Chapter 2

_Rud_. Slydd, heres neyther Torch, nor Lacquay, me thinks.

_Foul_. _O mon dieu_.

_Rud_. O doe not sweare Captaine.

_Foul_. Your Frenchman ever sweares, Sir _Cutt_, upon the lacke of his Lacquay, I assure you.

_Goos_. See heere he comes, and my Ladies two pages, they have been tickling the vanity ont yfaith.

SCAENA TERTIA.

_Enter to them Iack, Bullaker, Will_.

_Ia_. Captaine _Fowleweather_, my Lady the Countes _Eugenia_ commends her most kindly to you, and is determined to morrowe morning earely, if it be a frost, to take her Coach to Barnet to bee nipt; where if it please you, to meete her, and accompany her homewarde, joyning your wit with the frost, and helpe to nip her, She does not doubt but tho you had a sad supper, you will have a joyfull breakefast.

_Foul_. I shall indeed, my deare youth.

_Rud_. Why Captaine I abus'd thee, I see: I said the Ladies respected thee not, and now I perceive the widow is in love with thee.

_Foul_. Sblood, Knight, I knew I had strucke her to the quicke, I wondred shee departed in that extravagant fashion: I am sure I past one _Passado_ of Courtship upon her, that has hertofore made a lane amongst the _French_ Ladies like a Culvering shot, Ile be sworne; and I thinke, Sir _Gyles_, you saw she fell under it.

_Goos_. O as cleare as candlelight, by this daylight.

_Rud_. O good Knight a the post[10], heele sweare anything.

_Will_. The other two Ladies commend them no lesse kindly to you two Knights too; & desire your worships wood meete them at Barnet ith morning with the Captaine.

_Foul. Goos. Rud_. O good Sir.

_Goos_. Our worships shall attend their Ladiships thether.

_Ia_. No Sir _Gyles_ by no meanes, they will goe privately thether, but if you will meet them there.

_Rud_. Meet them? weele die fort, but weele meet them.

_Foul_. Let's goe thether to night, Knights, and you be true Gallants.

_Rud_. Content.

_Ia_. How greedely they take it in, Sirra?

_Goos_. No it is too farre to goe to night, weele be up betimes ith morning, and not goe to bedd at all.

_Foul_. Why its but ten miles, and a fine cleere night, sir _Gyles_.

_Goos_. But ten miles? what do ye talke, Captaine?

_Rud_. Why? doost thinke its any more?

_Goos_. I, Ile lay ten pounds its more than ten miles, or twelve eyther.

_Rud_. What, to _Barnet_.

_Goos_. I, to _Barnet_.

_Rud_. Slydd, Ile lay a hundred pound with thee, if thou wilt.

_Goos_. Ile lay five hundred, to a hundred. Slight I will not be outborne with a wager, in that I know: I am sure it was foure yeeres agon ten miles thether, and I hope tis more now. Slydd doe not miles grow thinke you, as well as other _Animals_?

_Ia_. O wise Knight!

_Goos_. I never innd in the Towne but once, and then they lodged me in a Chamber so full of these Ridiculous Fleas, that I was fain to lie standing all night, and yet I made my man rise, and put out the Candle too, because they should not see to bite me.

_Foul_. A pretty project.

_Bul_. Intruth Captaine, if I might advise you, you should tarry, and take the morning afore you.

_Foul_. How? _O mon Dieu_! how the villaine _poultroune_, dishonours his travaile! You _Buffonly Mouchroun_, are you so mere rude, and English to advise your Captaine?

_Rud_. Nay, I prethee _Fouleweather_, be not tempesteous with thy poore Lacquay.

_Foul_. Tempesteous, Sir _Cutt_? will your _Frenchman_, thinke you, suffer his Lacquay to advise him?

_Goos_. O God you must take heed Lacquy how you advise your Captaine; your French lacquay would not have done it.

_Foul_. He would have bin poxt first. _Allume le torche_, sweet Pages commend us to your Ladies, say we kisse their white hands, and will not faile to meete them; Knights, which of you leades?

_Goos_. Not wee, sir; you are a Captaine, and a leader.

_Rud_. Besides, thou art commended for the better man, for thou art very Commendations it selfe, and Captaine Commendations.

_Foul_. Why? what tho I be Captain Commendations?

_Rud_. Why and Captaine Commendations, is harty commendations, for Captaines are harty I am sure, or else hang them.

_Foul_. Why, what if I be harty Commendations? come, come, sweete Knights, lead the way.

_Rud_. O Lorde Sir, alwayes after my harty Commendations.

_Foul_. Nay then you conquer me with precedent, by the autenticall forme of all Iustice letters. [_Alloun. Exeunt_.

_Ia_. Here's a most sweet Gudgeon swallowed, is there not?

_Will_. I but how will they disgest it, thinkest thou when they shall finde our Ladies not there?

_Ia_. I have a vaunt-currying[11] devise shall make them digest it most healthfully.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENA QUARTA.

_Enter Clarence, Musicians_.

_Cla_. Worke on, sweet love; I am not yet resolved T'exhaust this troubled spring of vanities And Nurse of perturbations, my poore life, And therefore since in every man that holds This being deare, there must be some desire, Whose power t'enjoy his object may so maske The judging part, that in her radyant eyes His estimation of the World may seeme Vpright, and worthy, I have chosen love To blind my Reason with his misty hands And make my estimative power beleive I have a project worthy to imploy What worth so ever my whole man affordes: Then sit at rest, my soule, thou now hast found The end of thy infusion; in the eyes Of thy divine _Eugenia_ looke for Heaven. Thanks gentle friends. [_A song to the Violls_. Is your good Lord, and mine, gon up to bedd yet?

_Enter Momford_.

_Mom_. I do assure ye not, sir, not yet, nor yet, my deepe, and studious friend; not yet, musicall _Clarence_.

_Cla_. My Lord?

_Mom_. Nor yet, thou sole divider of my Lordshippe.

_Cla_. That were a most unfit division, And farre above the pitch of my low plumes; I am your bold, and constant guest my Lord.

_Mom_. Far, far from bold, for thou hast known me long Almost these twenty yeeres, and halfe those yeeres Hast bin my bed-fellow; long time before This unseene thing, this thing of naught indeed, Or _Atome_ cald my Lordshippe shind in me, And yet thou mak'st thy selfe as little bould To take such kindnes, as becomes the Age And truth of our indissolable love, As our acquaintance sprong but yesterday; Such is thy gentle, and too tender spirit.

_Cla_. My _Lord_, my want of Courtship makes me feare I should be rude, and this my meane estate Meetes with such envie, and detraction, Such misconstructions and resolud misdoomes Of my poore worth, that should I be advaunce'd Beyond my unseene lowenes, but one haire, I should be torne in peeces with the Spirits That fly in ill-lungd tempests through the world, Tearing the head of vertue from her shoulders If she but looke out of the ground of glorie. Twixt whom and me, and every worldly fortune There fights such sowre, and curst _Antipathy_, So waspish and so petulant a Starre, That all things tending to my grace or good Are ravisht from their object, as I were A thing created for a wildernes, And must not thinke of any place with men.

_Mom_. O harke you Sir, this waiward moode of yours Must sifted be, or rather rooted out. Youle no more musick Sir?

_Cla_. Not now, my Lord.

_Mom_. Begon my masters then to bedd, to bedd.

_Cla_. I thanke you, honest friends.

[_Exeunt Musicians_.

_Mo_. Hence with this book, and now, _Mounsieur Clarence_, me thinks plaine and prose friendship would do excellent well betwixt us: come thus, Sir, or rather thus, come. Sir, tis time I trowe that we both liv'd like one body, thus, and that both our sides were slit, and concorporat with _Organs_ fit to effect an individuall passage even for our very thoughts; suppose we were one body now, and I charge you beleeve it; whereof I am the hart, and you the liver.

_Cla_. Your Lordship might well make that division[12], if you knew the plaine song.

_Mo_. O Sir, and why so I pray?

_Cla_. First because the heart, is the more worthy entraile, being the first that is borne, and moves, and the last that moves, and dies; and then being the Fountaine of heate too: for wheresoever our heate does not flow directly from the hart to the other _Organs_ there, their action must of necessity cease, and so without you I neither would nor could live.

_Mom_. Well Sir, for these reasons I may be the heart, why may you be the liver now?

_Cla_. I am more then asham'd, to tell you that my _Lord_.

_Mom_. Nay, nay, be not too suspitious of my judgement in you I beseech you: asham'd friend? if your love overcome not that shame, a shame take that love, I saie. Come sir, why may you be the liver?

_Cla_. The plaine, and short truth is (my _Lord_) because I am all liver, and turn'd lover.

_Mom_. Lover?

_Cla_. Lover, yfaith my _Lord_.

_Mom_. Now I prethee let me leape out of my skin for joy: why thou wilt not now revive the sociable mirth of thy sweet disposition? wilt thou shine in the World anew? and make those that have sleighted thy love with the Austeritie of thy knowledge, dote on thee againe with thy commanding shaft of their humours?

_Cla_. Alas, my Lord, they are all farre out of my aime; and only to fit my selfe a little better to your friendshippe, have I given these wilfull raynes to my affections.

_Mom_. And yfaith is my sower friend to all worldly desires ouer taken with the hart of the World, Love? I shall be monstrous proud now, to heare shees every way a most rare woman, that I know thy spirit, and judgement hath chosen; is she wise? is she noble? is she capable of thy vertues? will she kisse this forehead with judiciall lipps where somuch judgement and vertue deserves it? Come brother Twin, be short, I charge you, and name me the woman.

_Cla_. Since your Lordship will shorten the length of my follies relation, the woman that I so passionately love, is no worse Lady then your owne Neece, the too worthy Countesse _Eugenia_.

_Mom_. Why so, so, so, you are a worthy friend, are you not, to conceale this love-mine in your head, and would not open it to your hart? now beshrow my hart, if my hart danse not for joy, tho my heeles do not; and they doe not, because I will not set that at my heeles that my friend sets at his heart? friend, and Nephews both? nephew is a far inferior title to friend I confesse, but I will preferre thee backwards (as many friends doe) and leave their friends woorse then they found them.

_Cla_. But, my noble Lord, it is almost a prodegie, that I being onely a poore Gentleman, and farre short of that state and wealth that a Ladie of her greatnesse in both will expect in her husband--

_Mom_. Hold thy doubt friend, never feare any woman, unlesse thyselfe be made of straw, or some such drie matter, and she of lightning. _Audacitie_ prospers above probability in all Worldly matters. Dost not thou know that Fortune governes them without order, and therefore reason the mother of order is none of her counsaile? why should a man desiring to aspire an unreasonable creature, which is a woman, seeke her fruition by reasonable meanes? because thy selfe binds upon reason, wilt thou looke for congruity in a woman? why? there is not one woman amongst one thousand, but will speake false _Latine_, and breake _Priscians_ head. Attempt nothing that you may with great reason doubt of and out of doubt you shall obtaine nothing. I tell thee, friend, the eminent confidence of strong spirits is the onely witch-craft of this World, Spirits wrastling with spirits as bodies with bodies: this were enough to make thee hope well, if she were one of these painted communities, that are ravisht with Coaches, and upper hands,[13] and brave men of durt: but thou knowest friend shees a good scholler, and like enough to bite at the rightest reason, and reason evermore _Ad optima hortatur_: to like that which is best, not that which is bravest, or rightest, or greatest, and so consequently worst. But prove what shee can, wee will turne her, and winde her, and make her so plyant, that we will drawe her thorugh a wedding ring yfaith.

_Cla_. Would to God we might, my Lord.

_Mom_. He warrant thee, friend.

_Enter Messenger_.

_Mes_. Here is Mistris _Wynnifred_ from my Lady _Eugenia_ desires to speake with your Lordshippe.

_Mom_. Marrie, enter, Mistris _Wynnifred_, even here I pray thee;--from the Lady _Eugenia_, doe you heare, friend?

_Cla_. Very easily on that side, my Lord.

_Mom_. Let me feele. Does not thy heart pant apace? by my hart, well labor'd _Cupid_, the field is yours, sir. God! and upon a very honourable composition. I am sent for now I am sure, and must even trusse, and to her.

_Enter Wynnifred_.

Witty Mistris _Wynnifred_, nay come neere, woman. I am sure this Gentleman thinkes his Chamber the sweeter for your deare presence.

_Wyn_. My absence shall thanke him, my Lord.

_Mom_. What, rude? Mistris _Wynnifred_? nay faith you shall come to him, and kisse him, for his kindenesse.

_Wyn_. Nay good, my Lord, I'le never goe to the market for that ware, I can have it brought home to my Dore.

_Mom_. O _Wynnifred_, a man may know by the market-folkes how the market goes.

_Wyn_. So you may, my Lord, but I know few Lords that thinke scorne to go to that market themselves.

_Mom_. To goe to it _Wynnifred_? nay to ride to it yfaith.

_Wyn_. Thats more then I know my Lord.

_Mom_. Youle not beleeve it till you are then a horsebacke, will ye?

_Wyn_. Come, come, I am sent of a message to you, will you heare it?

_Mom_. Stoppe, stoppe, faire _Wynnifred_, would you have audience so soone, there were no state in that yfaith. This faire gentlewoman sir--

_Wyn_. Now we shall have a fiction I beleive.

_Mom_. Had three Suiters at once.

_Wyn_. Youle leave out none my Lord.

_Mom_. No more did you, _Wynnifred_: you enterferde with them all in truth.

_Wyn_. O Monstrous Lord by this light!

_Mom_. Now sir to make my tale short I will doe that which she did not; vz. leave out the two first. The third comming, the third night for his turne--

_Wyn_. My Lord, my Lord, my Lady does that that no body else does, desires your company; and so fare you well.

_Mom_. O stay a little sweet _Wynnifred_, helpe me but to trusse my Poynts againe, and have with you.

_Wyn_. Not I by my truth my Lord, I had rather see your hose about your heeles, then I would helpe you to trusse a poynt.

_Mom_. O witty _Wynnifred_? for that jest, take thy passeport, and tell thy Ladie[14], thou leftst me with my hose about my heeles.

_Wyn_. Well, well my Lord you shall sit till the mosse grow about your heeles, ere I come at you againe. [_Exit_.

_Mom_. She cannot abide to heare of her three Suiters, but is not this very fit my sweet _Clarence_? Thou seest my rare Neece cannot sleepe without me; but for thy company sake, she shall to night; and in the morning I will visit her earely; when doe thou but stand in that place, and thou maiest chance heare (but art sure to see) in what subtill, and farre-fetcht manner Ile solicite her about thee.

_Cla_. Thank's, worthy Lord.

[_Exeunt_.

_Finis Actus Primi_.

_Actvs Secvndi_.

SCENA PRIMA.

_Clarence Solus_.

_Cla_. I that have studied with world-skorning thoughts The way of Heaven, and how trew Heaven is reacht To know how mighty, and how many are The strange affections of enchaunted number; How to distinguish all the motions Of the Celestiall bodies, and what power Doth separate in such forme this massive Rownd; What is his Essence, Efficacies, Beames, Foot-steps, and Shadowes; what Eternesse[15] is, The World, and Time, and Generation; What Soule, the worlds Soule is, what the blacke Springs And unreveald Originall of Things, What their perseverance; what's life, and death, And what our certaine Restauration; Am with the staid-heads of this Time imploy'd To watch with all my Nerves a Female shade.

_Enter Wynnifred, Anabell, with their sowing workes and sing: After their song Enter Lord Momford_.

_Mom_. Witty Mistrisse _Wynnifred_, where is your Countesse, I pray?

_Wyn_. Faith your Lordship is bould enough to seeke her out, if she were at her urinall?

_Mom_. Then sh'as done, it seemes, for here she comes to save me that labour; away, wenches, get you hence wenches. [_Exeunt_.

_Eu_. What, can you not abide my maides, unkle?

_Mom_. I never cood abide a maide in my life Neece, but either I draw away the maide, or the maidenhead with a wet finger[16].

_Eug_. You love to make your selfe worse then you are still.

_Mom_. I know few mend in this World, Madam. For the worse the better thought on, the better the worse spoken on ever amongst women.

_Eu_. I wonder where you have binne all this while with your sentences.

_Mom_. Faith where I must be againe presently. I cannot stay long with you my deere Neece.

_Eu_. By my faith but you shall, my Lord. Cods pittie what will become of you shortly, that you drive maids afore you, and offer to leave widowes behind you, as mankindelie as if you had taken a surfet of our Sex lately, and our very sight turnd your stomacke?

_Mom_. Cods my life, she abuses her best unkle; never trust me if it were not a good revenge to helpe her to the losse of her widow-head.

_Eu_. That were a revenge, and a halfe, indeed.

_Mom_. Nay twere but a whole revenge Neece, but such a revenge as would more then observe the true rule of a revenger.

_Eu_. I know your rule before you utter it, _Vlciscere inimico_ [sic] _sed sine tuo incommodo_.

_Mom_. O rare Neece, you may see, what tis to be a scholler now; learning in a woman is like waight in gold, or luster in Diamants, which in no other Stone is so rich or refulgent.

_Eug_. But say deere Vnckle how could you finde in your heart to stay so long from me?

_Mom_. Why, alas Neece, y'are so smeard with this willfull widdows three-yeeres blacke weede, that I never come to you, but I dreame of Coarses, and Sepulchres, and Epitaphs, all the night after, and therefore adew deere Neece.

_Eug_. Beshrew my heart my Lord, if you goe theis three houres.

_Mom_. Three houres? nay Neece, if I daunce attendance three hours (alone in her Chamber) with any Lady so neere alide to me, I am very idle yfaith--Mary with such an other I would daunce, one, two, three, foure, and five, tho it cost me ten shillings. And now I am in, have at it! my head must devise something, while my feet are pidling thus, that may bring her to some fit consideration of my friend, who indeed is onely a great scholler, and all his honours, and riches lie in his minde.

_Eu_. Come, come, pray tell me uncle, how does my cosen _Momford_?

_Mom_. Why, well, very well Neece, and so is my friend _Clarence_ well too, and then is there a worthy gentleman well as any is in England I can tell ye. [_He daunceth speaking_.

_Eug_. But when did you see my Cosen?

_Mom_. And tis pitty but he should do well, and he shall be well too, if all my wealth will make him well.

_Eug_. What meanes he by this, tro? your Lord is very dancitive me thinkes.

_Mom_. I, and I could tell you a thing would make your Ladyship very dancitive, or else it were very dunsative yfaith. O how the skipping of this Christmas blocke of ours moves the block-head heart of a woman and indeed any thing that pleaseth the foolish eye which presently runnes with a lying tale of Excellence to the minde.

_Eug_. But I pray tell me my Lord could you tell me of a thing would make me dance say you?

_Mom_. Well, farewell sweet Neece, I must needs take my leave in earnest.

_Eu_. Lord blesse us, heres such a stir with your farewels.

_Mom_. I will see you againe within these two or three dayes a my word Neece.

_Eug_. Cods pretious, two or three dayes? why this Lord is in a maruallous strange humor. Sit downe, sweet Vnkle; yfaith I have to talke with you about greate matters.

_Mom_. Say then deere Neece, be short utter your minde quickly now.

_Eug_. But I pray tell me first, what's that would make me daunce yfaith?

_Mom_. Daunce, what daunce? hetherto your dauncers legges bow for-sooth, and Caper, and jerke, and Firke, and dandle the body above them, as it were their great childe; though the speciall jerker be above this place I hope here lies that shud fetch a perfect woman over the Coles yfaith.

_Eug_. Nay good Vnkle say what's the thing you could tell me of?

_Mom_. No matter, no matter: But let me see a passing prosperous fore-head of an exceeding happy distance betwixt the eye browes; a cleere lightning eye; a temperate, and fresh bloud in both the cheekes: excellent markes, most excellent markes of good fortune.

_Eug_. Why, how now Vnkle did you never see me before?

_Mom_. Yes Neece; but the state of these things at this instant must be specially observed, and these outward signes being now in this cleere elevation, show your untroubled minde is in an excellent power, to preferre them to act forth then a little, deere Neece.

_Eug_. This is excellent.

_Mom_. The Crises here are excellent good; The proportion of the chin good; the little aptness of it to sticke out good; and the wart above it most exceeding good. Never trust me, if all things be not answerable to the prediction of a most Divine fortune towards her; now if she have the grace to apprehend it in the nicke; thers all.

_Eug_. Well my Lord, since you will not tell me your secret, ile keepe another from you; with whose discovery, you may much pleasure me, and whose concealement may hurt my estate. And if you be no kinder then to see me so indangered; ile be very patient of it, I assure you.

_Mom_. Nay then it must instantly foorth. This kinde conjuration even fires it out of me; and (to be short) gather all your judgment togeather, for here it comes. Neece, _Clarence, Clarence_, rather my soule then my friend _Clarence_, of too substantiall a worth, to have any figures cast about him (notwithstanding, no other woman with Empires could stirre his affections) is with your vertues most extreamely in love; and without your requitall dead. And with it Fame shall sound this golden disticke through the World of you both.

_Non illo melior quisquam, nec amantior aequi Vir fuit, aut illa reverentior ulla Deorum_[17].

_Eug_. Ay me poore Dame, O you amase me Vncle, Is this the wondrous fortune you presage? What man may miserable women trust?

_Mom_. O peace good Lady, I come not to ravish you to any thing. But now I see how you accept my motion: I perceive (how upon true triall) you esteeme me. Have I rid all this Circuite to levie the powers of your Iudgment, that I might not proove their strength too sodainly with so violent a charge; And do they fight it out in white bloud, and show me their hearts in the soft Christall of teares?

_Eug_. O uncle you have wounded your selfe in charging me that I should shun Iudgement as a monster, if it would not weepe; I place the poore felicity of this World in a woorthy friend, and to see him so unworthily revolted, I shed not the teares of my Brayne, but the teares of my soule. And if ever nature made teares th'effects of any worthy cause, I am sure I now shed them worthily.

_Mom_. Her sensuall powers are up yfaith, I have thrust her soule quite from her Tribunall. This is her _Sedes vacans_ when her subjects are priviledged to libell against her, and her friends. But weeps my kinde Neece for the wounds of my friendship? And I toucht in friendship for wishing my friend doubled in her singular happinesse?

_Eug_. How am I doubl'd? when my honour, and good name, two essentiall parts of me; would bee lesse, and loste?

_Mom_. In whose Iudgment?

_Eug_. In the judgment of the World.

_Mom_. Which is a fooles boult. _Nihil a virtute nec a veritate remotius, quàm vulgaris opinio_: But my deare Neece, it is most true that your honour, and good name tendred, as they are the species of truth, are worthily two esentiall parts of you; But as they consist only in ayrie titles, and corrupteble bloud (whose bitternes _sanitas & non nobilitas efficit_) and care not how many base, and execrable acts they commit, they touch you no more then they touch eternity. And yet shall no nobility you have in eyther, be impaired neither.