SCENE III.

_Enter_ Lelia _and her Waiting-woman_.

_Lel._ How now? who was that you staid to speak withal.

_Wom._ The old man forsooth.

_Lei._ What old man?

_Wom._ The poor old man that uses to come hither, he that you call Father.

_Lel._ Have you dispatched him?

_Wom._ No; he would fain speak with you.

_Lel._ Wilt thou never learn more manners, Than to draw in such needy Rascals to disquiet me? Go, answer him I will not be at leasure.

_Wom._ He will needs speak with you; and good old man he weeps so, That by my troth I have not the heart to deny him, Pray let him speak with you.

_Lel._ Lord how tender stomach'd you are grown of late! You are not in love with him, are ye? If ye be, strike up the match; you shall have Three l. and a pair of blankets! will ye go answer him?

_Wom._ Pray let him speak with you, he will not away else.

_Lel._ Well, let him in then if there be no remedy; I thank Heaven I am Able to abuse him, I shall ne'r come clear else of him.

_Enter Father._

Now Sir, what is your business? pray be short; for I have other Matters of more moment to call me from ye.

_Fa._ If you but look upon me like a Daughter And keep that love about ye that makes good A Fathers hope, you'l quickly find my business, And what I would say to you, and before I ask, will be a giver: say that sleep, I mean that love, or be but num'd within ye, The nature of my want is such a searcher, And of so mighty power, that where he finds This dead forgetfulness, it works so strongly, That if the least heat of a childs affection Remain unperish'd, like another nature, It makes all new again; pray do not scorn me, Nor seem to make your self a greater business Than my relieving.

_Lel._ If you were not old I should laugh at ye; what a vengeance ails ye To be so childish to imagine me A founder of old fellows? make him drink, wench, And if there be any cold meat in the Buttery, Give him some broken bread, and that, and rid him.

_Fa._ Is this a childs love? or a recompence Fit for a Fathers care? O _Lelia_, Had I been thus unkind, thou hadst not been; Or like me miserable: But 'tis impossible Nature should dye so utterly within thee, And lose her promises; thou art one of those She set her stamp more excellently on, Than common people, as fore-telling thee, A general example of her goodness; Or say she could lye, yet Religion (For love to Parents is Religious) Would lead thee right again: Look well upon me, I am the root that gave thee nourishment, And made thee spring fair, do not let me perish Now I am old and sapless.

_Lelia._ As I live I like ye far worse now ye grow thus holy, I grant you are my Father; am I therefore Bound to consume my self, and be a Beggar Still in relieving you? I do not feel Any such mad compassion yet within me.

_Fa._ I gave up all my state to make yours thus.

_Lel._ 'Twas as ye ought to do, and now ye cry for't As children do for babies back again.

_Fath._ How wouldst thou have me live?

_Lel._ I would not have ye, Nor know no reason Fathers should desire To live, and be a trouble, when children Are able to inherit, let them dye, 'Tis fit, and lookt for, that they should do so.

_Fa._ Is this your comfort?

_Lel._ All that I feel yet.

_Fa._ I will not curse thee.

_Lel._ If you do I care not.

_Fa._ Pray you give me leave to weep.

_Lel._ Why pray take leave, If it be for your ease.

_Fa._ Thy Mother dyed, Sweet peace be with her, in a happy time.

_Lel._ She did, Sir, as she ought to do, would you Would take the pains to follow; what should you, Or any old man do wearing away In this world with Diseases, and desire Only to live to make their Children scourge-sticks, And hoard up mill-mony? me thinks a Marble Lyes quieter upon an old mans head Than a cold fit o'th' Palsey.

_Fa._ O good Heaven! To what an impudence thou wretched woman, Hast thou begot thy self again! well, justice Will punish disobedience.

_Lel._ You mistake, Sir; 'Twill punish Beggars, fye for shame go work, Or serve, you are grave enough to be a Porter In some good man of worships house, and give Sententious answers to the comers in. A pretty place; or be of some good Consort, You had a pleasant touch o'th' _Cittern_ once, If idleness have not bereft you of it: Be any thing but old and Beggarly, Two sins that ever do outgrow compassion; If I might see you offer at a course That were a likely one, and shew'd some profit, I would not stick for ten Groats, or a Noble.

_Fath._ Did I beget this woman?

_Lel._ Nay, I know not: And till I know, I will not thank you for't; How ever, he that got me had the pleasure, And that me thinks, is a reward sufficient.

_Fath._ I am so strangely strucken with amazement, I know not where I am, nor what I am.

_Lel._ You had best take fresh air some where else, 'twill bring ye Out of your trance the sooner.

_Fath._ Is all this As you mean, _Lelia_?

_Lel._ Yes believe me is it, For yet I cannot think you are so foolish, As to imagine you are young enough To be my heir, or I so old to make A Nurse at these years for you, and attend While you sup up my state in penny pots Of _Malmsey_: when I am excellent at Cawdles, And Cullices, and have enough spare gold To boil away, you shall be welcome to me; 'Till when I'd have you be as merry, Sir, As you can make your self with that you have, And leave to trouble me with these relations, Of what you have been to me, or you are, For as I hear them, so I lose them; this For [a]ught I know yet, is my resolution.

_Fath._ Well, God be with thee, for I fear thy end Will be a strange example. [_Exit Father._

_Lel._ Fare ye well, Sir; Now would some poor tender hearted fool have wept, Relented, and have been undone: such Children (I thank my understanding) I hate truly, For by my troth I had rather see their tears Than feel their pities: my desires and ends Are all the Kindred that I have, and friends.

_Enter Woman._

Is he departed?

_Wom._ Yes, but here's another.

_Lel._ Not of his tribe I hope; bring me no more I would wish you such as he is; if thou seest They look like men of worth, and state, and carry Ballast of both sides like tall Gentlemen Admit 'em, but no snakes to poyson us With poverty; wench you must learn a wise rule, Look not upon the youths of men, and making, How they descend in bloud, nor let their tongues, Though they strike suddainly, and sweet as musick Corrupt thy fancy: see, and say them fair too, But ever keep thy self without their distance, Unless the love thou swallow be a pill Gilded to hide the bitterness it brings, Then fall on without fear, wench, yet so wisely That one encounter cloy him not; nor promise His love hath made thee more his, than his monies; Learn this and thrive, Then let thine honour ever (For that's the last rule) be so stood upon, That men may fairly see 'Tis want of means, not vertue makes thee fall; And if you weep 'twill be a great deal better, And draw on more compassion, which includes A greater tenderness of love and bounty: This is enough at once, digest it well: Go let him in wench, if he promise profit, Not else.

_Enter_ Julio.

O you are welcome my fair Servant, Upon my troth I have been longing for ye.

_Wom._ This, by her rule, should be a liberal man, I see the best on's may learn every day.

_Lel._ There's none come with you?

_Jul._ No.

_Lel._ You do the wiser, For some that have been here (I name no man) Out of their malice, more than truth, have done me Some few ill offices.

_Jul._ How, Sweet?

_Lel._ Nay, nothing, Only have talkt a little wildly of me; As their unruly Youth directed 'em; Which though they bite me not, I would have wisht Had light upon some other that deserv'd 'em.

_Jul._ Though she deserve this of the loosest tongue (Which makes my sin the more) I must not see it; Such is my misery. I would I knew him.

_Lel._ No, no, let him go, He is not worth your anger; I must chide you For being such a stranger to your Mistriss, Why would you be so, Servant?

_Jul._ I should chide, If chiding would work any thing upon you, For being such a stranger to your Servant, I mean to his desires; when, my dear Mistress, Shall I be made a happy man?

_Lel._ Fye, Servant, What do you mean? unhand me, or, by Heav'n, I shall be very angry, this is rudeness.

_Jul._ 'Twas but a kiss or two, that thus offends you.

_Lel._ 'Twas more I think, than you have warrant for.

_Jul._ I am sorry I deserv'd no more.

_Lel._ You may, But not this rough way, Servant; we are tender, And ought in all to be respected so; If I had been your Horse, or Whore, you might Back me with this intemperance; I thought You had lov'd as worthy men, whose fair affections Seek pleasures warranted, not pull'd by violence, Do so no more.

_Jul._ I hope you are not angry?

_Lel._ I should be with another man, I am sure, That durst appear but half thus violent.

_Jul._ I did not mean to ravish ye.

_Lel._ You could not.

_Jul._ You are so willing--

_Lel._ How?

_Jul._ Methinks this shadow, If you had so much shame as fits a woman, At least of your way, Mistriss, long e're this Had been laid off to me that understand ye.

_Lel._ That understand me? Sir, ye understand, Nor shall, no more of me than modesty Will, without fear, deliver to a stranger; You understand I am honest, else I tell ye, (Though you were better far than _Julio_) You, and your understanding are two fools, But were we Saints, thus we are still rewarded: I see that Woman had a pretty catch on't, That had made you the Master of a kindness, She durst not answer openly; O me! How easily we Women may be cozen'd! I took this _Julio_, as I have a faith, (This young Dissembler with the sober Vizard) For the most modest, temper'd Gentleman, The coolest, quietest, and best Companion; For such an one I could have wish'd a Woman.

_Jul._ You have wish'd me ill enough o' conscience, Make me no worse for shame; I see the more I work by way of service to obtain ye, You work the more upon me. Tell me truly (While I am able to believe a Woman, For if you use me thus, that faith will perish) What is your end, and whither you will pull me; Tell me, but tell me that I may not start at, And have a cause to curse ye.

_Lel._ Bless me goodness! To curse me did you say, Sir? let it be For too much loving you then, such a curse Kill me withal, and I shall be a _Martyr_, You have found a new way to reward my doting, And I confess a fit one for my folly, For you your self, if you have good within ye, And dare be Master of it, know how dearly This heart hath held you ever; Oh good Heaven! That I had never seen that false mans eyes, That dares reward me thus with fears and curses; Nor never heard the sweetness of that tongue, That will, when this is known, yet cozen women; Curse me, good _Julio_, curse me bitterly, I do deserve it for my confidence, And I beseech thee if thou hast a goodness Or power yet in thee to confirm thy wishes, Curse me to earth, for what should I do here Like a decaying flower, still withering Under his bitter words, whose kindly heat Should give my poor heart life? No, curse me, _Julio_, Thou canst not do me such a benefit As that, and well done, that the Heav'ns may hear it.

_Jul._ O fair tears! were you but as chast as subtil, Like Bones of Saints, you would work miracles; What were these women to a man that knew not The thousand, thousand ways of their deceiving? What riches had he found? O he would think Himself still dreaming of a blessedness, That like continual spring should flourish ever. For if she were as good as she is seeming, Or, like an Eagle, could renew her vertues, Nature had made another world of sweetness. Be not so griev'd, sweet Mistriss, what I said, You do, or should know, was but passion; Pray wipe your eyes and kiss me; take these trifles, And wear them for me, which are only rich When you will put them on: indeed I love ye, Beshrew my sick heart, if I grieve not for ye.

_Lel._ Will you dissemble still? I am a fool, And you may easily rule me, if you flatter, The sin will be your own.

_Jul._ You know I do not.

_Lel._ And shall I be so childish once again, After my late experience of your spight To credit you? you do not know how deep (Or if you did you would be kinder to me,) This bitterness of yours has struck my heart.

_Jul._ I pray, no more.

_Lel._ Thus you would do I warrant, If I were married to you.

_Jul._ Married to me? Is that your end?

_Lel._ Yes, is not that the best end, And, as all hold, the noblest way of love? Why do you look so strange, Sir? do not you Desire it should be so?

_Jul._ Stay.

_Lel._ Answer me.

_Jul._ Farewel. [_Exit_ Julio.

_Lel._ I! are you there? are all these tears lost then? Am I so overtaken by a fool In my best days and tricks? my wise fellow, I'll make you smart for't as I am a woman, And if thou beest not timber, yet I'll warm thee; And is he gone?

_Enter Woman._

_Wom._ Yes.

_Lel._ He's not so lightly struck, To be recovered with a base repentance, I should be sorry then; Fortune, I prithee Give me this man but once more in my arms, And if I lose him, women have no charms. [_Exeunt._

_Actus Secundus. Scena Prima._

_Enter_ Jacomo, _and_ Fabricio.

_Jac._ Seignior, what think you of this sound of Wars?

_Fab._ As only of a sound; they that intend To do, are like deep waters that run quietly, Leaving no face of what they were, behind 'em. This rumour is too common, and too loud To carry truth.

_Jac._ Shall we never live to see Men look like men again, Upon a March? This cold dull rusty peace makes u[s] appear Like empty Pictures, only the faint shadows Of what we should be; Would to Heaven my Mother Had given but half her will to my begetting, And made me woman, to sit still and sing, Or be sick when I list, or any thing That is too idle for a man to think of; Would I had been a Whore, 't had been a course Certain, and (o' my Conscience) of more gain Than two commands, as I would handle it: 'Faith, I could wish I had been any thing Rather tha[n] what I am, a Souldier; A Carrier or a Cobler, when I knew What 'twas to wear a Sword first; for their trades Are, and shall be a constant way of life, While men send Cheeses up, or wear out Buskins.

_Fab._ Thou art a little too impatient, And mak'st thy anger a far more vexation Than the not having Wars; I am a Souldier, Which is my whole inheritance, yet I Though I could wish a breach with all the world, If not dishonourable, I am not so malicious, To curse the fair peace of my Mother Country; But thou want'st money, and the first supply Will bury these thoughts in thee.

_Jac._ 'Pox o' peace, It fills the Kingdom full of holydays, And only feeds the wants of Whores and Pipers; And makes the idle drunken Rogues get Spinsters: 'Tis true, I may want money, and no little, And almost Cloaths too; of which if I had both In full abundance; yet against all peace, That brings up mischiefs thicker than a shower, I would speak louder than a Lawyer; By Heaven, it is the surfeit of all youth, That makes the toughness, and the strength of Nations Melt into Women. 'Tis an ease that broods Thieves, and Bastards only.

_Fab._ This is more, (Though it be true) than we ought to lay open, And savours only of an indiscretion. Believe me, Captain, such distemper'd spirits Once out of motion, though they be proof valiant, If they appear thus violent and fiery, Breed but their own disgraces; and are nearer Doubt and suspect in Princes, than rewards.

_Jac._ 'Tis well they can be near 'em any way. But call you those true spirits ill affected, That whilst the wars were, serv'd like walls and ribs To girdle in the Kingdom? And now faln Through a faint Peace into affliction, Speak but their miseries? come, come, _Fabritio_, You may pretend what patience ye please, And seem to yoak your wants like passions; But while I know thou art a Souldier, And a deserver, and no other Harvest But what thy Sword reaps for thee to come in, You shall be pleas'd to give me leave to tell ye, You wish a Devil of this musty peace; To which Prayer, As one that's bound in Conscience, and all That love our trade, I cry, Amen.

_Fab._ Prithee no more, we shall live well enough, There's ways enough besides the wars to men That are not logs, and lye still for the hands Of others to remove 'em.

_Jac._ You may thrive, Sir, Thou art young and handsom yet, and well enough To please a Widow; thou canst sing, and tell These foolish love-tales, and indite a little, And if need be, compile a pretty matter, And dedicate it to the honourable, Which may awaken his compassion, To make ye Clark o'th' Kitchen, and at length, Come to be married to my Ladies Woman, After she's crackt i'th' Ring.

_Fab._ 'Tis very well, Sir.

_Jac._ But what dost thou think shall become of me, With all my imperfections? let me dye, If I think I shall ever reach above A forlorn Tapster, or some frothy fellow, That stinks of stale Beer.

_Fab._ Captain _Jacomo_, Why should you think so hardly of your vertues?

_Jac._ What vertues? by this light, I have no vertue, But down-right buffetting, what can my face, That is no better than a ragged Map now Of where I have march'd and travell'd, profit me? Unless it be for Ladies to abuse, and say 'Twas spoil'd for want of a Bongrace when I was young, And now 'twill make a true prognostication Of what man must be? Tell me of a fellow That can mend Noses, and complain, So tall a Souldier should want teeth to his Stomach; And how it was great pity, that it was, That he that made my Body was so busied He could not stay to make my Legs too; but was driven To clap a pair of Cat-sticks to my Knees, for which I am indebted to two School-Boys; this Must follow necessary.

_Fab._ There's no such matter.

_Jac._ Then for my Morals, and those hidden pieces, That Art bestows upon me, they are such, That when they come to light, I am sure will shame me, For I can neither write, nor read, nor speak That any man shall hope to profit by me; And for my Languages, they are so many, That put them all together, they will scarce Serve to beg single Beer in; the plain truth is, I love a Souldier, and can lead him on, And if he fight well, I dare make him drunk; This is my vertue, and if this will do, I'll scramble yet amongst 'em.

_Fab._ 'Tis your way To be thus pleasant still, but fear not, man, For though the Wars fail, we shall screw our selves Into some course of life yet.

_Jac._ Good _Fabricio_, Have a quick eye upon me, for I fear This Peace will make me something that I love not; For by my troth, though I am plain and dudgion, I would not be an Ass; and to sell parcels, I can as soon be hang'd: prithee bestow me, And speak some little good, though I deserve not.

_Enter Father._

_Fab._ Come, we'll consider more; stay, this Should be another wind-fall of the Wars.

_Jac._ He looks indeed like an old tatter'd Colours, That every wind would borrow from the Staff: These are the hopes we have for all our hurts; They have not cast his tongue too.

_Fath._ They that say Hope never leaves a wretched man that seeks her, I think are either patient fools, or liers, I am sure I find it so, for I am master'd, With such a misery and grief together That that stay'd Anchor, men lay hold upon In all their needs, is to me Lead that bows, Or breaks with every strong sea of my sorrows. I could now question Heaven (were it well To look into their Justice) why those faults, Those heavy sins others provoke 'em with Should be rewarded on the head of us, That hold the least alliance to their vices; But this would be too curious; for I see Our sufferings, not disputing, is the end, Reveal'd to us of all these miseries.

_Jac._ Twenty such holy _Hermits_ in a Camp Would make 'em all _Carthusians_, I'll be hang'd If he know what a Whore is, or a health, Or have a nature liable to learn, Or so much honest nurture to be drunk. I do not think he has the spleen to swear A greater Oath than Semsters utter Socks with, S'pur him a question.

_Fath._ They are strangers both To me, as I to them I hope; I would not have Me and my shame together known by any, I'll rather lie my self unto another.

_Fab._ I need not ask you, Sir, your Country, I hear you speak this tongue, 'pray what more are you? Or have you been? if it be not offensive To urge ye so far, misery in your years Gives every thing a tongue to question it.

_Fath._ Sir, though I could be pleas'd to make my ills Only mine own, for grieving other men, Yet to so fair and courteous a demander That promises compassion, at worst pity, I will relate a little of my story. I am a Gentleman, however thus Poor and unhappy; which believe me, Sir, Was not born with me; for I well have try'd Both the extreams of Fortune, and have found Both dangerous; my younger years provok'd me, Feeling in what an ease I slept at home, Which to all stirring spirits is a sickness, To see far Countrys, and observe their Customs: I did so, and I travell'd till that course Stor'd me with language, and some few slight manners, Scarce worth my money; when an itch possess'd me Of making Arms my active end of travel.

_Fab._ But did you so?

_Fath._ I did, and twenty Winters I wore the Christian Cause upon my Sword Against his Enemies, at _Buda_ Siege Full many a cold Night have I lodg'd in armour, When all was frozen in me but mine Honour; And many a day, when both the Sun and Cannon Strove who should most destroy us; have I stood Mail'd up in Steel, when my tough sinew shrunk, And this parch'd Body ready to consume As soon to ashes, as the Pike I bore; Want has been to me as another Nature, Which makes me with this patience still profess it; And if a Souldier may without vain glory Tell what h'as done, believe me, Gentlemen, I could turn over annals of my dangers; With this poor weakness have I man'd a breach, And made it firm with so much bloud, that all I had to bring me off alive was anger; Thrice was I made a Slave, and thrice redeem'd At price of all I had; The miseries Of which times, if I had a heart to tell, Would make ye weep like Children; but [I]'ll spare ye.

_Jac. Fabricio_, we two have been Souldiers Above these fourteen years, yet o' my Conscience, All we have seen, compar'd to his experience Has been but cudgel-play, or Cock-fighting. By all the faith I have in Arms, I reverence The very poverty of this brave fellow; Which were enough it self, and his to strengthen The weakest town against half _Christendom_. I was never so asham'd of service In all my life before, now I consider What I have done; and yet the Rogues would swear I was a valiant fellow; I do find The greatest danger I have brought my life through, Now I have heard this worthy, was no more Than stealing of a _May_-pole, or at worst, Fighting at single Billet with a Barge-man.

_Fab._ I do believe him, _Jacomo_.

_Jac._ Believe him? I have no faith within me, if I do not.

_Fath._ I see they are Souldiers; And if we may judge by affections, Brave and deserving men; how they are stir'd But with a meer relation of what may be? Since I have won belief, and am not known, Forgive me, Honour, I'll make use of thee.

_Fab._ Sir, would I were a man, or great, or able To look with liberal eyes upon your vertue.

_Jac._ Let's give him all we have, and leave off prating. Here, Souldier, there's even five months pay, be merry, And get thee handsom Cloaths.

_Fab._ What mean you, _Jacomo_?

_Jac._ Ye are a fool, The very story's worth a hundred pound. Give him more money.

_Fath._ Gentlemen, I know not How I am able to deserve this blessing; But if I live to see fair days again, Something I'll do in honour of your goodness, That shall shew thankfulness, if not desert.

_Fab._ If you please, Sir, till we procure ye place, To eat with us, or wear such honest Garments As our poor means can reach to, you shall be A welcome man; to say more, were to feed ye Only with words; we honour what y'have been, For we are Souldiers, though not near the worth You spake of lately.

_Fath._ I do guess ye so, And knew, unless ye were a Souldier, Ye could not find the way to know my wants.

_Jac._ But methinks all this while y'are too temperate; Do you not tell men sometimes of the dulness When you are grip't, as now you are with need? I do, and let them know those silks they wear, The War weaves for 'em; and the bread they eat We sow, and reap again to feed their hunger; I tell them boldly, they are masters of Nothing but what we fight for; their fair women Lye playing in their arms, whilst we, like _Lares_ Defend their pleasures; I am angry too, And often rail at these forgetful great men That suffer us to sue for what we ought To have flung on us, e're we ask.

_Fath._ I have Too often told my griefs that way, when all I reapt, was rudeness of behaviour; In their opinion men of War that thrive, Must thank 'em when they rail, and wait to live.

_Fab._ Come, Sir, I see your wants need more relieving, Than looking what they are; pray go with us.

_Fath._ I thank you, Gentlemen; since you are pleas'd To do a benefit, I dare not cross it, And what my service or endeavours may Stand you in stead, you shall command, not pray. [_Exeunt._

_Jac._ So you shall us, I'll to the Taylors with you bodily.