Nich. Cousin, if it lay in my power, as they say, to do Idle. 'Twould do me an exceeding pleasure indeed, that: but ne'er talk further on't; the fool will be hanged e'er he do't. [To the Corporal. Oath. Pox, I'll thump him to't. Pye. Why, do but try the fopster, and break it to him bluntly. Idle. And so my disgrace will dwell in his jaws, and the slave slaver out our purpose to his master; for would I were but as sure on't, as I am sure he will deny to do't. Nich. I would be heartily glad, cousin, if any of my friendships, as they say, might-stand, ha Pye. Why, you see he offers his friendship foolishly to you already. Idle. Ay, that's the hell on't; I would he would offer it wisely. Nich. Verily and indeed la, cousin— Idle. I have took note of thy fleers a good while If thou art minded to do me good, (as thou gap'st upon me comfortably, and giv'st me charitable faces,-which indeed is but a fashion in you all that are Puritans,) wilt soon at night steal me thy master's chain? Nich. Oh, I shall swoon! Pye. Corporal, he starts already. Idle. I know it to be worth three hundred crowns; and with the half of that I can buy my life at a broker's, at second-hand, which now lies in pawn to the law. If this thou refuse to do, be- | ing easy and nothing dangerous, in that thou art held in good opinion of thy master, why 'tis a palpable argument thou holdest my life at no price; and these thy broken and unjointed offers are but only created in thy lip; now born, and now huried; foolish breath only. What, wilt do't? shall I look for happiness in thy answer? Nich. Steal my master's chain, quoth-a? No, it shall ne'er be said, that Nicholas St Antlings committed birdlime. Idle. Nay, I told you as much, did I not?Though he be a Puritan, yet he will be a true man. Nich. Why cousin, you know 'tis written, Thou shalt not steal. captain loving you so dearly, ay, like the pomewater of his eye," and you to be so uncomfortable: fie, fie. Nich. Pray do not wish me to be hanged. Any thing else that I can do, had it been to rob, I would have done't; but I must not steal: That's the word, the literal, Thou shalt not steul; and would you wish me to steal then? Pye. No faith, that were too much, to speak truth: why, wilt thou nym it from him? Nich. That I will. Pye. Why enough, bully; he will be content with that, or he shall have none: let me alone with him now.-Captain, I have dealt with your kinsman in a corner; a good, kind-natured fellow, methinks: go to; you shall not have all your own asking, you shall bate somewhat on't: he is not contented absolutely, as you would say, to steal the chain from him, but to do you a pleasure, he will nym it from him. Nich. Ay, that I will, cousin. Idle. Well, seeing he will do no more, as far as I see, I must be contented with that. Oath. Here's no notable gullery! Pye. Nay, I'll come nearer to you, gentleman. Because we'll have only but a help and a mirth on't, the knight shall not lose his chain neither, but it shall be only laid out of the way some one or two days. Nich. Ay, that would be good indeed, kinsman. Pye. For I have a farther reach, to profit us better by the missing of't only, than if we had it outright; as my discourse shall make it known to you. When thou hast the chain, do but convey it out at a back-door into the garden, and there hang it close in the rosemary bank, but for a small season; and by that harmless device I know how to wind captain Idle out of prison: the knight thy master shall get his pardon, and release him, and he satisfy thy master with his own chain, and wondrous thauks on both hands. Nich. That were rare indeed la. Pray let me know how. Pye. Nay, 'tis very necessary thou should'st know, because thou must be employed as an ac Idle. Why, and fool, Thou shalt love thy neigh-tor. bour, and help him in extremities. Nich. Mass I think it be indeed : in what chap ter's that, cousin? Idle. Why in the first of Charity, the second verse. Nich. The first of Charity, quoth-a? That's a good jest; there's no such chapter in my book. Idle. No, I knew 'twas torn out of thy book, and that makes it so little in thy heart. Pye. [Takes NICHOLAS aside.] Come, let me tell you, you're too unkind a kinsman i'faith; the Nich. An actor? O no; that's a player; and our parson rails against players mightily, I can tell you, because they brought him drunk upon the stage once;-as he will be horribly drunk. Oath. Mass I cannot blame him then, poor church-spout. Pye. Why, as an intermedler then. Pye. Give me audience then. When the old knight, thy master, has raged his fill for the loss of the chain, tell him thou hast a kinsman in pri son, of such exquisite art, that the devil himself is French lackey to him, and runs bare headed by his horse-belly, when he has one; whom he will cause, with most Irish dexterity,22 to fetch his chain, though 'twere hid under a mine of sea-coal, and ne'er make spade or pick-axe his instruments: tell him but this, with farther instructions thou shalt receive from me, and thou showest thyself a kinsman indeed. Oath. A dainty bully. Skir. An honest book-keeper. Idle And my three-times-thrice-honey cousin. Nich. Nay, grace of God, I'll rob him on't suddenly, and hang it in the rosemary bank; but I bear that mind, cousin, I would not steal any thing, methinks, for mine own father. Skir. He bears a good mind in that, captain. Pye. Why, well said; he begins to be an honest fellow, 'faith. Oath. In troth he does. Nich. You see, cousin, I am willing to do you Idle. Ay, is he not a fine fool, corporal? Pye. Puh! be't not in your care: I aim at many cunning far events, All which I doubt not but to hit at length. Captain, be merry. Pye. Oh, I am happy in more sleights; and one will knit strong in another. Corporal Oath. Oath. Ho! buily! Pye. And thou, old Peter Skirmish, I have a necessary task for you both. Skir. Lay it upon us, George Pyeboard. Pye. I would have you to maintain a quarrel before the lady widow's door, and draw your swords i'the edge of the evening: clash a little, clash, clash. Outh. Fuh! Let us alone to make our blades ring noon, Pye. I know you can: and out of that false fire, I doubt not but to raise strange belief. And, captain, to countenance my device the better, and grace my words to the widow, I have a good plain sattin suit, that I had of a young reveller t'other night; for words pass not regarded nowa-days, unless they come from a good suit of clothes; which the Fates and my wits have bestowed upon me. Well, captain Idle, if I did not highly love thee, I would ne'er be seen within twelve score of a prison; 23 for I protest, at this instant, I walk in great danger of small debts. I owe money to several hostesses, and you know such jills will quickly be upon a man's jack.24 Idle. True, George. Pye. Fare thee well, captain. Come corporal and ancient. Thou shalt hear more news next time we greet thee. Oath. More news?-Ay, by yon Bear at Bridgefoot, in heaven shalt thou.25 [Exeunt PYEBOARD, SKIRMISH, and OATH. Idle. Enough my friends, farewell! This prison shows as ghosts did part in hell. [Exit. Idle. Who, I? Kerry merry buff-jerkin. 22 With most Irish dexterity-With the agility of a running footman. In the time of queen Elizabeth and king James I. many noblemen had Irish running footmen in their service.-MALONE. 23 I would ne'er be seen within twelve score of a prison.-That is, within twelve score yards of a prison.--MALONE. See note on King Henry IV. last edit. vol. v. p 346. STEEVENS. 24 And you know such jills will quickly be upon a man's jack ---Jill is a low appellation for a woman; originally a corruption of Julian. A jack or jacket was the quilted waistcoat formerly worn under a coat of mail. See Spenser's View of Ireland, p. 49, edit. 1633.---MALONE. Such jills will quickly be upon a man's jack.---See note on the Taming of a Shrew, last edit. vol. iii. p. 478.--STEEVENS. 25 By yon Bear at Bridge-foot, in heaven shalt thou. I do not understand this adjuration. Perhaps the word heaven is a corruption. We were told, just before, that the pretended scuffle was to be in the evening. I therefore suspect we should read---" by yon Bear at the Bridge-foot, (the sign of a wellknown tavern at the foot of London Bridge) in the even shalt thou." The corporal would naturally enough swear by the sign of a public house which he was accustomed to frequent.---STEEVENS. SCENE I-A Room in the Widow's House. Enter MARY. ACT II. Enter Widow and Sir GODFREY. Sir God. Nay, sister, let reason rule you; do not play the fool; stand not in your own light. Mary. Not marry! forswear marriage! Why You have wealthy offers, large tenderings; do not all women know 'tis as honourable a thing as to withstand your good fortune. Who comes a woolie with a man; and I, to spight my sister's vowing to you, I pray? No small fool; a rich kuight the more, have entertained a suitor already, a fine gallant knight of the last feather.26 He says he will coach me too, and well appoint me; allow me money to dice withal; and many such pleasing protestations he sticks upon my lips. Indeed, his short-winded father i' the country is wondrous wealthy, a most abominable farmer; and therefore he may do it in time. 'Troth I'll venture upon him. Women are not without ways enough to help themselves: if he prove wise, and good as his word, why I shall love him, and use him kindly; and if he prove an ass, why in a quarter an hour's warning I can transform him into an ox ;-there comes in my relief again. Enter FRAILTY. of Frail. O, mistress Mary, mistress Mary! Mary. Sir John Pennydub? where? where? Frail. That's just like running a tilt; but I hope he'll break nothing this time. [Exit. Enter Sir JOHN PENNYDUB. Mary. 'Tis happiness my mother saw him not. O we come, good sir John. Sir John. I thank you 'faith-Nay, you must stand me till I kiss you: 'tis the fashion every where, i'faith, and I came from court even now. Mary. Nay, the Fates forefend that I should anger the fashion! Sir John. Then, not forgetting the sweet of new ceremonies, I first fall back; then recovering myself, make my honour to your lip thus; and then accost it. [Kisses her. Mary. Trust me, very pretty and moving; you're worthy of it, sir-O my mother, my mother! now she's here, we'll steal into the gallery. [Exeunt Sir JOHN and MARY. the city, sir Oliver Muckhill; no small fool, I can tell you. And, furthermore, as I heard late by your maid-servants, (as your maid-servants will say to me any thing, I thank them,) both your daughters are not without suitors, ay, and worthy ones too; one a brisk courtier, sir Andrew Tipstaff, suitor afar off to your eldest daughter; and the third, a huge wealthy farmer's son, a fine young country knight; they call him sir John Pennydub: a good name, marry;-he may have it coined when he lacks money. What blessings are these, sister? Wid. Tempt me not, Satan. Sir God. Satan! do I look like Satan? I hope the devil's not so old as I, I trow. Wid. You wound my senses, brother, when you name A suitor to me. O, I cannot abide it; How now, Simon; where's my son Edmond? Wid. At Tennis-Court! O, now his father's gone, I shall have no rule with him. Oh, wicked Edmond! I might well compare this with the prophecy in the Chronicle, though far inferior: As Harry of Monmouth won all, and Harry of Windsor lost all; so Edmond of Bristow, that was the father, got all, and Edmond of London, that's his son, now will spend all. Sir God. Peace, sister, we'll have him reformed; there's hope of him yet, though it be but a little. 26 A fine gallant knight of the last feather.-When this play was written, feathers were much worn by men. See Deckers Gul's Horn-book, 609: "if the writer be a fellow that hath either epigramined you, or hath had a flirt at your mistress, or hath brought either your feather, or your red beard, or your little legs, &c. on the stage."—MALONE. "A hat of the last block," was a phrase signifying, a hat of the newest fashion.-STEEVENS. 27 Spitting, probably the nicer name for roasting, at least superintending the operation. Sir Oliv. To you. Sir And. Sir John. And to your daughters. Wid. O, why will you offer me this, gentlemen, (indeed I will not look upon you) when the tears are scarce out of mine eyes, not yet washed off from my cheeks; and my dear husband's body scarce so cold as the coffin? What reason have you to offer it? I am not like some of your widows that will bury one in the evening, and be sure to have another ere morning. Pray, away; pray take your answers, good knights. An you be sweet knights, I have vowed never to marry ; and so have my daughters too. Sir John. Ay, two of you have, but the third's a good wench. Sir Oliv. Lady, a shrewd answer, marry. The best is, 'tis but the first; and he's a blunt wooer, that will leave for one sharp answer. Sir And. Where be your daughters, lady? I hope they'll give us better encouragement. Wid. Indeed they'll answer you so; take it on my word, they'll give you the very same answer vrbatim, truly la. Sir John. Mum: Mary's a good wench still; I know what she'll do. Sir Oliv. Well, lady, for this time we'll take our leaves; hoping for better comfort. years. Wid. O never, never, an I live these thousand An you be good knights, do not hope; till be all vain, vain. Look you put off all your suits, an you come to me again. [Exeunt Sir JOHN and Sir ANDREW. Frail. Put of all their suits, quoth-a? ay, that's the best wooing of a widow indeed, when a man's non-suited; that is, when he's a-bed with her. Sir Oliv. Sir Godfrey, here's twenty angels more. Work hard for me; there's life in't yet. Sir God. Fear not, Sir Oliver Muckhill; I'll stick close for you: leave all with me. 29 [Exit Sir OLIVer. Enter PYEBOARD. Pye. By your leave, lady widow. Wid. What, another suitor now? Pye. A suitor! No, I protest, lady, if you'd give me yourself, I'd not be troubled with you. Wid. Say you so, sir? then you're the better welcome, sir. Pye. Nay, heaven bless me from a widow, unless I were sure to bury her speedily? Wid. Good bluntness. Well, your business, sir? Pye. Very needful; if you were in private Daughters, forbear. Pye. O no, pray let them stay; for what I have to speak importeth equally to them as to you. Wid. Then you may stay. Pye. I pray bestow on me a serious ear, For what I speak is full of weight and fear. Wid. Fear? Pye. Ay, if it pass unregarded, and uneffected; else peace and joy: I pray attention. Widow, I have been a mere stranger from these parts that you live in, nor did I ever know the husband of you, and father of them; but I truly know, by certain spiritual intelligence, that he is in purga tory. Wid. Purgatory! tuh; that word deserves to be spit upon. I wonder that a man of sober tongue, as you seem to be, should have the fully to believe there's such a place. Pye. Well, lady, in cold blood, I speak it; I assure you that there is a purgatory, in which place I know your husband to reside, and wherein he is like to remain, till the dissolution of the world, till the last general bonfire; when all the earth shall melt into nothing, and the seas scald their finny labourers: so long is his abidance, unless your alter the property of your purpose, together with each of your daughters theirs; that Is, the purpose of single life in yourself and your eldest daughter, and the speedy determination of marriage in your youngest. Mary. How knows he that? what, has some devil told him? Wid. Strange he should know our thoughts.— Why, but daughter, have you purposed speedy marriage? Pye. You see she tells you, ay, for she says nothing. Nay, give me credit as you please; I am a stranger to you, and yet you see I know your determinations, which must come to me metaphysically, and by a supernatural intelligence, Wid. This puts amazement on me. Fran. Know our secrets? Mary. I had thought to steal a marriage. Would his tongue had dropped out when he blabbed it! Wid. But, sir, my husband was too honest a dealing man to be now in any purgatories. Pye. O, do not load your conscience with untruths; 'Tis but mere folly now to gild him o'er, Wid. This is most strange of all: how knows he that? Pye. He would eat fools and ignorant heirs clean up; And had his drink from many a poor man's brow, Wid. It quakes me too, now I think on't. [Aside.] Sir, I am much grieved, that you a stranger should so deeply wrong my dead husband! Pye. O! Wid. A man that would keep church so duly; rise early, before his servants, and even for religious baste, go ungartered, unbuttoned, nay (sir reverence) untrussed, to morning prayer? Pye. O, ulf. Wid. Dine quickly upon high days; and when I had great guests, would even shame me, and rise from the table, to get a good seat at an after noon sermon. Pye. There's the devil, there's the devil! True: he thought it sanctity enough, if he had killed a inan, so it had been done in a pew; or undone his neighbour, so it had been near enough to the preacher. O, a sermon's a fine short cloak of an hour long, and will hide the upper part of a dissembler.--Church! ay, he seemed all church, and his conscience was as hard as the pulpit. Wid. I can no more endure this. Pye. Nor I, widow, endure to flatter. Wid. Is this all your business with me? Pye. No, lady, 'tis but the induction to it, 30 You may believe my strains; I strike all true; And if your conscience would leap up to your tongue, yourself would affirm it. And that you shall perceive I know of things to come, as well as I do of what is present, a brother of your husband's shall shortly have a loss. Wid. A loss?marry, heaven forcfend! Sir Godfrey, my brother! Pye. Nay, keep in your wonders, till I have told you the fortunes of you ali; which are more fearful, if not happily prevented. For your part and your daughters', if there be not once this day some blood shed before your door, whereof the human creature dies, two of you (the elder) sbail run mad; Wid. and Fran. Oh! Mary. That's not I yet. Pye. And, with most impudent prostitution, show your naked bodies to the view of all beholders. Wid. Our naked bodies? fie for shame. be strucken dumb. Mary. Dumb? out, alas! 'tis the worst pain of all for a woman. I'd rather be mad, or run naked, or any thing. Dumb! Pye. Give ear: Ere the evening fall upon bill, bog, and meadow, this my speech shall have past probation, and then shall I be believed accordingly. Wid. If this be true, we are all shamed, all undonc. Mary. Dumb! I'll speak as much as ever I can possibly before evening. Pye. But if it so come to pass, (as for your fair sakes I wish it may) that this presage of your strange fortunes be prevented by that accident of death and blood-shedding, (which I before told you of,) take heed, upon your lives, that two of you which have vowed never to marry, seek out husbands with all present speed; and you, the third, that have such a desire to outstrip chastity, look you meddle not with a husband. Mary. A double torment. Pye. The breach of this keeps your father in purgatory; and the punishments that shall follow you in this world, would with horror kill the ear should hear them rclated. Wid. Marry! Why I vowed never to marry. Fran. And so did I. Mary. And I vowed never to be such an ass, but to marry. What a cross fortune's this? Pye. Ladies, though I be a fortune-teller, I cannot better fortunes; you have them from me as they are revealed to me: I would they were to your tempers, and fellows with your bloods; that's all the bitterness I would you. Wid. ! 'tis a just vengeance for my husband's hard purchases. 30 'Tis but the induction to it-The prelude or introduction to it.—MALONE. |