Scaena, I.

SO soone after dinner?

I am engaged, and must a­way, excuse me brother.

Well, make ready his horse.

His Worships padde shall be prepared: If your Golding be not ready in a minute, your Worship shall ride me.

There are such indeed.

Why how now Franck, grown musty on a sud-dain? Head hung, and playing the thiefe thus with your friends, to steale your person from vs, what's the matter.

Nothing, nothing Gentlemen.

Very like, and yet you leaue our company for this nothing.

Let's in againe to the Ladies.

What's he.

Mr. Aymwell.

A hopefull Gentleman.

Make no part of him your feare.

I doe not, when I call to mind my Daughters vertue and obedience, [Page] Shee knowes my purpose to dispose her to Sir Nicolas Treedle.

And how doe you find her inclination?

As I would direct it.

Ile leaue a Seruant to waite vpon her.

Braines.

The same.

He is a cunning fellow.

Good.

He knowes his charge.

When dee returne?

Ile waite on you to your horse Sir.

Some affaires importun'd his departure.

When shall wee expect him?

Make your owne election.

Why dee mocke mee.

How mocke you.

Yes?

You doe not meane in earnest.

I shall betray my passion.

I find him.

You m 'y for I am lost.

Hee's here — good Vncle, is my father gone?

Yes, gentle Neece.

Here's prety madnes.

You know my Father.

Hee was my noble friend.

You were ever generous.

Let me imbrace a perfect friend.

Some 3. hundred pounds.

None.

[Page]

No, my intention was to preacquaint you.

Ha!

I meane for you to arriue at her, your owne dispa­rity in fortune.

I doe finde it.

I thanke you.

you doe your selfe more right.

Come to your freinds.

Garden i'their cheekes, cherries i'their lippes, stellifie their eyes, and yet in a twinckling. —

Sure you doe him wrong sir.

Wrong?

He measures my affection by the length of his own, Prethee Satyre chuse another walke, and leaue vs to inioy this, thou knowst not my intent.

Thou mayst be honest with one, and that's a miracle [Page] and will aske a strong faith to beleeue it, I hope shee has more wit then to trust your voluble courtship, Ile seeke out my friend Aymwell.

Sir, if your engagement require no hast.

I doe wonder a Gentleman of your knowledge should so deceive himselfe.

Expresse your selfe Fairest.

Faire sir, I am not taken with your flatteries, I can see through you.

If you haue so actiue an eye Lady, you may see a throng of Passions flaming at my hart, set a fire by your beau­ty I protest t'ee; come, shame not your wisdome to beleeue report or opinion ath'world, 'tis a malicious age we liue in, if your eares haue beene abused with any ill noise, a me you shall tell your selfe if you loue me, the world is a shamelesse and miserable detractor, you doe not despise me Lady. —

No, I pitty so handsome a Gentleman, and of So faire a fortune, should want his eyes.

How blind?

To your owne follies sir.

Shall I sweare I loue you, as I am a Gentleman.

As you are a Gentleman, I know you can sweare any thing t'is a fashion y'are most constant in, to bee religiously wicked, an oath in your mouth and a reseruation in your hearts is a common Courtship, doe not sweare as you are a Gentleman.

As I am an honest man.

Out vpon't, that's a worse, my Taylor couzened me t'oher day with the same oath, saue your credit and let swearing alone, I dare take your word.

Well sayd.

For a greater matter, but not for this, you and I ha not eaten a bushell of salt yet, in time I may be conuerted, and thinke your tongue and heart keepe house together, for at this time I presume they are very farre a sunder.

Would you haue my tongue in my heart Lady?

No by my troth, I would rather finde your heart in your tongue, but you are valiant, and 'tis onely feare they say, brings a mans heart vp to his mouth.

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Why, your wit is a tyrant now, pray tell me doe not you loue me mightily now aboue Potatoes, come I see the little blind Boy in your eyes already.

Loue you Sir?

Yes, I know by your bitternesse you wish me well and thinke there is some hope I may be wonne too, you take paines to whip me so handsomely, come Ile be a good child and kisse the rod.

You would ha' me praise you now, I could ram­ble in your commendation.

I thinke so.

Dee but thinke so, why you shall heare mee, Your hayres are Cupids Nets, a Forehead like the saytest coast of heauen without a cloud, your eybrow is loues bow [Page] whiles eyther Eye are arrowes drawne to wound, your [...]ps the Temple or sacred phane of kisses often as they meere exchanging Roses your tongue Loues lightning, necke the Milky path or throne where sit the Graces, doe not I know that I haue abused you all this while, or doe you thinke I loue you a thought the better, or with all my Poeticall dau­bings can alter the complection of a hayre now.

I would not haue you sir.

Ride vpon a sacke to Market, that neuer knew the impulsi­on of a Coate or the price of a Stammell petticoate, and I ha seene a worse face in a Countesse; what's that? Must ye be proud because men doe call you handsome, and yet though wee are so foolish to tell you so, you might haue more wit then to beeleeue it, your eyes may be matcht I hope, for your nose there be richer in our sexe, t'is true that you haue colour for your hayre wee graunt it, and for your cheekes, but what doe your teeth stand you in Lady, your lips are pretty but you lay 'em too open and men breath too much vpon 'em, for your tongue wee all leaue you ther's no con­testing, your hand is fine but your gloues whiter, and for your leg, if the commendation or goodnesse of it bee in the small, there be bad enow in Gentlemens stockings to compare with it; come remember y'are imperfect creatures without a man, be not you a Goddesse I know y'are mor­tall, and had rather make you my companion then my Idoll, this is no flattery now.

Where be these Gentlemen.

How now Franck.

You looke well to your charge Braines.

A question Sir, pray you, are you married Sir?

Why dost thou aske?

How now my officious Trencher squire.

[Page]

I am married Sir.

Then I hope y'ane met with your match already I ha nothing to say tee.

This fellow's mad.

Nor my Master neither, though he left his braines behind him, I hope a man may aske a question Sir.

Come hither Braines.

Ame life thou art in loue.

You are not.

Doe not mistake your selfe for I am.

Caught, I am glad on't.

No indeed not caught neyther, therefore be not o­uerioy'd good morality, why dost thou thinke it possible a womans face or any thing without her can inchaunt me.

Let me alone.

Why dost thou court 'em then.

Why, to try their wits with which I sharpen my owne, dost thinke I am so mad to marry, sacrifice my liber­ty to a Woman, sell my patromony to buy them Feathers and new fashions, and maintaine a Gentleman Vsher to ride in my saddle when I am Knighted, and pointed at with Py­thagoras for my tame sufferance, ha my Wardrop laid forth and my holiday breeches, when my Lady pleases I shall take the ayre in a Coach with her, together with her Dog that is costïue, bee appointed my table what I shall eate, accor­ding as her Ladiship findes her owne body inclin'd, fed vp­on this or that Melancholy dish by prescription, guarded with officious Sallets like a Prisoner in a throng, praise her beautifull allowance of course Mutton that haue the world of dainty flesh before me, 'twere a sinne oo discretion and my owne freedome.

Young Mistris, I obserue you.

You doe not meane to dye in this faith.

Prethee doe not talke of Dying, a pox o'the Bel­man and his Omnia benes, but that I thinke I know thy Fa­ther, I should hardly belieue thou wert a Gentleman, how­euer [Page] thy Aristotles [...] ibi [...] will make thee vncapable of their company shortly, if you Catechise thus you shall have few Gentlemen your Disciples that haue any bloud or spirit about 'em, there's no discourse so becomming your Gallants now, as a Horse race or Hide-Parke? what Ladies lips are softest? what Fashion is most terse and Courtly? what newes abroad? which is, the best Vaulting house? where shall we taste Canary and be drunke too night, talke a morality — heere be Ladies still, you shall heare me court one on 'em, I hope you wee' not report abroad among my friends that I loue her, 'tis the loue of mounting into her maydenhead I vow Iacke, and nothing else.

Y'are a mad Louer.

That was cunningly cast about.

Whither is't Lady?

I'me walking in Sir.

I'le wayt on you, and after that abroad, 'tis an in­uiting day, are you for the Coach.

No.

Or for the Couch? Take mee a Companion for either.

Neither.

My Lute's broke sir.

A string you meane, but 'tis no matter, your voyce is not, rauish a little with that, if you please I can helpe you to an heyre by this blacke eye which Nature hath giuen you, Ile not leaue you Ile follow yee.

All this from her?

You may belieue me Sir.

With my best memory her words, shee wisht you [Page] not proceed for shee was already dispos'd of in her Fathers thoughts.

In her fathers thoughts? Happily not in her owne.

It would be fruitlesse to moue her Vncle or her Fa­ther in' [...].

Hazard, that word does yet imply there is a pos­sibilitie.

Amantes sibi somnia fingunt, how apt are Louers to conster all to their desires.

I wonnot let my Action fall.

Doe not build Castles.

Hee's a bed already.

Scena, I.

WHere's Marre-text my Chaplaine.

He's newly walked out of his Medi­tation in the Kitchin, into the Garden.

Bid him reade Prayers in the Dining-roome.

Before your Worship come?

I wo'not pray too day, dost heere? Bid my Tutor come downe to mee.

Which on them.

Why hee that reades Trauaile to me, the wit that I tooke vp in Paules in a tiffany Cloake without a hatband, now I haue put him into a doublet of Sattaine — stay hee's heere.

Morrow Tutor, what houre take you it?

It is no houre at all Sir.

How?

Not directly any houre, for it is betweene 8. and 9. Sir.

Very learnedly then I was ready betweene Six and seauens too day.

Are you dispos'd for Lecture.

Yes, yes Sir.

In troth Sir, I remember some such things but I haue forgotten 'em.

What is an Istmus?

Why an Istmus, is an Elbow of land.

A Necke, a necke.

A necke? Why I was neere it, if you had let me alone, I should haue come vp too't.

'Twas well guest, what's an Iland?

An Iland is an high Mountaine, which shooteth it selfe into the Sea.

That's a Promontory.

[Page]

Is't so? An Iland then is, no matter let it goe, 'tis not the first Iland wee ha lost.

How are you perfect in your Circles? Great & lesse, Mutable and immutable, Tropicall and Polar.

As perfect in them as I am in these, faith I shall neuer conne these things handsomely, may not a man study Trauaile without these Circles, Degrees and altilatitudes you speake of?

Yes, you may.

I doe not care for the neerest way, I ha time e­nough to goe about.

Very well, you shall lay aside your Globe then.

I, and if please you I will haue it stand in my hall to make my Tenants wonder instead of the book of Martyrs.

It will doe well, now name what Kingdome or Prouince you haue most minde to.

What say you to England.

By no meanes, it is not in fashion with Gentlemen to study their owne Nation, you will discouer a dull easi­nesse if you admire not and with admiration preferre not the weedes of other regiments before the most pleasant flowers of your owne garden, let your Iudgment reflect vp­on a serious consideration who teaches you the minick po­sture of your body, the punctuality of your beard, the for­mality of your pace, the elbowes of your cloake, the heele of your boote, doe not other nations? Are not Italian heads Spanish shoulders, Dutch bellies, and French legs, the onely Notions of your reformed English Gentlemen.

I am resolu'd to be ignorant of my owne country say no more on't, what think you if I went ouer to France the first thing I did.

By Sea.

Dee thinke I ha no more wit then to venture my selfe i'th salt water, I had rather be pickled and powdred at home by halfe that I had.

I apprehend you are cautious, it is safe trauelling in your study, but I will not read France to you.

No?

Pardonne mo [...] it is vnnecessary, all the French fashi­ons are here already or rather your French cuts.

Cuts?

[Page]

Vnderstand me, there are diuers French cuts.

We haue had too many French cuts already.

First, there is your cut of the head.

That's dangerous.

Pshew a haire a hayre, a perriwigge is your French cutte and in fashion with your most courtly Gallants, your owne hayre will naturally forsake you.

A bald reason.

Right obseru'd their prudent and weighty pollicy who haue brought up this artificiall head-peice, because no man should appeare light headed.

He had no sound head that inuented it.

Then there is the new cut of your doublet or slash the Fashion of your apparrell a queint cut.

Vpon Taffety.

Or what you please, the slash is the embleme of your valour, and besides declareth that you are open brested.

Open as much as you will but no valour.

Then Sir, there is the cut of your leg.

That's when a man is drunke, is it not?

Doe not stagger in your iudgement, for this cut is the grace of your body, I meane dancing o'th French cut i'th leg is most fashionable, beleeue it pupill a gentile carriage.

But it is faine to be supported sometime with a bottome.

Here is Sir George Richley Sir newly alighted.

Oh my Father in law that shalbe.

Then wee are cut off.

There is a match concluded between his daughter and me and now he comes for my answere conduct him to the gallery.

Rather Sir meete him.

Let him goe before and tell him we are comming and weele be there as soone as hee.

Braynes.

What's the matter.

Lets risle the other bottle of wine.

Doe not indanger thy sconce.

How?

[Page]

I'le drink no more.

Why?

Because I will not be drunke for any mans pleasure.

Drunke?

Tis good English now, t'was Dutch, may bee you ha some conspiracy vpon mee.

I? Who has betrayed me? his Mistris procured the Key of the Wine-seller, and bad me try if I could wind vp his braines handsomely, he knowes on't not one health more.

Not, not, good Whible if you vrge agen I shall sus­pect.

Suspect me?

And beate you Whible if you be not satisfied.

I am, but in friendship.

Dost tempt me?

I will drinke your health and be drunke alone.

This whelpe has some plot vpon men, I smell pow­der my young Mistris would haue blowne vp my braines this Peter-gunner should haue given fire, 'tis not the first time shee hath conspired so but two not doe, I was neuer yet couzned in my life, and if I pawne my braines for a bot­tle of Sacke, or Claret, may my nose as a brand for my negli­gence carry euerlasting Malmesey in it, and be studded with Rubies and Carbuncles, Mistris you must pardon my offici­ousnesse, be as angry as a Tyger I must play the Dragon and watch your golden fleece, my Master has put me in trust and I am not so easily corrupted. I ha but two eyes Argus had a hundred, but hee must be a cunning Mercury must pipe them both a sleepe I can tell you. And now I talke of sleepe, my lodging is next to her chambers, it is a confidence in my Master to let his Liuery lye so neere her, Seruingmen haue e're now proved themselues no Eunuches, with their Masters Daughters, if I were so lusty as some of my owne tribe, it were no great labour to commit Burglary vpon a Mayden head, but all my nourishment runs vpward into braines and I am glad on't, a temperate blood is signe of a good Liver, I am past tilting, here shee is with the second part of her to the same tune, an other maide that has a grud­ging [Page] of the greene sicknes. and wants a man to reco­uer her.

Be this enough betweene vs to bind each to helpe others designes.

Heeres Breynes, hee has not yet beene drencht.

Hee is too subtile.

How now Breynes?

As you see forsooth.

Thou art very sad.

But I am in sober sadnes I thanke my starres.

Witty.

As much wit as will keepe Breynes from melting this hot weather.

A dry whooresone not thus to be wrought vpon!

Very good Sacke and Claret ith house.

Thou hast not tasted.

Oyes, oyes, my braines swimme in Canary, excee­dingly excellent Sacke I thanke yee Ladies, I know tis your pleasure I should not want o'th best blood o'th grape in hope there might be a stone in my cup to marre my drinking afterwards.

Mistris Sensible what igge ithe wind shee moues so nimbly.

From whom?

Master Fowler.

A Letter? whence flew that paper kite.

What this?

An other inclosed without direction happily ob­serued.

If you can loue I will study to deserue and be hap­py to giue you proofe of my service, in the meane time it shalbe a testimony of your favour to deliuer this inclosed paper to your couzen from her servant Aymwell, farewell and remember Fowler, looke you couzen what Mr. Fowler writes, I dare trust you with the secret at your opportunity peruset his paper.

Conveyances, I read iugling in that paper alrea­dy, and though you put it vp I wo not oh, for so much Magick to coniure that paper out of her bosome into my pocket now I doe long to know what pittifull louer for it [Page] can be no other, is doing penance in that white sheete al­ready, Mistris Sensible harke yee; whence came that letter?

From Master Fowler to my Mistris.

It is a shee Letter it seemes.

A shee Letter why so?

Because it had a young one it'h belly on't, or I am much mistaken.

Does he not write like a bold gamester?

And a bowling gamester too, for his byas was to­wards my Mistres, but I may chance to cast a rub in his way to keepe him from kissing.

Hee hath very good partes in him questionlesse, but doe you loue him.

O the cunning of these Gipses, how when they list they can talke in a distinguishable dialect, they call men foxes but they make, tame geese a some on vs, and yet like one a those in Rome I may prove so happy to p [...]eserue your distressed Capitoll, what newes brings this Kickshaw.

Master Fowler desires to speake with you.

Already he might ha deliuered his owne Letter.

Ile to my Chamber

It will doe very well.

I hope you wilbe carefull that I am not troubled with any visit of Gentlemen, it will become your officious­nesse good Dametas to haue a care of your charge Pamela.

So, I can suffer this jeare.

Ha? is he gone? I'me glad on't, Ile take this oppor­tunity to reade the Paper, Master Aymwell sent me no su­perscription?

Shee's at it already, thus farre of I can read her countenance if she spare her voyce.

It shall bee answered.

It shall, the games a foote, were I best to discouer thus much, or reserue it to welcome home the old Knight withall, Ile be more familiar with this iugling, first, the Scriuener has a Name and if he be worth his owne eares he shall be worth my discouery.

Here comes the Gallant and the tother toy now.

I receiued your Letter Sir?

In good time.

You might haue spared your hand a labour, if you had resolved to put your feete vpon this expedition.

Good.

I confesse I wrote something in my owne canse, but the chiefe cause was to convay my friends affection to his Mistris.

And I will convey your affection to somebody else.

Then you made me a property.

'Tis for your honour if you helpe any way to ad­uance an honest businesse, and yet mistake me not though the Racke should enforce from me without a second rea­son I had not wrote to you, yet for so much as concern'd my selfe by this kisse, my pen hath but set downe the resolu­on of my heart to serue you.

To serue me, how?

How? why any way, giue me your Liuery I'le weare it, or a Coate with a Cognizance by this light, I feare you are an Hereticke still and doe not beleeue as you should doe, come let me rectifie your Faith, serue you▪

Since the Complement of Service came up, Gentle­men have had excuse for their love: I would not have you serve me Sir.

Not serve you? Why dee thinke a man cannot love and serve too.

Not one serve two, well.

[Page]

You are too literall, and yet i'th strict sence I ha knowne a woman has served halfe a doozen Gentlemen handsomely, so, so, and yet the last had enough of her too, why should not one man serve two Gentlewomen, it argues against your Sexe, that you are more insatiable ath' two, but I have a simple affection I protest and individuall, Ile neere serve but one.

But one at once.

But one at once, and but one alwayes, by this Dya­mond.

Nay keepe your oath Sir.

I am forsworne if I doe not, for I vowed before I came to bestow it, come weare it in your bosome, it shall be an earnest of more precious jewels, though not of so bright a lustie that will follow.

I pray Sir resolve me one thing, and be plaine, Doe you love me?

Love you?

'Tis my question.

'Tis a very foolish one, to what purpose have I beene talking all this while, that you make it a question, has not it beene the Theame of all my discourse hitherto, that I doe love you.

In what sence?

In what sence? Why in any sence at your owne choyce, or in all the sences together and you doubt me: I doe love to see your face, heare your voyce, smell your breath, touch your tree, and taste your golden Apples.

But this does not satisfie me.

You doe not doubt my sufficiency dee?

Now you're immodest, I onely askt if you love me.

And ha not I told you? Pray teach me a better way to expresse it. Does a Wiseman love Fooles fortune, and a Nobleman another beside my Lady? Does the Divell love an Vsurer, a Great man his Flatterer, the Lawyer a Full Terme, or the Physitian a dead time to thrive in.

Spare your selfe this is but course love.

Ile spin it finer and finer every day Sweet, to be [Page] plaine with thee, what dost thou think of me for a husband, I love thee that way.

Would you did else.

Is there my thing in me would commend it selfe, that I may spare my other commendations, for I am resol­ved to be yours at any [...]ate of my own praise, or what I can purchase from my friends.

Sir, if your meaning be no stranger to your language, although I cannot promise my selfe, you bind me to bee thankfull for it.

She nibbles already.

But pardon me if I suspect you still, you are too wild and aery to be constant to that affection.

There be the Pigeons.

I would be to your daughter.

Let her use to entertaine him so, and hee'l bid himselfe welcome, harke you sir, you doe like his compa­ny?

Yes.

So I say, but if I were worthy to give your daugh­ter counsell she should have a speciall care how she treads, for if this Gentleman be not a Whooremaster, he is very like one; and if she chance any way to cracke her Venice-Glasse, 'twill not be so easily sowdred.

Meddle with your charge Sir, and let her alone.

I have done, here is a fresh Gamester.

By your noble leave.

You'r welcome Sir.

I was directed hither to find a Gentleman.

Manly how ist?

I was to inquire for you at your lodging.

Pray know this gentleman Lady Master Worthy heele deserue your acquaintance.

You oblige [...]y seruices — but what make you heere my woman ferritor.

Come hither Penelope.

Solliciting a cause of Venus.

[Page]

I suspect as much, but with her? is shee a whoore?

Withdraw your selfe.

Franck.

Master Worthy.

A knot of friends.

What of my letter?

'Tis deliuered you must expect.

What newes gentlemen?

We heare none, you visit the Exchange Sir, pray furnish vs.

What doe all these Butterflies here, I doe not like it.

I hope your daughter is in health.

Perfect, I thanke Heauen.

And your Neece at whose naming I'me bolde to tender my thankes for your last friendship, I might haue plung'd by this time into passion had not you nobly, iust as I was falling preuented my vnhappinesse.

Your opinion of what I did, giues value to the ac­tion, howeuer 'twas a duty I was bound to.

This is the youth, I'le pawne my braines, harke you Sir, what doe you call this Gentleman.

Master Aymwell.

Yes, old trupeny and loopes too, thou art iealous now.

One word more.

I haue a plot and thou must helpe me.

Let it be a safe one.

May we not see her?

Braines where's thy Mistris?

She's a little busie.

Who's that.

my Neece.

And shee be but a little busy shee's more then halfe at leasure.

Doe not you know that a Woman is more troub­led [Page] with a little businesse, then some man with mannaging the troubles of a whole common wealth, it has beene a pro­uerbe, as busy as a Hen with one Chickin, marry and shee had twenty, twenty to one she would not be so fond on'em.

He sayes right, Gentlemen, wee are friends, it is my brothers pleasure who is her father, to deny frequent ac­cesse to her, till hee hath finisht a designe, for my part, I am not of his minde, nor shall my daughter be a prisoner to his fancy, you see Sir I doe not seclude her, if shee chuse within any limits of reason, I moue in her.

You speake nobly.

Sir George Richley Sir, and Sir Nicholas are newly arriu'd.

My brother, acquaint my Neece.

T'is my office I'le doe it —

Shall's stay?

By all meanes let's see the doughty Knight that must free the Lady from her Inchaunted Castle.

Didst euer see him?

No, but I haue heard his character.

Prethee let's ha't.

They say hee's one, was wise before hee was a man for then his folly was excuseable, but since hee came to be of age, which had beene a question till his death, had not the Law giuen him his Fathers Lands, he is growen wicked enough to be a Landlord, he does pray but once a yeare and that's for faire weather in haruest, his inward sences are sound, for none comes from him hee speakes wordes but no matter, and therefore is in Election to be of the Peace and Quorum, which his Tenants thinke him fit for, and his Tutors iudgement allowes, whom he maintaines to make him legs and speeches, he feedes well himselfe, but in obedience to government, he allowes his Servants fasting dayes; he loves Law, because it kild his Father, whom the [Page] Parson overthrew in a case of Tithes; and in memory, wears nothing sutable, for his Apparell is a or the ruines of ten fashions, he does not much care for Heaven, for he's doubtfull of any such place, onely Hell he's sure of, for the Divell stickes to his Conscience, therefore he does purpose when he dyes, to turne his sinnes into Almeshouses, that posterity may praise him for his bountifull of hot Pottage, but he's here already, you may reade the rest as he comes towards you.

Brother.

Let your kindest respects meet this Gentleman.

Sir Nicholas Treedle, I desire you would write me in the number of your Servants.

'Tis granted, Gentlemen I have an ambition to be your eternall slave.

'Tis granted.

And I to be an everlasting Rascall.

'Tis granted.

A couple of Cockaloches.

Here comes my Daughter.

Lady and Mistris of my heart, which hath long melted for you.

This is my Daughter.

Then it melted for you Lady.

His heart is whole againe.

Vouchsafe to entertaine a Servant, that shall study to command.

Well sayd.

His extreamest possibilities — in your businesse.

Abhominable Courtship.

Sir, I am Servant to Mistris Violetta, who com­mends this Paper to you.

O my best Angell.

As the Divell would have it, are you there Sensible.

Mr. Worthy I take my leaue.

Will you not stay supper.

Wee are engaged.

My service shall waite on you Gentlemen.

And mine.

Come on my Queene of Diamonds.

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Master Worthy I take my leaue.

Will you not stay supper.

We are engaged.

My seruice shall waite on you Gentlemen.

And mine.

Come on my Queene of Diamonds.

Brother lead the way.

If shee carry away this letter so, call me shallow-braines, I was neuer yet couzen'd in my life, this night? it shall be so, I will not come with bare relation of your plots▪

Scena, I.

SVre this is it, my Mistris and her maide are both fast still, I ha watched vnder the bed all night, to rob her pocket of this paper, and I ha don't, some fellow at this opportunity would haue wrigled himselfe into one of their flesh.

Who's there? Sensible.

Death her tongue is awake already.

Who's i'the chamber.

Helpe me Breynes, before shee wakes the tother, 'tis I forsooth but looking for the chamberpot.

Beshrew you for your noyse.

Where's the doore — stumbles.

Who's there?

Here's no body.

Make an end and get thee to bed.

An end of what, does she talke in her sleepe, shee was not wont.

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I ha don't, this paper carries the Loue powder.

For feare you had forgotten me, I ha made a quib­ling in praise of her my selfe, such a one as will fetch vp her heart Tutor.

That were a dangerous vomit Sir, take heed of that.

I but I will not hurt her I warrant thee, and shee dy within a Twelue month and a day Ile be hangd for her.

Will you Sir.

Marry will I, looke you Sir. But first let me see yours, can you not write it in my owne hand, I shall hardly read it.

I'le reade it to you.

Sir George G'ee mee't.

See they are at it.

And how doe you like it.

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Morrow noble Sir Nicholas.

Morrow Gentlemen.

Morrow to you both, Sir George I ha been making Poetry this morning.

He has a subtile fancy.

What's the subiect?

No subiect, but the Queene of his affections.

I scorne subiects, 'tis my Empresse your Daughters Muse hath set my muse on fire.

Reade Sir.

No, you shall read 'em for me.

'Tis a hue and cry Sir.

A hue & cry, for what?

For what, why for somewhat I'le warrant you.

You may call it Loues hue and cry.

Call it what you will, I know what 'tis.

Are you so Poeticall.

I ha beene dabling in Helicon, next to trauaile 'tis all my study marke the inuention.

How doe you like my pipin of Pernassus Gentle­men.

Very handsome.

Na, I'le warrant you, my Tutor has good furniture in him.

I doe not thinke hee made 'em.

Now you shall heare some verses of my owne making.

Your owne, did you not make these?

He betrayes himselfe.

Hum? yes I made 'em too my Tutor knowes.

I'le take my oath who made e'm.

But I wrote 'em for an other gentleman that had a Mistris.

My daughter you said.

I may say so, but that their faces are nothing alike, you would hardly know one from tother, for your bet­ter vnderstanding I will read 'em my selfe — Her foote.

Dee begin there?

Pretious conceit.

Her head.

Her head?

You were betweene her thighes but now.

T'is my conceit, I doe now meane to goe downe­wards agen, and meete where I left in the middle.

I marry Sir.

Now if you lik't you may.

A word with you Sir, pray what dee thinke of your pupill.

I thinke nothing Sir.

But deale ingeniously, your opinion.

Shall I tell you?

Pray Sir.

Nothing.

I thinke so too, what doth my Brother meane to make this fond Election.

For my owne part you heare me say nothing, but the good parts and qualities of men are to be valued.

This fellow's a Knaue, I smell him.

Some thing has some sauour.

About a seavennight hence.

Let it be 3. or 4. I care not how soone, is breake­fast ready.

It waites vpon you.

I doe loue to eate and drinke in a morning, though I fast all day after.

Ile follow brother.

Wee'le both attend.

Then hee's alone.

So leaue vs.

Nothing in the outside.

T'is inly pretious.

In scorne.

Ha you not now cause of tryumph, who is now the truer Prophet, you would nourish hope in spight of reason, now you feele a punishment in her derision.

Is this credible.

Come be free againe.

Doe not thou mocke me too.

Well, I ha done.

Nobly resolu'd.

A match, lets to 'em.

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And thou dost not play the Doctor handsomely, Il'e set the Colledge of Phisitians vpon thee for practising without a licence.

Can you bee sicke?

I would but coun­terfeit.

So must I the Phisitian.

I haue knowne a spruse Empericke hath given his patient 2 or 3. stooles with the bare repetition of crude wordes, and knotty sentences, which haue come from him like a Phlegme, which besides the operation in the hearers, who admire him for't, while he beates like a drumme, at their barrell head, and turnes their braines like beere, does him the benefit to scowre his owne durty maw, whose dregs else would putrifie; and infest his cheekes worse then a gangreene.

Are you sure shee will visit you?

As sure as I am well, for and I were sicke and would sleepe, I would rather, take a nap o'th ridge of Etna, and thee fall of deafning Nilus, then indure the visitation, of any of their tribe — one knockes, my pil­low and lay my head in the aking posture.

Tis Aymwell and Clare.

Where's my witty Bacchanalian, how now? what meanes this Apothecaries shop about thee, art Physicall?

Sicke, sicke.

Didst not looke in a glasse to day? how scurue­ly this nightcap shewes vpon thee.

What's the disease?

A feauer Sir.

Hang feauers, let's to the Tauerne, and inflame our selues, with lusty wine, sucke in the spirit of Sacke, till wee bee Delphicke and prophecie my bully rooke.

Alas.

Alasse, is that the disease, Drench her, drench her in sack, sicke for a lasse, doe not foole thy selfe beyond the cure of Bedlam, be wise and well agen.

You are merry, it seemes you haue won the Lady.

What Lady? the Lady ith'Lobster, I was halfe [Page] sicke for foolish thing called a woman, a toy tooke mee i'th head, and had like to haue taken away my heart too but I ha recouered, doe not trust thy body with a Phisitian, heele make thy foolish bones goe without flesh in a fortnight, and thy soule walke without a body a seauen night after.

These are no Doctors?

T'is reported that Master Fowler is sick and keepes his chamber, I hope hee's within.

Noble Sir.

Fayre Lady.

How fare you Sir?

The better to see you heere.

Vpon the entrance of this Gentlewo­man, I finde your griefe much altered.

Vpon mine?

Yes, and by that I dare presume to say you are the cause of his distemper.

I Sir?

A cunning Doctor

For I obserud so soone as his searching eye had fastned on her, his labouring pulse that through his Feauor did, before sticke hard, and frequent now exceeds in both these differences and this Gallen himselfe found true vpon a woman, that had doted vppon a Fencer.

I?

Giue vs leaue pray.

A very pretty fellow,

Well skild i'th pulse.

You know my disease too dee not? will not my complexion giue you the hint on't

You are not very well.

How Sir?

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By your fauour you will come too't.

To what?

To a burning Feauor — is there not one woman in the world.

I thinke there is, and too much of that, what then what conclude you?

Nothing but Sirrup of Violet, would comfort you going to bed.

Violet?

Has giuen't you.

It does me good Lady to feele you by — the hand.

Would it were in my power to recouer you.

The Doctor I thanke him has taken paines with me, but he sayes — nothing will doe me good.

Nothing?

But that, which is another sicknesse to reueale.

Pray Sir acquaint me.

I know you loue me.

I haue a great mind and 'twere but for two or 3. Minutes, to haue a maide warme my bed.

That may be done.

With her body—else t'will doe me no good the Doctor sayes — to put life in some of my limbes, a little virgin warm'th wo'd doo't.

You haue a burning Feauor.

But now and then I haue such cold fits againe — and t'is the Doctors opinion — a very learned man.

A learned Pandor.

He's at it.

Doctor.

Againe passionate.

Why, I may loue her name without offence, to you, why did hee waken my remembrance I had forgot­ten her.

Thinke vpon her scorne then.

I ha done, and till I heare her name agen I will throw this dulnesse off.

Lets choose another subiect

How closely they consult, the Doctor is in a fit of counsell I suspect some iugling — hee comes of, Ile gage a limbe this fellowe's an impostor.

Is there not much danger in him?

Within two minutes Gentlemen, I haue dis­covered happier symptomes.

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What crotchets be these, the fellowes mad I thinke.

A letter.

Whence.

I know not t'was left heere, and Breines hauing some businesse to dis­patch requested me to deliuer it.

Let me see't. To the right worshipfull Sir George Richly, I see him comming, loose no time, employ thy dili­gence to search for mine, I will deliuer this.

I shall Mistris.

Whence.

I know not, your seruant Breines receiued it.

What's here — daughter doe not you know whence this letter came?

Not I Sir.

You cannot bee so ignorant.

What meanes my father?

You are familiar with the Contents.

I beseech you Sir haue no suspition. —

I'le read it to you, Mr. Aymwell; I receiued your let­ter, and praise your apprehension, vpon the first view of your person, I conceiu'd opinion of your merit, the flame is now too great to bee supprest, it is no time to protract your hopes nor dishonour in mee to yeild vpon noble conditions at the first summon, I accept your loue, and re­quire your industry to preuent my fathers purpose, my ser­uant Sensible you may trust, I will vse some inuention to de­lay my expected marriage, farewell.

My harsh fate.

De'e know this charracter, where's my man Braines.

Your man deuill.

Did your worship call?

What's the matter Mistris.

Here me I beseech you.

Good Sir.

This was your worke you can read.

And write too the superscription of a Letter or so.

I hope you are Sensible.

Oh wench my father hath my letter.

Yours?

And I mistaking seal'd and return'd Aymwell that which he sent.

How came he by't.

Talke not of that, Oh for some art to helpe vs.

Let me councell you not to expresse any violence in your passions, least you marre the possibility of reclay­ming her, it seemes Aymwell ha's mist the intelligence, where shame is inforc'd too much vpon the delinquent, it begets rather an audacious defence of the sin, then repen­tance, soft raine slides to the root, and nourishes, where great stormes make a noyse, wet but the skin a'th earth, and runne away in a channell.

A most rare proiect.

Which of my cares reward'st thou with this folly.

Sir can you pardon?

I loue you but too well, goe to your chamber.

But must wee part.

Dispute it not.

Bu'y sweet Mistris Sensible, I hope wee shall meete againe as merry as we part.

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'Tis very violent, but wee obey your pleasure, I haue onely apparrell and some few trifles.

Take 'em all we'e and be gone.

Beside my owne misfortune, I haue cause to pitty thine, my father is displeas'd, and not iniustly, happy ge­nius. —

So, things must be mannag'd wisely, I will hasten the marriage.

By all meanes let it be suddaine.

Within two dayes — to morrow.

I wo'not sleepe, till shee be married, but carry things smooth, let not the Knight suspect y'are troubled, your daughter will be fetc'ht about with a byas againe.

How thou deseru'st me, let vs in.

SCENA. I.

CAn this be true?

As I haue faith to heauen.

Come ha you finisht your discourse yet.

You know you may commaund vs.

Promise it done.

You shall disguise your selfe I must employ you in rougher action.

Hee's an asse I made his best verses for 'em.

I thought his fancy would not reach 'em.

His sconce is drier then a Pumice.

There be wayes to preuent marriage for I'me al­ready changed.

Y'are wise, lets run away together.

But how shall I be sure your loue is firme.

Try me and trust me after.

And I will, for shall it be a hard taske Ile impose on you, dare you fight?

If I like my enemy.

'Tis a poore old fellow.

Then I'le kill him, his name?

My fathers seruant Braynes.

Is thy name Whible.

Yes, and't please your worship.

I like thee the better for that my name's Treedle.

I thanke your worship.

Hast done hooking a me.

Euery eye hath his obiect already.

A witty knaue, what place dost thou occupie vn­der thy Master.

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I am commonly his journey-man Sir.

How?

I looke to his Horses sir.

Wo't serue mee when I'me married.

Alas, I haue no good parts to commend men.

No good parts, and thou hast but skill in Horses and Dogs, th'art fit for any Gentleman in England.

Iust at that place assault him.

By your faire hand I will.

My Delight, how fare you.

I'me studying some witty Poesie for thy wedding Ring, let me see —

Trouble not your head, Whible intreat my Father hi­ther.

No matter, I will send to the Vniuersity.

Were you euer of any Colledge?

Colledge, I haue had a head in most ath' Butter [...]es of Cambridge, and 't has beene sconc'd to purpose. I know what belongs to Sizing and haue answered to my Que in my dayes, I'me free of the whole Vniuersity, I commencd with no worse then his Maiesties footmen.

And euer since you haue had a running wit, you were better consult our wits at home, wee haue excellent Poets i'th Towne they say.

I'th Towne? What makes so many Schollers then come from Oxford and Cambridge, like Market women with Dorsers full of lamentable Tragedies, and ridiculous Comedies which they might here vent to the Players, but they will take no money for 'em.

Oh my dearest! How happie shall I bee when I'me married.

Looke, they are ingendering at the lip.

I like it well.

Why are our ioyes defer'd?

But till to morrow.

'Tis an age me thinkes.

Kind worme.

This cannot be deceit.

I want some trifles the Exchange will furnish me, Let it be your motion to my Father.

Father and Vncle you will excuse our fa [...]li [...]e conuersation; I vow Ile bee honest till I be married, nor as [Page] touch of my flesh within the walls, onely the suburbs of her lips or hands, or so, and when, and when is to mor­row the day, the day of coupling and so forth, haue you got a licence.

Pray doe, weel'e bee marryed here, but keepe our wedding at my owne house at Croidon, wee'le ha the City Waites downe with vs, and a noise of Trumpets, we can haue Drummes i'th Country, and the Traine-Band, and then let the Spaniards come and they dare, dost heare; heere's twenty peeces you shall fribble e'm away at the Exchange presently.

How Sir?

By this gold she shall Father, lay it out in Tooth­picks, I'le weare 'em out in my hat; come I'le with you for the lycence.

Who shall with her?

I must attend a proiect of my daughters.

Braines.

Sir.

Waite on my daughter to the Exchange, obserue her carefully.

point me a minute to returne with her, if I faile put my braines into'th pot, and let 'em be seru'd vp with a Calues head, to morrow dinner.

It succeeds to my wish.

Violetta, look you lay out my gold at the Exchange in Bartholomew Fairings, farewell Violetta.

Come Mistris will you walke, I would faine see any mortall wit couzen me a my charge now, I will liue to be the shame of Pollititians, and when I am dead, be clapt vp into the Chronicles.

Ah the desire of vnlawfull flesh, what a coniuring dost thou keepe within vs to lay this little spirit of con­science, the world and the divell, are tame and sprightlesse [Page] temptations, poore traffique to this staple commoditie of Whooring: this is the place where I must take shipping for the Summer Islands, if she keepe touch, I will call them fortunate, and once a Weeke make a Love voyage to them. Ha! are we entertayn'd with Musicke?

Come with Holy flame and bee, welcome to Vertue and to me? Flame? I bring none wo' me, and I should be sorry to meete any fire workes here, for those hereafter I looke on 'em a farre off, and apprehend them with lesse feare, a­gaine?

I marry, this is another manner of invitement, I'le to her but —

Heere comes the squire of her Mistresses body, how does my little taper of Virgin waxe, thou hast beene in some dampe thou burnst blew me thinkes.

Noble Sir.

What, a cold.

A great cold, I ha lost my voyce.

And thou hast not lost thy Maydenhead 'tis no mat­ter, have a little care of thy Francke▪ Tenement, and thy tongue will come time enough to it selfe Ile warrant thee, what place has she chosen for the Encounter?

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Her chamber.

Her chamber?

'Tis all darke.

Is't all darke, I commend her pollicy the better, then the roome, and the deed that must bee done in't will be of one complexion, so shee be light I care not, prethee convey me to her.

Follow me.

As thy shadow woe bee to some a the deere sexe when a Chambermaid is Vsher to a Gentleman.

It shall be a harmelesse tryall Sir.

Goe too, I know thou art vertuous, put in execu­tion thy purpose, I'le be within the reach of thy voyce.

Mistresse?

Heere Winifrid.

The Gamester waytes his entrance iocund as a Bridgegroome, hee has forgot his Feauer.

Away you know your charge, be ready where are you Sir, Mr. Fowler She speakes hoarse.

Hell, if darknesse will carry it, yet hell cannot be so blacke.

There are too many flames in't, thy hand, what Monkes hole hast thou brought me to, where's thy Mistris.

This is the way.

Is this the way? it is a very blind one, the Diuell can hardly know me if hee meet me heere that's my com­fort, yet if hee did, he loues the sinne too well to interrupt so precious a meeting, prethee Child of darknesse conduct me to the handsome Fairie I must dance withall.

It seemes your Feauer hath left you.

My Feauer, I forget my selfe, I should haue counterfeited sicke all this while, but no matter and thy Mistris know it not, thou art skilfull in secrets, and I will deserue it: two or 3. [...]i [...]s when I am in her presence, will make her keepe her [Page] promise, wo'me about the cure, for that she thinkes I was so, prethee doe thy office and bring me to her, I hope she is not within hearing.

Feare not.

So about it then.

There's a fee belongs to my place first:

A fee belonging to your place, as I hope for a limbe of thy Mistresse I had forgot it, there's gold I can feele it by this darkenesse: for thou seest I haue no light to sweare by 'tis weight, quicke periwincle to thy mistris now.

This is not enough.

There's more, take siluer and all.

This is nothing.

Is it nothing? by this hand wo'd I could see't, tis all I haue, wo't search me?

There is another Fee belongs to vs.

Another Fee belongs to us? what's that? I must kisse her, th'hast a down lip, and dost twang it handsomely, now to the businesse.

This is not all I looke for:

Shee wo'not tempt me to come aloft will she?

If you could see me I doe blush;

What does my daughter meane?

If I could see her shee does blush shee; fayes tis so: oh the insatiable desires of Chamber-maydes! they were wont to looke no higher then the Groome or Ser­uingman and be thankefull, or if the Master would be plea­sed to let 'em shew him this lobby to'ther withdrawing chamber, or the turret in summer, and take occasion to cō ­mend the scituation and so forth, 'twas after the Lady had beene seru'd, out of his owne meere motion and fauour, and 'twas taken as an endearement for euer of their seruice and secrecie, now they must be tasters to'em i'the sweete sinne, Fees o'the Court must be payed, or no suit com­menc'd with iniquity, O Venus, what will this world come to?

Heare me.

Well.

What new proiect's this?

What?

No no, I can walke for 'em my selfe if need be.

What's the meaning a this sicke and dying, I feele no paine, I haue heard of some dyed with conceite, if it should kill me, I were a precious cockscombe, was euer poore Gentleman brought into such a foolish paradise pre­pared for a race, and mounting into th' saddle, I must goe home and dye, well, if I liue I'le quit your cunning, and for the more centainty, my reuenge may prosper, I wo'not say my prayers till it take effect.

This is the place where I must exercise my valour vpon Braines, I was ne're giuen to fight, but I'me engaged for such a prize as I would challenge all the Noble scien­ces in my owne defence.

What thing's that walkes about the doore?

Things occurre worthy consideration:

Were I best to speake before I strike him, or giue him blowes, and tell him reason afterwards. I doe not like expostulations, they proclaime our anger, and giue the enemy warning to defend himselfe, I'le strike him va­liantly and in silence.

What does he mutter?

What busines stayes him here, some treachery.

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Clare, they are in sight, downe, downe, oh my ra­uisht soule, what blisse is in this obiect?

Ha they are comming, 'tis she and the old Ruffian he has but a scuruy countenance, I ha th'advantage in the first blow, and I shou'd be very sorry, he should beate me in the conclusion.

Why does this fellow stay?

Will this fellow preuent my office, he goes tow­ard him with a quarrelling face, ha, I'le not engage my selfe, then 'tis so: withdrawes

Helpe, helpe.

Mistris stay, Feare nothing, alas good Gentlewoman, you blacke Magot death, I'de treade him into the kennell amongst his kin­dred.

For him 'two'd neuer trouble me, shall I loose my reputa­tion, So I'le venture an other pounding, but I'le be re­veng'd on him.

My Mistris is growne very thtisty of her voyce a'the sudden, I haue ask'd her 2. or three questions, and she answers me with holding out her hand, as the poste at St. Albaines that points the way to London, either shee is [Page] growne sullen, or the fright she was in late like a Wolfe that sees a man first, hath taken away her voyce,— I'le make her speake to me—He stayes, she puts him forward with her hand.—Said you forsooth—we will not doe, what a blessed comfort shal he enioy if she continue speechlesse, the Persians did worship a God vnder the name of Silence, and sure Christians may haue an excuse for their Idolatry, if they can find a woman whom nature hath po­sted into the world with a tongue, but no ability to make vse of that miserable Organ, what doe you thinke 'tis a clocke? two not stroke, ha? how now Mrs. treading a to­side, this is your way to the Exchange.

You are bountifull, 'tis more then I look't for.

What ha you to say to me Sirra, cannot a Gentlewomā

Ha ah my Braines melt, I am undone, I am vndone, you Succubus where is my Mistris? Proserpine speake.

That's he, your office.

We arrest you Sir.

Me you Toades?

Howe's this?

Away with him to Prison, 'tis no slight action, at your perils Sergeants—my fayrest Mistris.

Mistris— I'le honour this plot for the mirth sake.

Sirra Tadpoole what dee' meane, I owe him not a penny by this flesh, he has a conspiracy vpon me, I charge ye in the Kings name vnbind me.

May you liue to be arrested ath' Pox, and dye in a Dungeon, nay Innes a Court Gentleman, at next trimming shaue your eares and noses off, and then ducke you in their owne boggards.

SCENA. I.

SO, now we have got a Lycense, I would see who dares marry your daughter besides my selfe, is she come from the Exchange yet?

Not yet Sir.

Your servant Braines remembers his duty in this Paper.

Letters!

Letters, let me read em.

Your patience Sir.

I doubt all is not well, what if some misfortune should now befall your Mistris, I hope you have Armour of Patience?

I and of Proofe too at home, as much as my Hall can hold, the Story of the Prodigall can hardly be seen for't; I have Pikes and Gunnes, enough for me and my Predeces­sors, a whole Wardrope of Swords and Bucklers, when you come home you shall see 'em.

A Conspiracy.

Oh Treason.

My man Braines is arrested by your Tutor, a plot to take away my daughter, she is gone.

I did prophesie too soone.

My Tutor read travell to me, and run away.

With my Wench — a very Peripatetike — what shall I doe then, and some had arrested and clapt her up too — we should have knowne where to find her — dee heare, I did not meane to marry with a License.

How Sir?

No Sir, I did meane to marry with your daughter Am I a Gull?

Have Patience.

I will have no patience, I will have Violetta, why does not Braines appeare?

His heeles are not at liberty, he's in Prison.

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In Prison, why and he had beene hanged, he might have brought us word.

I'me rent with vexation, Sirra goe you with me to the Prison.

What will you doe?

Ile geld my Tutor.

You were best finde him first.

Nay I will finde him, and find him agen and I can light on him, let me alone, Ile take halfe a doozen wo'mee and about it instantly.

I wish thee well Neece, but a better husband.

Who's yonder, 'tis Master Fowler, at an excellent opportu­nity.

I doe walke still, by all circumstance I am alive, not sicke in any part but my head, which has only the pangs of invention, and is in travell of some pretious revenge, for my worse then Masculine affront, what if I report abroad shee's dishonest, I cannot doe'em a worse turne then to say so: some of our Gallants take a pride to belye poore Gen­tlewomen a'that fashion, and thinke the discourse an ho­nour to 'em; confidently boast the fruition of this or that Lady, whose hand they never kist with the Glove off: and why may not I make it my revenge, to blurre their fames a little for abusing me.

Well met friend, what? thou lookest sad.

You will excuse me, and beare a part, when I tell the cause.

What's the Newes?

Our Friend Master Fowler's dead.

Fowler! Ha?

Mr. Iohn Fowler.

That's I, that's I, ha?

The same.

Dead, am I dead?

Suddenly.

Where?

At Master Worthies house.

[Page]

Dead!

Too true Sir.

I wo'd not beleeve my selfe sicke, belike I am dead, 'tis more then I know yet.

He was a Sutor to Master Worthies daughter.

Mistris Penelope, right.

By all circumstance they meane me, these Gentle­men know me too, how long is it since I departed? Some mistake —

Ha, ha, Gentlemen, what d'ee thinke a'the dead man?

'Tis the last Office I can doe him, now to waite on him to the Earth.

Coxcombes d'ee not know me, I'me alive, dee not see me?

For whom my furious Poet, ha, not know me, doe I walke invisible, or am I my owne Ghost, and you wo not see me, you shall feele me, you have a nimble pate, I may chance strike out some flash of wit — no —

Here comes another, save you Master Worthy.

Sir I heard ill newes, Master Fowlers dead.

He is indeed Sir.

Indeed you lye Sir.

Where's his body?

At my sad house Sir.

Is my body at your house?

Very good, then I am dead, am I not?

Whose Funerall, you man of Bedlam.

Cry mercy Sir, pray keepe your way.

Master Worthy, Gentlemen d'ee heare.

Is't possible, not know me, not see me, I am so thinne, and aery, I ha slipt out a'the world it seemes, and did not know on't — if I be dead, what place am I in, where am I? This is not Hell, sure I feele no torment, and there is too little company, no 'tis not Hell — and I ha not liv'd af­ter the rate of going to Heaven; yet beside, I met iust now a Vsurer, that onely deales upon ounces, and carries his Scales at his Girdle, with which he uses to weigh, not mens necessities, but the Plate he is to lend mony upon, can this fellow come to Heaven? Here a poore fellow is put i'th stockes for being drunke, and the Constable himselfe reeling home, charges others i'th Kings name to ayde him. There's a spruce Captain, newly crept out of a Gentleman Vsher, and shufled into a Buffe Iurkin with gold Lace, that never saw service beyond Finsbury or the Artillery Gar­den, marches waving a desperate Feather in his Ladies bea­ver, while a poore Souldier, bred up in the Schoole of Warre all his life, yet never commenc'd any degree of Cō ­mander, wants a peece of Brasse, to discharge a wheaten Bullet to his? belly no — this is not Heaven I know by the people that traffique in't, where am I then? Vmh Ile to Worthies before they bury me, and informe my selfe better what's become a me, if I finde not my selfe there in a Cof­fin, there's hope I may revive agen, if I be dead, I am in a world very like the other, I will get me a female spirit to converse withall and kisse, and be merry, and imagine my selfe alive againe.

Come follow me, and be valiant my Masters.

Remember your selfe Sir, this is your Worships Footeman, and for mine owne part, though I be not cut [...]

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Assured your ends are noble, we are happy in'.

Master Fowler.

Is he come already?

This is the roome I sickned in, and by report dyed in, umh I have heard of spirits walking with aeriall bodies, and ha beene wondered at by others, but I must only won­der at my selfe, for if they be not mad, I'me come to my owne buriall, certaine these clothes are substantiall, I owe my Taylor for 'em to this houre, if the Divell bee not my Taylor, and hath furnish'd me with another suit very like it — This is no magicall noyse, essentiall gold and silver? What doe I with it if I be dead? Here are no reckonings to be payd with it, no Taverne Bils, no midnight Revels, with the costly Tribe of amorous she sinners, now I can­not spend it, would the poore had it, by their prayers I might hope to get out of this new pittifull Purgatory, or at least know which way I came in to't — Here they are in mourning, what a Divell doe they meane to doe with me — not too many teares Lady, you will but spoyle your eyes, and draw upon 'em the misery of Spectacles, doe not you know me neyther?

Oh Master Fowler.

Ha, out wa't, nay and the woman but acknowledge me alive, there's some hope a me.

I loved thee living with a holy flame to purge the errours of thy wanton youth.

I'me dead againe.

We must all dye.

Woo'd some of you would do't quickly, that I might ha company,

This is my Funerall sermon.

The burden of which sinne, my feares perswade me, both hastned and accompanied thy death.

This sorrow is vnfruitfull.

We must hope the best, he was an inconstant young man▪ frequenting of some companies, had corrupted his nature, and a little debauched him.

In all this sermon I haue heard little commenda­tions of our deare brother departed, rich men doe not goe to th'pithole without Complement of Christian burial, it seemes if I had liu'd to ha made a will, and bequeathed so much legacy as would purchase some Preacher a neate Cas­socke, I should ha dyed in as good estate and assurance for my soule as the best Gentleman i'th Parish, had my Monu­ment in a conspicuous place of the Church, where I should ha beene cut in a forme of prayer, as if I had beene cal'd [Page] away at my devotion, and so for hast to be in heauen, went thither with my booke and spectacles—do'e heare Lady and Gentlemen, is it your pleasure to see me, though not know me? and to enforme a walking busines when this so much lamented brother of yours departed out of this world, in his life I had some relation to him, what disease dyed he of pray? who is his heire yet at Cōmon Law, for he was warme in the possession of Lands, thanke his kind fa­ther, who hauing beene in a consumption sixteene yeares, one day aboue all the rest hauing nothing els to doe, dyed, that the young man might be a Landlord, according to the custome of his ancestors:

I doubt the proiect.

You should be his heyre or executor at least by your dry eyes, Sir I commend thee, what a miserable folly 'tis to weepe for one that's dead, and has no sence of our lamentation, Wherefore were Blackes inuented? to saue our eyes their tedious distillations, 'tis enough to be sad in our habits, they haue cause to weep that haue no mourning Cloth, 'tis a signe they get little by the dead, and that's the greatest sorrow now adayes, you lou'd him Lady, to say truth you had little cause, a wild young man▪ yet and hee were aliue againe, as that's in vaine to wish you know, he may perchance be more sensible, & reward you with better seruice, so you would not proclaime his weaknes,—faith speake well a'th dead hereafter and bury all his faults with him, will ye, what are these all the guests? ha? what pa­pers? some Elegy or Epitaph? who subscribes? oh this is your Poetry.

Very well, would the Gentleman your friend were aliue to giue you thanks for 'em.

Very well done vpon so dead a subiect, by the Virgin that's in't, you should owe this parcell of Poetry Lady.

Oh now you can answere me, am I dead still?

Then you talke to a dead man.

I doe.

Where am I dead?

Meete it daughter.

I will grow old i'th study of my honour, this last conflict hath quite ore'come me, make me happy in the stile of your sonne.

My blessings multiply.

We congratulate this euent.

See my brother.

Thou?

I.

I haue lost my daughter.

But I haue lost my credit, that had nothing else to liue. I was more proud of that then you could be of twen­ty daughters,

Haue you found 'em?

Not, not, and yet this old Ruffian will not let me vex for it, he sayes the greatest losse is his.

And I'le maintaine it, 'twas my boast that I was neuer couzned in my life, haue I betrayed so many plots, discouered letters, deciphered Characters, stript knavery to the skinne, and layd open the very soule of Conspiracie, deserv'd for my cunning to bee called Braines both Towne and Country over, and now to forfeit 'em, to see 'em drencht in a muddy stratagem, cheated by a woman, and a pedancieall lousie Woodmonger, 'tis abho­minable; patience I abhorre thee, I desire him that bids me goe hang my selfe, which is the way to Surgeans Hall I [...]le beg to ha my skull cut, I have a supspition my braines are filcht, and my head has beene late stuft with Wood­cocks [Page] Feathers.

Be not mad.

I will in spight of any man here, who shall hinder me if I have a minde too't.

Your happinesse removes my affliction, ha!

Where is Sir Nicholas? we have brought the Gentleman.

Are you there — this was the Champion that justled me, shall I fetch a Dog-whip, or let me cut him up he will make excellent meat for the Divels Trencher, Ile carve him Sirra.

Forbeare, where is my daughter? villaine confesse.

Alas Sir, I was waiting upon her home, Sir Nicho­las met me, and tooke her from me.

Sir Nicholas!

Yes Sir Nicholas, hath Mistris Violetta, I am a witnesse.

Why did he iustle me, there began the treachery, aske him that?

I pray y' sir let it be forgotten, I ha bin kickt for't.

Here she is, no there she is.

Stay which is my wife?

Here's my daughter.

Mistris!

Fine iugling. Francke whence commest?

Are there not two Sir Nicholasses, pray what d'ee call this Gentlewoman?

Her name's Violetta.

Father your pardon.

This is fine yfaith, well may a woman mistake her [Page] husband, when a man that is the wiser Vessell cannot know his owne wife.

Marryed to Aymwell!

We are Witnesses.

A good iest yfaith, hearke you, were you ever Catechiz'd? What is your name forsooth?

Faith Sir guesse.

All passion will be fruitlesse but of ioy.

We are witnesses of that too.

No no, this is my wife.

Touch her not with a rude hand.

Why, I know she meant to be my wife, and onely I ha married her, as folkes goe to Law, by Attourney, she is but her Deputy, for the more state I married her by proxie.

Doe not deceive your selfe Sir, though Princes depute men to marry their wives, women doe not use to be Cyphers, she is your wife in law, let me counsell you sir to prevent laughter, some body hath been couzened, I name no body, since it was your fortune to marry this wench, which cannot now be undone, seeme not to be sorry for't, they doe purpose to ieere you out of your skinne else.

Say'st thou so?

Be confident and laugh at them first, that they are so simple to think that you are guld, commend your choice, and say 'twas a trick of yours to deceive their expectation.

Come hither Madam Treedle, Gentlemen, you thinke now, I have but an ill match on't, and that as they say I am cheated, doe not beleeve it — a Lady is a Lady, a bargain is a bargain, and I'm a Knight & no Gentleman, so much for that — I grant I married her, in her Mistresses name, and though (as great men, that use to choose wives for their favourites or Servants, when they have done with 'em) I could put her off to my Footman or my Tutor here, I wo'not, I will maintain her my wife and publish her, d'ee see, publish her to any man that shall laugh at it, my owne Ladybird, and Madam Treedle.

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You are happy Sir, in being deceiv'd, he is a noble Gentleman.

Tutor we pardon.

And braines without wit too.

Franck thou art married, and Sir Nicholas has made a Lady, I ha liv'd loose a great while, and doe purpose to be made fast to this Gentlewoman.