SCENE I.--_A Room in_ Old Wincott’s _House_.

_Enter_ Old Wincott _and his_ Wife.

Wincott. And what’s this Delavil?

Wife. My apprehension Can give him no more true expression, Than that he first appears a gentleman, And well conditioned.

Wincott. That for outward show; But what in him have you observèd else, To make him better known?

Wife. I have not eyes To search into the inward thoughts of men, Nor ever was I studied in that art To judge of men’s affection by the face; But that which makes me best opinioned of him Is that he’s the companion and the friend Beloved of him whom you so much commend-- The noble Master Geraldine.

Wincott. Thou hast spoke That which not only crowns his true desert, But now instates him in my better thoughts, Making his worth unquestioned.

Wife. He pretends Love to my sister Pru. I have observed him Single her out to private conference.

Wincott. But I could rather, for her own sake, wish Young Geraldine would fix his thoughts that way, And she towards him; in such affinity, Trust me, I would not use a sparing hand.

Wife. But Love in these kinds should not be compelled, Forced, nor persuaded; when it freely springs, And of itself takes voluntary root, It grows, it spreads, it ripens, and brings forth Such an usurious crop of timely fruit As crowns a plenteous autumn.

Wincott. Such a harvest I should not be the ungladdest man to see, [_Enter_ Clown. Of all thy sister’s friends.--Now, whence come you?

Clown. Who, I, sir? from a lodging of largess, a house of hospitality, and a palace of plenty; where there’s feeding like horses and drinking like fishes; where for pints, we’re served in pottles; and instead of pottle-pots, in pails; instead of silver tankards, we drink out of water-tankards; claret runs as freely as the cocks, and canary like the conduits of a coronation day; where there’s nothing but feeding and frolicking, carving in kissing, drinking and dancing, music and madding, fiddling and feasting.

Wincott. And where, I pray thee, are all these revels kept?

Clown. They may be rather called reaks[3.11] than revels; as I came along by the door I was called up amongst them--he-gallants and she-gallants. I no sooner looked out, but saw them out with their knives, slashing of shoulders, mangling of legs, and lanching[3.12] of loins, till there was scarce a whole limb left amongst them.

Wincott. A fearful massacre!

Clown. One was hacking to cut off a neck; this was mangling a breast; his knife slipped from the shoulder, and only cut off a wing; one was picking the brains out of a head, another was knuckle-deep in a belly; one was groping for a liver, another searching for the kidneys. I saw one pluck the soul[3.13] from the body--goose that she was to suffer’t!; another pricked into the breast with his own bill--woodcock to endure it!

Wife. How fell they out at first?

Clown. I know not that, but it seems one had a stomach, and another had a stomach; but there was such biting and tearing with their teeths, that I am sure I saw some of their poor carcasses pay for’t.

Wincott. Did they not send for surgeons?

Clown. Alas, no! surgeons’ help was too late; there was no stitching up of those wounds, where limb was plucked from limb; nor any salve for those scars, which all the plaster of Paris cannot cure.

Wincott. Where grew the quarrel first?

Clown. It seems it was first broached in the kitchen, certain creatures being brought in thither by some of the house. The cook, being a choleric fellow, did so towse them and toss them, so pluck them and pull them, till he left them as naked as my nail; pinioned some of them like felons; cut the spurs from others off their heels; then down went his spits, some of them he ran in at the throat, and out at the backside: about went his basting-ladle, where he did so besauce them that many a shrewd[3.14] turn they had amongst them.

Wife. But, in all this, how did the women scape?

Clown. They fared best, and did the least hurt that I saw, but for quietness-sake were forced to swallow what is not yet digested; yet every one had their share, and she that had least, I am sure, by this time hath her bellyful.

Wincott. And where was all this havoc kept?

Clown. Marry, sir, at your next neighbour’s, Young Master Lionel, where there is nothing but drinking out of dry-vats, and healthing in half-tubs; his guests are fed by the belly, and beggars served at his gate in baskets. He’s the adamant of this age, the daffodil of these days, the prince of prodigality, and the very Cæsar of all young citizens.

Wincott. Belike, then, ’twas a massacre of meat, Not as I apprehended?

Clown. Your gravity hath guessed aright: the chiefest that fell in this battle were wild fowl and tame fowl; pheasants were wounded instead of alfarez,[3.15] and capons for captains; anchoves stood for ancients, and caviare for corporals; dishes were assaulted instead of ditches, and rabbits were cut to pieces upon the rebellings;[3.16] some lost their legs, whilst other of their wings were forced to fly; the pioner undermined nothing but pie crust, and--

Wincott. Enough, enough! your wit hath played too long Upon our patience.--Wife, it grieves me much Both for the young and old man: the one graces His head with care, endures the parching heat And biting cold, the terrors of the lands, And fears at sea, in travel, only to gain Some competent estate to leave his son; Whiles all that merchandise, through gulfs, cross-tides, Pirates, and storms, he brings so far, the other Here shipwrecks in the harbour.

Wife. ’Tis the care Of fathers; and the weakness incident To youth, that wants experience.

_Enter_ Young Geraldine, Delavil, _and_ Prudentilla, _laughing_.

Clown. I was at the beginning of the battle; but here comes some, that it seems were at the rifling of the dead carcases; for by their mirth they have had part of the spoil.

Wincott. You are pleasant, gentlemen; what, I entreat, Might be the subject of your pleasant sport? It promiseth some pleasure.

Prudentilla. If their recreation Be, as I make no question, on truth grounded, ’Twill beget sudden laughter.

Wife. What’s the project?

Delavil. Who shall relate it?

Wincott. Master Geraldine, If there be anything can please my ear With pleasant sounds, your tongue must be the instrument On which the string must strike.

Delavil. Be it his, then.

Prudentilla. Nay, hear it, ’tis a good one.

Wife. We entreat you, Possess[3.17] us o’ the novel.[3.18]

Wincott. Speak, good sir.

Young Geraldine. I shall, then, with a kind of barbarism, Shadow a jest that asks a smoother tongue, For in my poor discourse, I do protest, It will but lose its lustre.

Wife. You are modest.

Wincott. However, speak, I pray; for my sake do’t.

Clown. This is like a hasty pudding, longer in eating than it was in making.

Young Geraldine. Then thus it was: this gentleman and I Passed but just now by your next neighbour’s house, Where, as they say, dwells one young Lionel.

Clown. Where I was to-night at supper.

Wincott. An unthrift youth, his father now at sea.

Young Geraldine. Why, that’s the very subject upon which It seems this jest is grounded; there this night Was a great feast.

Clown. Why, so I told you, sir.

Wincott. Be thou still dumb; ’tis he that I would hear.

Young Geraldine. In the height of their carousing, all their brains Warmed with the heat of wine, discourse was offered Of ships, and storms at sea;[3.19] when suddenly, Out of his giddy wildness, one conceives The room wherein they quaffed to be a pinnace, Moving and floating; and the confused noise To be the murmuring winds, gusts, mariners; That their unsteadfast footing did proceed From rocking of the vessel: this conceived, Each one begins to apprehend the danger, And to look out for safety. “Fly,” saith one, “Up to the main-top, and discover;” he Climbs by the bed-post to the tester, there Reports a turbulent sea and tempest towards, And wills them, if they’ll save their ship and lives, To cast their lading overboard; at this All fall to work, and hoist into the street, As to the sea, what next come to their hand-- Stools, tables, trestles, trenchers, bedsteads, cups, Pots, plate, and glasses; here a fellow whistles, They take him for the boatswain; one lies struggling Upon the floor, as if he swum for life; A third takes the bass-viol for the cockboat, Sits in the belly on’t, labours and rows, His oar the stick with which the fiddler played; A fourth bestrides his fellows, thinking to scape As did Arion on the dolphin’s back, Still fumbling on a gittern.

Clown. Excellent sport!

Wincott. But what was the conclusion?

Young Geraldine. The rude multitude, Watching without, and gaping for the spoil Cast from the windows, went by the ears about it; The constable is called to atone[3.20] the broil, Which done, and hearing such a noise within Of imminent shipwreck, enters the house, and finds them In this confusion. They adore his staff, And think it Neptune’s trident, and that he Comes with his Tritons (so they called his watch) To calm the tempest, and appease the waves; And at this point we left them.

Clown. Come what will, I’ll steal out of doors, and see the end of it, that’s certain. [_Exit_.

Wincott. Thanks, Master Geraldine, for this discourse; In troth it hath much pleased me; but the night Begins to grow fast on us: for your parts You are all young, and you may sit up late; My eyes begin to summon me to sleep, And nothing’s more offensive unto age Than to watch long and late. [_Exit_.

Young Geraldine. Now good rest with you!

Delavil. What says fair Prudentilla? Maids and widows, And we young bachelors, such as indeed Are forced to lie in solitary beds, And sleep without disturbance--we, methinks, Should desire later hours than married wives, That in their amorous arms hug their delights! To often wakings subject, their more haste May better be excused.

Prudentilla. How can you, That are, as you confess, a single man, Enter so far into these mystical secrets Of marriage, which as yet you never proved?

Delavil. There’s, lady, an instinct innate in man, Which prompts us to the apprehensions Of the uses we were born to; such we are Aptest to learn, ambitious most to know, Of which our chief is marriage.

Prudentilla. What you men Most meditate, we women seldom dream of.

Delavil. When dream maids most?

Prudentilla. When, think you?

Delavil. When you lie upon your backs. Come, come; your ear.

[_Exeunt_ Delavil _and_ Prudentilla.

Young Geraldine. We now are left alone.

Wife. Why, say we be, who should be jealous of us? This is not first of many hundred nights That we two have been private: from the first Of our acquaintance, when our tongues but clipped Our mother’s-tongue, and could not speak it plain, We knew each other; as in stature, so Increased our sweet society; since your travel, And my late marriage, through my husband’s love, Midnight hath been as mid-day, and my bed-chamber As free to you as your own father’s house, And you as welcome to’t.

Young Geraldine. I must confess It is in you your noble courtesy, In him a more than common confidence, And in this age can scarce find precedent.

Wife. Most true; it is withal an argument That both our virtues are so deep impressed In his good thoughts, he knows we cannot err.

Young Geraldine. A villain were he to deceive such trust, Or, were there one, a much worse character.

Wife. And she no less, whom either beauty, youth, Time, place, or opportunity could tempt To injure such a husband.

Young Geraldine. You deserve, Even for his sake, to be for ever young; And he, for yours, to have his youth renewed, So mutual is your true conjugal love; Yet, had the Fates so pleased--

Wife. I know your meaning. It was once voiced that we two should have matched; The world so thought, and many tongues so spake; But Heaven hath now disposed us otherways; And being as it is, (a thing in me Which, I protest, was never wished nor sought), Now done, I not repent it.

Young Geraldine. In those times, Of all the treasures of my hopes and love, You were the exchequer, they were stored in you; And, had not my unfortunate travel crossed them, They had been here reserved still.

Wife. Troth, they had; I should have been your trusty treasurer.

Young Geraldine. However, let us love still, I entreat: That, neighbourhood and breeding will allow; So much the laws divine and human both ’Twixt brother and a sister will approve; Heaven then forbid that they should limit us Wish well to one another!

Wife. If they should not, We might proclaim they were not charitable, Which were a deadly sin but to conceive.

Young Geraldine. Will you resolve me one thing?

Wife. As to one That in my bosom hath a second place, Next my dear husband.

Young Geraldine. That’s the thing I crave, And only that--to have a place next him.

Wife. Presume on that already; but perhaps You mean to stretch it further.

Young Geraldine. Only thus far: Your husband’s old, to whom my soul doth wish A Nestor’s age, so much he merits from me; Yet if (as proof and Nature daily teach Men cannot always live, especially Such as are old and crazed) he be called hence, Fairly, in full maturity of time, And we two be reserved to after-life, Will you confer your widowhood on me?

Wife. You ask the thing I was about to beg; Your tongue hath spake mine own thoughts.

Young Geraldine. Vow to that.

Wife. As I hope mercy.

Young Geraldine. ’Tis enough; that word Alone instates me happy. Now, so please you, We will divide, you to your private chamber, I to find out my friend.

Wife. Nay, Master Geraldine, One ceremony rests yet unperformed: My vow is past, your oath must next proceed; And as you covet to be sure of me, Of you I would be certain.

Young Geraldine. Make ye doubt?

Wife. No doubt; but Love’s still jealous, and in that To be excused; you then shall swear by Heaven, And as in all your future acts you hope To thrive and prosper; as the day may yield Comfort, or the night rest; as you would keep Entire the honour of your father’s house, And free your name from scandal and reproach; By all the goodness that you hope to enjoy, Or ill to shun--

Young Geraldine. You charge me deeply, lady.

Wife. Till that day come, you shall reserve yourself A single man; converse nor company With any woman, contract nor combine With maid or widow; which expected hour, As I do wish not haste, so when it happens It shall not come unwelcome. You hear all; Vow this.

Young Geraldine. By all that you have said, I swear, And by this kiss confirm.

Wife. You’re now my brother; But then, my second husband.

[_Exeunt_.