SCENE III.

_In the Black House._

_Enter Black King, Black Queen, Black Knight, Black Duke, Black Bishop, White Knight, and White Duke._

W. KNIGHT. You have enrich’d my knowledge, royal[814] sir, And my content together. B. KING. ’Stead of riot We set you only welcome: surfeit is A thing that’s seldom heard of in these parts. W. KNIGHT. I hear of the more virtue when I miss on’t. B. KNIGHT. We do not use to bury in our bellies Two hundred thousand ducats, and then boast on’t; Or exercise th' old Roman painful idleness With care of fetching fishes far from home, The golden-headed coracine out of Egypt, The salpa from Ebusus,[815] or the pelamis, Which some call summer-whiting, from Chalcedon, Salmons from Aquitaine, helops from Rhodes, Cockles from Chios, frank’d[816] and fatted up With far and sapa,[817] flour and cocted wine; We cram no birds, nor, Epicurean[818]-like, Enclose some creeks o' the sea, as Sergius Orata[819] did, He that invented the first stews for oysters And other sea-fish, who, besides the pleasure of his Own throat, got large revenues by th' invention, Whose fat example the nobility follow’d; Nor do we imitate that arch-gormandiser With two-and-twenty courses at one dinner, And, betwixt every course, he and his guests Wash’d and us’d women, then sat down and strengthen’d, Lust swimming in their dishes, which no sooner Was tasted but was ready to be vented. W. KNIGHT. Most impious epicures! B. KNIGHT. We commend rather, Of two extremes, the parsimony of Pertinax, Who had half-lettuces set up to serve again; Or his successor Julian,[820] that would make Three meals of a lean hare, and often[821] sup With a green fig and wipe his beard, as we can. The old bewailers of excess in those days Complain’d there was more coin bid for a cook Than for a war-horse; but now cooks are purchas’d After the rate of triumphs,[822] and some dishes After the rate of cooks; which must needs make Some of your White-House gormandizers, ’specially Your wealthy plump plebeians, like the hogs Which Scaliger cites,[823] that could not move for fat, So insensible of either prick or goad, That mice made holes to needle[824] in their buttocks, And they ne’er felt ’em. There was once a ruler, Cyrene’s governor,[825]] chok’d with his own paunch; Which death fat Sanctius,[826] king of Castile, fearing, Through his infinite mass of belly, rather chose To be kill’d suddenly by a pernicious herb Taken to make him lean, which old Corduba, King of Morocco, counsell’d his fear to, Than he would hazard to be stunk[827] to death, As that huge cormorant that was chok’d before him. W. KNIGHT. Well, you’re as sound a spokesman, sir, for parsimony, Clean abstinence, and scarce one meal a-day, As ever spake with tongue. B. KING. Censure him mildly, sir; ’Twas but to find discourse. B. QUEEN. He’ll raise['t] of any thing. W. KNIGHT. I shall be half afraid to feed hereafter. W. DUKE. Or I, beshrew my heart, for I fear fatness, The fog of fatness, as I fear a dragon: The comeliness I wish for, that’s as glorious. W. KNIGHT. Your course is wondrous strict: I should transgress, sure,[828] Were I to change my side, as you’ve much wrought me. B. KNIGHT. How you misprize! this is not meant to you-ward: You that are wound up to the height of feeding By clime and custom, are dispens’d withal; You may eat kid, cabrito, calf, and tons,[829] Eat and eat every day, twice, if you please; Nay, the frank’d[830] hen, fatten’d with milk and corn, A riot which th' inhabitants of Delos Were first inventors of, or the cramm’d cockle. W. KNIGHT. Well, for the food I'm happily resolv’d[831] in; But for the diet of my disposition, There comes a trouble; you will hardly find Food to please that. B. KNIGHT. It must be a strange nature We cannot find a dish for, having Policy, The master-cook of Christendom, to dress it: Pray, name your nature’s diet. W. KNIGHT. The first mess Is hot ambition. B. KNIGHT. That’s but serv’d in puff-paste; Alas, the meanest of our cardinals' cooks Can dress that dinner: your ambition, sir, Can fetch no further compass than the world? W. KNIGHT. That’s certain, sir. B. KNIGHT. We’re about that already; And in the large feast of our vast ambition We count but the White Kingdom, whence you come from, The garden for our cook to pick his salads; The food’s lean France, larded with Germany; Before which comes the grave, chaste signiory Of Venice, serv’d in, capon-like, in white broth; From our chief oven, Italy, the bake-meats; Savoy the salt, Geneva the chipt manchet;[832] Below the salt[833] the Netherlands are plac’d, A common dish at lower end a' the table, For meaner pride to fall to: for our second course, A spit of Portugals serv’d in for plovers; Indians and Moors for blackbirds: all this while Holland stands ready-melted to make sauce On all occasions: when the voider[834] comes, And with such cheer our full hopes we suffice, Zealand says grace for fashion; then we rise. W. KNIGHT. Here’s meat enough, in[835] conscience, for ambition! B. KNIGHT. If there be any want, there’s Switzerland, Polonia, and such pickled things will serve To furnish out the table. W. KNIGHT. You say well, sir: But here’s the misery; when I've stopt the mouth Of one vice, there’s another gapes for food; I am as covetous as a barren womb, The grave, or what’s more ravenous. B. KNIGHT. We’re for you, sir: Call you that heinous, that’s good husbandry? Why, we make money of our faith,[836] our prayers; We make the very deathbed buy her comforts, Most dearly pay for all her[837] pious counsels, Leave rich revenues for a few weak orisons, Or else they pass unreconcil’d without ’em: Did you but view the vaults within our monasteries, You’d swear then Plutus, whom[838] the fiction calls The lord of riches, were entombèd there.[839] W. KNIGHT. Is’t possible? B. DUKE. You cannot walk for tuns. W. DUKE. But how shall I bestow the vice I bring, sirs? You quite forget me; I shall be shut out By your strict key of life. B. KNIGHT. Is yours so vild,[840] sir? W. DUKE. Some that are pleas’d to make a wanton on’t, Call it infirmity of blood, flesh-frailty; But certain there’s a worse name in your books for’t. B. KNIGHT. The trifle of all vices, the mere innocent, The very novice of this house of clay,—venery: If I but hug thee hard, I shew the worst on’t; ’Tis all the fruit we have here after supper; Nay, at the ruins of a[841] nunnery once, Six thousand infants' heads found in a fish-pond. W. DUKE. How! B. KNIGHT. Ay, how? how came they thither, think you? Huldrick, bishop of Augsburg, in’s Epistle[842] To Nicholas the first, can tell you how; May be he was at cleansing of the pond: I can but smile to think how it would puzzle All mother-maids that ever liv’d in those parts To know their own child’s head. But is this all? B. DUKE. Are you ours yet? W. KNIGHT. One more, and I am silenc’d: But this that comes now will divide us questionless; ’Tis ten times, ten times worse than the forerunners. B. KNIGHT. Is it so vild there is no name ordain’d for’t? Toads have their titles, and creation gave Serpents and adders those names to be known by. W. KNIGHT. This of all others bears the hiddenest venom, The smoothest poison; I'm an arch-dissembler, sir. B. KNIGHT. How? W. KNIGHT. ’Tis my nature’s brand; turn from me, sir; The time is yet to come that e’er I spoke What my heart meant. B. KNIGHT. And call you that a vice?— Avoid all profanation, I beseech you,— The only prime state-virtue upon earth, The policy of empires; O, take heed, sir, For fear it take displeasure and forsake you! ’Tis like a jewel of that precious value, Whose worth’s not known but to the skilful lapidary; The instrument that picks ope princes' hearts, And locks up ours from them, with the same motion: You never came so near our souls as now. B. DUKE. Now you’re a brother to us. B. KNIGHT. What we have done Hath been dissemblance ever. W. KNIGHT. There you lie then, And the game’s ours; we give thee check-mate by Discovery, King, the noblest mate of all! B. KNIGHT.[843] I'm lost, I'm taken! [_A great shout and flourish._ W. KNIGHT. Ambitious, covetous, Luxurious falsehood! W. DUKE. Dissembler includes all. B. KING.[844] All hopes confounded! B. QUEEN. Miserable condition!

_Enter White King, White Queen, White Bishop, White Queen’s Pawn, and other White Pawns._

W. KING. O, let me bless mine arms with this dear treasure, Truth’s glorious masterpiece! See, Queen of sweetness, He’s in my bosom safe; and this fair structure Of comely honour, his true blest assistant. [_Embracing W. Knight and W. Duke._ W. QUEEN. May their integrities ever possess That powerful sanctuary! W. KNIGHT. As ’twas a game, sir, Won with much hazard, so with much more triumph We[845] gave him check-mate by discovery, sir. W. KING. Obscurity is now the fittest favour Falsehood can sue for; it well suits perdition: ’Tis their best course that so have lost their fame To put their heads into the bag for shame; And there, behold, the bag, like hell-mouth,[846] opens [_The bag opens,[847] and the Fat Bishop and the Black lost Pawns appear in it._ To take her due, and the lost sons appear Greedily gaping for increase of fellowship In infamy, the last desire of wretches, Advancing their perdition-branded foreheads Like Envy’s issue, or a bed of snakes. B. B. PAWN [_in the bag_]. ’Tis too apparent; the game’s lost, King[848] taken. F. BISHOP [_in the bag_]. The White House hath given us the bag,[849] I thank ’em. B. JESTING PAWN [_in the bag_]. They had need give you a whole bag by yourself: 'Sfoot, this Fat Bishop[850] hath so overlaid me, So squelch’d[851] and squeez’d me, I've no verjuice left in me! You shall find all my goodness, if you look for’t, In the bottom of the bag. F. BISHOP [_in the bag_]. Thou malapert Pawn! The Bishop must have room; he will have room, And room to lie at pleasure. B. JESTING PAWN [_in the bag_]. All the bag, I think, Is room too scant for your Spalato[852] paunch. B. B. PAWN [_in the bag_]. Down, viper of our order! I abhor thee: Thou shew thy whorish front? B. Q. PAWN [_in the bag_]. Yes, monster-holiness! W. KNIGHT. Contention in the pit! is hell divided? W. KING. You had need have some of majesty and power To keep good rule amongst you: make room, Bishop. [_Puts B. King into the bag._ F. BISHOP [_in the bag_]. I'm not so[853] easily mov’d when I'm once set; I scorn to stir for any king on earth. W. QUEEN. Here comes the Queen; what say you then to her? [_Puts B. Queen into the bag._

F. BISHOP [_in the bag_]. Indeed a Queen may make a Bishop stir. W. KNIGHT. Room for the mightiest Machiavel-politician That e’er the devil hatch’d of a nun’s egg! [_Puts B. Knight into the bag._ F. BISHOP [_in the bag_]. He’ll pick a hole in the bag and get out shortly; But I shall[854] be the last man that creeps out, And that’s the misery of greatness ever.[855] W. DUKE. Room for[856] a sun-burnt, tansy-fac’d belov’d, An olive-colour’d Ganymede! and that’s all That’s worth the bagging. F. BISHOP [_in the bag_]. Crowd in all you can, The Bishop will be still uppermost man, Maugre King, Queen, or politician. W. KING. So, let the bag close now, the fittest womb For treachery, pride, and falsehood; whilst we, winner-like. Destroying, through heaven’s power, what would destroy, Welcome our White Knight with loud peals of joy. [_Exeunt omnes._

EPILOGUE

_By White Queen’s Pawn._

My mistress, the White Queen, hath sent me forth, And bade me bow thus low to all of worth, That are true friends of the White House and cause, Which she hopes most of this assembly draws: For any else, by envy’s mark denoted, To those night glow-worms in the bag devoted, Where’er they sit, stand, or in private lurk, They’ll be soon known by their depraving work; But she’s assur’d what they’ll commit to bane, Her White friends' hands will build up fair again.

ANY THING FOR A QUIET LIFE.

_Any Thing For A Quiet Life. A Comedy, Formerly Acted at Black-Fryers, by His late Majesties Servants. Never before Printed. Written by Tho. Middleton, Gent. London: Printed by Tho. Johnson for Francis Kirkman, and Henry Marsh, and are to be sold at the Princes Arms in Chancery-Lane_, 1662. 4to.

In the old ed. the whole play, with the exception of a few lines here and there, is printed as prose; and there is every reason to believe that the text is greatly corrupted.

PROLOGUE.

Howe’er th' intents and appetites of men Are different as their faces, how and when T' employ their actions, yet all without strife Meet in this point,—Any thing for a quiet life: Nor is there one, I think, that’s hither come For his delight, but would find peace at home On any terms. The lawyer does not cease[857] To talk himself into a sweat with pain, And so his fees buy quiet, ’tis his gain: The poor man does endure the scorching sun And feels no weariness, his day-labour done, So his wife entertain him with a smile And thank his travail, though she slept the while. This being in men of all conditions true Does give our play a name; and if to you It yield content and usual delight, For our parts we shall sleep secure to night.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

LORD BEAUFORT. SIR FRANCIS CRESSINGHAM. GEORGE CRESSINGHAM, } EDWARD, _a child_, } _his sons_. FRANKLIN _senior_. FRANKLIN _junior, his son_. KNAVESBY, _a lawyer_. SAUNDER, _steward to Sir Francis Cressingham_. WATER-CAMLET, _a mercer_. GEORGE, } RALPH, } _his apprentices_. SWEET-BALL, _a barber_. FLESH-HOOK. COUNTERBUFF. _Surveyor, Barber’s Boy, &c._

LADY CRESSINGHAM, _wife to Sir Francis_. MISTRESS GEORGE CRESSINGHAM, _disguised as Selenger, a page to Lord Beaufort_. MISTRESS KNAVESBY. MISTRESS WATER-CAMLET. MARIA, _a child, daughter to Sir Francis Cressingham_. MARGARITA, _a French bawd_.

Scene, LONDON.

ANY THING FOR A QUIET LIFE.