SCENE III.[3119

_Enter_ Merchant [VENTUREWELL,] HUMPHREY, LUCE, _and_ Boy.

_Vent._ Go, get you up;[3120] I will not be entreated; And, gossip mine, I ’ll keep you sure hereafter From gadding out again with boys and unthrifts. Come, they are women’s tears; I know your fashion,— Go, sirrah, lock her in, and keep the key 5 Safe as you love your life. _Exeunt_ LUCE _and_ Boy. Now, my son Humphrey, You may both rest assured of my love In this, and reap your own desire.

_Hum._ I see this love you speak of, through your daughter, Although the hole be little; and hereafter 10 Will yield the like in all I may or can, Fitting a Christian and a gentleman.

_Vent._ I do believe you, my good son, and thank you; For ’t were an impudence to think you flattered.

_Hum._ It were, indeed: but shall I tell you why? 15 I have been beaten twice about the lie.

_Vent._ Well, son, no more of compliment. My daughter Is yours again: appoint the time and take her. We ’ll have no stealing for it; I myself And some few of our friends will see you married. 20

_Hum._ I would you would, i’ faith! for, be it known, I ever was afraid to lie alone.

_Vent._ Some three days hence, then.

_Hum._ Three days! let me see: ’T is somewhat of the most;[3121] yet I agree, Because I mean against[3122] the appointed day 25 To visit all my friends in new array.

_Enter_ Servant.

_Serv._ Sir, there ’s a gentlewoman without would speak with your worship.

_Vent._ What is she?

_Serv._ Sir, I askt her not. 30

_Vent._ Bid her come in. [_Exit_ Servant.]

_Enter_ MISTRESS MERRYTHOUGHT _and_ MICHAEL.

_Mist. Mer._ Peace be to your worship! I come as a poor suitor to you, sir, in the behalf of this child.

_Vent._ Are you not wife to Merrythought?

_Mist. Mer._ Yes, truly. Would I had ne’er (36) seen his eyes! Ha has undone me and himself and his children; and there he lives at home, and sings and hoits and revels among his drunken companions! but, I warrant you, (40) where to get a penny to put bread in his mouth he knows not, and therefore, if it like your worship, I would entreat your letter to the honest host of the Bell in Waltham, that I may place my child under the protection of his tapster, in some settled course of life. 46

_Vent._ I ’m glad the heavens have heard my prayers. Thy husband, When I was ripe in sorrows, laught at me; Thy son, like an unthankful wretch, I having Redeem’d him from his fall, and made him mine, 50 To show his love again, first stole my daughter, Then wronged this gentleman, and, last of all, Gave me that grief had almost brought me down Unto my grave, had not a stronger hand Reliev’d my sorrows. Go, and weep as I did, And be unpitied: for I here profess 56 An everlasting hate to all thy name.

_Mist. Mer._ Will you so, sir? how say you by that?—Come, Mick; let him keep his wind to cool his porridge. We ’ll go to thy nurse’s, 60 Mick: she knits silk stockings, boy; and we ’ll knit too, boy, and be beholding to none of them all. _Exit with_ MICHAEL.

_Enter_ a Boy _with a letter_.

_Boy._ Sir, I take it you are the master of this house. 65

_Vent._ How then, boy?

_Boy._ Then to yourself, sir, comes this letter.

_Vent._ From whom, my pretty boy?

_Boy._ From him that was your servant; but no more Shall that name ever be, for he is dead: 70 Grief of your purchas’d[3123] anger broke his heart, I saw him die, and from his hand receiv’d This paper, with a charge to bring it hither: Read it, and satisfy yourself in all.

_Vent._ [_reads._] Sir, that I have wronged your love I must confess; in which I have purchast (76) to myself, besides mine own undoing, the ill opinion of my friends. Let not your anger, good sir, outlive me, but suffer me to rest in peace with your forgiveness: let my 80 body (if a dying man may so much prevail with you) be brought to your daughter, that she may truly know my hot flames are now buried, and withal receive a testimony of the zeal I bore her virtue. Farewell for ever, and be ever (85) happy! JASPER. God’s hand is great in this. I do forgive him; Yet I am glad he ’s quiet, where I hope He will not bite again.—Boy, bring the body, And let him have his will, if that be all. 90

_Boy._ ’T is here without, sir.

_Vent._ So, sir; if you please, You may conduct it in; I do not fear it.

_Hum._ I ’ll be your usher, boy; for, though I say it, He ow’d me something once, and well did pay it. _Exeunt._

[SCENE IV.][3124]

_Enter_ LUCE.

_Luce._ If there be any punishment inflicted Upon the miserable, more than yet I feel, Let it together seize me, and at once Press down my soul! I cannot bear the pain Of these delaying tortures.—Thou that art 5 The end of all, and the sweet rest of all, Come, come, oh, Death! bring me to thy peace, And blot out all the memory I nourish Both of my father and my cruel friend!— 9 Oh, wretched maid, still living to be wretched, To be a say to Fortune in her changes, And grow to number times and woes together! How happy had I been, if, being born, My grave had been my cradle!

_Enter_ Servant.

_Serv._ By your leave, Young mistress; here ’s a boy hath brought a coffin: 15 What ’a would say, I know not; but your father Charg’d me to give you notice. Here they come. [_Exit._]

_Enter two bearing a Coffin_, JASPER _in it_.

_Luce._ For me I hope ’t is come, and ’t is most welcome.

_Boy._ Fair mistress, let me not add greater grief To that great store you have already. Jasper 20 (That whilst he liv’d was yours, now dead And here enclos’d) commanded me to bring His body hither, and to crave a tear From those fair eyes, (though he deserv’d not pity,) To deck his funeral; for so he bid me 25 Tell her for whom he died.

_Luce._ He shall have many.— Good friends, depart a little, whilst I take My leave of this dead man, that once I lov’d.

_Exeunt_ Coffin-carrier _and_ Boy.

Hold yet a little, life! and then I give thee To thy first heavenly being. Oh, my friend! 30 Hast thou deceiv’d me thus, and got before me? I shall not long be after. But, believe me, Thou wert too cruel, Jasper, ’gainst thyself, In punishing the fault I could have pardon’d, With so untimely death: thou didst not wrong me, 35 But ever wert most kind, most true, most loving; And I the most unkind, most false, most cruel! Didst thou but ask a tear? I ’ll give thee all, Even all my eyes can pour down, all my sighs, And all myself, before thou goest from me. 40 These are but sparing rites; but if thy soul Be yet about this place, and can behold And see what I prepare to deck thee with, It shall go up, borne on the wings of peace, And satisfied. First will I sing thy dirge, 45 Then kiss thy pale lips, and then die myself, And fill one coffin and one grave together.

SONG. Come, you whose loves are dead, And, whiles I sing, Weep, and wring 50 Every hand, and every head Bind with cypress and sad yew; Ribands black and candles blue For him that was of men most true!

Come with heavy moaning,[3125] 55 And on his grave Let him have Sacrifice of sighs and groaning; Let him have fair flowers enow, White and purple, green and yellow, 60 For him that was of men most true!

Thou sable cloth, sad cover of my joys, I lift thee up, and thus I meet with death. [_Removes the Cloth, and_ JASPER _rises out of the Coffin._]

_Jasp._ And thus you meet the living.

_Luce._ Save me, Heaven!

_Jasp._ Nay, do not fly me, fair; I am no spirit: 65 Look better on me; do you know me yet?

_Luce._ Oh, thou dear shadow of my friend!

_Jasp._ Dear substance, I swear I am no shadow; feel my hand, It is the same it was; I am your Jasper, Your Jasper that ’s yet living, and yet loving. 70 Pardon my rash attempt, my foolish proof[3126] I put in practice of your constancy; For sooner should my sword have drunk my blood, And set my soul at liberty, than drawn The least drop from that body, for which boldness 75 Doom me to any thing; if death, I take it, And willingly.

_Luce._ This death I ’ll give you for it; [_Kisses him._] So, now I am satisfied you are no spirit, But my own truest, truest, truest friend: Why do you come thus to me?

_Jasp._ First, to see you; 80 Then to convey you hence.

_Luce._ It cannot be; For I am lockt up here, and watcht at all hours, That ’t is impossible for me to scape.

_Jasp._ Nothing more possible. Within this coffin Do you convey yourself. Let me alone, 85 I have the wits of twenty men about me; Only I crave the shelter of your closet A little, and then fear me not.[3127] Creep in, That they may presently convey you hence: 89 Fear nothing, dearest love; I ’ll be your second: [LUCE _lies down in the Coffin, and_ JASPER _covers her with the cloth._] Lie close:[3128] so; all goes well yet.—Boy!

[_Re-enter_ Boy _and_ Men.]

_Boy._ At hand, sir.

_Jasp._ Convey away the coffin, and be wary.

_Boy._ ’T is done already. [_Exeunt_ Men _with the Coffin_.]

_Jasp._ Now must I go conjure. _Exit_ [_into a Closet_].

_Enter_ Merchant [VENTUREWELL].

_Vent._ Boy, boy!

_Boy._ Your servant, sir. 95

_Vent._ Do me this kindness, boy; (hold, here ’s a crown;) Before thou bury the body of this fellow, Carry it to his old merry father, and salute him From me, and bid him sing; he hath cause.[3129]

_Boy._ I will, sir. 100

_Vent._ And then bring me word what tune he is in, And have another crown; but do it truly. I have fitted him a bargain now will vex him.

_Boy._ God bless your worship’s health, sir!

_Vent._ Farewell, boy! _Exeunt_ [_severally_].

[SCENE V.][3130]

_Enter_ MERRYTHOUGHT.

_Wife._ Ah, old Merrythought, art thou there again? Let’s hear some of thy songs.

_Mer._ [_sings._] Who can sing a merrier note Than he that cannot change a groat?

Not a denier[3131] left, and yet my heart leaps. I (5) do wonder yet, as old as I am, that any man will follow a trade, or serve, that may sing and laugh, and walk the streets. My wife and both my sons are I know not where; I have nothing left, nor know I how to come by meat to supper; (10) yet am I merry still, for I know I shall find it upon the table at six o’clock; therefore, hang thought! [_Sings._] I would not be a serving-man To carry the cloak-bag[3132] still, 15 Nor would I be a falconer The greedy hawks to fill; But I would be in a good house, And have a good master too; But I would eat and drink of the best, 20 And no work would I do. This is it that keeps life and soul together,—mirth; this is the philosopher’s stone that they write so much on, that keeps a man ever young. 25

_Enter a_ Boy.

_Boy._ Sir, they say they know all your money is gone, and they will trust you for no more drink.

_Mer._ Will they not? let ’em choose! The best is, I have mirth at home, and need not (30) send abroad for that; let them keep their drink to themselves. [_Sings._] For Jillian of Berry, she dwells on a hill, And she hath good beer and ale to sell, And of good fellows she thinks no ill; 35 And thither will we go now, now, now, And thither will we go now.

And when you have made a little stay, You need not ask what is to pay, But kiss your hostess, and go your way; 40 And thither will we go now, now, now, And thither will we go now.

_Enter another_ Boy.

_2 Boy._ Sir, I can get no bread for supper.

_Mer._ Hang bread and supper! Let ’s preserve our mirth, and we shall never feel hunger, (45) I ’ll warrant you. Let ’s have a catch; boy, follow me, come sing this catch. Ho, ho, nobody at home! Meat, nor drink, nor money ha’ we none. Fill the pot, Eedy, 50 Never more need I.

_Mer._ So, boys; enough. Follow me: let ’s change our place, and we shall laugh afresh. _Exeunt._

_Wife._ Let him go, George; ’a shall not have any countenance from us, nor a good word from any i’ th’ company, if I may strike stroke[3133] in ’t.

_Cit._ No more ’a sha’ not, love. But, Nell, I (57) will have Ralph do a very notable matter now, to the eternal honour and glory of all grocers.—Sirrah! you there, boy! Can none of you hear? 61

[_Enter_ Boy.]

_Boy._ Sir, your pleasure?

_Cit._ Let Ralph come out on May-day in the morning, and speak upon a conduit, with all his scarfs about him, and his feathers, and his rings, and his knacks. 66

_Boy._ Why, sir, you do not think of our plot; what will become of that, then?

_Cit._ Why, sir, I care not what become on ’t: I’ll have him come out, or I’ll fetch him (70) out myself; I’ll have something done in honour of the city. Besides, he hath been long enough upon adventures. Bring him out quickly; or, if I come in amongst you——

_Boy._ Well, sir, he shall come out, but if our play miscarry, sir, you are like to pay for ’t. 76

_Cit._ Bring him away then! _Exit_ Boy.

_Wife._ This will be brave, i’ faith! George, shall not he dance the morris too, for the credit of the Strand? 80

_Cit._ No, sweetheart, it will be too much for the boy. Oh, there he is, Nell! he’s reasonable well in reparel: but he has not rings enough.

_Enter_ RALPH [_dressed as a May-lord_].

_Ralph._ London, to thee, I do present the merry month of May; 85 Let each true subject be content to hear me what I say: For from the top of conduit-head, as plainly may appear, I will both tell my name to you, and wherefore I came here. My name is Ralph, by due descent though not ignoble I[3134] Yet far inferior to the flock[3135] of gracious grocery; 90 And by the common counsel of my fellows in the Strand, With gilded staff and crossed scarf, the May-lord here I stand. Rejoice, oh, English hearts, rejoice! rejoice, oh, lovers dear! Rejoice, oh, city, town, and country! rejoice, eke every shire! For now the fragrant flowers do spring and sprout in seemly sort, 95 The little birds do sit and sing, the lambs do make fine sport; And now the birchen-tree doth bud, that makes the schoolboy cry; The morris rings, while hobby-horse doth foot it featously;[3136] The lords and ladies now abroad, for their disport and play, Do kiss sometimes upon the grass, and sometimes in the hay: 100 Now butter with a leaf of sage is good to purge the blood; Fly Venus and phlebotomy,[3137] for they are neither good; Now little fish on tender stone begin to cast their bellies,[3138] And sluggish snails, that erst were mew’d,[3139] do creep out of their shellies; The rumbling rivers now do warm, for little boys to paddle; 105 The sturdy steed now goes to grass, and up they hang his saddle; The heavy hart, the bellowing buck, the rascal,[3140] and the pricket,[3141] Are now among the yeoman’s peas, and leave the fearful thicket: And be like them, oh, you, I say, of this same noble town, And lift aloft your velvet heads, and slipping off your gown, 110 With bells on legs, and napkins clean unto your shoulders tied, With scarfs and garters as you please, and “Hey for our town!” cried, March out, and show your willing minds, by twenty and by twenty, To Hogsdon[3142] or to Newington, where ale and cakes are plenty; And let it ne’er be said for shame, that we the youths of London 115 Lay thrumming of our caps[3143] at home, and left our custom undone. Up, then, I say, both young and old, both man and maid a-maying, With drums, and guns that bounce aloud, and merry tabor playing! Which to prolong, God save our king, and send his country peace, And root out treason from the land! and so, my friends, I cease. 120 _Exit._