-enter, at several corners, Beveril with three other persons, attired like the four Winds, with wings, &c., the South Wind having a great red face, the North Wind a pale, bleak one; the Western Wind one cheek red and another white, and so the Eastern Wind: they dance to the drum and fife, while the four Elements seem to give back and stand in amaze: at the end of the dance the Winds strip the Elements of their disguises, which seem to yield and almost fall off of themselves at the coming of the Winds. Exeunt all the Winds except that represented by Beveril.

L. Gold. How! sir Gilbert Lambstone! master Overdone!
All our old suitors! you’ve took pains, my masters!
Sir G. Lamb. We made a vow we’d speak our minds to you.

Wea. And I think we’re as good as our words, though it cost some of our purses; I owe money for the clouds yet, I care not who knows it; the planets are sufficient enough to pay the painter, and[153] I were dead.

L. Gold. Who are you, sir?

Bev. Your most unworthy servant.

[Discovering himself.

L. Gold. Pardon me; is’t you, sir?

Bev. My disgrace urg’d my wit to take some form,
Wherein I might both best and properliest
Discover my abusers and your own,
And shew you some content,—before y’had none.
L. Gold. Sir, I owe much both to your care and love,
And you shall find your full requital worthy.—
Was this the plot now your poor envy works out?
I do revenge myself with pitying on you.—
Take Fire into the buttery, he has most need on’t;
Give Water some small beer, too good for him;—
Air, you may walk abroad like a fortune-teller;—
But take down Earth, and make him drink i’ the cellar.