SCENE III.

_Enter_ JACK CONSTANT, WILL SAD, JOLLY, _and a_ FOOTMAN: _they comb their heads and talk_.[204]

JOLLY. Remember our covenants, get them that can all friends; and be sure to despatch the plot to carry them into the country, lest the brace of newcome monsieurs get them.

CON. Those flesh-flies! I'll warrant thee from them: yet 'twas foolishly done of me to put on this gravity. I shall break out, and return to myself, if you put me to a winter's wooing.

SAD. A little patience does it, and I am content to suffer anything, till they're out of town. Secret says they think my pale face proceeds from my love.

JOLLY. Does she? That shall be one hint to advance your designs and my revenge: for so she be cosened, I care not who does it, for scorning me, who (by this hand) lov'd her parlously.

FOOT. Sir, what shall I do with the horses?

SAD. Carry them to Brumsted's.

FOOT. What shall I do with your worship's?

JOLLY. Mine? Take him, hamstring him, kill him, anything to make away with him; lest, having such a conveniency, I be betrayed to another journey into the country. Gentlemen, you are all welcome to my country house. Charing Cross, I am glad to see thee, with all my heart.

CON. What! not reconciled to the country yet?

SAD. He was not long enough there to see the pleasure of it.

JOLLY. Pleasure! what is't called? walking, or hawking, or shooting at butts?

CON. You found other pleasures, or else the story of the meadow is no gospel.

JOLLY. Yes, a pox upon the necessity! Here I could as soon have taken the cow as such a milk-maid.

SAD. The wine and meat's good, and the company.

JOLLY. When, at a Tuesday meeting, the country comes into a match at two-shillings rubbers, where they conclude at dinner what shall be done this parliament, railing against the court and Pope, after the old Elizabeth-way of preaching, till they are drunk with zeal; and then the old knight of the shire from the board's end, in his coronation breeches, vies clinches with a silenced minister--a rogue that railed against the reformation, merely to be eased of the trouble of preaching.

CON. Nay, as I live, now you are to blame, and wrong him. The man's a very able man.

JOLLY. You'll be able to say so one day, upon your wife's report. I would he were gelt, and all that hold his opinion: by this good day, they get more souls than they save.

SAD. And what think you of the knight's son? I hope he's a fine gentleman, when his green suit and his blue stockings are on; and the welcomest thing to Mistress Abigail, but Tib and Tom in the stock.[205]

JOLLY. Who, Master Jeffrey? Hobbinol the second! By this life, 'tis a very veal, and he licks his nose like one of them. By his discourse you'd guess he had eaten nothing but hay. I wonder he doth not go on all four too, and hold up his leg when he stales. He talks of nothing but the stable. The cobbler's blackbird at the corner has more discourse. He has not so much as the family jest which these Corydons use to inherit. I posed him in Booker's prophecies,[206] till he confessed he had not mastered his almanac yet.

CON. But what was that you whispered to him in the hall?

JOLLY. Why, the butler and I, by the intercession of Marchbeer, had newly reconciled him to his dad's old codpiece corslet in the hall, which, when his zeal was up, he would needs throw down, because it hung upon a cross.

CON. But what think you of my neighbour? I hope her charity takes you.

JOLLY. Yes, and her old waiting-woman's devotion: she sighed in the pew behind me. A Dutch skipper belches not so loud or so sour. My lady's miserable sinner with the white eyes, she does so squeeze out her prayers, and so wring out, _Have mercy upon us_. I warrant her she has a waiting-woman's sting in her conscience. She looks like a dirty-souled bawd.

CON. Who? is this my Lady Freedom's woman that he describes?

JOLLY. The same, the independent lady. I have promised to send her a cripple or two by the next carrier. Her subject-husband would needs show me his house one morning. I never visited such an hospital: it stank like Bedlam, and all the servants were carrying poultices, juleps, and glisters, and several remedies for all diseases but his. The man sighed to see his estate crumbling away. I counselled him either to give or take an ounce of ratsbane, to cure his mind.

CON. She is my cousin; but he made such a complaint to me, I thought he had married the company of Surgeons' Hall: for his directions to me for several things for his wife's use were fitter for an apothecary's shop than a lady's closet.

JOLLY. I advised him to settle no jointure but her old stills and a box of instruments upon her. She hates a man with all his limbs: a wooden leg, a crutch, and _fistula in ano_, wins her heart. Her gentleman-usher broke his leg last dogdays merely to have the honour to have her set it. A foul, rank rogue! and so full of salt humours, that he posed a whole college of old women with a gangrene, which spoiled the jest, and his ambling before my lady, by applying a handsaw to his gart'ring-place; and now the rogue wears booted bed-staves, and destroys all the young ashes to make him legs.

SAD. I never saw such a nasty affection: she would ha' done well in the incurable--a handmaid to have waited on the cripples.

JOLLY. She converses with naked men, and handles all their members, though never so ill affected, and calls the fornication charity. All her discourse to me was flat bawdry, which I could not chide, but spoke as flat as she, till she rebuked me, calling mine beastliness, and hers natural philosophy. By this day, if I were to marry, I would as soon have chosen a drawn whore out of mine own hospital, and cure the sins of her youth, as marry a she-chirurgeon--one that, for her sins in her first husband's days, cures all the crimes of her sex in my time. I would have him call her Chiron, the Centaur's own daughter: a chirurgeon by sire and dam, Apollo's own colt. She's red-haired too, like that bonny beast with the golden mane and flaming tail.

SAD. You had a long discourse with her, Jolly: what was't about?

JOLLY. I was advising her to be divorced, and marry the man in the almanac: 'twould be fine pastime for her to lick him whole.

SAD. By this day, I never saw such a mule as her husband is, to bear with her madness. The house is a good house, and well furnished.

JOLLY. Yes; but 'tis such a sight to see great French beds full of found children, sons of bachelors, priests' heirs, Bridewell orphans: there they lie by dozens in a bed, like sucking rabbits in a dish, or a row of pins; and then they keep a whole dairy of milch-whores to suckle them.

SAD. She is successful; and that spoils her, and makes her deaf to counsel. I bad him poison two or three, to disgrace her; for the vanity and pride of their remedies make those women more diligent than their charity.

JOLLY. I asked him why he married her; and he confessed, if he had been sound, he had never had her.

CON. He confessed she cured him of three claps before he married her.

JOLLY. Yes, and I believe some other member (though then ill-affected) pleaded more than his tongue; and the rogue is like to find her business still, for he flies at all. My God, I owe thee thanks for many things; but 'tis not the least I am not her husband nor a country gentleman, whither, I believe, you cannot easily seduce me again, unless you can persuade London to stand in the country. To Hyde Park, or so, I may venture upon your Lady-fair days, when the filly foals of fifteen come kicking in, with their manes and tails tied up in ribands, to see their eyes roll and neigh, when the spring makes their blood prick them: so far I am with you, by the way of a country gentleman and a beer-drinker.

SAD. For all this dislike, Master Jolly, your greatest acquaintance lies amongst country gentlemen.

JOLLY. Ay, at London: there your country gentlemen are good company; where to be seen with them is a kind of credit. I come to a mercer's shop in your coach: _Boy, call your master_: he comes bare; I whisper him, _Do you know the Constants and the Sads of Norfolk_? _Yes, yes_, he replies, and strokes his beard. _They are good men_, cry I. _Yes, yes. No more; cut me off three suits of satin._ He does it, and in the delivery whispers, _Will these be bound? Pish! drive on, coachman; speak with me to-morrow._

CON. And what then?

JOLLY. What then? why, come again next day.

SAD. And what if the country gentleman will not be bound?

JOLLY. Then he must fight.

SAD. I would I had known that, before I had signed your bond: I would have set my sword sooner than my seal to it.

JOLLY. Why, if thou repent, there's no harm done: fight rather than pay it.

SAD. Why, do you think I dare not fight?

JOLLY. Yes, but I think thou hast more wit than to fight with me; for if I kill thee, 'tis a fortune to me, and others will sign in fear: and if thou shouldst kill me, anybody that knows us would swear 'twere very strange, and cry, There's God's just judgment now upon that lewd youth, and thou procur'st his hangman's place at the rate of thy estate.

CON. By this hand, he is in the right; and, for mine, I meant to pay when I signed. Hang it, never put good fellows to say, _Prythee, give me a hundred pounds._

SAD. 'Tis true, 'tis a good janty[207] way of begging; yet, for being killed if I refuse it--would there were no more danger in the widow's unkindness than in your fighting, I would not mistrust my design.

JOLLY. Why, ay, there's a point now in nicety of honour. I should kill you for her, for you know I pretended first; and it may be, if I had writ sad lines to her, and hid myself in my cloak, and haunted her coach--it may be in time she would have sought me. Not I, by this hand, I'll not trouble myself for a wench; and married widows are but customary authorised wenches.

CON. Being of that opinion, how canst thou think of marrying one?

JOLLY. Why, faith, I know not: I thought to rest me, for I was run out of breath with pleasure, and grew so acquainted with sin, I would have been good, for variety: in these thoughts 'twas my fortune to meet with this widow--handsome, and of a clear fame.

CON. Didst love her?

JOLLY. Yes, faith: I had love, but not to the disease that makes men sick; and I could have loved her still, but that I was angry to have her refuse me for a fault I told her of myself; so I went no more.

SAD. Did she forbid you but once?

JOLLY. Faith, I think I slipped a fair opportunity: a handsome wench and three thousand pounds _per annum_ in certainty, besides the possibility of being saved.

CON. Which now you think desperate?

[WIDOW _and_ PLEASANT _looking out at a window_.

PLEA. That is you: cross or pile, will you have him yet, or no?

WID. Peace! observe them.

JOLLY. Faith, no, I do not despair; but I cannot resolve.

_Enter_ WILD, CARELESS, _and the_ CAPTAIN, _going in haste; he comes in at the middle door_.

WID. Who are those?

CARE. Captain, whither in such haste? What, defeated? Call you this a retreat, or a flight from your friends?

PLEA. Your nephew, and his governor, and his friend! Here will be a scene! Sit close, and we may know the secret of their hearts.

WID. They have not met since they returned: I shall love this bay-window.[208]

CAPT. Prythee, let me go: there's mischief a-broiling; and if thou shak'st me once more, thou wilt jumble a lie together I have been hammering this hour.

CARE. A pox upon you! a-studying lies?

CAPT. Why, then they are no lies, but something in the praise of an old lady's beauty: what do you call that?

JOLLY. Who are those?

[_They spy each other._

SAD. Is't not the captain and my friend?

[JOLLY _salutes them; then he goes to the_ CAPTAIN _to embrace him: the_ CAPTAIN _stands in a French posture_,[209] _and slides from his old way of embracing._

JOLLY. Ned Wild! Tom Careless! what ail'st thou? dost thou scorn my embraces?

CAPT. I see you have never been abroad, else you would know how to put a value upon those, whose careful observation brought home the most exquisite garb and courtship that Paris could sell us.

JOLLY. A pox on this fooling, and leave off ceremony!

CAPT. Why, then, agreed: off with our masks, and let's embrace like the old knot.

[_They embrace._

JOLLY. Faith, say where have you spent these three years' time?--in our neighbour France? or have you ventured o'er the Alps, to see the seat of the CA|sars?

SAD. And can tell us ignorant (doomed to walk upon our own land), how large a seat the goddess fixed her flying Trojans in.

CON. Yes, yes, and have seen and drunk (perhaps) of Tiber's famous stream.

JOLLY. And have been where. A†neas buried his trumpeter and his nurse. Tom looks as if he had sucked the one, and had a battle sounded by the other, for joy to see our nation ambitious not to be understood or known, when they come home.

CAPT. So, now I'm welcome home: this is freedom, and these are friends, and with these I can be merry; for, gentlemen, you must give me leave to be free too.

JOLLY. So you will spare us miserable men, condemned to London and the company of a Michaelmas term, and never travelled those countries that set mountains on fire a-purpose to light us to our lodging.

WILD. Why, this is better than to stay at home, and lie by hearsay, wearing out yourselves and fortunes like your clothes, to see her that hates you for being so fine; then appearing at a play, dressed like some part of it, while the company admire the mercer's and the tailor's work, and swear they have done their parts to make you fine gentlemen.

CARE. Then leap out of your coach, and throw your cloak over your shoulder, the casting-nets to catch a widow, while we have seen the world, and learned her customs.

CAPT. Yes, sir, and returned perfect monsieurs.

SAD. Yes, even to their diseases. I confess my ignorance; I cannot amble, nor ride like St George at Waltham.[210]

JOLLY. Yet, upon my conscience, he may be as welcome with a trot as the other with his pace. And faith, Jack (to be a little free), tell me, dost thou not think thou hadst been as well to pass here, with that English nose thou carriedst hence, as with the French tongue thou hast brought home?

[_The_ CAPTAIN _has a patch over his nose_.

CAPT. It is an accident, and to a soldier 'tis but a scar. 'Tis true, such a sign upon Master Jolly's face had been as ill as a _red cross_, and _Lord have mercy upon us_,[211] at his lodging-door, to have kept women out of court.

JOLLY. For aught you know of the court.

CAPT. I know the court, and thee, and thy use, and how you serve but as the handsomest movables; a kind of implement above-stairs, and look much like one of the old court-servants in the hangings.

WILD. But that they move and look fresher, and your apparel more modern.

CARE. Yes, faith, their office is the same, to adorn the room, and be gazed on. Alas! he's sad: courage, man, these riding-clothes will serve thee at the latter day.

CAPT. Which is one of their grievances; for nothing troubles them more than to think they must appear in a foul winding-sheet, and come undressed.

JOLLY. Gentlemen, I am glad to find you know the court: we know a traveller too, especially when he is thus changed and exchanged, as your worships, both in purse and person, and have brought home foreign visages and inscriptions.

CON. Why, that's their perfection: their ambition to have it said: There go those that have profitably observed the vices of other countries, and made them their own; and the faults of several nations, at their return, are their parts.

JOLLY. Why, there's Jack Careless--he carried out as good staple-manners as any was in Suffolk, and now he is returned with a shrug, and a trick to stand crooked, like a scurvy bow unbent; and looks as if he would maintain oil and salads against a chine of beef. I knew a great beast of this kind; it haunted the court much, and would scarcely allow us (fully reduced to civility) for serving up mutton in whole joints.

CON. What, silent?

SAD. Faith, the captain is in a study.

JOLLY. Do, do, con the rivers and towns perfectly, captain: thou may'st become intelligencer to the people, and lie thy two sheets a week in Corrantos too.

CON. And could you not make friends at court to get their pictures cut ugly, in the corner of a map, like the old navigators?

JOLLY. We'll see, we'll see.

_Enter_ WIDOW _and_ PLEASANT _above_.

WID. I'll interrupt them. Servant, you're welcome to town. How now, nephew? what, dumb? where are all our travelled tongues?

JOLLY. Servant![212] who doth she mean? by this hand, I disclaim the title!

PLEA. Captain, Secret has taken notes, and desires you would instruct her in what concerns a waiting-woman and an old lady.

CAPT. Very good! yet this shall not save your dinner.

WID. Nay, while you are in this humour, I'll not sell your companies; and though Master Jolly be incensed, I hope he will do me the favour to dine with me.

JOLLY. Faith, lady, you mistake me if you think I am afraid of a widow; for I would have the world know I dare meet her anywhere, but at bed.

[_Exit_ JOLLY.

WILD. No more, aunt, we'll come: and if you will give us good meat, we'll bring good humours and good stomachs.

[WIDOW _shuts the curtain_.

CARE. By this day, I'll not dine there: they take a pleasure to raise a spirit that they will not lay. I'll to Banks's.

CAPT. A pox forbid it! you shall not break company, now you know what we are to do after dinner.

CARE. I will consent, upon condition you forbid the spiritual nonsense the age calls Platonic love.

CAPT. I must away too; but I'll be there at dinner. You will join in a plot after dinner?

WILD. Anything, good, bad, or indifferent, for a friend and mirth.

[_Exeunt all but the_ CAPTAIN.

CAPT. I must go and prevent the rogue's mischief with the old lady.

[_Exit_ CAPTAIN.