SCENE II.

[_The_ FIDDLERS _play in the tiring-room; and the stage curtains are drawn, and discover a chamber, as it were, with two beds, and the ladies asleep in them_, MASTER WILD _being at_ MISTRESS PLEASANT'S _bedside, and_ MASTER CARELESS _at the_ WIDOW'S. _The music awakes the_ WIDOW.

WID. Niece, niece, niece Pleasant.

[_She opens the curtain and calls her: she is under a canopy_.

PLEA. Ha! I hear you, I hear you; what would you have?

WID. Do you not hear the fiddlers?

PLEA. Yes, yes; but you have waked me from the finest dream----

WID. A dream! what was't, some knavery!

PLEA. Why, I know not, but 'twas merry; e'en as pleasing as some sins. Well, I'll lie no more in a man's bed, for fear I lose more than I get.

WID. Hark! that's a new tune.

PLEA. Yes, and they play it well. This is your janty nephew: I would he had less of the father in him, I'd venture to dream out my dream with him. O' my conscience, he's worth a dozen of my dull servant; that's such a troublesome visitant, without any kind of conveniency.

WID. Ay, ay, so are all of that kind; give me your subject-lover; those you call servants are but troubles, I confess.

PLEA. What is the difference, pray, betwixt a subject and a servant lover?

WID. Why, one I have absolute power over, the other's at large: your servant-lovers are those who take mistresses upon trial, and scarce give them a quarter's warning before they are gone.

PLEA. Why, what do you subject-lovers do?--I am so sleepy.

WID. Do! all things for nothing: then they are the diligentest and the humblest things a woman can employ: nay, I ha' seen of them tame, and run loose about a house. I had one once, by this light, he would fetch and carry, go back, seek out; he would do anything: I think some falconer bred him.

PLEA. By my troth, I am of your mind.

WID. He would come over for all my friends; but it was the dogged'st thing to my enemies; he would sit upon's tail before them, and frown like John-a-Napes when the Pope is named. He heard me once praise my little spaniel bitch Smut for waiting, and hang me if I stirred for seven years after, but I found him lying at my door.

PLEA. And what became of him?

WID. Faith, when I married, he forsook me. I was advised since, that if I would ha' spit in's mouth sometimes, he would have stayed.

PLEA. That was cheap, but 'tis no certain way; for 'tis a general opinion that marriage is one of the certain'st cures for love that one can apply to a man that is sick of the sighings; yet if you were to live about this town still, such a fool would do you a world of service. I'm sure Secret will miss him, he would always take such a care of her, h' has saved her a hundred walks for hoods and masks.

WID. Yes, and I was certain of the earliest fruits and flowers that the spring afforded.

PLEA. By my troth, 'twas foolishly done to part with him; a few crumbs of your affections would have satisfied him, poor thing!

WID. Thou art in the right. In this town there's no living without 'em; they do more service in a house for nothing than a pair of those what-d'ye-call-'ems, those he-waiting-women beasts, that custom imposes upon ladies.

PLEA. Is there none of them to be had now, think you? I'd fain get a tame one to carry down into the country.

WID. Faith, I know but one breed of them about the town that's right, and that's at the court; the lady that has them brings 'em up all by hand: she breeds some of them from very puppies. There's another wit too in the town that has of them; but hers will not do so many tricks; good, sullen, diligent waiters those are which she breeds, but not half so serviceable.

PLEA. How does she do it? is there not a trick in't?

WID. Only patience; but she has a heavy hand with 'em (they say) at first, and many of them miscarry; she governs them with signs, and by the eye, as Banks breeds his horse.[273] There are some, too, that arrive at writing, and those are the right breed, for they commonly betake themselves to poetry: and if you could light on one of them, 'twere worth your money; for 'tis but using of him ill, and praising his verses sometimes, and you are sure of him for ever.

PLEA. But do they never grow surly, aunt?

WID. Not if you keep them from raw flesh; for they are a kind of lion-lovers, and if they once taste the sweet of it, they'll turn to their kind.

PLEA. Lord, aunt, there will be no going without one this summer into the country: pray, let's inquire for one, either a he-one to entertain us, or a she-one to tell us the story of her love; 'tis excellent to bedward, and makes one as drowsy as prayers.

WID. Faith, niece, this parliament has so destroyed 'em, and the Platonic humour, that 'tis uncertain whether we shall get one or no. Your leading members in the lower house have so cowed the ladies, that they have no leisure to breed any of late: their whole endeavours are spent now in feasting, and winning close committee men, a rugged kind of sullen fellows with implacable stomachs and hard hearts, that make the gay things court and observe them, as much as the foolish lovers use to do. Yet I think I know one she-lover; but she is smitten in years o' th' wrong side of forty. I am certain she is poor, too, and in this lean age for courtiers she perhaps would be glad to run this summer in our park.

PLEA. Dear aunt, let us have her. Has she been famous? has she good tales, think you, of knights, such as have been false or true to love, no matter which?

WID. She cannot want cause to curse the sex: handsome, witty, well-born, and poor in court, cannot want the experience how false young men can be: her beauty has had the highest fame; and those eyes, that weep now unpitied, have had their envy and a dazzling power.

PLEA. And that tongue, I warrant you, which now grows hoarse with flattering the great law-breakers, once gave law to princes: was it not so, aunt? Lord, shall I die without begetting one story?

WID. Penthesilea nor all the cloven knights the poets treat of, yclad in mightiest petticoats, did her excel for gallant deeds, and with her honour still preserved her freedom. My brother loved her; and I have heard him swear Minerva might have owned her language; an eye like Pallas, Juno's wrists, a Venus for shape, and a mind chaste as Diana; but not so rough: never uncivilly cruel, nor faulty kind to any; no vanity, that sees more than lovers pay, nor blind to a gallant passion. Her maxim was, he that could love, and tell her so handsomely, was better company, but not a better lover, than a silent man. Thus all passions found her civility, and she a value from all her lovers. But alas! niece, this _was_ (which is a sad word)--_was_ handsome and _was_ beloved are abhorred sounds in women's ears.

[_The_ FIDDLERS _play again_.

PLEA. Hark! the fiddlers are merry still. Will not Secret have the wit to find us this morning, think you?

FID. [_Within._] God give you joy, Master Careless! God give your ladyship joy, my Lady Wild!

WID. What did the fellows say? God give me joy?

PLEA. As I live, I think so.

FID. God give you joy, Mistress Pleasant Wild!

WID. This is my nephew: I smell him in this knavery.

PLEA. Why did they give me joy by the name of Mistress Wild? I shall pay dear for a night's lodging if that be so; especially lying alone. By this light, there is some knavery afoot.

[_All the company confused without, and bid God give them joy._

JOLLY. Rise, rise, for shame; the year's afore you.

CAPT. Why, Ned Wild; why, Tom, will you not rise and let's in? What, is it not enough to steal your wedding overnight, but lock yourselves up in the morning too? All your friends stay for points here, and kisses from the brides.

WILD. A little patience! you'll give us leave to dress us?

[_The women squeak when they speak_.

CARE. Why, what's o'clock, captain?

CAPT. It's late.

CARE. Faith, so it was before we slept.

WID. Why, nephew, what means this rudeness? As I live, I'll fall out with you. This is no jest.

WILD. No, as I live, aunt, we are in earnest; but my part lies here, and there's a gentleman will do his best to satisfy you. [_They catch the women in their arms._] And, sweet Mistress Pleasant, I know you have so much wit as to perceive this business cannot be remedied by denials. Here we are, as you see, naked,[274] and thus have saluted hundreds at the window that passed by, and gave us joy this morning.

PLEA. Joy! of what? what do you mean?

CARE. Madam, this is visible; and you may coy it, and refuse to call me husband, but I am resolved to call you wife, and such proofs I'll bring as shall not be denied.

[CARELESS _kisses the_ WIDOW.

WID. Promise yourself that; see whether your fine wits can make it good. You will not be uncivil?

CARE. Not a hair, but what you give, and that was in the contract before we undertook it; for any man may force a woman's body, but we have laid we will force your mind.

WILD. But that needs not, for we know by your discourse last night and this morning, we are men you have no aversion to; and I believe, if we had taken time, and wooed hard, this would have come o' course; but we had rather win you by wit, because you defied us.

WID. 'Tis very well, if it succeed.

CARE. And, for my part, but for the jest of winning you, and this way, not ten jointures should have made me marry.

WID. This is a new way of wooing.

CARE. 'Tis so, madam; but we have not laid our plot so weakly, though it were sudden, to leave it in anybody's power but our own to hinder it.

PLEA. Do you think so?

WILD. We are secure enough, if we can be true to ourselves.

CARE. Yet we submit in the midst of our strength, and beg you will not wifully spoil a good jest by refusing us. By this hand, we are both sound, and we'll be strangely honest, and never in ill humours; but live as merry as the maids, and divide the year between the town and the country. What say you, is't a match? Your bed is big enough for two, and my meat will not cost you much: I'll promise nothing but one heart, one purse betwixt us, and a whole dozen of boys. Is't a bargain?

WID. Not if I can hinder it, as I live.

WILD. Faith, Mistress Pleasant, he hath spoken nothing but reason, and I'll do my best to make it good: come, faith, teach my aunt what to do, and let me strike the bargain upon your lips.

PLEA. No, sir, not to be half a queen; if we should yield now, your wit would domineer for ever: and still in all disputes (though never so much reason on our side) this shall be urged as an argument of your master-wit to confute us. I am of your aunt's mind, sir, and, if I can hinder it, it shall be no match.

WILD. Why, then know it is not in your powers to prevent it.

WID. Why? we are not married yet.

CARE. No, 'tis true.

Wid. By this good light, then, I'll be dumb for ever hereafter, lest I light upon the words of marriage by chance.

PLEA. 'Tis hard, when our own acts cannot be in our own power, gentlemen.

WILD. The plot is only known to four: the minister, and two that stood for fathers, and a simple country maid that waited upon you last night, which plays your chambermaid's part.

PLEA. And what will all these do?

WILD. Why, the two friends will swear they gave you, the parson will swear he married you, and the wench will swear she put us to bed.

WID. Have you men to swear we are married?

PLEA. And a parson to swear he did it?

BOTH. Yes.

WID. And a wench that will swear she put us to bed?

BOTH. Yes, by this good light, and witness of reputation.

PLEA. Dare they or you look us in the face, and swear this?

CARE. Yes, faith; and all but those four know no other but really it is so; and you may deny it, but I'll make master constable put you to bed, with this proof, at night.

WID. Pray, let's see these witnesses.

WILD. Call in the four only.

[_Exit_ CARELESS.

PLEA. Well, this shall be a warning to me. I say nothing, but if ever I lie from home again----

WILD. I'll lie with you.

PLEA. 'Tis well. I daresay we are the first women, if this take, that ever were stolen against their wills.

WILD. I'll go call the gentlemen.

[_Exit_ WILD.

WID. I that have refused a fellow that loved me these seven years, and would have put off his hat, and thanked me to come to bed, to be beaten with watchmen's staves into another's!--for, by this good light, for aught that I perceive, there's no keeping these out at night.

PLEA. And unless we consent to be their wives to-day, master justice will make us their whores at night. O, O, what would not I give to come off? not that I mislike them, but I hate they should get us thus.

_Enter_ WILD, JOLLY, CAPTAIN, CARELESS, PARSON, WANTON, _with rosemary in their hands, and points in their hats_.

CARE. Follow. Will not you two swear we were married last night?

JOLLY _and_ CAPT. Yes, by this light, will we.

WILD. Will you not swear you married us?

PAR. Yea, verily.

CARE. And come hither, pretty one: will not you swear you left us all abed last night, and pleased?

WAN. Yes, forsooth; I'll swear anything your worship shall appoint me.

WID. But, gentleman, have you no shame, no conscience? Will you swear false for sport?

JOLLY. By this light, I'll swear, if it be but to vex you: remember you refused me. That [_Aside_] is contrary to covenants, though, with my brace of lovers: what will they do with their coachman's plot? But 'tis no matter, I have my ends; and, so they are cosened, I care not who does it.

CAPT. And faith, madam, I have sworn many times false to no purpose; and I should take it ill, if it were mine own case, to have a friend refuse me an oath upon such an occasion.

PLEA. And are you all of one mind?

PAR. Verily, we will all swear.

PLEA. Will you verily? What shall we do, aunt?

[PLEASANT _laughs_.

WID. Do you laugh? by this light, I am heartily angry.

PLEA. Why, as I live, let's marry them, aunt, and be revenged.

WID. Marry! Where's the parson?

CAPT. Here, here, master parson, come and do your office.

PLEA. That fellow! no, by my troth, let's be honestly joined, for luck's sake: we know not how soon we may part.

WILD. What shall we do for a parson? Captain, you must run and fetch one.

CAPT. Yes, yes: but, methinks, this might serve turn: by this hand, he's a Marshall and a Case,[275] by sire and dam; pray, try him: by this light, he comes of the best preaching-kind in Essex.

WID. Not I, as I live; that were a blessing in the devil's name.

PAR. A pox on your wedding! give me my wife, and let me be gone.

CAPT. Nay, nay, no choler, parson. The ladies do not like the colour of your beard![276]

PAR. No, no, fetch another, and let them escape with that trick, then they'll jeer your beards blue, i' faith.

CARE. By this hand, he's in the right; either this parson, or take one another's words: to bed now, and marry when we rise.

PLEA. As I live, you come not here till you are married; I have been nobody's whore yet, and I will not begin with my husband.

WILD. Will you kiss upon the bargain, and promise before these witnesses not to spoil our jest, but rise and go to church?

PLEA. And what will Master Constant and Master Sad say?

CAPT. Why, I'll run and invite them to the wedding, and you shall see them expire in their own garters.

JOLLY. No, no, ne'er fear't, their jest is only spoiled.

CAPT. Their jest! what jest?

JOLLY. Faith, now you shall know it, and the whole plot. In the first place, your coachman is well, whose death we, by the help of Secret, contrived, thinking by that trick to prevent this danger, and carry you out of town.

CAPT. But had they this plot?

Jolly. Yes, faith, and see how it thrives! They'll fret like carted bawds when they hear this news.

PLEA. Why, aunt, would you have thought Master Sad a plotter? well, 'tis some comfort we have them to laugh at.

WID. Nay, faith, then, gentlemen, give us leave to rise, and I'll take my venture if it be but for revenge on them.

CARE. Gentlemen, bear witness.

CAPT. Come, come away, I'll get the points. I'm glad the coachman's well; the rogue had like to have spoiled our comedy.

[_Exeunt omnes._