Part 59

_Fran._ I, you know; You found the way to sorrow long agoe. Father, God boye ye:[1737] you have sent your sonne To seeke on earth an earthly day of doome, 75 Where I shall be adjudged,[1738] alacke the ruthe, To penance for the follies of my youth! Well, I must goe, but, by my troth, my minde Is not love capable to[1739] that kinde. O, I have lookt upon this mould of men, 80 As I have done upon a lyons den! Praised I have the gallant beast I saw, Yet wisht me no acquaintance with his pawe: And must I now be grated with them? well, Yet I may hap to proove a Daniell; 85 And, if I doe, sure it would make me laugh, To be among wilde beastes and yet be safe. Is there a remedy to abate their rage? Yes, many catch them, and put them in a cage. I, but how catch them? marry, in your hand 90 Carrie me foorth a burning fire brand, For with his sparkling shine, olde rumor saies, A fire brand the swiftest runner fraies: This I may doe; but, if it proove not so, Then man goes out to seeke his adjunct woe. 95 Phillip, away! and, father, now adew! In quest of sorrow I am sent by you

_M. Gou._ Returne the messenger of joy, my sonne.

_Fran._ Sildome in this world such a worke is done.

_Phi._ Nay, nay, make hast, it will be quicklie night. 100

_Fra._ Why, is it not good to wooe by candle light?

_Phil._ But, if we make not haste theile be abed.

_Fran._ The better, candels out and curtans spred.

_Exeunt_ [FRANCIS _and_ PHILLIP].

_M. Gour._ I know, though that my sons years be not many, Yet he hath wit to wooe as well as any. 105 Here comes my wife: I am glad my boy is gone

_Enter_ MISTRESSE GOURSEY.

Ere she came hether.--How now, wife? how ist? What, are ye yet in charity and love With mistresse Barnes?

_Mi. Gou._ With mistris Barnes! why mistris[1740] Barnes, I pray?

_M. Gou._ Because she is your neighbour and---- 111

_Mi. Gou._ And what? And a jealous slandering spitefull queane she is, One that would blur my reputation With her approbrious mallice, if she could. 115 She wrongs her husband, to abuse my fame: Tis knowne that I have lived in honest name All my life time, and bin your right true wife.

_M. Gour._ I entertaine no other thought, my wife, And my opinion's sound of your behaviour. 120

_Mis. Gou._ And my behaviour is as sound as it; But her ill speeches seekes to rot my credit, And eate it with the worme of hate and mallice.

_M. Gou._ Why, then, preserve it you by patience.

_Mi. Gou._ By patience! would ye have me shame my selfe, And cussen my selfe to beare her injuries? 126 Not while her eyes be open will I yeelde A word, a letter, a sillables valew, But equall and make even her wrongs to me To her againe. 130

_M. Gou._ Then, in good faith, wife, ye are more to blame.

_Mi. Gou._ Am I too blame, sir? pray, what letters this?

[_Snatches the letter._]

_M. Gou._ There is a dearth of manners in ye, wife, Rudelie to snatch it from me. Give it me.

_Mi. Gou._ You shall not have it, sir, till I have read it. 135

_M. Gou._ Give me it, then, and I will read it to you.

_Mi. Gou._ No, no, it shall not need: I am a scholler Good enough to read a letter, sir.

_M. Gou._ Gods passion, if she knew but the contents, Sheele seeke to crosse this match! she shall not read it.--[_Aside._] Wife, give it me; come, come, give it me. 141

_Mi. Gou._ Husband, in very deed, you shall not have it.

_M. Gou._ What, will you moove me to impatience, then?

_Mi. Gou._ Tut, tell not me of your impatience; But since you talke, sir, of impatience, 145 You shall not have the letter, by this light, Till I have read it; soule, ile burne it first!

_M. Gou._ Go to, ye move me, wife; give me the letter; In troth, I shall growe angry, if you doe not.

_Mi. Gou._ Grow to the house top with your anger, sir! 150 Nere tell me, I care not thus much for it.

_M. Gour._ Well, I can beare enough, but not too much. Come, give it me; twere best you be persuaded; By God--ye make me sweare--now God forgive me!-- Give me, I say, and stand not long upon it; 155 Go to, I am angry at the heart, my very heart.

_Mis. Gou._ Hart me no hearts, you shall not have it, sir, No, you shall not; nere looke so big, I will not be affraide at your great lookes; You shall not have it, no, you shall not have it. 160

_M. Gou._ Shall I not have[1741] it? in troth, Ile try that: Minion, Ile hav'te; shall I not hav'te?--I am loath-- Go too, take pausment, be advisde-- In faith, I will; and stand not long upon it-- A woman of your yeares! I am ashamde 165 A couple of so long continuance Should thus--Gods foote--I crye God hartely mercy!-- Go to, ye vex me; and Ile vexe ye for it; Before I leave ye, I will make ye glad To tender it on your knees; heare ye, I will, I will. 170 What, worse and worse stomacke! true, i[1742] faith! Shall I be crost by you in my olde age? And where I should have greatest comfort to, A nursse of you?--nursse in the divels name!-- Go to, mistris; by Gods pretious deere, 175 If ye delaie--

_Mi. Gou._ Lord, Lord, why, in what a fit Are you in, husband! so inrag'd, so moov'd, And for so slight a cause, to read a letter! Did this letter, love, conteine my death, 180 Should you denie my sight of it, I would not Nor see my sorrow nor eschew my danger, But willinglie yeeld me a patient Unto the doome that your displeasure gave. Heere is the letter; not for that your incensment 185 [_Gives back the letter._] Makes me make offer of it, but your health, Which anger, I doe feare, hath crasd, And viper like hath suckt away the bloud That wont was to be cheerefull in this cheeke: How pale yee looke! 190

_M. Gou._ Pale! can yee blame me for it? I tell you true, An easie matter could not thus have moov'd me. Well, this resignement, and so foorth--but, woman, This fortnight shall I not forget yee for it.-- Ha, ha, I see that roughnes can doe somewhat! 195 I did not thinke, good faith, I could have set So sower a face upon it, and to her, My bed embracer, my right bosome friend. I would not that she should have seene the letter, As poore a man as I am, by my troth, 200 For twenty pound: well, I am glad I have it.-- [_Aside._] Ha, heres adoe about a thing of nothing! What, stomack, ha! tis happy you come downe. _Exit._

_Mi. Gou._ Well, craftie[1743] fox, Ile hunt ye, by my troth: Deale ye so closely? Well, I see his drift: 205 He would not let me see the letter, least That I should crosse the match; and I will crosse it.--

_Enter_ COMES.[1744]

Dicke Coomes?[1744]

_Coom._ Forsooth.

_Mis. Gour._ Come hether, Dicke; thou art a man I love, 210 And one whom I have much in my regarde.

_Coo._ I thanke ye for it, mistris, I thanke ye for it.

_Mi. Gou._ Nay, heers my hand, I will do very much For thee, if ere thou standst in need of me; Thou shalt not lack, whilst thou hast a day to live, 215 Money, apparrell----

_Coo._ And sword and bucklers?

_Mis. Gou._ And sword and bucklers too, my gallant Dick, So thou wilt use but this in my defence. 219

_Coom._ This! no, faith, I have no minde to this; breake my head, if this breake not, if we come to any tough play. Nay, mistres, I had a sword, I, the flower of Smithfield for a sword, a right fox,[1745] i faith; with that, and a man had come over with a smooth and a sharpe stroke, it would have cried twang, and then, when I had doubled my point, traste my ground, and had carried my buckler before me like a garden but,[1746] and then come in with a crosse blowe, and over the picke[1747] of his buckler two elles long, it would have cryed twang, twang, mettle, mettle: but a dogge hath his day; tis gone, and there are few good ones made now. I see by this dearth of good swords that[1748] dearth of sword and buckler fight begins to grow ont:[1749] I am sorrye for it; I shall never see good manhood againe, if it be once gone; this poking fight of rapier and dagger will come up then; then a man, a tall[1750] man, and a good sword and buckler man, will be spitted like a cat or a cunney; then a boy will be as good as a man, unlesse the Lord shewe mercie unto us; well, I had as lieve bee hang'd as live to see that day. Wel, mistres, what shal I do? what shal I do? 237

_Mis. Gour._ Why, this, brave Dicke. Thou knowest that Barnses[1751] wife And I am foes: now, man me to her house; And though it be darke, Dicke, yet weelle have no light, 240 Least that thy maister should prevent our journey By seeing our depart. Then, when we come, And if that she and I do fall to words, Set in thy foote and quarrell with her men, Draw, fight, strike, hurt, but do not kill the slaves, 245 And make as though thou struckst at a man, And hit her, and thou canst,--a plague upon her!-- She hath misusde me, Dicke: wilt thou do this?

_Coom._ Yes, mistresse, I will strike her men; but God forbid that ere Dicke Coomes should be seene to strike a woman! 250

_Mi. Gour._ Why, she is mankind,[1752] therefore thou maist strike her.

_Coom._ Mankinde! nay, and she have any part of a man, Ile strike her, I warrant.

_Mi. Gour._ Thats my good Dicke, thats my sweet Dicke! 254

_Coom._ Swones, who would not be a man of valour to have such words of a gentlewoman! one of their words are more to me then twentie of these russet coates cheese-cakes and butter makers. Well, I thanke God, I am none of these cowards; well, and a man have any vertue in him, I see he shall be regarded. [_Aside._]

_Mi. Gour._ Art thou resolved, Dicke? wilt thou do this for me? And if thou wilt, here is an earnest penny 261 Of that rich guerdon I do meane to give thee. [_Gives money._]

_Coom._ An angell, mistresse! let me see. Stand you on my left hand, and let the angell lye on my buckler on my right hand, for feare of losing. Now, heere stand I to be tempted.[1753] They say, every man hath two spirits attending on him, eyther good or bad; now, I say, a man hath no other spirits but eyther his wealth or his wife: now, which is the better of them? why, that is as they are used; for use neither of them well, and they are both nought. But this is a miracle to me, that golde that is heavie hath the upper, and a woman that is light doth soonest fall, considering that light things aspire, and heavie things soonest go downe: but leave these considerations to sir John,[1754] they become a blacke coate better than a blew. Well, mistresse, I had no minde to daye to quarrell; but a woman is made to bee a mans seducer; you say, quarrell. 275

_Mi. Gou._ I.

_Coom._ There speakes an angell: is it good?

_Mis. Gou._ I.

_Coom._ Then, I cannot doe amisse; the good angell goes with me.

_Exeunt._

[Scene Seventh.[1755] _The Forest near Sir Raphs House._]

_Enter_ SIR RAPH SMITH, _his_ LADY, _and_ WILL [_and_ ATTENDANTS].

_S. Raph._ Come on, my harts: i faith, it is ill lucke, To hunt all day, and not kill any thing. What sayest thou, lady? art thou weary yet?

_La._ I must not say so, sir.

_Sir Ra._ Although thou art. 5

_Wil._ And can you blame her, to be foorth so long, And see no better sport?

_Ra._ Good faith, twas very hard.

_La._ No, twas not ill, Because, you know, it is not good to kill. 10

_Ra._ Yes, venson, ladie.

_La._ No, indeed, nor them; Life is as deere in deare as tis in men.

_Ra._ But they are kild for sport.

_Lad._ But thats bad play, 15 When they are made to sport their lives away.

_Ra._ Tis fine to see them runne.

_La._ What, out of breath? They runne but ille that runne themselves to death.

_Ra._ They might make, then, lesse hast, and keep their winde.

_La._ Why, then, they see the hounds brings death behinde. 21

_Rap._ Then, twere as good for them at first to stay, As to run long, and run their lives away.

_La._ I, but the stoutest of you all thats here Would run from death and nimbly scud for feare. 25 Now, by my troth, I pittie those poor elfes.[1756]

_Ra._ Well, they have made us but bad sport to day.

_La._ Yes, twas my sport to see them scape away.

_Will._ I wish that I had beene at one bucks fall.

_La._ Out, thou wood-tyrant! thou art worst of all. 30

_Wil._ A woodman,[1757] ladie, but no tyrant I.

_La._ Yes, tyrant-like thou lovest to see lives dye.

_Ra._ Lady, no more: I do not like this lucke, To hunt all day, and yet not kill a buck. Well, it is late; but yet I sweare I will 35 Stay heere all night but I a buck will kill.

_La._ All night! nay, good sir Raph Smith, do not so.

_Ra._ Content ye, ladie.--Will, go fetch my bow: A berrie[1758] of faire roes I saw to day Downe by the groves, and there Ile take my[1759] stand, 40 And shoote at one; God send a luckie hand!

_La._ Will ye not, then, sir Raph, go home with me?

_Ra._ No, but my men shall beare thee company.-- Sirs, man her home.--Will, bid the huntsmen couple, And bid them well reward their hounds to night.-- 45 Ladie, farewell.--Will, hast ye with the bow; Ile stay for thee heere by the grove below.

_Wil._ I will; but twill be darke, I shall not see: How shall I see ye, then?

_Ra._ Why, hollo to me, and I wil answer thee. 50

_Wil._ Enough, I wil.

_Raph._ Farewell. _Exit._

_La._ How willingly doost thou consent to go To fetch thy maister that same killing bow!

_Wil._ Guiltie of death I willing am in this, 55 Because twas our ill haps to day to misse: To hunt, and not to kill, is hunters sorrow. Come, ladie, weell have venson ere to morrow. _Exeunt._

[Scene Eighth. _In front of Barneses House._]

_Enter_ PHILIP _and_ FRANK [_and_ BOY].

_Phil._ Come, Franke, now we are hard by the[1760] house: But how now, sad?

_Fran._ No, to studie how to woe thy sister.

_Phil._ How, man? how to woe her! why, no matter how; I am sure thou wilt not be ashamed to woe. 5 Thy cheekes not subject to a childish blush, Thou hast a better warrant by thy wit; I know thy oratorie can unfold Quicke invention, plausible discourse, And set such painted beautie on thy tongue, 10 As it shall ravish every maiden sence; For, Franke, thou art not like the russet youth I tolde thee of, that went to woe a wench, And being full stuft up with fallow wit And meddow matter, askt the pretty maide 15 How they solde corne last market day with them, Saying, 'Indeed, twas very deare with them.' And, do ye heare, ye[1761] had not need be[1762] so, For she[1763] will, Francis, throwly[1764] trie your wit: Sirra, sheel bow the mettall of your wits, 20 And, if they cracke, she will not hold ye currant; Nay, she will way your wits as men way[1765] angels, And, if it[1766] lacke a graine, she will not change[1767] with ye. I cannot speake it but in passion, She is a wicked wench to make a jest; 25 Aye me, how full of floutes and mockes she is!

_Fran._ Some _aqua vitæ_ reason to recover This sicke discourser! Sound[1768] not, prethy, Philip. Tush, tush, I do not thinke her as thou saiest: Perhaps shees opinions darling, Phillip, 30 Wise in repute, the crowes bird. O my friend, Some judgements slave themselves to small desart,[1769] And wondernize the birth of common wit, When their owne[1770] straungenes do but make that strange, And their ill errors do but make that good: 35 And why should men debase to make that good? Perhaps such admiration winnes her wit.

_Phil._ Well, I am glad to heare this bold prepare For this encounter. Forward, hardy Franke! Yonders the window with the candle int; 40 Belike shees putting on her night attire: I told ye, Franke, twas late. Well, I will call her, Mary, softly, that my mother may not heare.-- Mall, sister Mall!

_Enter_ MALL _in the window_.

_Mal._ How now, whose there? 45

_Phil._ Tis I.

_Mal._ Tis I! who I? I, quoth the dogge, or what? A Christ crosse rowe I?[1771]

_Phi._ No, sweete pinckanie.[1772]

_Mal._ O, ist you, wilde oates? 50

_Phil._ I, forsooth, wanton.

_Mal._ Well said, scape thrift.

_Fran._ Philip, be these your usuall best salutes?

_Phi._ This is the harmlesse chiding of that dove.

_Fran._ Dove! one of those that drawe the queene of love? 55

_Mal._ How now? whose that, brother? whose that with ye?

_Phil._ A gentleman, my friend.

_Mal._ Beladie, he hath a pure wit.

_Fran._ How meanes your holy judgement?

_Mal._ O, well put in, sir! 60

_Fran._ Up, you would say.

_Mal._ Well climde, gentleman! I pray, sir, tell me, do you carte the queene of love?

_Fran._ Not cart her, but couch her in your eye, And a fit place for gentle love to lye. 65

_Mal._ I, but me thinkes you speake without the booke, To place a fower[1773] wheele waggon in my looke: Where will you have roome to have the coachman sit?

_Fran._ Nay, that were but small manners, and not fit: His dutie is, before you bare to stand, 70 Having a lustie whipstocke in his hand.

_Ma._ The place is voide; will you provide me one?

_Fra._ And if you please, I will supply the roome.

_Mal._ But are ye cunning in the carmans lash? And can ye whistle well? 75

_Fran._ Yes, I can well direct the coache of love.

_Mal._ Ah cruell carter, would you whip a dove?

_Phil._ Harke ye, sister--

_Mal._ Nay, but harke ye, brother; Whose white[1774] boy is that same? know ye his mother? 80

_Phil._ He is a gentleman of a good house.

_Mal._ Why, is his house of gold? Is it not made of lyme and stone like this?

_Phil._ I meane, hees well descended.

_Mal._ God be thanked! 85 Did he descend some steeple or some ladder?

_Phi._ Well, you will still be crosse: I tell ye, sister, This gentleman by all your friends consent Must be your husband.

_Mal._ Nay, not all, some sing another note; 90 My mother will say no, I hold a groate. But I thought twas somewhat, he would be a carter; He hath beene whipping lately some blinde beare, And now he would ferke[1775] the blinde boy heere with us.

_Phil._ Well, do you heare, you, sister, mistresse Would-Have?[1776] You that do long for somewhat, I know what-- 96 My father tolde me--go to, Ile tell all If ye be crosse--do ye heare me? I have labourd A yeares worke in this afternoone for ye: Come from your cloyster, votarie, chas[t]e nun,[1777] 100 Come downe and kisse Franke Gourseys mothers sonne.

_Mal._ Kisse him, I pray?

_Phi._ Go to, stale maidenhead! come downe, I say, You seveneteene and upward, come, come downe; You'l stay till twentie else for your wedding gowne. 105

_Mal._ Nun, votarie, stale maidenhead, seventeen and upward! Here be names! what, nothing else?

_Fran._ Yes, or a faire built steeple without bels.

_Mal._ Steeple! good people, nay, another cast.

_Fran._ I, or a well made ship without a mast. 110

_Mal._ Fie, not so big, sir, by one part of foure.

_Fran._ Why, then, ye are a boate without an oare.

_Mal._ O, well rode,[1778] wit! but whats your fare, I pray?

_Fran._ Your faire selfe must be my fairest pay.

_Mal._ Nay, and you be so deare, Ile chuse another. 115

_Fran._ Why, take your first man, wench, and go no further.

_Phi._ Peace, Francis.--Harke ye, sister, this I say:[1779] You know my mind; or answer, I or nay. Wit and judgement hath resolvde his mind, And he foresees what after he shall finde: 120 If such discretion, then, shall governe you, Vow love to him, heele do the like to you.

_Mal._ Vow love! who would not love such a comely feature, Nor high nor lowe, but of the middle stature? A middle man, thats the best syze indeed; 125 I like him well: love graunt us well to speed!

_Fran._ And let me see a woman of that tallnesse, So slender and of such a middle smalnesse, So olde enough, and in each part so fit, So faire, so kinde, endued with so much wit, 130 Of so much wit as it is held a wonder, Twere pittie to keepe love and her asunder; Therefore go up, my joy, call downe my blisse; Bid her come seale the bargaine with a kisse.

_Mal._ Franke, Franke, I come through dangers, death, and harmes, To make loves patent[1780] with my[1781] seale of armes. 136

_Phi._ But, sister, softly, least my mother heare.

_Mal._ Hush, then: mum, mouse in cheese,[1782] cat is neere.

_Exit_ MAL.[1783]

_Fran._ Now, in good faith, Philip, this makes me smile, That I have woed and wonne in so small while. 140

_Phi._ Francis, indeed, my sister, I dare say, Was not determined to say thee nay; For this same tother thing, calde maiden-head, Hangs by so small a haire or spiders thred, And worne so too[1784] with time, it must needs fall, 145 And, like a well lur'de hawke, she knows her call.

[_Enter_ MALL.]

_Mal._ Whist, brother, whist! my mother heard me tread, And askt, Whose there? I would not answer her; She calde, A light! and up shees gone to seeke me: There when she findes me not, sheel hether come; 150 Therefore dispatch, let it be quickly done. Francis, my loves lease I do let to thee, Date of my life and thine: what sayest thou to me? The entring, fine, or income thou must pay, Are kisses and embrases every day; 155 And quarterly I must receive my rent; You know my minde.

_Fran._ I gesse at thy intent: Thou shalt not misse a minute of thy time.

_Mal._ Why, then, sweet Francis, I am onely thine.-- 160 Brother, beare witnesse.

_Phi._ Do ye deliver this as your deed?

_Mul._ I do, I do.

_Ph._ God send ye both good speed! Gods Lord, my mother! Stand aside, and closely too, least that you be espied.[1785] 165

[_Enter_ MISTRESSE BARNES.]

_Mi. Ba._ Whose there?

_Phi._ Mother, tis I.

_Mis. Ba._ You disobedient ruffen, carlesse wretch, That said your father lovde me but too well! Ile thinke on't when thou thinkst I have forgotten[1786] it: 170 Whose with thee else?--How now, minion? you! With whom? with him!--Why, what make you heere, sir, And thus late too? what, hath your mother sent ye To cut my throate, that heere you be in waite?-- Come from him, mistris, and let go his hand.-- 175 Will ye not, sir?