A New Wonder, A Woman never Vext. A Pleasant
Conceited Comedy: sundry times Acted: never before
printed. Written by William Rowley, one of his
Maiesties Servants. London, Imprinted by G. P.,
for Francis Constable, and are to be sold at his shop,
at the signe of the Crane in Saint Pauls Churchyard.
1632. 4o.
(With Additions, &c.)[21]
This writer is ranked by the editors of the "Biographia
Dramatica" in the third class of dramatic writers, and
Mr Gifford justly observes it is impossible to place him
higher. [Mr Collier, in a note to Rowley's "Match at
Midnight," 1633, Introd., supposed that Samuel Rowley,
the writer of the historical play on "Henry VIII.,"
1605, might be the "Master Rowley, once a rare scholar
of Pembroke Hall," mentioned by Meres ("Politeuphuia,"
1598, "Anc. Crit. Essays," iii. 154), as one of
the best for comedy; but Meres, who was himself a
university man, would scarcely confound either Samuel
or William Rowley with the Ralph Rowley of Pembroke
Hall, writer of certain occasional poetry now forgotten
(Cooper's "Athenæ," ii. 388); and it is grossly improbable,
surely, that Meres should cite Ralph Rowley as
"one of the best for comedy" on the strength of such
pieces as are connected with Samuel Rowley's name.
Mr Collier remarks, that it appears from Henslowe's
memoranda ("Diary," pp. 120, 218) that "in the very
year in which Meres wrote, [Samuel Rowley] was
reduced to accept the situation of a hireling at Henslowe's
theatre." There is no trace of anything
written by him earlier than Jan. 7, 1601-2, when
he assisted William Haughton and William Borne in
writing a piece called "Judas." As to William, he
could scarcely have acquired any reputation so early,
and what, on the whole, is most likely to have been
the truth is, that Ralph Rowley composed pieces which,
like those of the Earl of Oxford and others, have not
survived.[22] Of the time or place of his birth, or decease,
we are altogether ignorant. Of his life it is only known
that he was a player. That he lived on terms of intimacy
with the dramatic writers of his time is sufficiently
evident from his having written in conjunction with
many of them; and, if we may believe the title-page,
[which we cannot, we should be able to believe that] in
one[23] he received assistance from Shakespeare himself.
He was a comedian, and one of the Prince's company
of players; and Oldys observes, in his MSS. notes
to Langbaine, on the authority of [transcripts made
by Vertue from] the office books of Lord Harrington,
Treasurer of the Chambers in those years, that
"One William Rowley was head of the Prince's company
of comedians from 1613 to 1616:" this, there can
be [no] doubt, was our author; and [he continued to belong
to that company till the death of James I.[24]] The
tragedy of "All's Lost by Lust" (as it is better known)
would perhaps have been selected in preference, but for
the resemblance it bears, in the general outline, to the
"Women beware Women" of Middleton, and the "Appius
and Virginia" of Webster,[25] to either of which, in my
opinion, it is inferior. On the present play Langbaine
observes that the passage of the widow's finding her wedding-ring,
which she dropped in crossing the Thames, in
the belly of a fish which her maid bought accidently in
the market, is founded either upon the story of Polycrates
of Samos, as the author may read at large in Herodotus,
lib. 3, sive Thalia; or upon the like story related
of one Anderson of Newcastle, by Doctor Fuller, in his
"Worthies of England." The story here referred to is
this: "A citizen of Newcastle (whose name I take to
be M. Anderson) talking with a friend of his upon
Newcastle bridge, and fingering his ring, before he was
aware let it fall into the river; and was much troubled
with the losse of it, till by a fish caught in the river
that losse was repaired, and his ring restored to him."
It is quite impossible, however, that our author could
have had this story from Fuller's "Worthies," which
was not published till many years after this drama was
in print: he might, however, have found it, whence
indeed Fuller himself took it (and the story of Polycrates
is likewise quoted there), in the Preface to a
little work called "Vox Piscis, or the Book-Fish, containing
three Treatises, which were found in the belly
of a Cod-fish in Cambridge Market, on Midsummer Eve
last, Anno Domini 1626;" published in London in 1627.
It is not noticed either by Langbaine or the editors of
the "Biographia Dramatica" that this play is, in part,
historical. This, however, is the case; and I have
collected together, from various scattered notices in
Stow and Strype, the best account I was enabled of
Stephen Foster, his wife, and Alderman Brewen,[26] three
of the principal persons in the drama. Sir Stephen
Foster was the son of Robert Foster of London, stock-fishmonger;
he was elected Sheriff of London in the
year 1444, and Lord Mayor in 1454, and served as
member for that city in the parliament held at Westminster
in the thirteenth of Henry VI. Speaking of
Ludgate, Strype says, (Append, p. 26), "There happened
to be prisoner there, one Stephen Foster, who
(as poor men are at this day) was a cryer at the grate, to
beg the benevolent charities of pious and commiserate
benefactors that passed by. As he was doing his doleful
office, a rich widow of London hearing his complaint,
enquired of him what would release him? To which
he answered, Twenty pound; which she in charity expended;
and clearing him out of prison, entertained
him in her service; who, afterward falling into the way
of merchandise, and increasing as well in wealth as
courage, wooed his mistress, Dame Agnes, and married
her.
"Her riches and his industry brought him both great
wealth and honour, being afterwards no less than Sir
Stephen Foster, Lord Mayor of the honourable city of
London: yet whilst he lived in this great honour and
dignity, he forgot not the place of his captivity; but,
mindful of the sad and irksome place wherein poor men
were imprisoned, bethought himself of enlarging it, to
make it a little more delightful and pleasant for those
who in aftertimes should be imprisoned and shut up
therein. And, in order thereunto, acquainted his lady
with this his pious purpose and intention, in whom
likewise he found so affable and willing a mind to do
good to the poor, that she promised to expend as much
as he should do for the carrying on of the work; and,
having possessions adjoining thereunto, they caused to
be erected and built the rooms and places following,
that is to say, the paper house, the porch, the watch-hall,
the upper and lower lumbries, the cellar, the long
ward, and the chapel for divine service; in which
chapel is an inscription upon the wall, containing these
words—
"This chapel was erected and ordained for the divine
worship and service of God, by the Right Honourable Sir
Stephen Foster, Knight, some time Lord Maior of this
honourable city, and by Dame Agnes his wife, for the use
and godly exercise of the prisoners in this prison of
Ludgate, Anno 1454.
" ... He likewise gave maintenance for a preaching
minister," ... and "ordained what he had so built, with
that little which was before, should be free for all free-men,
and that they providing their own bedding should
pay nothing at their departure for lodging or chamber-rent."[27]
There can be little doubt from the inscription in the
chapel, that this worthy man was alive in the year
1454; it is still more certain from the following extract
from Stow, that he was dead in 1463: "In the year
1463, the third of Edward the Fourth, Mathew Philip
being mayor, in a common counsaile, at the request of
the well-disposed, blessed, and devout woman, Dame
Agnes Foster, widow, late wife to Stephen Foster, fishmonger,
sometime mayor, for the comfort and reliefe of
all the poore prisoners, certaine articles were established.
In primis, that the new works then late edified by the
same Dame Agnes, for the inlarging of the prison of
Ludgate, from thenceforth should be had and taken as
a parte and parcell of the saide prison of Ludgate, so
that both the old and new works of Ludgate aforesaid,
be one prison, gaile, keeping, and charge for evermore."
To this Stow adds, "The said quadrant strongly builded
of stone, by the fore-named Stephen Foster, and Agnes
his wife, contayneth a large walking-place by ground, ...
the like roome it hath over it for lodgings, and over all
a fayre leades to walke upon, well imbattayled, all for
ease of prisoners, to the ende they shoulde have lodging
and water free without charge: as by certaine verses
grauen in copper, and fixed on the said quadrant, I have
read in forme following—
'Deuout soules that passe this way,
for Stephen Foster late mayor, hartely pray,
And Dame Agnes his spouse, to God consecrate,
that of pitty this house made for Lōdoners in Ludgate.
So that for lodging and water prisoners here nought pay,
as there keepers shall answere at dreadfull domes day.'
"This plate, and one other of his armes, taken downe
with the old gate, I caused to be fixed over the entrie of
the said quadrant, but the verses being unhappily turned
inward to the wall, the like in effect is graven outward
in prose, declaring him to be a fishmonger, because
some upon a light occasion (as a maydens heade in a
glasse window) had fabuled him to bee a mercer, and
to have begged there at Ludgate." "They were both
buried (Stow, p. 163, edit. 1598) at Butolph's church,
Billingsgate." How far the poet has deviated from the
tradition as recorded by Strype, the reader will be now
as well able to decide as myself: when I speak of the
tradition, I allude only to the circumstance of his having
been confined a prisoner in Ludgate, and to his
release by his wife (by his nephew according to the
drama); and this I do on the authority of Stow, the
elder of the historians who, in his concluding remarks,
refers to it as a fable. Of the charitable acts of these
worthy people there can be no doubt. In relation to
the character of Bruin, I find (Strype, ii. 260) that
"In the year 1197, Walter Brune, a citizen of London,
and Rosia his wife, founded the hospital of Our Lady,
called Domus Dei, or St Mary the Spittle, without
Bishopsgate in London, an house of such relief to the
needy, that there was found standing at the surrender
thereof nine score beds well furnished for receipt of
poor people." The reader cannot fail to notice the
gross anachronisms with which the plot of this drama
abounds; something, however, may be said in excuse
of the bringing together such men as Foster and Bruin;
but the introduction of Henry III. is so wanton and
unnecessary, that there can be little doubt it is an error
of the printer's, and that Henry VI. is the character
intended, in whose time Sir Stephen Foster lived. I
did not, however, think it necessary to disturb the text;
not out of respect to the quarto, for a more disgraceful
work never issued from the press even of the printers
of that age, but because, the circumstance having been
once noticed, it becomes of little consequence. While
on this subject I may just observe, that in the original
this play is, with very trifling limitations, throughout
printed as blank verse: by what possible rule or ear
the division was made it is absolutely impossible to
conceive; some scenes have without hesitation been
reduced to prose; and by changing the construction of
whole speeches, innumerable couplets have been restored:
if yet the attentive reader shall discover passages
(and that many have escaped my notice I cannot
doubt), on which he would willingly exercise his skill,
I can only observe that he must not make too free with
the pruning knife; that it is difficult to distinguish
between a licentious metre and measured prose; and
that very little good dramatic dialogue of the higher
walks can be found, that, with moderate torturing to
the eye and ear, may not pass for such metre.
The following is a list of his dramatic works—
1. "A New Wonder," "A Woman never vext," C.
4o, 1632.
2. A Tragedy called, All's Lost by Lust. Written
by William Rowley. Divers times Acted by the Lady
Elizabeths Servants. And now lately by her Maiesties
Servants, with great applause, at the Phœnix in Drury-Lane.
4o, 1633.
3. "A Match at Midnight," C. 4o, 1633, printed post.
4. "A Shoemaker's a Gentleman," C. 4o, 1638.
He wrote also, in conjunction with Day and
Wilkins,
5. "The Travels of Three English Brothers," Sir
Thomas, Sir Anthony, and Mr Robert Sherley. 4o,
1607.
6. "A Fair Quarrel," C. 4o, 1617.
7. "The World toss'd at Tennis," M. 4o, 1620.
8. "The Spanish Gipsy," C. 4o, 1663.
9. "The Changeling," T. 4o, 1653.
10. "The Maid of the Mill," fol. 1647.
With Massinger and Middleton,
11. "The Old Law," T. C. 4o, 1656.
12. "The Witch of Edmonton," T. C. 4o, 1658.
And (it is, however, very doubtful) with Shakespeare,
13. "The Birth of Merlin." T. C. 4o, 1662.
With Webster (though Webster's participation
is equally problematical),
14. "A Cure for a Cuckold," C. 1661.
15. "The Thracian Wonder," C. H. 4o, 1661.
16. "Fortune by Land and Sea," C. 4o, 1655.
The following are also entered in his name on the
Books of the Stationers' Company—
- "The Fool without Book."
- "A Knave in Print; or, One for Another."
- "The Nonesuch."[28]
- "The Book of the Four Honoured Loves."
- And,
- "The Parliament of Love."
In the Dramatis Personæ, prefixed to his own play
of "All's Lost by Lust," the part of Jaques, a simple
clownish gentleman, is said to have been personated by
the poet; and in Middleton's "Inner Temple Masque,"
1619, he performed the part of Plumb-porridge.
It appears from Sir H. Herbert's office book, that one
of the Rowleys wrote "A Match or No Match;" this
is most probably our author's "Match at Midnight."
Rowley wrote also a [prose] pamphlet called, "A
Search for Money; or, The Lamentable Complaint for
the Loss of the Wandering Knight, Monsieur L'Argent,"
&c., 4o, 1609;[29] [an elegy on a fellow-performer, Hugh
Atwell, who died on the 25th September 1621; printed
on a broadside, and two or three other poetical trifles.][30]
- King Henry III.
- Mountford.
- Pembroke.
- Arundel.
- Cardinal.
- Lord Mayor.
- Old Foster.
- Alderman Brewen.
- Stephen, brother to Old Foster.
- Ropert, son to Old Foster.
- Sir Godfrey Speedwell, } suitors to Jane.
- Innocent Lambskin, }
- Richard, factor to Old Foster.
- George, factor to Brewen.
- Doctor.
- Host Boxall.
- Jack, }
- Dick, } Gamesters.
- Hugh, }
- Roger, the clown, servant to the Widow.
- Keeper of Ludgate.
- Widow, the woman never vex'd.
- Mistress Foster, wife to Old Foster.
- Jane, daughter to Brewen.
- Joan, servant to Widow.
A NEW WONDER:
A WOMAN NEVER VEXED.[31]
Enter Old Foster, Alderman Brewen, and two
factors,[32] Richard and George.
O. Fos. This air has a sweet breath, Master Brewen.
Brew. Your partner, sir.
O. Fos. Ay, and in good, I hope: this halcyon gale
Plays the lewd wanton with our dancing sails,
And makes 'em big[33] with vaporous embryo.[34]
Brew. 'Tis no more yet; but then our fraught is full,
When she returns laden with merchandise,
And safe deliver'd with our customage.
O. Fos. Such a delivery heaven send us;
But time must ripen it. Are our accounts made even?
George. To the quantity of a penny, if his
agree with mine. What's yours, Richard?
Rich. Five hundred sixty pounds. Read the
gross sum of your broadcloths.
George. 68 pieces at B, ss, and l; 57 at l, ss,
and o.[35]
Rich. Just: lead nineteen ton.
O. Fos. As evenly we will lay our bosoms
As our bottoms, with love as merchandise,
And may they both increase t' infinities.
Brew. Especially at home; that golden traffic, love,
Is scantier far than gold; and one mine of that
More worth than twenty argosies[36]
Of the world's richest treasure.
O. Fos. Here you shall dig [Laying his hand on
his breast], and find your lading.
Brew. Here's your exchange: and, as in love,
So we'll participate in merchandise.
O. Fos. The merchant's casualty:
We always venture on uncertain odds,
Although we bear hope's emblem, the anchor,
With us. The wind brought it; let the wind blow 't
Away again; should not the sea sometimes
Be partner with us, our wealth would swallow us.
Brew. A good resolve: but now I must be bold
To touch you with somewhat that concerns you.
O. Fos. I could prevent[37] you: is't not my unthrifty brother?
Brew. Nay, leave out th' adjective (unthrifty);
Your brother, sir—'tis he that I would speak of.
O. Fos. He cannot be nam'd without unthrifty, sir;
'Tis his proper epithet: would you conceit
But what my love has done for him:
So oft, so chargeable, and so expensive,
You would not urge another addition.
Brew. Nay, sir, you must not stay at quantity,
Till he forfeit the name of brother,
Which is inseparable: he's now in Ludgate, sir.
And part of your treasure lies buried with him.
O. Fos. Ay, by vulgar blemish, but not by any good account:
There let him howl; 'tis the best stay he hath;
For nothing but a prison can contain him,
So boundless is his riot: twice have I rais'd
His decayed fortunes to a fair estate;
But with as fruitless charity as if I had thrown
My safe-landed substance back into the sea;
Or dress in pity some corrupted jade,
And he should kick me for my courtesy.
I am sure you cannot but hear what quicksands
He finds out; as dice, cards, pigeon-holes,[38]
And which is more, should I not restrain it,
He'd make my state his prodigality.[39]
Brew. All this may be, sir; yet examples daily show
To our eyes that prodigals return at last;
And the loudest roarer[40] (as our city phrase is)
Will speak calm and smooth; you must help with hope, sir:
Had I such a brother, I should think
That heaven had made him as an instrument
For my best charity to work upon:
This is a maxim sure, Some are made poor,
That rich men by giving may increase their store.
Nor think, sir,
That I do tax your labours and mean myself
For to stand idly by; for I have vow'd,
If heaven but bless this voyage now abroad,
To leave some memorable relic after me,
That shall preserve my name alive till doomsday.
O. Fos. Ay, sir, that work is good, and therein could I
Join with your good intents; but to relieve
A waste-good, a spendthrift——
Brew. O, no more, no more, good sir!
O. Fos. [To Rich.] Sirrah, when saw you my son Robert?
Rich. This morning, sir; he said he would go visit his uncle.
O. Fos. I pay for their meetings, I am sure: that boy
Makes prize of all his fingers 'light upon
To relieve his unthrifty uncle.
Brew. Does he rob![41] In troth, I commend him. [Aside.
O. Fos. [To Rich.] 'Tis partly your fault, sirrah; you see't and suffer it.
Rich. Sir, mine's a servant's duty, his a son's;
Nor know I better how to express my love
Unto yourself, than by loving your son.
O. Fos. By concealing of his pilferings.
Rich. I dare not call them so; he is my second master,
And methinks 'tis far above my limits
Either to check or to complain of him.
Brew. Gramercy, Dick, thou mak'st a good construction;
[To O. Fos.] And your son Robert a natural nephew's part
To relieve his poor uncle.
O. Fos. 'Tis in neither well, sir: for note but the
Condition of my estate; I'm lately married
To a wealthy widow, from whom my substance
Chiefly does arise: she has observed this in her
Son-in-law, often complains and grudges at it,
And what foul broils such civil discords bring,
Few married men are ignorant of.
Enter Mistress Foster.
Nay, will you see a present proof of it?
Mrs Fos. Shall I not live to breathe a quiet hour?
I would I were a beggar with content
Rather than thus be thwarted for mine own.
O. Fos. Why, what's the matter, woman?
Mrs Fos. I'll rouse 'em up,
Though you regard not of my just complaints,
Neither in love to me, nor [for] preserving me
From other injuries, both which you're tied to
By all the rightful laws, heavenly or humane—
But I'll complain, sir, where I will be heard.
O. Fos. Nay, thou'lt be heard too far.
Mrs Fos. Nay, sir, I will be heard:
Some awkward star threw out's unhappy fire
At my conception, and 'twill never quench,
While I have heat in me. Would I were cold!
There would be bonfires made to warm defame:
My death would be a jubilee to some.
O. Fos. Why, sir, how should I minister remedy
And know not the cause?
Brew. Mother-o'-pearl![42] Woman, shew your husband the cause.
Mrs Fos. Had he been a husband, sir, I had no cause.
[So] to complain: I threw down at his feet
The subjection of his whole estate: he did not
Marry me for love's sake, nor for pity;
But love to that I had; he now neglects
The love he had before: a prodigal
Is suffer'd to lay waste those worldly blessings,
Which I enclosed long,[43] intending for good uses.
O. Fos. That's my son.
Mrs Fos. Ay, thou know'st it well enough; He's the conduit-pipe
That throws it forth into the common shore.
O. Fos. And th' other's my brother.
Mrs Fos. You may well shame,
As I do grieve the kindred; but I'd make
The one a stranger, the other a servant—
No son nor brother; for they deserve neither
Of those offices.
O. Fos. Why, did I ever cherish him! have not I threaten'd him
With disinheritance for this disorder?
Mrs Fos. Why do you not perform it?
O. Fos. The other's in Ludgate.
Mrs Fos. No; he's in my house, approving to my face
The charitable office of his kind nephew
Who with his pilfering purloin'd from me,
Has set him at liberty; if this may be suffer'd,
I'll have no eyes to see.
O. Fos. Prythee, content thyself, I'll see
A present remedy. Sirrah, go call 'em in:
This worthy gentleman shall know the cause,
And censure for us both with equity.
Brew. Nay, good sir, let not me be so employ'd,
For I shall favour one for pity,
The other for your love's sake.
Enter Robert and Stephen Foster.
O. Fos. Now, sir,
Are all my words with you so light esteem'd,
That they can take no hold upon your duty?
Rob. Misconstrue not, I beseech you.
Mrs Fos. Nay, he'll approve his good deeds, I warrant you.
O. Fos. And you, sir?
Steph. Well, sir.
O. Fos. I had thought you had been in Ludgate, sir?
Steph. Why, you see where I am, sir.
O. Fos. Why, where are you, sir?
Steph. In debt, sir, in debt.
O. Fos. Indeed, that is a place you hardly can be
Removed from; but this is not a place fit
For one in debt. How came you out of prison, sirrah?[44]
Steph. As I went into prison, sirrah—by the keepers.
O. Fos. [To Rob.] This was your work, to let this bandog loose.
Rob. Sir, it was my duty to let my uncle loose.
O. Fos. Your duty did belong to me, and I
Did not command it.
Rob. You cannot make a separation, sir,
Betwixt the duty that belongs to me
And love unto my uncle: as well you may
Bid me [to] love my maker, and neglect
The creature which he hath bid me [to] love:[45]
If man to man join not a love on earth,
They love not heaven, nor him that dwells above it;
Such is my duty; a strong correlative
Unto my uncle—why, he's half yourself.
Brew. Believe me, sir, he has answer'd you well.
O. Fos. He has not, worthy sir;
But to make void that false construction.
Here I disclaim the title of a brother;
And by that disclaim hast thou lost thy child's part:
Be thou engag'd for any debts of his,
In prison rot with him; my goods shall not
Purchase such fruitless recompence.
Steph. Then thou'rt a scurvy father and a filthy
brother.
Mrs Fos. Ay, ay, sir, your tongue cannot defame
his reputation.
Steph. But yours can; for all the city reports
what an abominable scold he has got to his wife.
O. Fos. If e'er I know thou keep'st him company,
I'll take my blessing from thee whilst I live,
And that which after me should bless thy 'state.
Steph. And I'll proclaim thy baseness to the world;
Ballads I'll make, and make 'em tavern music,
To sing thy churlish cruelty.
O. Fos. Tut, tut, these are babbles.[46]
Steph. Each festival day I'll come unto thy house,
And I will piss upon thy threshold.
O. Fos. You must be out of prison first, sir.
Steph. If e'er I live to see thee sheriff of London,
I'll gild thy painted posts[47] cum privilegio,
And kick thy sergeants.
Rob. Nay, good uncle!
Steph. Why, I'll beg for thee, boy;
I'll break this leg, and bind it up again,
To pull out pity from a stony breast,
Rather than thou shalt want.
O. Fos. Ay, do; let him sear up his arm, and scarf it up
With two yards of rope; counterfeit two villains;
Beg under a hedge, and share your bounty:[48]
But come not near my house;
Nor thou in's company, if thou'lt obey:
There's punishment for thee; for thee there's worse:
The loss of all that's mine, with my dear curse. [Exeunt.
Manent Stephen and Robert.
Steph. Churl! dog! you churlish rascally miser!
Rob. Nay, good uncle, throw not foul language;
This is but heat, sir, and I doubt not but
To cool this rage with my obedience:
But, uncle, you must not then heap[49] such fuel.
Steph. Coz, I grieve for thee, that thou hast undergone
Thy father's curse for love unto thy uncle.
Rob. Tut! that bond shall ne'er be cancell'd, sir.
Steph. I pity that, i'faith.
Rob. Let pity then for me turn to yourself:
Bethink yourself, sir, of some course that might
Befit your estate, and let me guide it.
Steph. Ha, a course? 'Sfoot! I have't![50] Coz,
canst lend me forty shillings? Could I but repair
this old decay'd tenement of mine with some new
plaister; for, alas, what can a man do in such a
case as this?
Rob. Ay, but your course, uncle?
Steph. Tush! leave that to me, because thou
shalt wonder at it: if you should see me in a
scarlet gown within the compass of a gold chain,
then I hope you'll say that I do keep myself in
good compass: then, sir, if the cap of maintenance[51]
do march before me, and not a cap be
suffer'd to be worn in my presence, pray do not
upbraid me with my former poverty. I cannot
tell, state and wealth may make a man forget
himself; but, I beseech you, do not; there are
things in my head that you dream not of; dare
you try me, coz?
Rob. Why, forty shillings, uncle, shall not keep back
Your fortunes.
Steph. Why, gramercy, coz. [Aside.] Now if
the dice do run right, this forty shillings may set
me up again: to lay't on my back, and so to pawn
it, there's ne'er a damn'd broker in the world will
give me half the worth on't: no, whilst 'tis in
ready cash, that's the surest way: seven is better
than eleven; a pox take the bones![52] an they will
not favour a man sometimes.
Rob. Look you, uncle, there's forty shillings for
you.
Steph. As many good angels guard thee, as
thou hast given me bad ones to seduce me! for
these deputy devils damn worse than the old ones.
Now, coz, pray listen; listen after my transformation:
I will henceforth turn an apostate to prodigality;
I will eat cheese and onions, and buy lordships;
and will not you think this strange?
Rob. I am glad you're merry, uncle; but this is fix'd
Betwixt an uncle and a nephew's love;
Though my estate be poor, revenues scant,
Whilst I have any left, you shall not want.
Steph. Why, gramercy! by this hand I'll make
thee an alderman, before I die, do but follow my
steps. [Exeunt.
Enter Widow and Clown.
Wid. Sirrah, will the churchman come I sent you for?
Clown. Yes, mistress, he will come; but pray,
resolve me one thing for my long service. What
business have you with the churchman? Is it to
make your will, or to get you a new husband?
Wid. Suppose to make my will, how then?
Clown. Then I would desire you to remember
me, mistress; I have serv'd you long, and that's
the best service to a woman: make a good will, if
you mean to die, that it may not be said, Though
most women be long-liv'd, yet they all die with an ill-will.
Wid. So, sir; suppose it be for marriage?
Clown. Why, then, remember yourself, mistress:
take heed how you give away the head; it
stands yet upon the shoulders of your widowhood:
the loving, embracing ivy has yet the upper place
in the house; if you give it to the holly, take heed,
there's pricks in holly; or if you fear not the
pricks, take heed of the wands; you cannot have
the pricks without the wands: you give away
the sword, and must defend yourself with the
scabbard: these are pretty instructions of a friend;
I would be loth to see you cast down, and not well
taken up.
Wid. Well, sir, well, let not all this trouble
you; see, he's come: will you begone?
Enter Doctor.[53]
Clown. I will first give him a caveat, to use
you as kindly as he can. [To the Doctor.] If
you find my mistress have a mind to this coupling
at barley-break, let her not be the last couple to
be left in hell.[54]
Doc. I would I knew your meaning, sir.
Clown. If she have a mind to a fresh husband
or so, use her as well as you can; let her enter
into as easy bands as may be.
Doc. Sir, this is none of my traffic; I sell no
husbands.
Clown. Then you do wrong, sir; for you take
money for 'em: what woman can have a husband,
but you must have custom for him? and often the
ware proves naught too—not worth the impost.
Doc. Your man's pregnant[55] and merry, mistress.
Wid. He's saucy, sir. Sirrah, you'll begone?
Clown. Nay, at the second hand you'll have a
fee too; you sell in the church; and[56] they bring
'em again to your churchyard, you must have
tollage: methinks, if a man die whether you will or
no, he should be buried whether you would or no.
Doc. Nay, now you wade too far, sir.
Wid. You'll begone, sirrah!
Clown. Mistress, make him your friend; for
he knows what rate good husbands are at; if
there hath been a dearth of women of late, you
may chance pick out a good prize; but take heed
of a clerk.
Wid. Will you yet, sir, after your needless trouble?
Begone, and bid the maids dress dinner!
Clown. Mistress, 'tis fasting day to-day, there's nothing
But fish.
Wid. Let there be store of that; let bounty
Furnish the table, and charity
Shall be the voider. What fish is there, sirrah?
Clown. Marry, there is salmon, pike, and fresh
cod, soles, maids,[57] and plaice.
Wid. Bid 'em haste to dress 'em then.
Clown. Nay, mistress, I'll help 'em too; the
maids shall first dress the pike and the cod, and
then [Aside] I'll dress the maids in the place you
wot on. [Exit Clown.
Doc. You sent for me, gentlewoman?
Wid. Sir, I did: and to this end:
I have some scruples in my conscience;
Some doubtful problems which I cannot answer
Nor reconcile; I'd have you make them plain.
Doc. This is my duty; pray [you], speak your mind.
Wid. And as I speak, I must remember heaven,
That gave those blessings which I must relate:
Sir, you now behold a wond'rous woman;
You only wonder at the epithet;
I can approve it good: guess at mine age.
Doc. At the half-way 'twixt thirty and forty.
Wid. 'Twas not much amiss; yet nearest to the last.
How think you then, is not this a wonder?
That a woman lives full seven-and-thirty years
Maid to a wife, and wife unto a widow,
Now widow'd, and mine own, yet all this while
From the extremest verge of my remembrance,
Even from my weaning-hour unto this minute,
Did never taste what was calamity?
I know not yet what grief is, yet have sought
An hundred ways for its acquaintance: with me
Prosperity hath kept so close a watch,
That even those things that I have meant a cross,
Have that way turn'd a blessing. Is it not strange?
Doc. Unparallel'd; this gift is singular,
And to you alone belonging: you are the moon,
For there's but one: all women else are stars,
For there are none of like condition.
Full oft and many have I heard complain
Of discontents, thwarts, and adversities,
But a second to yourself I never knew:
To groan under the superflux of blessings,
To have ever been alien unto sorrow,
No trip of fate? Sure, it is wonderful.
Wid. Ay, sir, 'tis wonderful: but is it well?
For it is now my chief affliction.
I have heard you say, that the child of heaven
Shall suffer many tribulations;
Nay, kings and princes share them with their subjects:
Then I that know not any chastisement,
How may I know my part of childhood?[58]
Doc. 'Tis a good doubt; but make it not extreme.
'Tis some affliction that you are afflicted
For want of affliction; cherish that:
Yet wrest it not to misconstruction;
For all your blessings are free gifts from heaven—
Health, wealth, and peace; nor can they turn to curses
But by abuse. Pray, let me question you:
You lost a husband—was it no grief to you?
Wid. It was; but very small. No sooner I
Had given it entertainment as a sorrow,
But straight it turn'd unto my treble joy:
A comfortable revelation prompts me then,
That husband (whom in life I held so dear)
Had chang'd a frailty to unchanging joys;
Methought I saw him stellified in heaven,
And singing hallelujahs 'mongst a quire
Of white-sainted souls: then again it spake,
And said it was a sin for me to grieve
At his best good, that I esteemed best:
And thus this slender shadow of a grief
Vanish'd again.
Doc. All this was happy; nor can you wrest it from
A heavenly blessing: do not appoint the rod;
Leave still the stroke unto the magistrate:
The time is not passed, but you may feel enough.
Wid. One taste more I had, although but little,
Yet I would aggravate to make the most on't;
Thus 'twas: the other day it was my hap,
In crossing of the Thames,
To drop that wedlock ring from off my finger
That once conjoin'd me and my dead husband;
It sank; I priz'd it dear—the dearer, 'cause it kept
Still in mine eye the memory of my loss;
Yet I griev'd [less] the loss; and [I] did joy withal,
That I had found a grief: and this is all
The sorrow I can boast of.
Doc. This is but small.
Wid. Nay, sure I am of this opinion,
That had I suffered a draught to be made for it,
The bottom would have sent it up again,
I am so wondrously fortunate.
Doc. You would not suffer it?
Enter Clown.
Wid. Not for my whole estate.
Clown. O mistress! where are you? I think
you are the fortunatest woman that ever breathed
on two shoes: the thief is found.
Wid. The thief! what thief? I never was so
happy to be robbed.
Clown. Bring him away, Jug: nay, you shall
see the strangest piece of felony discovered that
ever you saw, or your great grandmother's grandam
before, or after; a pirate, a water-thief.
Wid. What's all this?
Clown. Bring him away, Jug: yet the villain
would not confess a word, till it was found about
him.
Wid. I think the fellow's mad.
Clown. Did you not lose your wedding-ring
the other day?
Wid. Yes, sir, but I was not robbed of it.
Enter Joan with a fish.
Clown. No! well, thank him that brings it
home then, and will ask nothing for his pains.
You see this salmon?
Wid. Yes, what of it?
Clown. It cost but sixpence: but had the fisher
known the worth of it, 'twould have cost you forty
shillings. Is not this your ring?
Wid. The very same.
Clown. Your maid Joan, examining this
salmon, that she bought in the market, found
that he had swallowed this gudgeon.
Wid. How am I vex'd with blessings! how think you, sir,
Is not this above wonder?
Doc. I am amaz'd at it.
Wid. First, that this fish should snatch it as a bait;
Then that my servant needs must buy that fish
'Mongst such infinities of fish and buyers:
What fate is mine that runs all by itself
In unhappy happiness? My conscience dreads it.
Would thou hadst not swallowed it, or thou not bought it.
Clown. Alas! blame not the poor fish, mistress:
he, being a phlegmatic creature, took gold for
restorative.[59] He took it fair; and he that gets
gold, let him eat gold.
Wid. Nothing can hinder fate.
Doc. Seek not to cross it, then.
Wid. [To Joan.] About your business! you have
not pleased me in this.
Joan. By my maidenhead! if I had thought you
would have ta'en it no kindlier, you should ne'er
have been vexed with the sight on't; the garbage
should have been the cook's fees at this time. [Exit Joan.
Clown. Now do I see the old proverb come to
pass—Give a woman luck, and cast her into the
sea: there's many a man would wish his wife good
luck on that condition he might throw her away
so. But, mistress, there's one within would speak
with you, that vexeth as fast against crosses as you
do against good luck.
Wid. I know her sure, then; 'tis my gossip Foster.
Request her in; here's good company, tell her.
Clown. I'll tell her so for my own credit's sake. [Exit.
Wid. Yon shall now see an absolute contrary:
Would I had chang'd bosoms with her for a time!
'Twould make me better relish happiness.
Enter Mistress Foster and Clown.
Mrs Fos. O friend and gossip, where are you? I am
O'erladen with my griefs, and but in your bosom
I know not where to ease me.
Clown. I had rather
Help you to a close-stool, an't please you. [Aside.
Mrs Fos. Ne'er had woman more sinister fate;
All ominous stars were in conjunction
Even at my birth, and do still attend me.
Doc. This is a perfect contrary indeed.
Wid. What ails you, woman?
Mrs Fos. Unless seven witches had set spells about me,
I could not be so cross'd; never at quiet,
Never a happy hour, not a minute's content.
Doc. You hurt yourself most with impatience.
Mrs Fos. Ay, ay, physicians 'minister with ease,
Although the patient do receive in pain:
Would I could think but of one joyful hour!
Clown. You have had two husbands to my
knowledge; and if you had not one joyful hour
between both, I would you were hanged, i' faith. [Aside.
Mrs Fos. Full fourteen years I liv'd a weary maid,
Thinking no joy till I had got a husband.
Clown. That was a tedious time indeed. [Aside.
Mrs Fos. I had one lov'd me well, and then ere long
I grew into my longing peevishness.
Clown. There was some pleasure ere you came to that. [Aside.
Mrs Fos. Then all the kindness that he would apply,
Nothing could please: soon after it he died.
Clown. That could be but little grief. [Aside.
Mrs Fos. Then worldly care did so o'erload my weakness,
That I must have a second stay; I chose again,
And there begins my griefs to multiply.
Wid. It cannot be, friend; your husband's kind.
Doc. A man of fair condition, well-reputed.
Clown. But it may be he has not that should please her.
Wid. Peace, sirrah! How can your sorrows increase from him?
Mrs Fos. How can they but o'erwhelm me? He keeps a son,
That makes my state his prodigality;
To him a brother, one of the city scandals.
The one the hand, the other is the maw;
And between both my goods are swallowed up.
The full quantity that I brought amongst 'em
Is now consum'd to half.
Wid. The fire of your spleen wastes it:
Good sooth, gossip, I could laugh at thee, and only grieve
I have not some cause of sorrow with thee:
Prythee, be temperate, and suffer.
Doc. 'Tis good counsel, mistress; receive it so.
Wid. Canst thou devise to lay them half on me?
And I'll bear 'em willingly.
Mrs Fos. Would I could! that I might laugh another while:
But you are wise to heed at others' harms;
You'll keep you happy in your widowhood.
Wid. Not I, in good faith, were I sure marriage
Would make me unhappy.
Mrs Fos. Try, try, you shall not need to wish;
You'll sing another song, and bear a part
In my grief's descant, when you're vex'd at heart:
Your second choice will differ from the first;
So oft as widows marry, they are accurs'd.
Clown. Ay, cursed widows are; but if they
had all stiff husbands to tame 'em, they'd be quiet
enough.
Wid. You'll be gone, sir, and see dinner ready.
Clown. I care not if I do, mistress, now my stomach's ready;
Yet I'll stay a little, an't be but to vex you.
Wid. When go you, sirrah?
Clown. I will not go yet.
Wid. Ha, ha, ha! thou makest me laugh at thee; prythee, stay.
Clown. Nay, then, I'll go to vex you. [Exit Clown.
Mrs Fos. You have a light heart, gossip.
Wid. So should you, woman, would you be rul'd by me.
Come, we'll dine together; after walk abroad
Unto my suburb garden,[60] where, if thou'lt hear,
I'll read my heart to thee, and thou from thence
Shall learn to vex thy cares with patience. [Exeunt.
Enter Host Boxall, Stephen, Jack, Dick, and
Hugh.
Host. Welcome still, my merchants of bona
Speranza; what's your traffic, bullies? What
ware deal you in?—cards, dice, bowls, or pigeon-holes?
Sort 'em yourselves: either passage,
Novem, or mumchance?[61] Say, my brave bursemen,
what's your recreation?
Steph. Dice, mine host. Is there no other room
empty?
Host. Not a hole unstopped in my house but
this, my thrifts.
Jack. Miscall us not for our money, good mine
host; we are none of your thrifts. We have
'scaped that scandal long ago.
Dick. Yes, his thrifts we are, Jack, though not
our own.
Host. Tush, you are young men; 'tis too soon
to thrive yet. He that gathers young, spends
when he's old. 'Tis better to begin ill and end
well, than to begin well and end ill. Miserable
fathers have, for the most part, unthrifty sons.
Leave not too much for your heirs, boys.
Jack. He says well, i' faith: why should a man
trust to executors?
Steph. As good trust to hangmen as to executors.
Who's in the bowling-alley, mine host?
Host. Honest traders, thrifty lads, they are
rubbing on't; towardly boys, every one strives to
lie nearest the mistress.[62]
Steph. Give's a bale of dice.[63]
Host. Here, my brave wags.
Steph. We fear no counters now, mine host,
so long as we have your bale so ready.[64] Come,
trip.
Jack. Up with's heels.
Dick. Down with them.
Hugh. Now the dice are mine; set me now a
fair board; a fair passage, sweet bones! Boreas![65]
[A noise below in the bowling-alley of betting
and wrangling.
Host. How now, my fine trundletails;[66] my
wooden cosmographers; my bowling-alley in an
uproar? Is Orlando up in arms? I must be
stickler; I am constable, justice, and beadle in
mine own house; I accuse, sentence, and punish:
have amongst you! look to my box, boys![67] He
that breaks the peace, I brake his pate for recompense:
look to my box, I say! [Exit.
Steph. A pox o' your box! I shall ne'er be so
happy to reward it better; set me fair; aloft now.
[The dice are thrown.
Jack. Out.
Steph. What was't?
Dick. Two treys and an ace.
Steph. Seven still, pox on't! that number of
the deadly sins haunts me damnably. Come, sir,
throw.
Jack. Prythee, invoke not so: all sinks too fast
already.
Hugh. It will be found again in mine host's
box. [The dice are thrown.
Jack. In still, two thieves and choose thy
fellow.
Steph. Take the miller.
Jack. Have at them, i' faith. [Throws.
Hugh. For a thief, I'll warrant you; who'll
you have next?
Jack. Two quatres and a trey.
Steph. I hope we shall have good cheer, when
two caters and a tray go to the market.[68]
Enter Host.
Host. So all's whist; they play upon the still
pipes now; the bull-beggar[69] comes when I show
my head. Silence is a virtue, and I have made
'em virtuous. Let 'em play still till they be penniless;
pawn till they be naked; so they be quiet,
welcome and welcome. (A noise above at cards.)
How now! how now! my roaring Tamberlain?
take heed, the Soldan comes: and 'twere not for
profit, who would live amongst such bears? Why,
Ursa Major, I say, what, in Capite Draconis? is
there no hope to reclaim you? shall I never live in
quiet for you?
Dick. Good mine host, still 'em; civil gamesters
cannot play for 'em.
Host. I come amongst you, you maledictious
slaves! I'll utter you all; some I'll take ready
money for, and lay up the rest in the stocks: look
to my box, I say!
Steph. Your box is like your belly, mine host:
it draws all. Now for a suit of apparel. [Throws the dice.
Jack. At whose suit, I pray? You're out
again with the threes.
Steph. Foot! I think my father threw three
when I was begotten: pox on't! I know now why
I am so haunted with threes.
Jack. Why, I prythee?
Steph. I met the third part of a knave as I came.
Jack. The third part of a knave? 'sfoot! what
thing's that?
Steph. Why, a serjeant's yeoman, man; the
supervisor himself is but a whole one, and he
shares but a groat in the shilling with him.
Dick. That's but the third part indeed: but
goes he no further?
Steph. No, he rests there.
Hugh. Come, let's give o'er.
Steph. I thank you, sir, and so much a loser?
there's but the waistband of my suit left:[70] now,
sweet bones!
Hugh. Twelve at all. [Throws.
Steph. Soft, this die is false.
Hugh. False? you do him wrong, sir; he's true
to his master.
Steph. Fullam!
Dick. I'll be hanged, then! where's Putney,
then, I pray you?[71]
Steph. 'Tis false, and I'll have my money again.
Hugh. You shall have cold iron with your
silver, then.
Steph. Ay, have at you, sir!
Enter Host and Young Foster.
Host. I think he's here, sir.
[They draw their swords and fight. Young
Foster assists his uncle and the host, and
the cheats are beaten. Whilst they are fighting,
the bowlers enter and steal away their
cloaks.
Rob. I am sure he's now, sir.
Hugh. Hold! hold! an' you be gentlemen,
hold!
Rob. Get you gone, varlets, or there's hold to
be taken!
Host. Nay, sweet sir, no bloodshed in my
house; I am lord of misrule; pray you, put up,
sir.
Omnes. 'Sfoot! mine host, where are our
cloaks?
Host. Why, this is quarrelling: make after in
time: some of your own crew, to try the weight,
has lifted them: look out, I say.
Jack. There will ever be thieves in a dicing
house till thou be'st hanged, I'll warrant thee. [Exit.
Steph. Mine host, my cloak was lined through
with orange-tawny velvet.
Host. How, your cloak? I ne'er knew thee
worth one.
Steph. You're a company of coneycatching rascals:
is this a suit to walk without a cloak in?
Rob. Uncle, is this the reformation that you
promised me?
Steph. Coz, shall I tell thee the truth? I had
diminished but sixpence of the forty shillings; by
chance meeting with a friend, I went to a tailor,
bargained for a suit: it came to full forty: I tendered
my thirty-nine and a half, and (do you think)
the scabby-wristed rascal would [not] trust me for
sixpence!
Rob. Your credit is the better, uncle.
Steph. Pox on him! if the tailor had been a
man, I had had a fair suit on my back: so venturing
for the other tester——
Rob. You lost the whole bedstead.[72]
Steph. But after this day, I protest, coz, you
shall never see me handle those bones again; this
day I break up school: if ever you call me unthrift
after this day, you do me wrong.
Rob. I should be glad to wrong you so, uncle.
Steph. And what says your father yet, coz?
Rob. I'll tell you that in your ear.
Enter Mistress Foster, Widow, and Clown.
Mrs Fos. Nay, I pray you, friend, bear me
company a little this way; for into this dicing-house
I saw my good son-in-law enter, and 'tis odds
but he meets his uncle here.
Wid. You cannot tire me, gossip, in your company;
'tis the best affliction I have to see you impatient.
Mrs Fos. Ay, ay, you may make mirth of my sorrow.
Clown. We have hunted well, mistress; do you not see the hare's in sight?
Mrs Fos. Did not I tell you so? ay, ay, there's
good counsel between you; the one would go afoot
to hell, the other the horseway.
Rob. Mother, I am sorry you have trod this path.
Mrs Fos. Mother? hang thee, wretch! I bore thee not;
But many afflictions I have borne for thee:
Wert thou mine own, I'd see thee stretch'd (a handful),
And put thee a coffin into the cart
Ere thou shouldst vex me thus.
Rob. Were I your own,
You could not use me worse than you do.
Mrs Fos. I'll make thy father turn thee out for ever,
Or else I'll make him wish him in his grave.
You'll witness with me, gossip, where I've found him.
Clown. Nay, I'll be sworn upon a book of calico for that.
Rob. It shall not need; I'll not deny that I was with my uncle.
Mrs Fos. And that shall disinherit thee, if thy father
Be an honest man: thou hadst been better
To have been born a viper, and eat thy way
Through thy mother's womb into the world,
Than to tempt my displeasure.
Steph. Thou liest, Xantippe! it had been better
Thou'dst been press'd to death under two Irish rugs,
Than to ride honest Socrates, thy husband, thus,
And abuse his honest child.
Mrs Fos. Out, raggamuffin? dost thou talk? I shall see thee
In Ludgate again shortly.
Steph. Thou liest again: 'twill be at Moorgate,
beldam, where I shall see thee in the ditch dancing
in a cucking-stool.[73]
Mrs Fos. I'll see thee hanged first.
Steph. Thou liest again.
Clown. Nay, sir, you do wrong to give a woman
so many lies: she had rather have had twice so
many standings than one lie.
Mrs Fos. I'll lie with him, I'll warrant him.
Steph. You'll be a whore, then.
Clown. Little less, I promise you, if you lie with him.
Steph. If you complain upon mine honest coz,
And that his father be offended with him,
The next time I meet thee, though it be i' the street,
I'll dance i' th' dirt upon thy velvet cap;
Nay, worse, I'll stain thy ruff; nay, worse than that,
I'll do thus. [Holds a wisp.[74]
Mrs Fos. O my heart; gossip, do you see this? Was ever
Woman thus abus'd?
Wid. Methinks 'tis good sport, i' faith.
Mrs Fos. Ay, I am well recompens'd to complain to you?
Had you such a kindred——
Wid. I would rejoice in't, gossip.
Mrs Fos. Do so; choose here then. O my
heart! but I'll do your errand! O that my nails
were not pared! but I'll do your errand! Will
you go, gossip?
Wid. No, I'll stay awhile, and tell 'em out with
patience.
Mrs Fos. I cannot hold a joint still! Dost
wisp me, thou tatterdemalion? I'll do your
errands! if I have a husband. O that I could
spit wild-fire! My heart! O my heart! if it does
not go pantle, pantle, pantle in my belly, I am no
honest woman: but I'll do your errands!
[Exit Mistress Foster.
Rob. Kind gentlewoman, you have some
patience.
Wid. I have too much, sir.
Rob. You may do a good office, and make yourself
a peaceful moderator betwixt me and my
angry father, whom his wife hath moved to spleen
against me.
Wid. Sir, I do not disallow the kindness
Your consanguinity renders; I would not teach
You otherwise: I'd speak with your uncle, sir,
If you'll give me leave.
Clown. [To Robert.] You may talk with me,
sir, in the meantime. [Exit Robert and Clown.
Steph. With me would you talk, gentlewoman?
Wid. Yes, sir, with you: you are a brave
unthrift.
Steph. Not very brave neither, yet I make a
shift.
Wid. When you have a clean shirt.
Steph. I'll be no pupil to a woman. Leave
your discipline.
Wid. Nay, pray you, hear me, sir, I cannot chide;
I'll but give you good counsel: 'tis not a good
Course that you run.
Steph. Yet I must run to th' end of it.
Wid. I would teach you a better, if you'd stay
where you are.
Steph. I would stay where I am, if I had any
money.
Wid. In the dicing-house?
Steph. I think so too; I have played at passage
all this while, now I'd go to hazard.
Wid. Dost thou want money? Thou art worthy
to be tattered! Hast thou no wit, now thy money's
gone?
Steph. 'Tis all the portion I have. I have
nothing to maintain me but my wit; my money is
too little, I'm sure.
Wid. I cannot believe thy wit's more than thy
money—a fellow so well-limbed, so able to do good
service, and want?
Steph. Why, mistress, my shoulders were not
made for a frock and a basket, nor a coal-sack;
no, nor my hands to turn a trencher at a table's
side.
Wid. I like that resolution well; but how comes
it then that thy wit leaves thy body unfurnished?
Thou art very poor?
Steph. The fortune of the dice, you see.
Wid. They are the only wizards, I confess,
The only fortune-tellers; but he that goes
To seek his fortune from them must never hope
To have a good destiny allotted him.
Yet it is not the course that I dislike in thee,
But that thou canst not supply that course,
And outcross them that cross thee; were I as thou art—
Steph. You'd be as beggarly as I am.
Wid. I'll be hanged first.
Steph. Nay, you must be well hanged ere you
can be as I am.
Wid. So, sir: I conceit you. Were I as well
hanged, then, as you could imagine, I would tell
some rich widow such a tale in her ear—
Steph. Ha! some rich widow? By this penniless
pocket, I think 'twere not the worst way.
Wid. I'd be ashamed to take such a fruitless
oath. I say, seek me out some rich widow;
promise her fair—she's apt to believe a young
man. Marry her, and let her estate fly. No
matter: 'tis charity. Twenty to one some rich
miser raked it together. This is none of Hercules'
labours.
Steph. Ha? Let me recount these articles:
seek her out; promise her fair; marry her; let her
estate fly. But where should I find her?
Wid. The easiest of all. Why, man, they are
more common than tavern-bushes; two fairs
might be furnished every week in London with
'em, though no foreigners came in, if the charter
were granted once: nay, 'tis thought, if the horsemarket
be removed, that Smithfield shall be so
employed; and then, I'll warrant you, 'twill be as
well furnished with widows as 'twas with sows,
cows, and old trotting jades before.
Steph. 'Sfoot! if it were, I would be a chapman;
I'd see for my pleasure, and buy for my
love, for money I have none.
Wid. Thou shalt not stay the market, if thou'lt
be ruled. I'll find thee out a widow, and help in
some of the rest too, if thou'lt but promise me the
last, but to let her estate fly; for she's one I love
not, and I'd be glad to see that revenge on her.
Steph. Spend her estate? were't five aldermen's.
I'll put you in security for that; 'sfoot!
all my neighbours shall be bound for me; nay,
my kind sister-in-law shall pass her word for
that.
Wid. Only this I'll enjoin you: to be matrimonially
honest to her for your own health's
sake. All other injuries shall be blessings to
her.
Steph. I'll bless her, then; I ever drank so
much, that I was never great feeder. Give me
drink and my pleasure, and a little flesh serves my
turn.
Wid. I'll show thee the party. What sayest
thou to myself?
Steph. Yourself, gentlewoman? I would it
were no worse. I have heard you reputed a
rich widow.
Wid. I have a lease of thousands at least, sir.
Steph. I'll let out your leases for you, if you'll
allow me the power, I'll warrant you.
Wid. That's my hope, sir; but you must be
honest withal.
Steph. I'll be honest with some; if I can be
honest with all, I will too.
Wid. Give me thy hand; go home with me, I'll
give thee better clothes; and, as I like thee then,
we'll go further; we may chance make a blind
bargain of it.
Steph. I can make no blind bargain, unless I be
in your bed, widow.
Wid. No, I bar that, sir; let's begin honestly,
howe'er we end: marry, for the waste of my estate,
spare it not; do thy worst.
Steph. I'll do bad enough, fear it not.
Wid. Come, will you walk, sir?
Steph. No, widow, I'll stand to no hazard of
blind bargains; either promise me marriage, and
give me earnest in a handfast, or I'll not budge a
foot.
Wid. No, sir? are you grown so stout already?
Steph. I'll grow stouter when I'm married.
Wid. I hope thou'lt vex me.
Steph. I'll give you cause, I'll warrant you.
Wid. I shall rail and curse thee, I hope; yet I'd
not have thee give over neither; for I would be
vexed. Here's my hand! I am thine, thou art
mine: I'll have thee with all faults.
Steph. You shall have one with some, an' you
have me.
Enter Robert and Clown.
Wid. Here's witness[es]. [To Robert.] Come
hither, sir—cousin I must call you shortly; and
you, sirrah, be witness to this match; here's man
and wife.
Rob. I joy at mine uncle's happiness, widow.
Clown. I do forbid the banns: alas! poor shag-rag,
my mistress does but gull him. [To Stephen.]
You may imagine it to be twelfth-day at night,
and the bean found in the corner of your cake, but
'tis not worth a vetch, I'll assure you[75].
Wid. You'll let me dispose of myself, I hope?
Clown. You love to be merry, mistress: come,
come, give him four farthings, and let him go.
He'll pray for his good dame, and be drunk. Why,
if your blood does itch that way, we'll stand together.
[Places himself by the side of Stephen.] How think
you? I think here is the sweeter bit; [Pointing to himself]
you see this nit[76], and you see this louse! you
may crack o' your choice, if you choose here.
Wid. You have put me to my choice, then;
see, here I choose: this is my husband; thus I
begin the contract. [Kisses Stephen.
Steph. 'Tis sealed; I am thine. Now, coz,
fear no black storms: if thy father thunder, come
to me for shelter.
Wid. His word is now a deed, sir.
Rob. I thank you both. Uncle, what my joy
conceives, I cannot utter yet.
Clown. I will make black Monday of this!
ere I suffer this disgrace, the kennel shall run with
blood and rags.
Rob. Sir, I am your opposite.
Clown. I have nothing to say to you, sir; I aim
at your uncle.
Rob. He has no weapon.
Clown. That's all one, I'll take him as I find
him.
Wid. I have taken him so before you, sir:
will you be quiet?
Steph. Thou shalt take me so too, Hodge, for
I'll be thy fellow, though thy mistress's husband.
Give me thy hand.
[Exeunt Widow, Stephen, and Robert.
Clown. I'll make you seek your fingers among
the dogs, if you come to me. My fellow? You
lousy companion, I scorn thee. 'Sfoot! is't come
to this? Have I stood all this while to my mistress
an honest, handsome, plain-dealing serving-creature,
and she to marry a whoreson tityre
tu tattere with never a good rag about him?
[Draws his sword, and puts his cap on the point of it.]
Stand thou to me, and be my friend; and since
my mistress has forsaken me——
Enter Robert.
Rob. How now? what's the matter?
Clown. 'Twas well you came in good time.
Rob. Why, man?
Clown. I was going the wrong way.
Rob. But tell me one thing I apprehend not:
why didst lay thy cap upon the sword's point?
Clown. Dost not thou know the reason of
that? why, 'twas to save my belly: dost thou
think I am so mad to cast myself away for e'er a
woman of 'em all? I'll see 'em hanged first!
Rob. Come, Roger, will you go?
Clown. Well, since there is no remedy. O
tears! be you my friend.
Rob. Nay, prythee, Roger, do not cry.
Clown. I cannot choose; nay, I will steep
Mine eyes in crying tears, and crying weep. [Exeunt.
Enter Alderman Brewen, Sir Godfrey Speedwell,
Innocent Lambskin, and Mistress
Jane.
Brew. Gentlemen, you're welcome; that once
well-pronounced has a thousand echoes. Let it
suffice, I have spoke it to the full. Here's your
affairs, here's your merchandise—this is your
prize. [Pointing to Jane.
If you can mix your names and gentle bloods
With the poor daughter of a citizen,
I make the passage free, to greet and court,
Traffic the mart of love, clap hands, and strike
The bargain through; she pleas'd, and I shall like.
Speed. 'Tis good ware, believe me, sir: I know
that by mine own experience, for I have handled
the like many times in my first wife's days. Ay,
by knighthood! sometimes before I was married,
too; therefore I know't by mine own experience.
Lamb. Well, sir, I know by observation as much
as you do by experience; for I have known many
gentlemen have taken up such ware as this is, but
it has lain on their hands as long as they lived.
This I have seen by observation.
Jane. [Aside.] I am like to have a couple of
fair chapmen. If they were at my own dispose, I
would willingly raffle them both at twelvepence a
share. They would be good food for a new plantation.
The one might mend his experience, and
the other his observation very much.[77]
Speed. Sir, let me advise you; I see you want
experience. Meddle no further in this case;
'twill be the more credit for your observation, for
I find by my experience you are but shallow.
Lamb. But shallow, sir? Your experience is a
little wide; you shall find I will be as deep in this
case as yourself. My observation has been where
your experience must wait at door; yet I will give
you the fore-horse place, and I will be in the
thills[78], because you are the elder tree, and I the
young plant. Put on your experience, and I will
observe.
Speed. Sweet virgin, to be prolix and tedious
fits not experience. Short words and large deeds
are best pleasing to women.
Jane. So, sir.
Speed. My name is Speedwell by my father's
copy.
Jane. Then you never served for't, it seems[79].
Speed. Yes, sweet feminine! I have served
for it too; for I found my nativity suited to my
name. As my name is Speedwell, so have I sped
well in divers actions.
Jane. It must needs be a fair and comely suit,
then.
Lamb. You observe very well, sweet virgin;
for his nativity is his doublet, which is the upper
part of his suit; and his name is in's breeches,
for that part, which is his name, he defiles many
times.
Speed. Your observation is corrupt, sir. Let
me show mine own tale. I say, sweet beauty, my
name is Speedwell. My godfather, by his bounty
(being an old soldier, and having served in the wars
as far as Boulogne) therefore called my name Godfrey,
a title of large renown.[80] My wealth and wit
has added to those the paraphrase of knighthood,
so that my name in the full longitude is called
Sir Godfrey Speedwell, a name of good experience.
Jane. If every quality you have be as large in
relation as your name, sir, I should imagine the
best of them, rather than hear them reported.
Speed. You say well, sweet modesty; a good
imagination is good, and shows your good experience.
Lamb. Nay, if names can do any good, I beseech
you observe mine. My name is Lambskin, a thing
both hot and harmless.
Jane. On, sir; I would not interrupt you,
because you should be brief.
Lamb. My godfather, seeing in my face some
notes of disposition, in my cradle did give me the
title of Innocent,[81] which I have practised all my
lifetime; and since my father's decease, my wealth
has purchased me in the vanguard of my name the
paraphrase of gentility, so that I am called Master
Innocent Lambskin.
Jane. In good time: and what trade was your
father, sir?
Lamb. My father was of an occupation before
he was a tradesman; for, as I have observed in my
father's and mother's report, they set up together
in their youth. My father was a starch-maker,
and my mother a laundress; so, being partners,
they did occupy[82] long together before they were
married; then was I born.
Jane. What, before your father was married?
Lamb. Truly a little after. I was the first-fruits,
as they say. Then did my father change his copy,
and set up a brewhouse.
Jane. Ay, then came your wealth in, sir.
Lamb. Your observation's good. I have carried
the tallies[83] at my girdle seven year together with
much delight and observation, for I did ever love
to deal honestly in the nick.
Jane. A very innocent resolution.
Speed. Your experience may see his coarse education;
but to the purpose, sweet female. I do
love that face of yours.
Jane. Sir, if you love nothing but my face, I
cannot sell it from the rest.
Lamb. You may see his slender observation.
Sweet virgin, I do love your lower parts better
than your face.
Speed. Sir, you do interrupt and thwart my
love.
Lamb. Ay, sir, I am your rival, and I will
thwart your love; for your love licks at the face,
and my love shall be arsy-versy to yours.
Jane. I would desire no better wooing of so
bad suitors.
Steph. Mistake me not, kind-heart.
Lamb. He calls you tooth-drawer by way of experience.[84]
Speed. In loving your face, I love all the rest
of your body, as you shall find by experience.
Jane. Well, sir, you love me, then?
Speed. Let your experience make a trial.
Jane. No, sir, I'll believe you rather, and I
thank you for't.
Lamb. I love you too, fair maid, double and
treble, if it please you.
Jane. I thank you too, sir; I am so much beholding
to you both, I am afraid I shall never requite
it.
Speed. Requite one, sweet chastity, and let it be
Sir Godfrey, with the correspondency of your love
to him. I will maintain you like a lady; and it is
brave, as I know by experience.
Lamb. I will maintain you like a gentlewoman:
and that may be better maintenance than a lady's,
as I have found by observation.
Speed. How dare you maintain that, sir?
Lamb. I dare maintain it with my purse, sir.
Speed. I dare cross it with my sword, sir.
[Lays his hand on his sword.
Lamb. If you dare cross my purse with your
sword, sir, I'll lay an action of suspicion of felony
to you; that's flat, sir.
Jane. Nay, pray you, gentlemen, do not quarrel
till you know for what.
Brew. O, no quarrelling, I beseech you, gentlemen!
the reputation of my house is soiled if
any uncivil noise arise in't.
Lamb. Let him but shake his blade at me, and
I'll throw down my purse and cry a rape; I scorn
to kill him, but I'll hang his knighthood, I warrant
him, if he offer assault and battery on my purse.
Brew. Nay, good sir, put up your sword.
Speed. You have confined him prisoner for ever:
I hope your experience sees he's a harmless thing.
Enter George.
George. Sir, here's young Master Foster requests
to speak with you.
Brew. Does he? Prythee, request him [in].
Gentlemen, please you taste the sweetness of my
garden awhile, and let my daughter bear you company.
Speed. Where she is leader, there will be followers.
Jane. [Aside to her father.] You send me to the
galleys, sir; pray you, redeem me as soon as you
can: these are pretty things for mirth, but not for
serious uses.
Brew. Prythee, be merry with them then
awhile, if but for courtesy; thou hast wit enough:
but take heed they quarrel not.
Jane. Nay, I dare take in hand to part 'em
without any danger; but I beseech you, let me
not be too long a prisoner. Will you walk, gentlemen.
Lamb. If it please you to place one of us for
your conduct, otherwise this old coxcomb and I
shall quarrel.
Jane. Sir Godfrey, you are the eldest; pray,
lead the way.
Speed. With all my heart, sweet virgin. [Aside.]
Ah! ah! this place promises well in the eyes of
experience. Master Innocent, come you behind.
Lamb. Right, sir; but I put the gentlewoman
before, and that is the thing I desire; and there
your experience halts a little.
Speed. When I look back, sir, I see your nose
behind.
Lamb. Then when I look back your nose stands
here.
Speed. Sweet lady, follow experience.
Lamb. And let observation follow you. [Exeunt.
Brew. So: now request you Master Foster in,
George; but hark! does that news hold his own
still, that our ships are so near return, as laden on
the Downs with such a wealthy fraughtage?
George. Yes, sir, and the next tide [do] purpose to
Put into the river. Master Foster, your partner,
Hath now receiv'd more such intelligence, with
Most o' the particulars of your merchandise;
Your venture is return'd with treble blessings.
Brew. Let him be ever blessed that sent [it]!
George, now call in the young man; and hark ye,
George, from him run to my partner, and request
him to me. This news, I'm sure, makes him a
joyful merchant; for my own part, I'll not forget
my vow. [Exit George.
This free addition heaven hath lent my state,
As freely back to heaven I'll dedicate.
Enter Robert Foster.
Ay, marry, sir, would this were a third suitor to
My daughter Jane! I should better like him than
All that's come yet. Now, Master Foster, are
Your father and yourself yet reconcil'd?
Rob. Sir, 'twas my business in your courteous tongue
To put the arbitration. I have again
(Discover'd by my mother) reliev'd my poor uncle;
Whose anger now so great is multiplied,
I dare not venture in the eye of either,
Till your persuasions [shall] with fair excuse
Have made my satisfaction.
Brew. Mother-o'-pearl! sir, 'tis a shrewd task;
Yet I'll do my best: your father hath so good news,
That I hope 'twill be a fair motive to't;
But women's tongues are dangerous stumbling-blocks
To lie in the way of peace.
Enter George.
Now, George?
George. Master Foster's coming, sir.
Rob. I beseech you, sir, let not me see him
Till you have conferr'd with him.
Brew. Well, well! [To George.] Ere your return
to Master Foster, call my daughter forth of the garden.
[Exit George.
And how does your uncle, Master Foster?
Rob. Sir, so well,
I'd be loth to anticipate the fame
That shortly will o'erspread the city
Of his good fortunes.
Brew. Why, I commend thee still;
He wants no good from thee—no, not in report:
'Tis well done, sir, and you show duty in't.
Enter Jane.
Now, daughter, where are your lusty suitors?
Jane. I was glad of my release, sir. Suitors
call you 'em? I'd keep dish-water continually
boiling, but I'd seethe such suitors: I have had
much ado to keep 'em from bloodshed. I have
seen for all the world a couple of cowardly curs
quarrel in that fashion; as the one turns his head,
the other snaps behind; and as he turns, his
mouth recoils again: but I thank my pains for't, I
have leagued with 'em for a week without any further
intercourse.
Brew. Well, daughter, well; say a third
trouble come; say in the person of young Master
Foster here came a third suitor: how then?
Jane. Three's the woman's total arithmetic:
indeed I would learn to number no farther, if
there was a good account made of that.
Rob. I can instruct you so far, sweet beauty.
Jane. Take heed, sir; I have had ill-handsel
to-day; perhaps 'tis not the fortunate season; you
were best adjourn your journey to some happier
time.
Rob. There shall no augurism fright my plain
dealing: sweet, I fear no hours.
Jane. You'll not betray me with love-powder?
Rob. Nor with gunpowder neither, i' faith; yet
I'll make you yield, if I can.
Brew. Go, get you together; your father will
be coming; leave me with your suit to him, ply
this yourself: and, Jane, use him kindly; he shall
be his father's heir, I can tell you.
Jane. Never the more for that, father; if I use
him kindly, it shall be for something I like in himself,
and not for any good he borrows of his father.
But come, sir, will you walk into the garden? for
that's the field I have best fortune to overcome my
suitors in.
Rob. I fear not that fate neither; but if I walk
into your garden, I shall be tasting your sweets.
Jane. Taste sweetly, and welcome, sir; for
there grows honesty, I can tell you.
Rob. I shall be plucking at your honesty.
Jane. By my honesty, but you shall not, sir:
I'll hold you a handful of pennyroyal of that; i'
faith, if you touch my honesty there, I'll make you
eat sorrel to your supper, though I eat sullenwood[85]
myself: no, sir, gather first time and sage, and
such wholesome herbs, and honesty and heart's-ease
will ripen the whilst.
Rob. You have fair roses, have you not.
Jane. Yes, sir, roses; but no gilliflowers.[86]
Brew. Go, go, and rest on Venus' violets:
Show her a dozen of bachelor's buttons, boy.
[Exit Robert and Jane.
Here comes his father.
Enter Old Master Foster and his Wife.
Now, my kind partner, have we good news?
O. Fos. Sir, in a word take it: your full lading
And venture is return'd at sixtyfold increase.
Brew. Heaven take the glory! a wondrous blessing;
O, keep us strong against these flowing tides!
Man is too weak to bound himself below,
When such high waves do mount him.
O. Fos. O, sir, care and ambition seldom meet;
Let us be thrifty; titles will faster come,
Than we shall wish to have them.
Brew. Faith, I desire none.
O. Fos. Why, sir, if so you please, I'll ease your cares;
Shall I, like a full adventurer, now bid you
A certain ready sum for your half traffic.
Brew. Ay, and I'd make you gainer by it, too;
For then would I lay by my trouble, and begin
A work which I have promis'd unto heaven;
A house, a Domus Dei shall be rais'd,
Which shall to doomsday be established
For succour to the poor; for in all ages
There must be such.
O. Fos. Shall I bid your venture at a venture?
Brew. Pray you, do, sir.
O. Fos. Twenty thousand pounds?
Brew. Nay, then you underrate your own
value much: will you make it thirty?
O. Fos. Shall I meet you half-way?
Brew. I meet you there, sir: for five-and-twenty
thousand pounds the full venture's yours.
O. Fos. If you like my payment, 'tis the one-half
in ready cash, the other seal'd for six months.
Brew. 'Tis merchant-like and fair. George, you
observe this? Let the contents be drawn.
George. They shall, sir.
O. Fos. Your hazard is now all pass'd, sir.
Brew. I rejoice at it, sir, and shall not grudge your gains,
Though multiplied to thousands.
O. Fos. Believe me, sir, I account myself a large gainer by you.
Brew. Much good may it be to you, sir: but one thing
At this advantage of my love to you
Let me entreat.
O. Fos. What is it, sir?
Brew. Faith, my old suit—to reconcile those breaches
'Twixt your kind son and you: let not the love
He shows unto his uncle be any more a bar
To sunder your blessings and his duty.
O. Fos. I would you had enjoin'd me some great labour
For your own love's sake: but to that my vow
Stands fix'd against; I'm deaf, obdurate
To either of them.
Mrs Fos. Nay, sir, if you knew all,
You would not waste your words in so vain expense:
Since his last reformation, he has flown
Out again, and in my sight relieved
His uncle in the dicing-house; for which
Either he shall be no father to him,
Or no husband to me.
Brew. Well, sir, go call my daughter forth of
the garden, and bid her bring her friend along
with her: troth, sir, I must not leave you thus;
I must needs make him your son again.
O. Fos. Sir, I have no such thing akin to me.
Enter Robert; Robert kneels to his father.
Brew. Look you, sir, know you this duty?
O. Fos. Not I, sir; he's a stranger to me.
Save your knee; I have no blessing for you.
Mrs Fos. Go, go to your uncle, sir; you know
where to find him; he's at his old haunt; he
wants more money by this time; but I think the
conduit-pipe is stopped from whence it ran.
O. Fos. Did he not say he'd beg for you? you'd
best make use of's bounty.
Brew. Nay, good sir.
O. Fos. Sir, if your daughter cast any eye of
favour upon this unthrift, restrain't, he's a beggar.
Mistress Jane, take heed what you do.
Mrs Fos. Ay, ay, be wise, Mistress Jane; do
not you trust to spleen in time worn to pity,[87]
you'll not find it so; therefore, good gentlewoman,
take heed.
Brew. Nay, then, you are too impenetrable.
O. Fos. Sir, your money shall be ready, and
your bills; other business I have none.
[To Rob.] For thee, beg, hang, die like a slave;
Such blessings ever thou from me shalt have.
[Exit Foster and his Wife.
Brew. Well, sir, I'll follow you. [To Robert.
And, sir, be comforted,
I will not leave, till I find some remorse;
Meantime let not want trouble you;
You shall not know it.
Rob. Sir, 'tis not want I fear, but want of blessing
My knee was bent for; for mine uncle's state,
Which now (I daresay) outweighs my father's far,
Confirms my hopes as rich as with my father's,
His love excepted only.
Brew. Thy uncle's state! how, for heaven's love?
Rob. By his late marriage to the wealthiest widow
That London had; who has not only made him
Lord of herself, but of her whole estate.
Brew. Mother-o'-pearl! I rejoice in't: this news
Is yet but young.
Rob. Fame will soon speak it loud, sir.
Brew. This may help happily to make all peace:
But how, have you parley'd with my daughter, sir?
Enter Jane.
Jane. Very well, father; we spake something,
but did nothing at all: I requested him to pull me
a Catherine pear, and had I not looked to him, he
would have mistook and given me a poperin:
and to requite his kindness I plucked him a
rose, and had almost pricked my finger for my
pains.
Brew. Well-said, wag; are there sparks kindled?
Quench 'em not for me: 'tis not a father's roughness,
Nor doubtful hazard of an uncle's kindness
Can me deter. I must to your father;
Where (as a chief affair) I'll once more move,
And (if I can) return him back to love. [Exeunt.
Enter Doctor and Stephen's Wife.
Wife. Sir, you see I have made a speedy choice
And as swift a marriage: be it as it will,
I like the man: if his qualities afflict me,
I shall be happy in't.
Doc. I must not distaste what I have help'd to make;
'Tis I that join'd you.
Wife. A good bargain, I hope.
Enter Clown.
Roger, where's your master?
Clown. The good man of the house is within, forsooth.
Wife. Not your master, sir?
Clown. 'Tis hard of digestion. Yes, my master
is within. He masters you; therefore I must be
content. You have longed for crosses a good
while, and now you are like to be farther off them
than e'er you were; for I'm afraid your good
husband will leave you ne'er a cross i' th' house to
bless you with.
Wife. Well, sir, I shall be bless'd in't. But
where is he?
Clown. Where he has mistaken the place a little,
being his wedding-day; he is in nomine, when he
should be in re.
Wife. And where's that?
Clown. In your counting-house: if he were a
kind husband, he would have been in another
counting-house by this time: he's tumbling over
all his money-bags yonder; you shall hear of him
in the bowling-alley again.
Wife. Why, sir, all is his, and at his dispose;
Who shall dare to thwart him?
Enter Stephen with bills and bonds.
Clown. Look where he comes.
Wife. How now, sweetheart? what hast thou there?
Steph. I find much debts belonging to you, sweet;
And my care must be now to fetch them in.
Wife. Ha, ha! prythee, do not mistake thyself,
Nor my true purpose; I did not wed to thrall,
Or bind thy large expense, but rather to add
A plenty to that liberty. I thought by this,
Thou wouldst have stuff'd thy pockets full of gold,
And thrown it at a hazard; made ducks and drakes,
And baited fishes with thy silver flies;
Lost, and fetch'd more: why, this had been my joy!
Perhaps at length thou wouldst have wasted my store:
Why, this had been a blessing too good for me.
Steph. Content thee, sweet, those days are gone—
Ay, even from my memory;
I have forgot that e'er I had such follies,
And I'll not call 'em back: my cares[88] are bent
To keep your state, and give you all content.
Roger, go, call your fellow-servants up to me,
And to my chamber bring all books of debt;
I will o'erlook and cast up all accounts,
That I may know the weight of all my cares,
And once a year give up my stewardship.
Clown. [Aside to the Wife.] Now you may see
what hasty matching is. You had thought to have
been vexed, and now you cannot; you have married
a husband, that (sir reverence of the title)
now being my master-in-law, I do think he'll prove
the miserablest covetous rascal that ever beat
beggar from his gate. But 'tis no matter. Time
was when you were fairly offered, if you would
have took it. You might have had other matches,
i' faith, if it had pleased you; and those that would
have crossed you. I would have sold away all that
ever you had had; have kept two or three whores
at livery under your nose; have turned you out in
your smock, and have used you like a woman:
whereas now, if you'd hang yourself, you can have
none of these blessings. But 'tis well enough—now
you must take what follows.
Wife. I'm to new[89] seek for crosses: the hopes I meant
Turn to despair, and smother in content.
Enter Robert.
Steph. O nephew, are you come! the welcom'st wish
That my heart has; this is my kinsman, sweet.
Wife. Let him be largely texted in your love,
That all the city may read it fairly;
You cannot remember me, and him forget:
We were alike to you in poverty.
Steph. I should have begg'd that bounty of your love,
Though you had scanted me to have given't him;
For we are one: I an uncle-nephew,
He a nephew-uncle. But, my sweet self,
My slow request you have anticipated
With proffer'd kindness; and I thank you for it.
But how, kind cousin, does your father use you?
Is your name found again within his books?
Can he read son there?
Rob. 'Tis now blotted quite:
For by the violent instigation
Of my cruel stepmother, his vows and oaths
Are stamp'd against me, ne'er to acknowledge me,
Never to call or bless me as a child;
But in his brow, his bounty and behaviour
I read it all most plainly.
Steph. Cousin, grieve
Not at it; that father, lost at home, you shall
Find here; and with the loss of his inheritance,
You meet another amply proffer'd you;
Be my adopted son, no more my kinsman:
[To his Wife.] So that this borrowed bounty do not stray
From your consent.
Wife. Call it not borrow'd, sir; 'tis all your own;
Here 'fore this reverend man I make it known,
Thou art our child as free by adoption,
As deriv'd from us by conception,
Birth, and propinquity; inheritor
To our full substance.
Rob. You were born
To bless us both; my knee shall practise
A son's duty even beneath [a] son's;
Giving you all the comely dues of parents; yet
Not forgetting my duty to my father:
Where'er I meet him, he shall have my knee,
Although his blessing ne'er return to me.
Steph. Come then, my dearest son, I'll now give thee
A taste of my love to thee: be thou my deputy,
The factor and disposer of my business;
Keep my accounts, and order my affairs;
They must be all your own: for you, dear sweet,
Be merry, take your pleasure at home—abroad;
Visit your neighbours—aught that may seem good
To your own will; down to the country ride;
For cares and troubles, lay them all aside,
And I will take them up: it's fit that weight
Should now lie all on me: take thou the height
Of quiet and content: let nothing grieve thee.
I brought thee nothing else, and that I'll give thee.
[Exit Stephen and Robert.
Wife. Will the tide never turn? Was ever woman
Thus burden'd with unhappy happiness?
Did I from riot take him to waste my goods,
And he strives to augment it? I did mistake him.
Doc. Spoil not a good text with a false comment;
All these are blessings, and from heaven sent;
It is your husband's good; he's now transform'd
To a better shade; the prodigal's return'd.
Come, come, know joy, make not abundance scant;
You 'plain of that which thousand women want. [Exeunt.
Enter Brewen and Old Foster; George and
Richard follow them, carrying several bags of
money across the stage.
Brew. So, so,
Haste home, good lads, and return for the rest.
Would they were cover'd, George; 'tis too public
Blazon of my estate; but 'tis no matter now;
I'll bring it abroad again, ere it be long.
Sir, I acknowledge receipt of my full half debt,
Twelve thousand five hundred pounds; it now remains
You seal those writings as assurance for the rest,
And I am satisfied for this time.
O. Fos. Pray stay, sir, I have bethought me: let me once
Throw dice at all, and either be a complete
Merchant, or wrack my estate for ever:
Hear me, sir; I have of wares, that are now vendible,
So much as will defray your utmost penny;
Will you accept of them, and save this charge
Of wax and parchment?
Brew. Be they vendible, sir, I am your chapman:
What are they, Master Foster?
O. Fos. Broadcloths, kerseys, cochineal, such
as will not stay two days upon your hands.
Brew. I find your purpose; you'd have your
warehouses empty for the receipt of your full
fraught: I'll be your furtherer; make so your
rates that I may be no loser.
Enter George and Richard.
O. Fos. I have no other end, sir; let our factors
peruse and deal for both.
Brew. Mine is returned. George, here's a new
business; you and Richard must deal for some
commodities betwixt us; if you find 'em even gain
or but little loss, take carriage presently, and carry
'em home.
George. I shall.
O. Fos. Richard, have you any further news
yet from our shipping?
Rich Not yet, sir; but by account from the
last, when they put from Dover, this tide should
bring them into Saint Catherine's pool; the wind
has been friendly.
O. Fos. Listen their arrival, and bid the gunner speak it
In his loud thunder all the city over;
Tingle the merchants' ears at the report
Of my abundant wealth. Now go with George.
Rich I shall do both, sir. [Exeunt Factors.
O. Fos. I must plainly now confess, master alderman,
I shall gain much by you. The half of your ship
Defrays my full cost.
Brew. Beshrew me, if I grudge it, being myself
A sufficient gainer by my venture, sir.
Enter Mistress Foster.
Mrs Fos. Still flows the tide of my unhappiness;
The stars shoot mischief, and every hour
Is critical to me.
O. Fos. How now, woman?
Wrecked in the haven of felicity? What ail'st thou?
Mrs Fos. I think the devil's mine enemy.
O. Fos. I hope so too; his hate is better than his friendship.
Mrs Fos. Your brother—your good brother, sir——
O. Fos. What of him? he's in Ludgate again.
Mrs Fos. No, he's in Highgate; he struts it bravely—
An alderman's pace at least.
O. Fos. Why, these
Are oracles, doubtful enigmas!
Mrs Fos. Why,
I'm sure you have heard the news; he's married, forsooth.
O. Fos. How, married?
No woman of repute would choose so slightly.
Mrs Fos. A woman, in whose breast I'd thought had liv'd
The very quintessence of discretion:
And who is't, think you? nay, you cannot guess,
Though I should give you a day to [un]riddle it:
It is my gossip, man, the rich
Widow of Cornhill.
O. Fos. Fie, fie! 'tis fabulous.
Mrs Fos. Are you my husband? then is she his wife.
How will this upstart beggar shoulder up,
And take the wall of you! his new-found pride
Will know no eldership.
O. Fos. But, wife, my wealth will five times double his
Ere this tide ebb again: I wonder I hear not
The brazen cannon proclaim the arrival
Of my infinite substance.
Mrs Fos. But beggars
Will be proud of little, and shoulder at the best.
O. Fos. Let him first pay his old score, and then reckon:
But that she——
Mrs Fos. Ay, that's it mads me too.
Would any woman, 'less to spite herself,
So much profane the sacred name of wedlock:
A dove to couple with a stork, or a lamb a viper?
O. Fos. Content thee; forgive her; she'll do so no more.
She was a rich widow: a wife he'll make her poor.
Brew. So, sir, you have clos'd it well; if so ill it prove,
Leave it to proof, and wish not misery
Enter Stephen and Robert.
Unto your enemy. Look, here he comes.
O. Fos. You say true; 'tis my enemy indeed.
Steph. Save you, master alderman, I have some business with you.
Brew. With me, sir? and most welcome; I rejoice to see you.
Mrs Fos. Do you observe, sir, he will not know you now?
Jockey's a gentleman now.[90]
O. Fos. Well fare rich widows, when such beggars flourish;
But ill shall they fare that flourish o'er such beggars.
Steph. Ha! ha! ha!
Mrs Fos. He laughs at you.
O. Fos. No wonder, woman, he would do that in Ludgate;
But 'twas when his kind nephew did relieve him:
I shall hear him cry there again shortly.
Steph. Oysters, new Walfleet oysters!
O. Fos. The gentleman is merry.
Mrs Fos. No, no, no; he does this to spite me; as who should say,
I had been a fishwife in my younger days.
Brew. Fie, fie, gentlemen! this is not well;
My ears are guilty to hear such discords.
[Robert kneels to his father.
Look, Master Foster; turn your eye that way;
There's duty unregarded, while envy struts
In too much state: believe me, gentlemen,
I know not which to chide first.
O. Fos. What idol kneels that heretic to?
Steph. Rise, boy, thou art now my son, and owest no knee
To that unnatural: I charge you, rise.
O. Fos. Do, sir, or turn your adoration that way;
You were kind to him in his tatter'd state;
Let him requite it now.
Mrs Fos. Do, do, we have paid for't aforehand.
Rob. I would I were divided in two halves,
So that might reconcile your harsh division.
Steph. Proud sir, this son, which you have alienated
For my love's sake, shall by my love's bounty
Ride side by side in the best equipage
Your scorns dare pattern him.
O. Fos. Ay, ay, a beggar's gallop up and down.
Mrs Fos. Ay, 'tis up now, the next step down.
Steph. Ha, ha! I laugh at your envy, sir. My business
Is to you.
Brew. Good sir, speak of anything but this.
Steph. Sir, I am furnishing some shipping forth,
And want some English traffic, broadcloths, kerseys,
Or suchlike; my voyage is to the Straits:
If you can supply me, sir, I'll be your chapman.
Brew. That I shall soon resolve you, sir.
Enter Factors.
Come hither, George.
O. Fos. This is the rich merchantman;
Mrs Fos. That's neither grave nor wise;
O. Fos. Who will kill a man at Tyburn shortly.
Mrs Fos. By carts that may arise;[91]
Or if the hangman die, he may have his office.
Brew. Then you have bargain'd, George?
George. And the ware carried home, sir; you must look
To be little gainer; but lose you cannot.
Brew. 'Tis all I desire from thence. Sir, I can furnish you
With wares I lately from your brother bought:
Please you go see them, for I would fain divide you,
Since I can win no nearer friendship.
Steph. I'll go with you, sir.
[Exeunt Brewen, Stephen, and George.
O. Fos. Take your adoption with you, sir.
Rob. I crave but your blessing with me, sir.
O. Fos. 'Tis my curse then; get thee out of mine eye:
Thou art a beam in't, and I'll tear it out,
Ere it offend to look on thee.[92]
Mrs Fos. Go, go, sir; follow your uncle-father,
Help him to spend what thrift has got together;
It will be charity in you to spend,
Because your charity it was to lend.
Rob. My charity! you can a virtue name,
And teach the use, yet never knew the same. [Exit.
Enter Richard.
O. Fos. See, wife, here comes Richard; now listen,
And hear me crown'd the wealthiest London merchant.
Why dost thou look so sadly?
Mrs Fos. Why dost not speak? hast lost thy tongue?
Rich. I never could speak worse.
O. Fos. Why, thy voice is good enough.
Rich. But the worst accent that ever you heard;
I speak a screech-owl's note. O, you have made
The most unhappiest bargain that ever merchant did!
O. Fos. Ha?
What can so baleful be, as thou wouldst seem
To make by this sad prologue? I am no traitor,
To confiscate my goods: speak, whate'er it be.
Rich. I would you could conceit it, that I might
Not speak it.
O. Fos. Dally not with torments,
Sink me at once.
Rich. Now you've spoke it half;
'Tis sinking I must treat of: your ships are all sunk.
O. Fos. Ha!
Mrs Fos. O thou fatal raven! let me pull thine eyes out
For this sad croak. [Flies at Richard.
O. Fos. Hold, woman! hold, prythee! 'tis none of his fault.
Mrs Fos. No, no, 'tis thine, thou wretch; and therefore
Let me turn my vengeance all on thee; thou
Hast made hot haste to empty all my warehouses,
And made room for that the sea hath drunk before thee.
O. Fos. Undone for ever! Where could this mischief fall?
Were not my ships in their full pride at Dover;
And what English Charybdis has the devil digg'd
To swallow nearer home.
Rich. Even in the mouth
And entrance of the Thames they were all cast away.
O. Fos. Dam up thy mouth
From any further mischievous relation.
Rich. Some men were sav'd, but not one pennyworth
Of goods.
O. Fos. Even now thy baleful utterance
Was chok'd, and now it runs too fast;
Thou fatal bird, no more.
Mrs Fos. May serpents breed,
And fill this fatal stream, and poison her for ever.
O. Fos. O, curse not; they come too fast!
Mrs Fos. Let me curse somewhere, wretch, or else I'll throw
Them all on thee; 'tis thou, ungodly slave,
That art the mark unto the wrath of heaven:
I thriv'd ere I knew thee.
O. Fos. I prythee, split me too.
Mrs Fos. I would I could! I would I had ne'er seen thee,
For I ne'er saw hour of comfort since I knew thee.
O. Fos. Undone for ever! My credit I have crack'd
To buy a venture, which the sea has soak'd;
What worse can woe report?
Mrs Fos. Yes, worse than all,
Thy enemies will laugh, and scorn thy fall.
O. Fos. Be it the worst, then: that place I did assign
My unthrifty brother, Ludgate, must now be mine.
Break, and take Ludgate.
Mrs Fos. Take Newgate rather.
O. Fos. I scorn'd my child, now he may scorn his father.
Mrs Fos. Scorn him still!
O. Fos. I will: would he my wants relieve,
I'd scorn to take what he would yield to give.
My heart be still my friend, although no other.
I'll scorn the help of either son or brother.
My portion's begging now: seldom before,
In one sad hour, was man so rich and poor. [Exeunt.
Enter Mistress Jane, Godfrey Speedwell, and
Master Lambskin.
Jane. Gentlemen, my father's not within; please
you to walk a turn or two in the garden; he'll not
be long.
Lamb. Your father, Mistress Jane? I hope you
have observation in you, and know our humours;
we come not a-wooing to your father.
Speed. Experience must bear with folly; thou
art all innocent, and thy name is Lambskin; grave
sapience guides me, and I care not a pin for thy
squibs and thy crackers. My old dry wood shall
make a lusty bonfire when thy green chips shall
lie hissing in the chimney-corner. Remember,
mistress, I can make you a lady by mine own
experience.
Lamb. Prythee, do not stand troubling the
gentlewoman with thy musty sentences, but let
her love be laid down betwixt us like a pair of
cudgels, and into whose hands she thrusts the
weapons first, let him take up the bucklers.[93]
Speed. A match between us.
Jane. Must I be stickler, then?
Lamb. We are both to run at the ring of your
setting-up, and you must tell us who deserves
most favour.
Jane. But will you stand both at my disposing?
Lamb. Else let me never stand but in a pillory.
Jane. You love me both, you say?
Speed. By this hand!
Lamb. Hand? Zounds! by the four-and-twenty
elements.
Jane. Pray spare your oaths; I do believe you do,
You would not else make all this stir to woo.
Sir Godfrey, you are a knight both tough and old;
A rotten building cannot long time hold.
Lamb. Speedwell, live well, die well, and be
hanged well, change your copy well, your experience
will not carry it else.
Jane. You're rich too, at least yourself so say;
What, though you're but a gilded man of clay.
Lamb. A man of gingerbread; i' faith, I could
find in my heart to eat him.
Jane. Should I wed you, the fire with frost must marry,
January and May! I for a younger tarry.
Lamb. That's I! In troth, I'll be thy young
Lambskin; thou shalt find me as innocent as a
sucking dove. Speak, sweet mistress, am I the
youth in a basket?
Jane. You are the sweet youth, sir, whose pretty eyes
Would make me love; but you must first be wise.
Speed. Ha, ha! Is your coxcomb cut? I see
experience must board this fair pinnace. A word
in private.
Lamb. I'll have no words in private, unless I
hear too. [Retire.
Enter Master Brewen, Stephen, and Robert.
Brew. Come, gentlemen, we'll make few words about it:
Merchants in bargaining must not, like soldiers
Lying at a siege, stay moneths, weeks, days,
But strike at the first parley.
Broadcloths and wools, and other rich commodities,
I lately from your brother brought, are all your own.
Steph. 'Tis well.
Brew. Then be not angry, gentle sir,
If now a string be touch'd, which hath too long
Sounded so harshly over all the city;
I now would wind it to a musical height.
Steph. Good master alderman, I think that string
Will still offend mine ear; you mean the jarring
'Twixt me and my brother?
Brew. In troth, the same.
Steph. I hate no poison like that brother's name.
Brew. O fie! not so.
Steph. Uncivil churl, when all his sails were up,
And that his proud heart danc'd on golden waves——
Brew. As, heaven be thanked, it still does!
Steph. Yet, sir, then,
I being sunk, and drown'd in mine own misery,
He would not cast out a poor line of thread,
And bring me to the shore; I had been dead,
And might have starv'd for him.
Brew. A better fate, sir,
Stood at your elbow.
Steph. True, sir: this was he,
That lifted me from want and misery;
Whose cruel father, for that [act of] good,
Cast him away, scorning his name and blood;
Lopp'd from his side this branch that held me dear;
For which he's now my son, my joy, my heir.
But, for his father, hang him!
Brew. Fie, fie!
Steph. By heaven!
Brew. Come, come,
Live in more charity, he is your brother;
If that name offend, I'll sing that tune no more.
Yonder's my daughter busy with her suitors;
We'll visit them. Now, Jane, bid your friends welcome.
Jane. They must be welcome, sir, that come with you;
To thee ten thousand welcomes still are due.
Rob. My sweet mistress! [Kisses her.
Lamb. Zounds! Sir knight, we have stood
beating the bush, and the bird's flown away; this
city bowler has kissed the mistress[94] at first
cast.
Brew. How fare ye, gentlemen? what cheer,
sir knight?
Speed. An adventurer still, sir, to this new-found
land.[95]
Lamb. He sails about the point, sir; but he
cannot put in yet.
Brew. The wind may turn, sir. [To Stephen.]
A word, Master Foster. [They converse apart.
Lamb. You see, Sir Speedwell, what card is
turned up for trump; I hold my life, this spruce
citizen will forestall the market: O, these brisk
factors are notable firkers.
Speed. I doubt, sir, he will play the merchant[96]
with us.
Brew. They both are suitors, sir, yet both shoot wide;
My daughter, sure, must be your kinsman's bride.
Steph. I'll give her a wedding-ring on that condition,
And put a stone in't worth a thousand pound, sir.
Brew. You have my hand and heart to't, be
she pleased so.
Lamb. 'Sfoot! let's show ourselves gallants or
gallymawfries:[97] shall we be outbraved by a cockney?
[To Robert.] A word, my fair Zenocrates;
do you see, sir, here be those that have gone
a-fishing, and can give you a gudgeon?
Rob. You were best go fish for better manners,
or I shall bob for eels[98] with you. [Strikes him.
Lamb. Zounds! are you a striker? Draw, sir
knight.
Brew. Not in my house; I pray, be quiet, gentlemen.
Rob. He dares not do't abroad, believe me, sir.
Steph. Now, by my life, my boy, for this brave spirit
I'll hug thee in mine arms: lose life and limbs,
Ere thou forsake thy love.
Lamb. He is no rival he, sir,[99] has struck me;
And we are gentlemen.
Speed. And hear ye, sir; let him seek out his
equals; for some of us are in danger to make her
a lady shortly: I know what I speak; what I
speak I'll do; yet I'll do nothing but what comes
from grave experience.
Steph. Speak what you please, sir; he's a gentleman
As good as either of you both; and shall
In list of love, for such a bedfellow,
Brave him that dares; and here lay down more gold
To win her love than both your states are worth.
Speed. Ha! do you know us, sir? you grow
too bold; my experience now hath found you: you
were once a tattered fellow, your name is Foster;
have you such gold to give?
Lamb. Yes, yes, 'has won it betting at the
bowling-alleys, or at the pigeon-holes in the garden-alleys.
Steph. You are muddy grooms[100] to upbraid me with that scorn
Which virtue now gilds over. Pray ye, gentlemen,
May I request your names?
Lamb. Our names are in the heralds' books, I warrant you;
My name is Innocent Lambskin; and this knight,
Simply though he stands here, is known to be
Sir Godfrey Speedwell.
Steph. Well may he speed, sir. Lambskin and
Speedwell. Ha! is't so? I think I shall give you
a medicine to purge this itch of love, sir.
Lamb. No itch neither, sir; we have no scabs here
But yourself and your cousin.
Steph. Very good, sir! my little Lambskin, I have you
Here in sheep's-skin [Produces a parchment]; look you, 'tis so, i' faith.
See, master alderman, these two crack'd gallants
Are in several bonds to my predecessor
For a debt of full two thousand a-piece.
Cousin, fetch me a sergeant straight.
Rob. Yes, sir.
Speed. O, let him: I have a protection, sir.
Steph. I'll try that, sir.
Speed. A sergeant? nay, then,
Experience must work: legs be strong and bold:
When sergeants wait at feasts, the cheer's but cold.
I'll shift for one. [Exit.
Lamb. Knight, knight! 'Sfoot! if an errand-knight
run away, I were an errand ass to tarry,
and be catched in the lime-bush: I love the wench
well; but if they have no hole to place me in but
the hole in the counter, I'll be gone and leave 'em;
that's flat. [Exit.
Brew. You have scared the suitors from the mark, sir.
Steph. I am glad on't, sir; they are but such as seek
To build their rotten state on you, and with your wealth
To underprop their weakness:
Believe me, reverend sir, I had much rather
You'd venture that my coz might call you father.
Brew. We'll talk of that anon. See, sir, here
comes you wife.
Enter Stephen's Wife.
The theme of all her time, with goodness mix'd,
The happy woman that was never vex'd.
You're welcome, Mistress Foster.
Wife. I thank ye, sir.
Steph. Wife, your two debtors
Were here but now, Speedwell and Lambskin.
A wolf could not have torn poor Lambskin worse
Than the bare name of sergeant: the very thought
Made them both take their heels and run away.
Wife. 'Las! they are poor and lean, and being so,
Kill them not till they are fatter.
Steph. At thy girdle, sweet, hang the keys
To lock the prison doors or let them loose:
'Twas my intent only (in way of mirth)
To rid them from the presence of Mistress Jane,
That our adopted son might have no bar
Unto his love.
Wife. The match is fair; and were that knot once tied,
I'd send some angels to attend the bride.
Enter George.
Steph. Sir, here's your factor.
Brew. Are the wares ready?
George. Yes, and delivered, sir, to Master Foster's
servants, who conveyed them in carts to the
Custom House, there to be shipped; but going
with them, sir, I met ill news.
Brew. Ill news? what is't?
George. Old Master Foster's ships, so richly laden,
By strange misfortune, sir, are cast away.
Brew. Now heaven forbid!
Rob. O me!
Steph. How? cast away? where?
Brew. 'Tis impossible; they rid at Dover safe
When he outbought my full share in the fraught,
And paid me down near thirty thousand pounds
In wares and money.
George. Which, had he not done, you had lost your venture.
By Master Foster's own appointment, sir, they weighed
Their anchors up, and so to come for London;
But by a merciless storm they all were swallowed,
Even in the Thames's mouth: yet the men were sav'd,
But all the goods were lost.
Rob. O my poor father! This loss will break his back.
Steph. Ha! what is that to you? If in my favour
You'll sit warm, then bury all love to him,
Nay, duty; hear you, sir? What! shedd'st thou tears
For him that had no care to see thy heart
Drop blood? He was unnatural, and heaven
Hath justly now rewarded him.
Brew. 'Tis a most strange fate!
He needs would buy my part at any rate;
And now all's lost.
Steph. Greedy desire he swallowed,
And now is swallowed: 'tis but his hire,
And I'll not pity it no more than he
In his abundance did my misery.
Wife. I grieve for my poor gossip, his good wife;
She never met good fortune all her life,
And this will break her heart-strings:
In good sooth, I'll go and comfort her.
Steph. In good sooth, you shall not;
Nor him, nor her, at this time, gentle wife;
He scorn'd me in his height: now being poor,
If that he needs my help, he knows my door.
Sir, we'll for this time leave you; at fitter leisure
We'll have this marriage talk'd of.
Brew. At your own good pleasure.
Steph. Come, wife. Go not to see your father, sir,
I charge you.
Brew. Jane, bring your friends to th' door.
Rob. [Aside.] I'll help my father, though myself grow poor.
[Exeunt.
Brew. Where's my factor?
George. Here, sir.
Brew. What, are the square stones and timber brought, as I appointed?
George. Yes, sir, and the workmen that daily
ply the work are in number fourscore at least.
Brew. My vows flew up to heaven, that I would make
Some pious work in the brass book of fame,
That might till doomsday lengthen out my name.
Near Norton Folgate, therefore, have I bought
Ground to erect this house, which I will call
And dedicate St Mary's Hospital;
And when 'tis finish'd, o'er the gates shall stand
In capital letters, these words fairly graven,
For I have given the work and house to heaven,
And call'd it Domus Dei, God's house;
For in my zealous faith I know full well,
Where good deeds are, there heaven itself doth dwell. [Exit.
Enter Old Foster, Richard his factor, and the
Keeper of Ludgate.
Rich. Good sir, resolve not thus; return again,
Your debts are not so great that you should yield
Your body thus to prison unconstrain'd.
O. Fos. I will not trust the iron hearts of men;
My credit's lost, my wealth the sea has swallowed,
Wrack'd at my door, even in the mouth o' th' Thames;
O my misfortune! never man like me
Was so thrown down and cast to misery.
Rich. Dear sir, be patient!
O. Fos. I prythee, get thee gone,
And with thy diligence assist thy mistress
To keep that little left to help herself;
Whilst here in Ludgate I secure my body
From writs, arrests, and executions,
Which, well I know, my cruel creditors
Will thunder on me. Go, get thee gone!
If what is left they'll take, do thou agree;
If not, I am resolv'd here to stay and die.
Rich. I'll do my best, sir, to procure your peace. [Exit.
O. Fos. Do so. [To the Keeper.] Come, sir, I yield myself your prisoner:
You are the keeper of this Ludgate?
Keeper. Yes, sir;
Your name is register'd amongst the prisoners.
O. Fos. So!
I have seen the fair outside of this tomb before;
This goodly apple has a rotten core.
Keeper. As all prisons have, sir.
O. Fos. I prythee, bar me of no privilege
Due to a free citizen: thou knowest me well?
Keeper. Yes, Master Foster, and I sorrow for your losses,
Yet doubt not but your son and brother——
O. Fos. O, speak not of them! do not kiss and kill me;
I have no son nor brother that esteems me,
And I for ever hate their memory.
Prythee, no more! I am come sick
Into a bad inn, and look for worse attendance:
I have taken a surfeit of misfortunes, and here
Must swallow pills, with poison to recure me:
I am sea-sick, sir, and heave my hands to heaven;
Ne'er to so low an ebb was Foster driven.
Keeper. There be some fees to pay, sir, at your coming in.
O. Fos. So, so!
If this old walnut-tree, after all this cudgelling,
Have but one cluster left, thou shalt have that too;
If not, take off these leaves that cover me,
Pull off these white locks! rend them from my head!
And let them in my woes be buried.
Keeper. 'Las, sir! this house is poor.
O. Fos. I think no less,
For rich men seldom meet with such distress:
Well, well! what book must I read over now?
What servile oar must I be tied to here,
Slave-like to tug within this Christian galley?
Keeper. Sir, being the youngest prisoner in the house,
You must beg at the iron grate above,
As others do, for your relief and theirs.
O. Fos. For a beggar to beg, sir, is no shame;
And for the iron grate, it bears an emblem
Of iron-hearted creditors, that force men lie
In loathsome prisons thus to starve and die.
Enter Robert.
Keeper. Who would you speak with, sir?
O, cry you mercy! 'tis his son:
I'll leave them. [Exit.
O. Fos. O torment to my soul! what mak'st thou here?
Cannot the picture of my misery
Be drawn, and hung out to the eyes of men,
But thou must come to scorn and laugh at it?
Rob. Dear sir,
I come to thrust my back under your load,
To make the burden lighter.
O. Fos. Hence from my sight, dissembling villain! go!
Thine uncle sends defiance to my woe,
And thou must bring it. Hence! thou basilisk,
That kill'st me with thine eyes. Nay, never kneel; [Robert kneels.
These scornful mocks more than my woes I feel.
Rob. Alas! I mock ye not, but come in love
And natural duty, sir, to beg your blessing;
And for mine uncle——
O. Fos. Him and thee I curse;
I'll starve ere I eat bread [bought] from his purse
Or from thy hand. Out, villain! tell that cur,
Thy barking uncle, that I lie not here
Upon my bed of riot, as he did,
Cover'd with all the villanies which man
Had ever woven; tell him I lie not so,
It was the hand of heaven struck me thus low,
And I do thank it. Get thee gone, I say,
Or I shall curse thee, strike thee; prythee, away!
Or if thou'lt laugh thy fill at my poor state,
Then stay, and listen to the prison-grate,
And hear thy father, an old wretched man,
That yesterday had thousands, beg and cry
To get a penny: O my misery!
Rob. Dear sir, for pity hear me.
O. Fos. Upon my curse I charge no nearer come:
I'll be no father to so vile a son. [Exit.
Rob. O my abortive fate!
Why for my good am I thus paid with hate!
From this sad place of Ludgate here I freed
An uncle, and I lost a father for it;
Now is my father here, whom if I succour,
I then must lose my uncle's love and favour.
My father once being rich, and uncle poor,
I him relieving was thrust forth of door.
Baffled, revil'd, and disinherited:
Now mine own father here must beg for bread,
Mine uncle being rich; and yet, if I
Feed him, myself must beg. O misery,
How bitter is thy taste! yet I will drink
Thy strongest poison: fret what mischief can,
I'll feed my father; though, like the pelican,
I peck mine own breast for him.
[Old Foster appears above at the grate, a box
hanging down.
O. Fos. Bread, bread! one penny to buy a loaf of bread for the tender mercy!
Rob. O me, my shame! I know that voice full well;
I'll help thy wants, although thou curse me still.
O. Fos. Bread, bread! some Christian man send back
Your charity to a number of poor prisoners.
One penny for the tender mercy! [Robert puts in money.
The hand of heaven reward you, gentle sir,
Never may you want, never feel misery;
Let blessings in unnumber'd measure grow,
And fall upon your head where'er you go.
Rob. O happy comfort! curses to the ground
First struck me: now with blessings I am crown'd.
O. Fos. Bread, bread, for the tender mercy! one penny for a loaf of bread!
Rob. I'll buy more blessings: take thou all my store,
I'll keep no coin, and see my father poor. [Puts in more money.
O. Fos. Good angels guard you, sir; my prayers shall be
That heaven may bless you for this charity!
Rob. If he knew me, sure he would not say so;
Yet I have comfort, if by any means
I get a blessing from my father's hands.
How cheap are good prayers! a poor penny buys
That by which man up in a minute flies,
And mounts to heaven.
Enter Stephen.
O me! mine uncle sees me.
Steph. Now, sir, what make you here
So near the prison?
Rob. I was going, sir,
To buy meat for a poor bird I have,
That sits so sadly in the cage of late,
I think he'll die for sorrow.
Steph. So, sir; your pity will not quit your pains:
I fear me, I shall find that bird to be
That churlish wretch your father, that has taken
Shelter here in Ludgate. Go to, sir! urge me not,
You had best; I have given you warning;
Fawn not upon him, nor come not near him,
If you'll have my love.
Rob. 'Las, sir! that lamb
Were most unnatural that should hate the dam.
Steph. Lamb me no lambs, sir!
Rob. Good uncle! alas!
You know, when you lay here, I succour'd you,
So let me now help him.
Steph. Yes, as he did me,
To laugh and triumph at my misery;
You freed me with his gold, but 'gainst his will:
For him I might have rotted, and lain still:
So shall he now.
Rob. Alack the day!
Steph. If him thou pity, 'tis thine own decay.
O. Fos. Bread, bread! some charitable man
remember the poor prisoners: bread for the tender
mercy! one penny!
Rob. O listen, uncle!
That's my poor father's voice.
Steph. There let him howl.
Get you gone, and come not near him.
Rob. O my soul,
What tortures dost thou feel! Earth ne'er shall find
A son so true, yet forc'd to be unkind. [Exit.
Steph. Well, go thy ways, thou pattern of true virtue;
My heart is full: I could e'en weep,
(And much ado I had to forbear.)
To hear a brother begging in a jail,
That but erewhile spread up a lofty sail
As proudly as the best. O, 'twere a sin
Unpardonable in me, should I not succour him!
Yes, I will do't, yet closely it shall be done,
And he not know from whence his comforts come.
What ho! keeper, there! a word, I pray.
Enter Keeper.
Keeper. What's your pleasure, sir?
Steph. What's he that at the grate there begg'd even now?
Keeper. One Master Foster, sir, a decayed citizen
new-come in. Cry you mercy, sir, you know him
better than myself, I think.
Steph. I should do, knew he me, as I would know him.
Prythee, take him from the grate; and that
No more he stand to beg, there is ten pound
To pay his score and take off all his wants:
If he demand who sends it, tell him 'tis
Thine own free hand to lend him money.
Keeper. Well, sir, I shall.
Steph. Spend what he will, my purse shall pay it all;
And at his parting hence the poorest prisoner,
And all free citizens that live in Ludgate,
Shall bless his coming in: I'll for his sake
Do something now that, whilst this city stands,
Shall keep the Fosters' name engraven so high,
As no black storm shall cloud their memory.
Keeper. Heaven bless your purpose, sir! [Exeunt.
Enter Stephen's Wife, and her Sister, Old
Foster's Wife.
Wife. Sister, there's no way to make sorrow light
But in the noble bearing; be content.
Blows given from heaven are our due punishment:
All shipwrecks are no drownings: you see buildings
Made fairer from their ruins: he that I married—
The brother to your husband—lay, you know,
On the same bed of misery; yet now
He's rank'd with the best citizens.
Mrs Fos. O, you were born to wealth and happiness;
I, to want and scorn!
Wife. Come, I will work my husband: stay this grief.
The longest sorrow finds at last relief.
Enter Clown.
Now, sir, your business?
Clown. Marry, mistress, here are two creatures,
scarce able to make one man, desire to speak with
you.
Wife. What are they? Know their names.
Clown. Nay, I know that already: the one is
a thing that was plucked into the world by the
head and shoulders to be wondered at, and 'tis
called a knight; the other is a coach-horse of the
same overridden race, and that's a foolish gentleman.
Wife. O, they are my old debtors, Speedwell and Lambskin:
Go, call them in: and, my gentle sister,
Comfort yourself and my imprison'd brother,
To whom commend me; give to him this gold;
What good I can I'll do for him, be bold.
Mrs Fos. May heavenly blessings guard you from all ill:
Never was woman vex'd as I am still. [Exit.
Enter Speedwell and Lambskin.
Wife. Now, good Sir Godfrey and Master Innocent.
Lamb. I put my innocent case into your hands,
mistress, as a simple country client thrusts his
money into a lawyer's, who stands upon no great
terms to take it.
Speed. We come about the old business, the
sickness of the purse, lady.
Clown. And they'd be loth to keep their beds i'
th' counter, mistress; they are afraid of sergeants;
Master Lambskin knows that mace[101] is a binder.
Lamb. No, truly it makes me loose, for I never
smell it, though it be two streets off, but it gives
me a stool presently.
Clown. Ay, you have been a loose liver always:
'tis time to look to you.
Speed. Fair lady, we are your debtors, and owe you money:
Experience tells us that our bonds are forfeit,
For which your husband threaten'd to arrest us;
My shoulders love no such clappings; I love tobacco,
But would be loth to drink in Wood Street pipes:[102]
Some money we will pay ere we go hence:
I speak, you see, with grave experience.
Wife. I know it well, sir.
Lamb. Had not your husband (when he went about fowling
For the alderman's daughter) driven away the bird,
We might have bidden you to a better breakfast;
But now you must take what we can set before you.
Wife. I am content to do so: you shall find
Nor me nor my husband carry a griping mind.
Enter Robert.
Now, coz, where's your uncle?
Rob. He's hard at hand, I saw him coming
With the Lord Mayor and Aldermen.
Lamb. Zounds! knight, if the mayor come,
The shoulder-clappers are not far off.
Wife. O, fear not, I'll be your surety, sir.
Clown. Do you not smell Poultry ware, Sir
Godfrey?
Speed. Most horribly; I'll not endure the scent on't.
Wife. Upon my trust, none here shall do you wrong.
[To Robert.] What is his business with the aldermen?
Rob. About the entertainment of the king,
That means to visit London.
Wife. Saw you your sad father?
Rob. I did; would I might never see man more,
Since he so hates my sight! the prison door,
Which gapes for comers-in, that mouth of hell,
Shut me out with a churlish cold farewell:
After my father's most unnatural part
Was play'd on misery's stage, mine uncle comes
In thunder on me, threatening with black storms
To nail me to the earth, if I relieved
My poor old father.
Enter Stephen.
Clown. Here's my master now, gentlemen.
Steph. O gentlemen, you're both welcome;
Have you paid this money on your bonds yet?
Wife. Not yet, sir; but here they come like honest gentlemen
To take some order for it: good sweetheart,
Shall it be put to me?
Steph. Do as you please;
In all thy deeds thou'rt govern'd with good stars;
Therefore, if thou cry'st peace, I'll not raise wars.
E'en order it how thou wilt.
Wife. I thank ye, sir: then tell me, gentlemen,
What present money can you pay?
Speed. Two hundred pound we can lay down.
Lamb. And take up seven times as much if we
knew where to get it; but there's our lamentable
case: mistress, if you strip us any nearer, you'll
strip the skin and all, I'll assure you.
Wife. We'll shear no sheep so close.
Lamb. No sheep, forsooth, but a poor Innocent
Lambskin.
Clown. You should be a calf by your white face.
Wife. All your two thousand pound, gentlemen, we quit
For your two hundred: go, pay the money to my coz,
And receive your two bonds cancell'd.
[To Stephen.] Say, sir, are ye content?
Steph. Wife, I must stand to the arbitrament.
Go, cousin, receive their money: [To Clown] and, sirrah,
Make them drink.
Clown. I'll make them drink, if they will.
Come, gallants, empty your bags, and I'll bumbast
your bellies: this lean gentleman looks as if
he had no lining in's guts; I could take him by
the leg, and hurl him into the dog-house.
[Exeunt Robert, Speedwell, Lambskin, and
Clown.
Steph. How now, sweet wife, what art thou musing on?
Wife. I must come a-wooing to you, sir.
Steph. A-wooing, sweet, for what?
Wife. For your brother: O, 'tis unmeet
For souls fram'd by one square to grow uneven!
'Tis like a war 'mongst the great lights of heaven;
One cannot lose his beauty, but the other
Suffers eclipse—so brother against brother.
Steph. Wouldst have me kiss him that would kill me?
Wife. Would you kill a man lying at your feet?
Do good for ill.
Steph. Thy songs are angels' tunes,
And on thy wings I'll fly with thee to heaven.
Thou speakest as I would have thee;
His debts I have justly weighed, and find them light.
Wife. The easier then ta'en off.
Steph. Thou sayest most right:
But I of purpose keep aloof to try
My kinsman, whom I spied most dolefully
Hovering about the grate, where his father cried
With piteous voice for bread; yet did I chide,
And rail'd against the boy, but my heart says
(Howe'er my tongue) it was drown'd in tears,
To see such goodness in a son.
Wife. Such wheels in children's bosoms seldom run.
Steph. I'll lay a wager, wife, that this two hundred pounds,
Paid by these foolish fellows, will by the boy
Be given his father.
Wife. Troth, would it might!
Steph. In doing me such wrong he does me right.
Ludgate was once my dwelling, and to shew
That I true feeling of his misery knew,
Albe't long since blown o'er, so thou'lt consent,
Within that place I'll raise some monument,
Shall keep our names alive till doomsday.
Wife. I gladly shall agree
To any act that tends to charity.
Enter Master Brewen.
Brew. Come, where's Master Foster? O, you lose time, sir,
Not meeting fortune that comes to kiss you!
The Lord Mayor and Aldermen stay at the Guildhall
Expecting you, as well to set down order
Touching the entertainment of the king,
As to elect you for the following year
A sheriff of London.
Steph. Their loves outstrip my merit:
Yet, since they lay that load on me, I'll bear it,
And wait in scarlet on my liege and king.
But pray resolve me, master alderman,
Why makes the king this visitation?
Brew. Troth, sir, to honour me, I thank his highness,
Who with my lord the Cardinal comes along
To see the dedication of my house,
Built for the weary travellers to rest in;
Where stands three hundred beds for their relief,
With meat, drink, and some money, when they part;
Which I'll give freely with a willing heart.
Steph. A pious, worthy, and religious act.
Come, sir, to th' Guildhall. Wife, look to your kinsman;
Watch him near, but do not hinder him
If he relieve his father. Come, master alderman:
With such sweet incense up your offerings fly,
I'll build one altar more to charity. [Exeunt.
Ludgate. Enter Old Foster, his Wife, and
Keeper.
Keeper. Come, come, be merry, sir; do as
mourners do at funerals, wear your hat in your
eyes, and laugh in your heart.
O. Fos. I have no such fat legacy left me,
To teach me how to play the hypocrite.
Keeper. No? Why, look ye, sir, you shall want
neither meat, drink, money, nor anything that
the house affords; or if anything abroad like
ye, sir, here's money, send for what you will,
sir. Nay, you shall beg no more at the grate neither.
O. Fos. Ha! is not this Ludgate?
Keeper. Yes, sir.
O. Fos. A jail, a prison, a tomb of men lock'd up,
Alive and buried?
Keeper. 'Tis what you please to call it.
O. Fos. O, at what crevice, then, hath comfort,
Like a sunbeam, crept in? for all the doors
And windows are of iron, and barr'd to keep
Her out. I had a limb cut from my body
Dear to me as [my] life; I had a son
And brother, too. O grief!
They both would give me poison first in gold,
Before their hollow palms ten drops should hold
Of nature's drink, cold water, but to save
My life one minute: whence should pity come,
When my best friends do beat it from this room?
Keeper. No matter, sir; since you have good
meat set before you, never ask who sent it. If
heaven provide for you, and make the fowls of the
air your caters, feed you fat, and be thankful; and
so I leave you. [Exit.
Mrs Fos. The keeper is your friend, and pours true balm
Into your smarting wounds; therefore, dear husband,
Endure the dressing with patience.
O. Fos. O wife, my losses are as numberless
As the sea-sands that swallowed them! And shall I,
In reckoning them, my sad griefs multiply?
Mrs Fos. You may, sir;
But your dim eyes so thick with tears do run,
You cannot see from whence your comforts come:
Besides, your debts being truly counted
Cannot be great.
O. Fos. But all my wealth and state lies in the sea's bottom.
Mrs Fos. It again may rise.
O. Fos. O, never!
Mrs Fos. Good sir, so hope, for I from heaven espy
An arm to pluck you from this misery.
Enter Keeper.
Keeper. Sir, there's one without desires to
speak with you.
O. Fos. Go, send him in. [Exit Keeper.] None comes to do me good,
My wealth is lost, now let them take my blood.
Enter Robert.
Ha! what art thou? Call for the keeper there,
And thrust him out of doors, or lock me up.
Mrs Fos. O, 'tis your son, sir!
O. Fos. I know him not: [Robert kneels.
I am no king, unless of scorn and woe;
Why kneel'st thou, then? Why dost thou mock me so?
Rob. O my dear father, hither am I come,
Not like a threat'ning storm t' increase your wrack,
For I would take all sorrows from your back,
To lay them all on my own.
O. Fos. Rise, mischief, rise! Away, and get thee gone!
Rob. O, if I be thus hateful to your eye,
I will depart, and wish I soon may die;
Yet let your blessing, sir, but fall on me.
O. Fos. My heart still hates thee.
Mrs Fos. Sweet husband!
O. Fos. Get you both gone!
That misery takes some rest that dwells alone;
Away, thou villain!
Rob. Heaven can tell,
Ache but your finger, I, to make it well,
Would cut my hand off.
O. Fos. Hang thee, hang thee!
Mrs Fos. Husband!
O. Fos. Destruction meet thee! Turn the key there, ho!
Rob. Good sir, I'm gone; I will not stay to grieve you.
O, knew you for your woes what pains I feel,
You would not scorn me so. See, sir, to cool
Your heat of burning sorrow, I have got
Two hundred pounds, and glad it is my lot
To lay it down with reverence at your feet;
No comfort in the world to me is sweet,
Whilst thus you live in moan.
O. Fos. Stay!
Rob. Good troth, sir, I'll have none on't back,
Could but one penny of it save my life.
Mrs Fos. Yet stay and hear him. O unnatural strife
In a hard father's bosom!
O. Fos. I see mine error now. O, can there grow
A rose upon a bramble? Did there e'er flow
Poison and health together in one tide?
I'm born a man: reason may step aside,
And lead a father's love out of the way:
Forgive me, my good boy, I went astray:
Look, on my knees I beg it—not for joy
Thou bring'st this golden rubbish, which I spurn;
But glad in this, the heavens mine eyeballs turn,
And fix them right to look upon that face,
Where love remains with pity, duty, grace.
O my dear wronged boy!
Rob. Gladness o'erwhelms my heart!
With joy I cannot speak!
Mrs Fos. Crosses of this foolish world
Did never grieve my heart with torments more,
Than it is now grown light
With joy and comfort of this happy sight.
O. Fos. Yet, wife, I disinherited this boy.
Rob. Your blessing's all I crave.
O. Fos. And that enjoy
For ever: evermore my blessings fly
To pay thy virtues, love and charity.
Enter Stephen's Wife.
Mrs Fos. Here comes your brother's wife.
Welcome, dear sister.
Wife. I thank you. How fare you, brother?
O. Fos. Better than your husband's hate could wish me,
That laughs to see my back with sorrows bow:
But I am rid of half my ague now.
Wife. Had you an ague, then?
O. Fos. Yes, and my heart had every hour a fit;
But now't has left me well, and I left it.
Wife. O, 'tis well. Cousin, what make you here, I pray?
Rob. To support a weak house falling to decay.
Wife. 'Tis well if you can do't, and that the timber
You underprop it with be all your own.
Hark, coz, where's your uncle's money?
Rob. Faith, aunt, 'tis gone;
But not at dice nor drabbing.
Wife. Sir, I believe,
With your uncle's gold your father you relieve.
Rob. You are sav'd, believing so: your belief's true.
Wife. You cut large thongs of that's another's due,
And you will answer't ill. Now, in good troth,
I laugh at this jest: much good do them both:
My wager I had won, had I but laid. [Aside.
O. Fos. What has my poor boy done, that you have made
So much blood rise in's cheeks?
Wife. Nothing, dear brother;
Indeed all's well: the course that he has run
I like and love; let him hold on the same;
A son's love to a father none can blame:
I will not leave your brother's iron heart,
Till I have beat it soft with my entreats.
O. Fos. 'Twill ne'er be music, 'tis so full of frets.
Wife. Frets make best music: strings the higher rack'd
Sound sweetest.
O. Fos. And sound nothing when they are crack'd,
As is his love to me, and mine to him.
Wife. I hope you both in smoother streams shall swim.
He's now the Sheriff of London, and in council
Set at the Guildhall in his scarlet gown,
With mayor and aldermen, how to receive the king,
Who comes to see Master Brewen's hospital
To-morrow, consecrated by th' Cardinal,
And old St Mary's Spital, here by Shoreditch.
Mrs Fos. Ay, sister, he and you may set
'Bout what you will; heav'n, I am sure, prospers it;
But I am ever cross'd: you have been bound
For three great voyages, yet ne'er run aground—
Maid, wife, and widow, and wife again—have spread
Full and fair sails, no wrecks you e'er did dread,
Nor e'er felt any; but even close ashore,
I'm sunk, and 'midst of all my wealth made poor.
Wife. You must thank heaven.
Mrs Fos. I do, indeed, for all.
Wife. Sister, that hand can raise that gives the fall.
Enter Keeper.
Keeper. Master Foster, the new sheriff, your brother,
Is come to Ludgate, and I am come in haste
To know your pleasure, if you would see him.
O. Fos. I'll see a fury first; hence! clap to the door, I pray thee.
Wife. Why, 'tis your brother, sir.
Rob. Father, let's fly the thunder of his rage.
Wife. Stand valiantly,
And let me bear the storm: all hurts that are,
And ruins in your bosoms I'll repair.
Enter Stephen Foster.
Steph. Where's the keeper? Go, sir, take my officers
And see your prisoners presently convey'd
From Ludgate unto Newgate and the Counters.
Keeper. I shall, sir.
Steph. Let the constables of the wards
Assist you. Go, despatch! and take these with you.
[To Robert.] How now! what mak'st thou here, thou caitiff? Ha!
Com'st thou to stitch his wounds that seeks to cut
My throat? Darest thou in despite
Relieve this dotard?
O. Fos. Get thee from my sight,
Thou devil in red: com'st thou in scarlet pride
To tread on thy poor brother in a jail?
Is there but one small conduit-pipe that runs
Cold water to my comfort, and wouldst thou
Cut off that, thou cruel man?
Steph. Yes;
I'll stop that pipe that thou may'st pining sit;
When drops but fell on me, thou poison'd it:
Thou thrust'st a son's name from thy cruel breast
For clothing of his uncle; now that uncle
Shall thrust him naked forth for clothing thee;
Banish'd for ever from my wealth and me.
O. Fos. Thou canst not be to nature so uneven,
To punish that which has a pay from heaven:
Pity, I mean, and duty. [Stephen offers to strike Robert.] Wouldst thou strike?
Wound me, then, that will kill thee, if I can:
Steph. Thou ravest.
O. Fos. How can I choose? Thou makest me mad:
For shame thou shouldst not make these white hairs sad:
Churl, beat not my poor boy; let him not lose
Thy love for my sake; I had rather bruise
My soul with torments for a thousand years,
Could I but live them, rather than salt tears
Thy malice draw from him: see, here's thy gold;
Tell it: none's stole. My woes can ne'er be told!
Rob. O misery! is nature quite forgot?
O. Fos. Choke with thy dunghill-muck! and vex me not.
Steph. No, keep it; he perhaps that money stole
To give it thee; for which, to vex thy soul,
I'll turn him forth of doors: make him thy heir,
Of jails, miseries, curses, and despair,
For here I disinherit him of all.
O. Fos. No matter; lands to him in heaven will fall.
Wife. Good husband.
Mrs Fos. Gentle brother.
Rob. Dear uncle.
Steph. I am deaf.
O. Fos. And damn'd; the devil's thumbs stop thine ears!
Steph. I'll make thee wash those curses off with tears.
Keeper, away with him out of my sight;
And do, sir, as I charg'd you.
Keeper. Yes, sir, I will.
O. Fos. Poor tyranny! when lions weak lambs kill.
[Exeunt all but Stephen and his Wife.
Steph. How now, wife, art vex'd yet?
Wife. Never so well content, believe me, sir;
Your mildness wears this mask of cruelty well.
Steph. I am glad they're gone; mine eyes with rain did swell,
And much ado they had from pouring down.
The keeper knows my mind. Wife, I have paid
My brother's debts; and when he's out of door
To march to Newgate, he shall be set free.
Wife. O let me kiss thee for this charity.
But for your cousin, sir?
Steph. He's my life's best health.
The boy shall not miscarry for more wealth
Than London gates lock safe up every night.
My breath in black clouds flies: my thoughts are white.
Wife. Why from Ludgate do you remove [the] prisoners?
Steph. This is my meaning, wife:
I'll take the prison down, and build it new,
With leads to walk on, [and] rooms large and fair;
For when myself lay there, the noisome air
Chok'd up my spirits; and none better know
What prisoners feel than they that taste the woe.
The workmen are appointed for the business;
I will have't despatched, before 'tis thought on.
Wife. In good deeds I'll walk hand in hand with you;
There is a fair tenement adjoining
Close to the gate, that was my father's,
I'll give it freely; take it down, and add
So much ground to the work.
Steph.[103] 'Tis fairly given;
Thy soul on prisoners' prayers shall mount to heaven.
The plumbers and the workmen have survey'd
The ground from Paddington; whence I'll have laid
Pipes [all along] to London, to convey
Sweet water into Ludgate from fresh springs:
When charity tunes the pipe, the poor man sings.
Enter Keeper.
How now, keeper?
Keep. The prisoners are remov'd, sir.
Steph. What did you with my brother?
Keep. As you commanded, sir, I have discharged him.
Steph. How did he meet that unexpected kindness?
Keep. Troth, sir, as a man o'ercome 'twixt grief and gladness;
But, turning to his son, he fetch'd a sigh
So violent as if his heart would break,
And (silent) wept, having no power to speak.
Wife. Alas! good old man, some sweet bird must sing,
And give his sorrows present comforting.
Steph. Not yet, I'll wrack his sorrows to the height,
And of themselves they'll then sink softly down.
Keeper, go thou again after my brother,
Charge in my name him and his son to appear
Before the king; to whom I will make known
Their wrongs against me, showing just cause
To disinherit both by course of law. Begone!
Keep. I am gone, sir. [Exit.
Steph. Come, wife.
Wife. What's your meaning, sir?
Steph. Thou shalt know that anon.
The heavens oft scowl, clouds thicken, winds blow high,
Yet the brightest sun clears all, and so will I. [Exeunt.
Enter Henry III., attended by Montfort, Pembroke,
and Arundel, Lord Mayor, Stephen
Foster as Sheriff, Alderman Brewen, &c.
King. O, welcome is all love; our people's shouts
In their heart's language makes our bienvenues
Most high and sovereign: we return all thanks
Unto our loving citizens; [To Brewen] chiefly to you, sir,
Whose pious work invites our majesty
To royalise this place with our best presence,
Accompanied with this reverend Cardinal:
Would [that] me might, after [so] many broils,
End our days [too] in these religious toils:
We would work most faithfully. But, bounteous sir,
How do you call your buildings?
Brew. Unless it please your majesty to change it,
I call it Domus Dei.
King. The house of God;
It is too good to change: pray you, proceed.
Brew. These are my ends: to all distressed Christians,
Whose travels this way bend, the hospital shall
Free succour be for three days and three nights
Sojourn: diet[104] and lodging, both sweet and satisfying:
And (if their need be such) as much in coin
As shall, for three days more, defray their further travel:
This unto heaven—be you testator, good my liege,
And witness with me, noble gentlemen—
Most free and faithfully I dedicate.
King. An honourable work, and deserves large memory.
Mont. 'Tis a good example, 'tis pity 'tis no better followed.
Arun. But say, sir: now in some future age,
Perhaps some two or three hundred year behind us,
This place, intended for a use so charitable,
Should be unhallow'd again by villanous inhabitants,
Say whores instead of Christians, and
Your hospital tenements turn'd into stews,
Would not this grieve you in your grave?[105]
Brew. If my grave were capable of grief, sure it would, sir.
King. Prythee, be a false prophet.
Arun. I will, if I can, my lord.
King. Let now our heralds in the streets proclaim
The title and [the] office of this hospital;
Make known to all distressed travellers,
That we'll accept his charitable house;
This Domus Dei shall be their free sojourn,
As is proposed.
Enter on the one side Stephen's Wife; on the
other Old Foster, Mistress Foster, Jane,
Robert, and Keeper. All kneel.
King. What are these petitioners?
Rob. Each hath a knee for duty, the other for petition.
King. Rise, your duty's done; your petitions
Shall need no knees, so your intents be honest:
Does none here know them?
Steph. Yes, my good lord,
There's now a wonder in your sight.
King. A wonder, Master Sheriff?
You mean for beauty?
Steph. No, my liege, I would not
So boast mine own wife; but it is a wonder
That excels beauty.
King. A wonder in a woman!
What is't, I prythee?
Steph. Patience, my liege;
This is a woman that was never vex'd.
King. You may boast it largely; 'tis a subject's happiness
Above a queen's. Have you suits to us?
Rob. I am the suppliant plaintiff, royal Henry;
From me their griefs take their original.
King. What art thou?
Rob. Even what your grace shall please to make of me:
I was the son to this distressed father,
Until he took his paternity off,
And threw me from his love; then I became
Son to mine uncle by adoption;
Who likewise that hath ta'en away again,
And thrown me back to poverty: never was son
So toss'd betwixt two fathers, yet knows not one;
For still the richest does despise his heir,
And I am back expuls'd into despair.
King. This may your vices cause.
Rob. For that I come
To your impartial censure for a doom.
King. We hear; speak on: we know the parties;
Each one relate his grief, and if it lie in us,
We'll yield relief: it is first requisite
That we know of you, sir, the cause
Of this your son his disinheritance.
O. Fos. Before I understood his virtuous mind,
Or weighed his disposition to be kind,
I did that froward work; this now great man
Was an unthrifty wretch, a prodigal then,
And I disdain'd to know his brotherhood,
Denied relief to him; this child, kind and good,
Against my contradiction, did him relieve,
As his distressed uncle; at this
I chid, forbad. Still he holds on his course,
He grows more kind, and he in wasting worse;
My rage continued, as it had begun,
And in that rage I threw away my son.
Steph. The like plead I, my lord: for when my state
Had rais'd itself by an uncertain fate,
I took this outcast child, made him my own,
As full and free as I myself had sown
The seed that brought him forth; for this my love
His oblig'd duty presently did prove
A traitor to my trust, against my will
Succouring that foe which I did love so ill
Only for hating him. My charity being thus
Abus'd, and quit with injury, what could I then
But, as his father erst, so I again
Might throw him from my love? for worse is love abus'd
Than new-born hate, and should be so refus'd:
I did a father's part, if it were bad,
Blame him for both, there I my pattern had.
King. You fall betwixt two pillars, sir; is't not so?
Rob. Unhappy fate, my lord; yet thus I plead:
For this my father's hate I might deserve,
I broke his precepts, and did unchildly swerve
From his commission; I to my uncle gave
What was my father's, striving thereby to save
His fall'n repute; he rag'd; I did it still,
Yet must confess, as it was well, 'twas ill;
Well in my love, methought, ill to my fate,
For I thereby ruin'd my own estate:
But that mine uncle throws me forth of door,
For the same cause he took me in before,
Beats sorest 'gainst my bosom. If 'twere good
To take from a father for an uncle's food
In laws of love and nature, how much rather
Might I abridge an uncle for a father?
Charity's a virtue generally stands,
And should dispersed be through all men's hands.
Then would you keep't alone? For when your heir
I first adopted was, charity was there:
How errs your judgment then? seeing, you see,
What was good in you, makes sin in me.
You'll say my father did it: O, throw away
That foul excuse; let not discretion stray
So far aside; if custom lawful make,
Then sin were lawful for example sake;
Nor were those wasted goods only your own,
Since part was mine having adoption;
Then do me right, my lord, yet do no wrong,
For where my duty fail'd, my love was strong.
King. With an impartial ear we have heard
Your loving story; 'tis both fair and honest.
Steph. O, let me now anticipate your grace,
And, casting off the shadow of a face,
Show my heart's true figure; how have I striv'd
To make this forced counterfeit long-liv'd,
And now it bursts. Come (both) into my heart,
I have two jewels here shall never part
From my love's eye-watch; too worthy to be fil'd
On time's best record, a woman and a child.
(To O. Fos). Now, sir, to you I come; we must be friends,
Though envy wills not so, yet love contends
'Gainst envy and her forces; my young years
Say I must offer first a peace in tears.
O. Fos. O, let my shame my bosom's centre break!
Love is so young, it coys, but cannot speak.
King. You bless mine eyes with objects that become
The theatre of kings to look upon.
Steph. The keeper is discharg'd, sir; your debts are paid,
And from the prison you're a free man made:
There's not a creditor can ask you ought.
As your son did for me, so have I bought
Your liberty with mine; and to increase it more,
Because I know bare liberty is poor
Without assistance: to raise your state again,
The thirds of mine are yours, [To Wife] say you
amen?
Wife. No, not to that, you are kind brothers now,
Divide by halves that love, and I'll allow.
Steph. Thou art only wise in virtue; as thou sett'st down,
So let it be. Half my estate's your own.
O. Fos. It whole redounds again, for I am yours;
Forget this minute my forgetful hours.
Steph. O, they are buried all, sir!
King. This union's good;
Such league should ever be in brotherhood.
Steph. Yet without boast, my liege, let me relate
One small thing more—remorse of my own state,
And my dear brother's worse succession:
For that we both have prisoners been in one
Selfsame place of woe, and felt those throes,
That Ludgate yields: my charity bestows
Some alms of comfort: keeper, you can speak it.
Keep. And many hundred more, sir: you have re-edified
And built it fair, adding more ground to it,
And by pipes of lead from Paddington, drawn
Water thither free for all prisoners: lodgings
Likewise free, and a hundred pounds yearly, to make
Them fires for better comfort: all this is almost finish'd.
King. A worthy work! the better being done
In the founder's eye, not left unto succession.
Steph. O my good lord, I ever kept in mind
An English sentence, which my tutor is,
And teaches me to act my charity
With mine own hands; so doubtful is performance,
When the benefactor's dead.
King. What is't, I prythee?
Steph. This, my good lord:
Women are forgetful, children unkind,
Executors covetous, and take what they find;
If any man ask, where the dead's goods became,
The executor swears he died a poor man.[106]
King. You have prevented well, so has this good alderman;
I wish you many scholars.
Wife. [To Steph.] You make some doubts of me in this, sir:
Did you not say that women are forgetful?
King. You have vex'd her now, sir: how do you answer that?
Steph. No, my lord, she's exempt from the proverb.
Wife. No, my lord, I'll help it better: I do confess
That women are forgetful, yet ne'ertheless
I am exempt: I know my fate, and find
My dear husband must not leave me behind,
But I must go before him;[107] and 'tis said,
The grave's good rest when women go first to bed.
Steph. Thanks for thy excuse, good wife, but not thy love
To fill my grave before me: I would not live to see that day.
Wife. Prythee, no more, I had rather be angry than flatter'd.
King. You have a wonder, master sheriff; a priceless jewel.
Steph. Many jewels, my good lord; a brother, wife, and child,
For this I would have strove even with a father:
Howe'er rough storms did in my brows appear,
Within my bosom it was always clear.
O. Fos. I give him to you now, sir.
Steph. I take him, and to him back do give
All that myself behind in 'state shall leave.
O. Fos. And all that you gave me, I do bestow;
So in one hour become full heir to two.
Brew. I claim a third by this bond's virtue; [Pointing to Jane.
See, as a father thou art heir to those.
Jane. I will not go to him, father, on any of these conditions.
Rob. You shall have love to boot too, sweet Jane.
Jane. Nay, an' you play booty, I dare not trust you.
Rob. What shall I say? Accept my hand and heart,[108]
Tied in a true love's knot, never to part.
Jane. Ay, marry, sir, these are better conditions
than the inheritance of three fathers. Let me have
love in esse; let lands follow in posse. Now I'll
have thee as fast as the priest can despatch us, let
him read as fast as he can.
King. The liveliest harmony that e'er I heard!
All instruments compar'd to these sweet tunes
Are dull and harsh: I joy to see so good a child,
A woman wonder; brothers reconciled.
[To Brewen.] You, worthy sir, did invite us to a feast,
We'll not forget it, but will be your guest;
Because we'll view these wonders o'er again,
Whose records do deserve a brazen pen;
But this above the rest in golden text
Shall be insculp'd, A woman never vex'd.
