Enter Tapster.

'Cit. What is it, Nell?

Wife. Oh, George, here's Master Humphrey again now, that lost Mistress Luce; and Mistress Luce's father. Master Humphrey will do somebody's errand, I warrant him.'

Hum. Father, it's true, in arms I ne'er shall clasp her,

For she is stol'n away by your man Jasper.

Wife. I thought he would tell him.'

Vent. Unhappy that I am, to lose my child! Now I begin to think on Jasper's words, Who oft hath urged to me thy foolishness: Why didst thou let her go? Thou lovest her not, That wouldst bring home thy life, and not bring her.

Hum. Father, forgive me; shall I tell you true? Look on my shoulders, they are black and blue: Whilst to and fro fair Luce and I were winding, He came and basted me with a hedge-binding. Vent. Get men and horses straight! We will be there

Within this hour. You know the place again? Hum. I know the place where he my loins did swaddle;

I'll get six horses, and to each a saddle.

Vent. Meantime, I will go talk with Jasper's father.

[Exeunt.

'Wife. George, what wilt thou lay with me now, that Master Humphrey has not Mistress Luce yet? Speak, George, what wilt thou lay with me?

'Cit. No, Nell; I warrant thee, Jasper is at Puckeridge with her by this.

'Wife. Nay, George, you must consider Mis

301

ACT II-SCENE V.

An Apartment in MERRYTHOUGHT's House.
Enter Old MERRYTHOUGHT.

Mer. [Sings.] When it was grown to dark midnight,
And all were fast asleep,

In came Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.1

I have money, and meat, and drink, beforehand, till to-morrow at noon. Why should I be sad? Methinks I have half a dozen jovial spirits within me. [Sings.] I am three merry men, and three merry men!'-To what end should any man be sad in this world? Give me a man that when he goes to hanging cries,' Troul2 the black bowl to me!' and a woman that will sing a catch in her travail! I have seen a man come by my door with a serious face, in a black cloak, without a hat-band, carrying his head as if he look'd for pins in the street. I have look'd out of my window half a year after, and have spied that man's head upon London Bridge. never trust a tailor that does not sing at his 'Tis vile; work! his mind on nothing but filching.

Godfrey, my tailor, you know, never sings; and 'Wife. Mark this, George; 'tis worth noting: he had fourteen yards to make this gown, and I'll be sworn, Mistress Penistone, the draper's wife, had one made with twelve.'

Mer. 'Tis mirth that fills the veins with blood,
More than wine, or sleep, or food;
Let each man keep his heart at ease,
No man dies of that disease.
He that would his body keep
From diseases, must not weep;
But whoever laughs and sings,
Never he his body brings
Into fevers, gouts, or rheums,

44

Or meets with aches 3 in the bone,

Or ling'ringly his lungs, consumes;

Or catarrhs, or griping stone:

But contented lives for aye;

The more he laughs, the more he may.

George? Is't not a fine old man? Now, God's 'Wife. Look, George; how say'st thou by this, blessing a' thy sweet lips! when wilt thou be so merry, George? 'Faith, thou art the frowning'st little thing, when thou art angry, in a country. Cit. Peace, cony! Thou shalt see him took down too, I warrant thee.

2 Troul-pass about.

4 a'-on.

Vent. Oh, Master Merrythought, my daughter's gone!

This mirth becomes you not; my daughter's gone!

Mer. Why, an' if she be, what care I?
Or let her come, or go, or tarry.

Vent. Mock not my misery; it is your son (Whom I have made my own, when all forsook him)

Has stol'n my only joy, my child, away.

Mer. He set her on a milk-white steed,
And himself upon a grey;

He never turn'd his face again,
But he bore her quite away.

Vent. Unworthy of the kindness I have shown To thee, and thine; too late, I well perceive Thou art consenting to my daughter's loss.

Mer. Your daughter? What a stir's here wi' your daughter? Let her go, think no more on her, but sing loud. If both my sons were on the gallows, I would sing

Down, down, down; they fall
Down, and arise they never shall.

Vent. Oh, might I behold her once again, And she once more embrace her aged sire! Mer. Fie, how scurvily this goes! 'And she once more embrace her aged sire?' You'll make a dog on her, will ye? She cares much for her aged sire, I warrant you.

She cares not for her daddy, nor

She cares not for her mammy, for
She is, she is, she is,

She is my Lord of Lowgave's lassy.
Vent. For this thy scorn I will pursue that son
Of thine to death.

Mer. Do; and when you ha' killed him,

Give him flowers enow, Palmer, give him flowers enow! Give him red and white, and blue, green, and yellow.

Vent. I'll fetch my daughter

Mer. I'll hear no more o' your daughter; it spoils my mirth.

Vent. I say, I'll fetch my daughter.

Mer. Was never man for lady's sake,

Down, down,

Tormented as I poor Sir Guy,
De derry down,

For Lucy's sake, that lady bright,
Down, down,

As ever men beheld with eye!

De derry down.

'Wife. How dost thou like this, George? 'Cit. Why this is well, cony; but if Ralph were hot once, thou shouldst see more.

'Wife. The fiddlers go again, husband.

'Cit. Ay, Nell; but this is scurvy music. I gave the whoreson gallows-money, and I think he has not got me the waits of Southwark. If I hear 'em not anon, I'll twinge him by the ears.— You musicians, play Baloo!

Wife. No, good George; let's ha' Lachrymæ!
Cit. Why this is it, cony.

'Wife. It's all the better, George. Now, sweet lamb, what story is that painted upon the cloth ?2 The confutation of St. Paul?

'Cit. No, lamb; that's Ralph and Lucrece.

1 Baloo-probably alluding to Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament Baloo, my babe, lie still and sleep,' &c. 2 the cloth-i.e. the drop-scene.

And frighted with the terror that attends
The darkness of this wild, unpeopled place?

Luce. No, my best friend; cannot either fear
Or entertain a weary thought, whilst you
(The end of all my full desires) stand by me:
Let them that lose their hopes, and live to languish
Amongst the number of forsaken lovers,
Tell the long weary steps, and number time,
Start at a shadow, and shrink up their blood,
Whilst I (possessed with all content and quiet)
Thus take my pretty love, and thus embrace him.
Jasp. You have caught me, Luce, so fast, that
whilst I live

I shall become your faithful prisoner,
And wear these chains for ever.-Come, sit down,
And rest your body, too, too delicate
For these disturbances.-So! will you sleep?
Come, do not be more able than you are;
I know you are not skilful in these watches,
For women are no soldiers. Be not nice,
But take it; sleep, I say.

Luce. I cannot sleep; Indeed I cannot, friend.

Jasp. Why then we'll sing,

And try how that will work upon our senses. Luce. I'll sing, or say, or anything but sleep. Jasp. Come, little mermaid, rob me of my heart With that enchanting voice.

Luce. You mock me, Jasper.

Keep her, ye powers divine, whilst I contemplate

Upon the wealth and beauty of her mind!
She's only fair and constant, only kind.
And only to thee, Jasper. Oh, my joys!
Whither will you transport me? let not fulness
Of my poor buried hopes come up together,
And overcharge my spirits; I am weak!
Some say (however ill) the sea and women
Are govern'd by the moon; both ebb and flow,
Both full of changes; yet to them that know,
And truly judge, these but opinions are,
And heresies, to bring on pleasing war
Between our tempers, that without these were
Both void of after-love, and present fear;
Which are the best of Cupid. Oh, thou child
Bred from despair, I dare not entertain thee,
Having a love without the faults of women,
And greater in her perfect goods than men;
Which to make good, and please myself the
stronger,

Though certainly I am certain of her love,
I'll try her, that the world and memory
May sing to after times her constancy.-

Luce! Luce! awake!

[Draws.

Canst thou imagine I could love his daughter That flung me from my fortune into nothing? Discharged me his service, shut the doors Upon my poverty, and scorn'd my prayers, Sending me, like a boat without a mast,

To sink or swim? Come; by this hand, you die!

I must have life and blood, to satisfy
Your father's wrongs.

Wife. Away, George, away! raise the watch at Ludgate, and bring a mittimus from the justice for this desperate villain! Now I charge you, gentlemen, see the king's peace kept! Oh, my heart, what a varlet's this, to offer manslaughter upon the harmless gentlewoman!

Cit. I warrant thee, sweetheart, we'll have him hampered.'

Luce. Oh, Jasper, be not cruel!

If thou wilt kill me, smile, and do it quickly,
And let not many deaths appear before me!
I am a woman made of fear and love,

A weak, weak woman; kill not with thy eyes!
They shoot me through and through. Strike!
I am ready;

And, dying, still I love thee.

Enter VENTERWELS, Master HUMPHREY,
and Men.

Vent. Whereabouts?

Jasp. No more of this; now to myself again. Hum. There, there he stands, with sword, like martial knight,

Drawn in his hand; therefore beware the fight,
You that be wise; for, were I good Sir Bevis,
I would not stay his coming. By your leaves.
Vent. Sirrah, restore my daughter!

Jasp. Sirrah, no.

Vent. Upon him then!

[LUCE is torn from JASPER. 'Wife. So; down with him, down with him, down with him! cut him i' th' leg, boys, cut him i' th' leg!'

Vent. Come your ways, minion! I'll provide a cage

For you, you're grown so tame. Horse her away!

Hum. Truly I am glad your forces have the
day.
[Exeunt all but JASPER.
Jasp. They're gone, and I am hurt; my love
is lost,

Never to get again. Oh, me unhappy!
Bleed, bleed and die.-I cannot. Oh, my folly,
Thou hast betray'd me! Hope, where art thou
fled?

Tell me, if thou be'st anywhere remaining,
Shall I but see my love again? Oh, no!
She will not deign to look upon her butcher,
Nor is it fit she should; yet I must venture.
Oh, Chance, or Fortune, or whate'er thou art,
That men adore for powerful, hear my cry,
And let me loving live, or losing die!
'Wife. Is a' gone, George?

'Cit. Ay, Cony.

[Exit.

Wife. Marry, and let him go, sweetheart! By the faith a' my body, a' has put me into such a fright, that I tremble (as they say) as 'twere an aspen leaf. Look a' my little finger, George, how it shakes! Now in truth every member of my body is the worse for't. Cit. Come, hug in mine arms, sweet mouse; he shall not fright thee any more. Alas, mine own dear heart, how it quivers!'

ACT III.-SCENE II.

A Room in the Bell Inn.

Enter Mrs. MERRYTHOUGHT, RALPH, MICHAEL,
TIM, GEORGE, Host, and a Tapster.
Wife. Oh, Ralph! how dost thou, Ralph ?
How hast thou slept to-night? has the knight
used thee well?

'Cit. Peace, Nell; let Ralph alone!'
Tap. Master, the reckoning is not paid.
Ralph. Right courteous knight, who, for the
order's sake

Which thou hast ta'en, hang'st out the holy Bell,
As I this flaming Pestle bear about,
We render thanks to your puissant self,
Your beauteous lady, and your gentle squires,
For thus refreshing of our wearied limbs,
Stiffen'd with hard achievements in wild desert,
Tap. Sir, there is twelve shillings to pay.
Ralph. Thou merry Squire Tapstero, thanks
to thee

For comforting our souls with double jug!
And if adventurous Fortune prick thee forth,
Thou jovial squire, to follow feats of arms,
Take heed thou tender every lady's cause,
Every true knight, and every damsel fair!
But spill the blood of treacherous Saracens,
And false enchanters, that with magic spells
Have done to death full many a noble knight.

Host. Thou valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle, give ear to me; there is twelve shillings to pay, and, as I am a true knight, I will not bate penny.

Wife. George, I pray thee tell me, must Ralph pay twelve shillings now?

Cit. No, Nell, no; nothing, but the old knight is merry with Ralph.

Wife. Oh, is't nothing else? Ralph will be as merry as he.'

Ralph. Sir Knight, this mirth of yours be-
comes you well;

But, to requite this liberal courtesy,
If any of your squires will follow arms,
He shall receive from my heroic hand,
A knighthood, by the virtue of this Pestle.

Host. Fair knight, I thank you for your noble offer; therefore, gentle knight, twelve shillings you must pay, or I must cap1 you.

'Wife. Look, George! did not I tell thee as much? the Knight of the Bell is in earnest. Ralph shall not be beholding to him. Give him his money, George, and let him go snick up." 'Cit. Cap Ralph? No, hold your hand, Sir Knight of the Bell! There's your money; have you anything to say to Ralph now? Cap Ralph? Wife. I would you should know it, Ralph has friends that will not suffer him to be capt for ten times so much, and ten times to the end of that. Now take thy course, Ralph!'

Mrs. Mer. Come, Michael; thou and I will go home to thy father; he hath enough left to keep us a day or two, and we'll set fellows abroad to cry our purse and our casket. Shall we, Michael? Mich. Ay, I pray, mother; in truth my feet are full of chilblains with travelling.

Wife. 'Faith, and those chilblains are a foul trouble. Mistress Merrythought, when your youth comes home, let him rub all the soles of his feet, and his heels, and his ankles, with a mouse-skin; or, if none of your people can catch a mouse, when he goes to bed, let him roll his feet in the warm embers, and I warrant you he shall be well; and you may make him put his fingers between his toes, and smell to them; it's very sovereign for his head, if he be costive.'

Mrs. Mer. Master Knight of the Burning Pestle, my son Michael and I bid you farewell. I thank your worship heartily for your kind

ness.

Ralph. Farewell, fair lady, and your tender squire!

If pricking through these deserts, I do hear
Of any traitorous knight, who through his guile
Hath lit upon your casket and your purse,

I will despoil him of them, and restore them.
Mrs. Mer. thank your worship.
[Exit with MICHAEL.
Ralph. Dwarf, bear my shield; squire, elevate
my lance;

And now farewell, you Knight of holy Bell! 'Cit. Ay, ay, Ralph, all is paid.'

Ralph. But yet, before I go, speak, worthy knight,

If aught you do of sad adventures know,
Where errant-knight may through his prowess

win

For here I vow upon my blazing badge,
Never to blaze a day in quietness;
But bread and water will I only eat,
And the green herb and rock shall be my couch,
Till I have quell'd that man, or beast, or fiend,
That works such damage to all errant-knights.
Host. Not far from hence, near to a craggy
cliff,

At the north end of this distressed town,
There doth stand a lowly house,
Ruggedly builded, and in it a cave
In which an ugly giant now doth won,
Yeleped Barbaroso; in his hand
He shakes a naked lance of purest steel,
With sleeves turn'd up; and him before he wears
A motley garment, to preserve his clothes
From blood of those knights which he massacres,
And ladies gent; without his door doth hang
A copper bason, on a prickant spear;
At which no sooner gentle knights can knock,
But the shrill sound fierce Barbaroso hears,
And rushing forth brings in the errant-knight,
And sets him down in an enchanted chair:
Then with an engine, which he hath prepared,
With forty teeth, he claws his courtly crown,
Next makes him wink, and underneath his chin
He plants a brazen piece of mighty bord,3
And knocks his bullets round about his cheeks;
Whilst with his fingers, and an instrument
With which he snaps his hair off, he doth fill
The wretch's ears with a most hideous noise.
Thus every knight-adventurer he doth trim,
And now no creature dares encounter him.

Ralph. In God's name, I will fight with him!
Kind sir,

Go but before me to this dismal cave
Where this huge giant Barbaroso dwells,
And, by that virtue that brave Rosicler
That damned brood of ugly giants slew,
And Palmerin Frannarco overthrew,
I doubt not but to curb this traitor fo-ul,
And to the devil send his guilty soul.

Host. Brave-sprighted knight, thus far I will perform

This your request; I'll bring you within sight Of this most loathsome place, inhabited By a more loathsome man; but dare not stay. For this main force swoops all he sees away. Ralph. Saint George! Set on; before march squire and page! [Exeunt. Wife. George, dost think Ralph will confound the giant?

Cit. I hold my cap to a farthing he does. Why, Nell, I saw him wrestle with the great Dutchman, and hurl him.

Wife. 'Faith and that Dutchman was a goodly man, if all things were answerable to his bigness. And yet they say there was a Scotchman higher than he, and that they two on a night met, and saw one another for nothing. But of all the sights that ever were in London, since I was married, methinks the little child that was so fair grown about the members was the prettiest; that and the hermaphrodite.

·

Cit. Nay, by your leave, Nell, Ninivie was better.