SCENE IV

_The open country._

_Here enters Dick Reede and a Sailor._

_Sailor._ Faith, Dick Reede, it is to little end: His conscience is too liberal, and he too niggardly To part from any thing may do thee good.

_Reede._ He is coming from Shorlow as I understand; Here I’ll intercept him, for at his house He never will vouchsafe to speak with me. If prayers and fair entreaties will not serve, Or make no battery in his flinty breast,

_Here enters Franklin, Arden, and Michael._

I’ll curse the carle, and see what that will do. See where he comes to further my intent!-- 10 Master Arden, I am now bound to the sea; My coming to you was about the plat Of ground which wrongfully you detain from me. Although the rent of it be very small, Yet it will help my wife and children, Which here I leave in Feversham, God knows, Needy and bare: for Christ’s sake, let them have it!

_Arden._ Franklin, hearest thou this fellow speak? That which he craves I dearly bought of him, Although the rent of it was ever mine.-- 20 Sirrah, you that ask these questions, If with thy clamorous impeaching tongue Thou rail on me, as I have heard thou dost, I’ll lay thee up so close a twelve-month’s day, As thou shalt neither see the sun nor moon. Look to it, for, as surely as I live, I’ll banish pity if thou use me thus.

_Reede._ What, wilt thou do me wrong and threat me too, Nay, then, I’ll tempt thee, Arden, do thy worst. God, I beseech thee, show some miracle 30 On thee or thine, in plaguing thee for this. That plot of ground which thou detains from me, I speak it in an agony of spirit, Be ruinous and fatal unto thee! Either there be butchered by thy dearest friends, Or else be brought for men to wonder at, Or thou or thine miscarry in that place, Or there run mad and end thy cursèd days!

_Franklin._ Fie, bitter knave, bridle thine envious tongue; For curses are like arrows shot upright, 40 Which falling down light on the shooter’s head.

_Reede._ Light where they will! Were I upon the sea, As oft I have in many a bitter storm, And saw a dreadful southern flaw at hand, The pilot quaking at the doubtful storm, And all the sailors praying on their knees, Even in that fearful time would I fall down, And ask of God, whate’er betide of me, Vengeance on Arden or some misevent To show the world what wrong the carle hath done. This charge I’ll leave with my distressful wife, 51 My children shall be taught such prayers as these; And thus I go, but leave my curse with thee.

[_Exeunt Reede and Sailor._

_Arden._ It is the railingest knave in Christendom, And oftentimes the villain will be mad; It greatly matters not what he says, But I assure you I ne’er did him wrong.

_Franklin._ I think so, Master Arden.

_Arden._ Now that our horses are gone home before, My wife may haply meet me on the way. 60 For God knows she is grown passing kind of late, And greatly changed from The old humour of her wonted frowardness, And seeks by fair means to redeem old faults.

_Franklin._ Happy the change that alters for the best! But see in any case you make no speech Of the cheer we had at my Lord Cheiny’s, Although most bounteous and liberal, For that will make her think herself more wronged, In that we did not carry her along; 70 For sure she grieved that she was left behind.

_Arden._ Come, Franklin, let us strain to mend our pace, And take her unawares playing the cook;

_Here enters Alice and Mosbie._

For I believe she’ll strive to mend our cheer.

_Franklin._ Why, there’s no better creatures in the world, Than women are when they are in good humours.

_Arden._ Who is that? Mosbie? what, so familiar? Injurious strumpet, and thou ribald knave, Untwine those arms.

_Alice._ Ay, with a sugared kiss let them untwine. 80

_Arden._ Ah, Mosbie! perjured beast! bear this and all!

_Mosbie._ And yet no horned beast; the horns are thine.

_Franklin._ O monstrous! Nay, then it is time to draw.

_Alice._ Help, help! they murder my husband.

_Here enters Will and Shakebag._

_Shakebag._ Zounds, who injures Master Mosbie? Help, Will! I am hurt.

_Mosbie._ I may thank you, Mistress Arden, for this wound.

[_Exeunt Mosbie, Will, and Shakebag._

_Alice._ Ah, Arden, what folly blinded thee? Ah, jealous harebrained man, what hast thou done! When we, to welcome thee with intended sport, Came lovingly to meet thee on thy way, 90 Thou drew’st thy sword, enraged with jealousy, And hurt thy friend whose thoughts were free from harm: All for a worthless kiss and joining arms, Both done but merrily to try thy patience. And me unhappy that devised the jest, Which, though begun in sport, yet ends in blood!

_Franklin._ Marry, God defend me from such a jest!

_Alice._ Could’st thou not see us friendly smile on thee, When we joined arms, and when I kissed his cheek? Hast thou not lately found me over-kind? 100 Did’st thou not hear me cry ‘they murder thee’? Called I not help to set my husband free? No, ears and all were witched; ah me accursed To link in liking with a frantic man! Henceforth I’ll be thy slave, no more thy wife, For with that name I never shall content thee. If I be merry, thou straightways thinks me light; If sad, thou sayest the sullens trouble me; If well attired, thou thinks I will be gadding; If homely, I seem sluttish in thine eye: 110 Thus am I still, and shall be while I die. Poor wench abused by thy misgovernment!

_Arden._ But is it for truth that neither thou nor he Intendedst malice in your misdemeanour?

_Alice._ The heavens can witness of our harmless thoughts

_Arden._ Then pardon me, sweet Alice, and forgive this fault! Forget but this and never see the like. Impose me penance, and I will perform it, For in thy discontent I find a death,-- A death tormenting more than death itself. 120

_Alice._ Nay, had’st thou loved me as thou dost pretend, Thou wouldst have marked the speeches of thy friend, Who going wounded from the place, he said His skin was pierced only through my device; And if sad sorrow taint thee for this fault, Thou would’st have followed him, and seen him dressed, And cried him mercy whom thou hast misdone: Ne’er shall my heart be eased till this be done.

_Arden._ Content thee, sweet Alice, thou shalt have thy will, Whate’er it be. For that I injured thee, 130 And wronged my friend, shame scourgeth my offence; Come thou thyself, and go along with me, And be a mediator ’twixt us two.

_Franklin._ Why, Master Arden! know you what you do? Will you follow him that hath dishonoured you?

_Alice._ Why, canst thou prove I have been disloyal?

_Franklin._ Why, Mosbie taunted your husband with the horn.

_Alice._ Ay, after he had reviled him By the injurious name of perjured beast: He knew no wrong could spite a jealous man 140 More than the hateful naming of the horn.

_Franklin._ Suppose ’tis true; yet is it dangerous To follow him whom he hath lately hurt.

_Alice._ A fault confessed is more than half amends; But men of such ill spirit as yourself Work crosses and debates ’twixt man and wife.

_Arden._ I pray thee, gentle Franklin, hold thy peace: I know my wife counsels me for the best. I’ll seek out Mosbie where his wound is dressed, And salve this hapless quarrel if I may. 150

[_Exeunt Arden and Alice._

_Franklin._ He whom the devil drives must go perforce. Poor gentleman, how soon he is bewitched! And yet, because his wife is the instrument, His friends must not be lavish in their speech.

[_Exit Franklin._

IV. iv. 88. _harebrain_, A, B, C.

IV. iv. 89. _welcome thee with intended_; so Warnke for _welcome thy intended_, A, B, C.