Scaen. 1.

PRithee widow be not in­cens'd, we'll shew our selves like yong Lords shortly; and you know, I Hope, they use to pay their debts.

I, you talk of great matters, I wis, but I'm sure I could never see a groat yet of your money.

Why I tell you my pockets have not been guilty of any small money in my remem­brance.

I know not, but all things are grown dear of late; our Beef costs three shillings a stone, and the price of corn is rais'd too.

Nay, mother, coals are rais'd too, they say. These things you think cost no­thing.

Nay, Tabytha, Mistress Tabytha! ifaithlaw now I'll make a Psalm for you, and be but peaceable.

I'm onely for Odes, by the Muses, and the quickest for them, I think, in the Christian world, take in Turks, Infidels, Jews and all.

Have but a little patience, widow; well [...] I'll say this for thee, thou art the ho­nestest Landlady upon the face of the earth, which makes me desire to live in your house; and you shall not lose by't: do but mark the end.

I stand not so much upon that; but I use to ha' Lawyers in my house, such civil compleat gentlemen in their Sattin doublets (I warrant you) and broad ruffs, as passes; and Courtiers, all to be lac'd and slasht, and fine fellows as you shall see in a summers day; they would not say Why do ye this? to a wo­man: and then Knights.

I, and Gentlemen too, mother.

But you, forsooth, come in drunk every night, and fall a sweari [...]g as if you would rend the house in two, and then mum­ble and tumble my daughters cloathes, she says.

I, and would have—

What would we have done?

Nay no good, I warrant you.

And then you drink up a kilderkin of small beer next morning.

All this shall be corrected and amended, Landlady: yes faith, Cutter, thou must repent, thou hast been to blame some­times.

Besides, you are always so full of your fripperies, and are always a grinning and sneering at every thing: I was wont to have sober boorders in my house, and not such hee-hee-heeing fellows.

Nay, they mock'd and fleer'd at us as we sung the Psalm the last Sunday-night.

That was that mungrel Rhymer; by this light, he envies his brother Poet ho­nest Iohn Sternhold, because he cannot reach his heights.

O the father! the Colonel's as full of waggery as an egge's full of meat: I warrant, M. Dogrel, what you get by him you may e'en put i' your eye, and ne'er see the worse for't.

Well, and how dost ifaith now, ho­nest Landlady? when shall we walk again into Moor-fields, and rejoyce at the Queens Cake-house?

I'll bespeak Cakes and Ale o'th' purpose there; and thou shalt eat stew'd Prunes, little Tabytha, till thy smock drop again. A word i' you ear, Landlady: Can you accommodate us with two shillings?

We will restore again, and thank you for your pain.

I'll tell you a secret, Landlady: Captain Blade and I shall be call'd shortly to the Court; the King has taken notice of our deserts: I say no more: though yet thou scorn'st me, Tabytha, I'll make thee a Lady one day. Will you lend, widow? Great af­fairs bid me make haste.

I care not much if I trust you for once: Come in and take it.

Buss me no bussings. O lord, how you tumble my gorget!

Act. 1. Scaen. 2.

I could now be as melancholy as an old scabbie Mastiff, or the Lions in the Tower: 'twere a good humour to repent. Well, Ca­ptain, something must be done, unless a man could get true gems by drinking, or, like a mouse in a cheese, enlarge his house-room by eating. Four hundred pound a yeer ca­shier'd? Four hundred, by this light, Ca­ptain. All my comfort is, that now the usu­rer's damn'd; and now that niggardly three score and ten wither'd chap-faln Pu­ritanical thing, his wife, refuses to marry me: I would see her burnt for an old witch before I'd take her for a wife, if she had not Agues, Squinancies, Gouts, Cramps, Pal­sies, Apoplexies, and two dozen of diseases more then S. Thomas Hospital; and if she live long with all these, I'm sure she'll kill me quickly. But let her be damn'd with her husband: Bring some drink, boy; I'm soxt, by this light, with drinking nothing yet.

Act. 1. Scaen. 3.

What are ye come? Bring us a Tun then, and that so big, that that of Hei­delberg may seem but like a barrel of pickl'd Oysters to't. Welcome Snapsack, welcome little vermin of Parnassus: how is't, my Laur [...]ate Rhymer? Cost thou sing Fortune my foe still with thy brother Poet?

Why this right Ballad, and they hobble like the fellow with the wooden leg [Page] that sings them. And how dost, man o' blood?

As well as a man of worth can do in these days, where deserts are so little re­garded: if Wars come once, who but Cutter? who else but Colonel Cutter? God save you, Colonel Cutter, cry the Lords; the La­dies they smile upon Colonel Cutter, and call Colonel Cutter a proper Gentleman: every man strives who shall invite Colonel Cutter to dinner: not a Cuckoldly creditor dares pluck me by the cloak, and say, Sir, you for­got your promise, I'm in a strait for moneys, my occasions force me, or the like.

Cheer up, my Hercules upon a signe, I have a plot for ye, which if it thrive, thou shalt no more lie sunning in a bowling-alley, nor go on special holidays to the three-peny Ordinary, and then cry It pleases my humor better then to dine at my Lord Maiors.

Would we had some drink here to stop your mouth.

No more be sick two or three days while thy boots are vamping: no more out­swear whores in a reckoning, and leave the house in an anger.

Ha' you done?

Nor sup at Taverns with Radishes: nor for a meals meat o'erthrow the King of Spain of the Hollanders when you please: no [...] when you go to bed produce ten several Tavern snuffs to make one pipe of To­bacco.

'Slid would I had one here.

Nor change your name and lodging as often as a whore; for as yet, if you had liv'd like a Tartar in a cart, (as you must die, I fear, in one) your home could not have been more uncertain. Your last Gests were these: From a Water-mans house at the Banks side, (marry you stay'd there but a small while, because the fellow was jealous of his wife) passing o'er like great King Xerxes in a Sculler, you arriv'd at a Chand­lers house in Thames-street, and there took up your lodging. The day before you should have paid, you walkt abroad, and were seen no more; for ever after the smell of the place offended you. Next, you ap­pear'd at an Ale-house i'th' Covent-Gar­den, like a Duck that dives at one end of the pond, but rises unexpectedly at the other. But that place (though there was Beer and Tobacco there) by no means pleas'd you; for there dwelt so many cheaters there­abouts, that you could not live by one ano­ther; they spoil'd your trade quite. Then from a Shoo-makers, (as you entitl'd him; marry some authors call him a Cobler) to a Basket-makers; from thence to the Coun­ter: from thence, after much benevolence, to a Barbers; changing more lodgings then Pythagoras his soul did. At length, upon confidence of those new breeches, and the scouring of that everlasting Buff, you ven­tur'd upon the widows, that famous house for boorders, and are by this time hoysing up your sails, I'm sure; the next fair winde y'are gone.

I wonder, Captain, among so many rascally houses, how I happen'd to miss yours. 'Tis true, I have not lien leaguer al­ways at one place: Souldiers must remove their tents: Alexander the Great did it an hundred times.

Now to the words of comfort — drink first—then Lordings listen all.

We do, both great and small. O my conscience this cup of wine has done my genius good.

When first my brother departed —

'Twas poorly spoken, by this day.

He committed his daughter and estate to my care; which if she either di'd, or married without my consent, he be­queath'd all to me. Being five yeers gone, he died.

How frail is humane life! Well sung the divine Poet

Sirrah, Trundle, either hear out peaceably, or I shall cut your ears off. Pro­ceed, Captain.

I falling into ill company, yours, or some other such idle fellows, began to be misled, could drink and swear, nay, at last, whore sometimes too; which courses having now at last made me like Iob in every thing [Page] but patience; your Landlady (for to her husband my estate was morgag'd.) I have sought all means to marry.

That Niobe! that Hecuba!

Pish! I could have lien with either of the two, so 't had been before Hecuba was turn'd into a bitch, or t'other into a stone: for though I hate her worse then small beer.

Or pal [...]d wine.

Or proverbs and Latine sentences in discourse.

Or a Sermon of two hours long.

Or Dogrels verses, or what you will else; yet she has money, blades; she would be a Guiana or Peru to me, and we should drink four or five yeers securely, like Dutch­men at a Wedding. But hang her, let her die and go to hell, 'tis onely that can warm her: she scorns me now my money's gone.

Why the Baltick, Dogrel?

Why the Baltick? This tis not to have read the Poets.

Now if my neece should marry, praesto, the means are gone; and I must, like some Gentleman without fear or regard of the gallows, betake my self to the high-way, or else cheat like one of you, and tremble at the sight of a pillory. Therefore— (prick up your ears, for your good angel speaks) upon conditions of share, I marry her to one of you.

I but how, Captain? how?

Why either she shall have one of you, or no body; for if she marry without my consent, the money's mine own: and she'll be hang [...]d first i'th' Friers rope, ere she turn Nun.

I'll be a Franciscan, if she do.

Not a Carthusian, I warrant thee, to abstain from flesh. Thou mightst well have taken holy Orders, if it were not for chastity and obedience: their other vow of never carrying money about thee, thou hast observed from thy youth up.

I'll have her, by Mercury; I have two or three Love-odes ready made; they can't chuse but win her. Cutter, adore me, Cutter, thou shalt have wine thy fill, though thou couldst out-drink Xe [...]xes his army.

You get her? what with that Em­ber week-face of thine? that Rasor of thy nose, those ea [...]s that prick up like a Puritani­cal button-makers of Amsterdam? thou lookst as if thou never hadst been fed since thou suck'dst thy mothers milk: thy cheeks begin to fall into thy mothers mouth, that thou mightst eat 'em. Why thou very lath with a thing cut like a face atop, and a slit at the bottom! I am a man, and can do her service; here's metal, boy.

'Tis i' your face then.

I can fight her quarrels, boy, and beg [...]t on her new Achilleses.

Yes—thou art a very Achilles—in the swiftness of thy feet▪ but thou art a worser coward then any of the Train'd Bands: I'll have a school-boy with a cat-stick take away thy Mistress from thee. Besides, what parts hast thou? hast thou scholarship enough to make a Brewers clerk? Canst thou read the Bible? I'm sure thou hast not. Canst thou write more then thine own name? and that in su [...]h vile characters, that most men take them for Arabian pot-hooks; and some think thou dost but set thy mark when thou writest thy name. I'm vers'd, Cutter in the whole Encyclopaedie, a word that [...]s Greek to you. I am a Wit, and can make Greek verses ex tempore.

Nay not so; for if you come to your verses▪ Dogrel, Im sure you ha' done with wit. He that best pleases her, take her a Gods name, and allow the tother a pensi­on: What think you, gallants?

Agreed; thou shalt have three pound and a cloak.

Away, you puff, you kickshaw, you quaking custard.

Prethee be patient, thou shalt have lace to't too.

Pox take you both; drink and be friends.

Here's to you, Cutter. I'm some­thing cholerick, and given to jeering: but what, man? words are but winde.

I'll call her in. Why boy within three, call my neece quickly hither.

I'm undone; I ha' left my Ode at home: undone, by Mercury, unless my me­mory help me.

Thus and thus will I accoast her: I'm the man; Dogrels clothes will cast him.

Act. 1. Scaen. 4.

When she has seen you both, one void the room, and so wooe by tu [...]ns.

I [...]ll go out fi [...]st, and meditate up­on my Ode.

Welcome, dear neece; I sent for you to entertain these Gentlemen my friends: and heark you neece, make much of them; they are men of worth and credit at the Court, though they go so plain; [...]hat's their humour onely: And heark you, neece, they both love you; you cannot chuse amiss. I ha' some business—Your servant, Gen­tlemen.

Not chuse amiss? indeed I must do, Uncle, if I should chuse again. Y'are welcom, Gentlemen.

I thank you, fairest Lady: I am a Souldier, Lady, and cannot complement; but I ha' travell'd over all the world, Ger­many, Morocco, Swethland, Persia, France, Hungary, Caleput, Peru.

'Slid▪ ho [...] he shuffles all the Coun­tries together like lots in a hat!

Yet I never saw before so fair a La­dy. I cannot complement i' faith.

'Slife I can't say my Ode now. I'll wait upon you presently.

Fair Lady—(This 'tis to converse with none but whores: I know not what to say to her.)

You are the onely mistress of my thoughts.

My service to you, Lady.

To me, Sir, do you speak, or to the wine?

To you, by Mars. Can you love me, Beauty? I'm sure your uncle prefers no man under the cope—

What? to that mole-catcher i'th' old Serge? he brought him in for humour, to make you sport. Ill tell you what he is.

Pray do, Sir.

The very embleme of poverty and poor poetry: the feet are worse patcht of his Rhymes, then of his Stockings: if one line forget it self, and run out beyond his el­bow, while the next keeps at home (like him) and dares not shew his head; he calls that an Ode. Your uncle and I maintain him onely for sport. I'll tell you how I found him; marry walking in Moor-fields cross arm'd: he could not pluck his hat over his eyes, there were so many holes in it: he had not so much linen about him as would make a cuff for a Bartlemew-fayr-baby. Marry the worst I like in him is, he will needs some­time [...], in way of gratitude, present me with a paper of Verses. Here comes the vermin.

Act. 1. Scaen. 5.

I'll leave him alone with you, that you may have the better sport: he'll not shew half his tricks before me. I think I ha' spoil'd his markets. Now will I stand behinde the hangings, and hear how she abuses him. I know by her eye she loves me. Cutter, thou'rt blest

That's I.

Quality? yes?

That's I again. If whoring, drinking, cheating, poverty and cowardice be qualities, he's one of the best qualified men in the Christian world.

O the devil!

He's a great traveller.

In suburbs and by-lanes; he never heard a gun but in Moor-fields or Finsbury at a mustering▪ and quak'd then as if they had been the Spaniards: I [...]ll undertake a Pot-gun shall dismay him

A plague upon him—

Those breeches he wears, and his hat, I gave him: till then, he went like a Pa­per-mill all in rags, and like some old statue in a ruin'd Abbey. About a month ago, you might ha' seen him peep out at a grate, and cry, Kinde merciful Gentlemen, for the Lords sake, poor prisoners undone by sur [...]tish [...]p, and the like.

Contain thy self▪ great spirit; keep in a while.

We call him Colonel in an humour onely. The furniture of his chamber (for now, at mine and some other Gentlemens charges, he has got one) is half a chair, and an earthen chamber-pot, the bottom of an inkhorn for a candlestick, and a dozen of little gally-pots with salve in 'um; for he has more diseases—

I can endure no longer.

Dogrel, thou lyest; there's my glove; meet me an hour hence.

And there's mine. I'll put a good face on't; he dares not fight, I [...]m sure.

Act. 1. Scaen. 6.

Act 1. Scaen. 7.

Act. 1. Scaen. 8.

Scaen. 1.

Come on, Dogrel, now will I cut your throat.

You [...]ll be hang'd first.

No, by this light.

You'll be hang'd after then.

I'll slice thee into steaks.

I believe indeed thou art so hungry, thou couldst feed like a Cannibal.

No, thou'lt be a dish for the devil; he'll dress thee at his own fire. You call'd me Coward: hadst thou as many lives as are in Plutarch, I'd make an end of 'um. (I must daunt him, for fear he should fight with me.) I will not leave so much blood in thee as will wet my nail: and for thy flesh, I'll mangle it in such manner, that the Crowes shall not know whether it were a mans body or no.

Act. 2. Scaen. 2.

Here's company; 'slid I'll fight then.

How now, Paynims? fighting like two sea-fishes in a map? slaying and killing like horse-leaches? Why my little gallimau­fry, what Arms and Arts?

Tam Marti, quam Mercurio, I. 'Slife, outbrav'd by a fellow that has no more [Page] valour in him then a womans Tailor?

By my fathers Soul, I'll kill him an he were an Army.

Hold! stop! this Colonels spirit's all flame.

'Tis the flame of a flap-dragon then, for 'twill hurt no body.

Mr. Puny, you do me wrong.

What do ye mean bufles?

'Slife, an you hinder me Puny—

Pox take you, kill one another and be hanged then, doe, stab, why don't ye?

At your command Mr. Puny? I'll be forc [...]d by no man; put up Dogrel, wee'll fight for no mans pleasure but our own.

Agreed, I'll not make another sport by murthering any man though he were a Ti [...]ker.

Why now you speak like righteous Hom [...]ncles, ye ha' both great spirits, as big as Indian-whales, for wit and valour a cou­ple of Phoenixes.

'Tis my fault Puny; I'm the reso­lutest man if I be but a little heated. Pox take't, I'm a fool for't.

Give me thy hand.

I did not think thou hadst been so valiant, i'faith: I should have killed my self, if I had hurt thee in my fury.

So should I by this hand.

This is rare! up and down like a game at chess;

Why a game at chess more then any other?

A game at chess? why—pox thou'rt a kinde of Poet I confess, but for wit you shall pardon me—ther's as much in Tom Co­riats shooes. But prithee, why did you two Pythagorians fall out?

A trifle, onely a Mistris.

A pox take her, I woo'd her in an humor onely, I had rather marry a wench of ginger-bread, they're both of a Comple­xion.

And then her mouth's as wide as a Crocodiles, her kisses devour a man.

Her eyes are like the eyes of a nee­dle, and her nose pointed like that; I won­der her face is no cleaner, for those two per­petually water it: As for her lower parts, blessed are they that live in ignorance.

What an Heliogabalus make you of this wench? would I could see this Barba­ra Pyramidum.

Hang her, she looks like a gentlewo­man upon the top of a ballad.

Shavers, who i the divels name would you guess to be my Mistris?

Some w [...]nch at a red lattice.

Some beast that stincks worse then Thames-street.

And looks like a shoulder of mutton stufft with parsly.

'Faith guess who.

'Tis impossible among so many whores.

'Faith Tabitha, none but gentle Mistris Tabitha.

We shall have him turn Brownist now, and read Comments upon the Revela­tions.

Thou hast hit it Dogrel: I'le put my self into a rare garbe; Buffe, thou must off, tru [...]y Buffe thou must.

'Slid, a good humour; I could find in my heart to change religion too.

Pox! no body will change with me, I'm sure. But canst thou put off swearing with Buffe? canst thou abstain in the middle of long grace from crying a plague upon him, the me [...]ts cold? canst thou repeat scripture enough to make a Puritan? I'me sure for understanding thou'lt be like enough to any of 'um.

Let me alone, I'le deal with no oath above gods fatlikins, or by my truly: exclaim upon the sickness of drinking healths, and call the Players rogues, sing psalms, hear lectures; and if I chance to preach my self, woe be to the act, the object, the use, and applica [...]ion.

Thou art an everlasting stinker Co­lonel, 'tis a most potent humour, ther's mu­stard in't, it bits i'the nose.

Dog [...]el, take heed of swearing before Tabitha.

If I look not as grave as a Judge upon the bench, let me be hanged for't.

Come away Physitians; 'slid I'le be of some Religion ere [...]t be long too.

Act. 2. Scaen. 3.

You hear me—

Sir—

Sir me no sirs: I say you shall mar­ry Mistris Tabitha.

I hope sir—

I, when I bid you do any thing, then you are a hoping; well, what do you hope sir?

That you'ld be pleas'd—

No, I will not be pleas'd till I see your manners mended: marry gap, you'le be teaching your father.

I am —

Go to, you're a foolish boy, and know not what's good for your self: you are? what are you, pray? we shall ha' you crow over your father.

I shall observe—

You will not sure? will you observe me? 'tis very well if my son come to ob­serve me i'my old days, you will observe me? will ye?

I mean sir—

You shall mean what I please, if you be mine: I must be bound to your meaning?

It may be—

You'll teach me what may be, will you? do not I know what may be? 'tis fine, 'tis very fine: now i'your wisdom, now what may be?

That Captain Blade—

That what? what can he do? I'll see his nose cheese before you shall marry his neece. Captain Blade's a swaggering companion; let 'um swagger, and see what he gets by his swaggering; I would have swaggered with him for his ears when I was a young man. And though I ha' done swaggering—well—I shall meet with Captain Blade, I hold him a tester on't—

(Would he were gone.) I shall obey —

Obey me no obeyings, but do what I command you. I'll to the Widow, and talk abo [...]t her portion: stay [...] I had al­most forgot to tel you; oh—Mistris Tabitha's a vertuous maid, a very religious wench; I'll go speak concerning her portion.

It may be sir—

You [...]ll never leave this trick, you'll be at your may-bees; take heed boy, this humour will undoe thee—she cannot have less then three thousand pounds: well — I'll go see—and d'ee hear? she goes plain, and is a good huswife; which of your spruce mincing squincing dames can make bone­lace like her? o tis a notable, apt, quick, wit­ty girle—I'll goe to her mother about the portion.

About this time her letter pro­mis'd me a meeting here: destiny it self will sooner break its word then she. Dear Mistris, there's none here besides your vassal. She's ready—

Act. 2. Scaen. 4.

Act. 2. Scaen. 5.

Is he carried to prison? that damn'd Urinal-monger, that stinking Clyster-pipe-rogue! that ignorant Sattin cap! He has not so much physick as would cure the tooth­ach. A slave that poisons Gentlemen, to keep his hand in ure Must a slave come up stairs mount the bank for money, and not be dishonoured down? He look [...]d as pati­ently then, as any Fidler need to do. Give me some small beer, and the godly book; I must not go to hell; there are too many Phy­sitians there. I was never in a worse dispo­sition to die, in my life: my guts begin to squeak already. Nothing vexes me now, but that I shall stand pictur'd in a Ballad, with Beware the physitian, or some such sentence, coming out of my mouth. I shall be sung in Smithfield: not a blinde Ale-house but the life and miserable death of captain Blade shall be pasted up in: there shall I be brought con­fessing my sins at the later end, and giving good counsel. (You will be jumbling still.) Ten to one but Dogrel makes an Epitaph; there's another mischief. Here, take the book again; I'll not trouble my brain now I'm a dying.

Here's the widow, Sir, and her daughter, come to see you; and they have brought M. Knockdown to comfort you.

How? everlasting Knockdown? 'Slid, will they tro [...]ble a man when he's a dying? Sirrah, blockhead, let in Knockdown, and I'll send thee to heaven before me. I ha' but an hour to live, my Physitian says, and that's too little for him to preach in.

Shall I let the widow come in?

That's a she—Knockdown too. Well, let her come in; I must bear all torments patiently now. But, rogue, take heed of Ioseph Knockdown: thou shalt not live with ears, if Ioseph Knockdown enter. A plague upon all Physitians.

Act. 2. Scaen. 6.

How do you? how is't, Sir?

Cut off i'the flower o' my age, wi­dow.

Not so, Sir, you are old, neighbour, God he knows.

I' the very [...]lower, i'faith. That damn'd quacksalver.

He look'd like a rogue; a man might know him for a rogue, by his very eyes. Take comfort, Sir; ye know we must all die either sooner or later. Our life is compared to a flower; and a flower is sub­ject to uncertainty, as M. Knockdown ob­serves.

O the torture of such a tongue! Would I were dead already.

Alas, good man! his tongue, I warrant ye, is hot: look how he raves, daughter! I have heard, indeed, that many rave when they are poison'd. Think o' your sins, Sir.

I prithee molest me not; there's none of 'um worth thinking of. I'm hotter then a dozen of Fevers: give me a cup of Sack there: Shall I die thirsty?

By no means, M. Blade. Fellow, take heed what ye give him: he must ha' none; it breeds inflammations.

I'll never repent without a cup of Sack. Do, do, chuse whether you'll ha'me sav'd or no.

For his souls sake then, I'll drink to him in a cup of Sack

To my good journey widow. Sir­rah, fill me a brimmer. Here, Tabytha.

Act. 2. Scaen. 7.

Stand to 't now.

I'll warrant you I'll stand like a knight o'the post: I'll forswear with the de­vil. As for Cutter, he has don't fourty times before a Judge already.

How now, varle [...]s? ye see I'm go­ing to heaven, and ye must follow; but the Captain must be sav'd before the Colonel. Who art thou? a godly Weaver?

I am not he that I was of old: what hath passed, is gone and vanisheth; but what is now, remaineth.

No I'll besworn is he not; never was Christian creature so alter'd, as they say.

He said a prayer last night so zea­lously, that all the house heard him, did they not? Brother M. Cutter.

Sister, I did pour out my self last night. Captain, y'are abus'd.

A small abuse; nothing but onely poiso [...]d.

Yes 'faith, we saw the Physitian, Mi [...]ress Lucia and Truman consulting all together: the Physitian pluck'd a box out, shew'd it them; they seem'd to approve: an oath of secresie we heard them take, but suspected nothing, by this hand. We honest men do seldom suspect others.

Is this true, Colonel?

Should I say it is not true, I should not tell the truth if I should say so.

You swear 'tis true?

Before an Elder I shall swear.

Aurelia, send for 'um immediately, as if I meant to see 'um contracted; and bid the servants be ready to carry um away. I'll see 'um clapt up close before I die.

I go, Sir.

Act. 2. Scaen. 8.

Speak, gentle Neece.

Oh by all means: where's gentle M. Truman? He's sorry for my death, good man, I warrant ye. Weep not for me, dear [Page] Neece, I know it greives you. Where's loving Mr. Truman?

Without Sir, waiting on your will, as on the voice of his good fate.

Pray call him in.

Sirrah, fetch two or three more of my knaves in.

Oh the dissembling of these women; they're like a folded picture, that every di­versity of light represents diversly.

Hang all women beside you and your daughter, widow: I could almost like Ma­homets religion, for turning all the sex out of Heaven.

Act. 2. Scaen. 9.

'Tis as we wisht, dear Lady; O this blest hour!

Away with 'um immediately, let 'um be sent to prison straight.

What means this rudeness? I under­stand not this incivility.

Ungratious children, ye have poy­soned a most vertuous Souldier here.

I poysoned? what d'ye mean?

Away with 'um I say, they shall [...]inde another place to answer for't.

Hei ho! what pitty 'tis.

Captain, prithee away with these two impertinences; since you must dye, let's have a parting cup for shame.

But thou art turn'd Apostate.

I did but fain all this; I'm as very a Rogue as ever I was.

Thou speakst righteously, we will not make a dry farwel on't. Widow. I have some business with these two; shall I desire privacy a little while?

Fare ye well. Mr. Cutter, you can speak comfortably to him: I'll see you a­gain anon. Oh the wickedness of these worldlings! Come Tabitha.

The Doctor says, I shall dye with­out pain; therefore my sparks of Asia, let's be merry for a while. Boy, fetch some wine and an hour-glass.

An hour-glass! what emblem shall we have? bring a sithe too; and this same lean, greedy, hungry Poet, shall act Time here.

Well said my little Pawn. So, thus I'll husband my time. According to my Emperick's computation I am to live an hour; half which I do allot to drink with you, a quarter to settle some business; and the rest to good medit [...]tions and repentance. How like ye this my gallants?

Most Logically divided; never Scholer divided mess better.

How it sparkles! Never be drunk again? My Homer junior, have at thee; this will string up thy Muse: rejoyce young frog of Hellic [...]n.

No, rather let me weep, drop briny tears, Till I like Niobe —

There's a piece of her sticks in his throat still, drink it down Dogrel.

Do, for when I am once gone, ye must e'en like Mahumetans, count wine a thing forbidden.

Why dost thou frown, thou arrant Clown &c.

One man o' mine,

Two men o' mine,

Three men o' mine,

And a man o' mine,

Hei brave boys! now, Cutter, thou [Page] art a pretious Puritan.

And thou a puissant Captain. Some wou'd ha' pin'd, and kept a quarter, and howl'd at their death, and ha' been more froward and troublesome then a Citizens wife when she takes Physick. This is true valour.

Sure he has dy'd before, he's so ex­pert at it.

Act 2. Scaen. 10.

What says old Priam to Achilles great?

'Tis well, I'm glad to see you in you Priams; but for all your Priams, and your Killisses, what ha' you done with my Son?

Thrice was thy Hector drawn about the walls.

Xanthus and Simois, with his pur­ple gore.

Alas, and welladay! we are stain'd all o're.

Ha, ha, ha.

'Tis very well, excellent well, all's well that ends well; I say—I shall finde Law I hope. My Son Dick in prison, and old Dick laughed at here by Raggamuffins: 'Tis very excellent well; I thank you gen­tlemen I thank you heartily.

'Tis not so much worth i'faith Sir; what do you mean Sir? pray spare your courtesie, nay, I pray be covered Sir.

It may be so, 'tis very likely Sir, an there be Law in Westminster—

—And what dost thou mean, old man?

—And what dost thou mean, old man?

—If thou mean'st to live long, plump, lusty, and strong;

—Then take of the cup and the Can.

Ha, ha, ha.

Well, I'm made a laughing stock, it seems.

And good Sir—

Yes, I am made the laughing stock; I shall take some other course, I hold you a groat. Rest ye merry Gentlemen, I pray be merry, very very merry.

Nay, you shall stay and drink first.

Come old Iethro, here's a cup of wine will stir thy brains again, they're mouldy now.

I, you'd poyson me, wou'd you? 'tis ve­ry well if a man may be suffered to poyson whom he pleases.

No, your good Son has got the art of poysoning.

My Son? Thou liest. My Son?

If ye be raging Lyon-mad, d'ye see that door? Be gone to your Son, and take some juice of Opium: Thou wants sleep, Iethro.

There's Law, Captain.

There is so; wou'd you'd go fetch it.

Nay there's none it seems.

True, there shall be no Law, so you'll be gone

There shall be no Law, say you? I desire no more, 'tis very exceeding dainty. There shall be no Law; I desire no more, 'tis a kinde of petty Treason: You'll remember, Sir, that there shall be no Law: That's enough, I pray remember Sir: and so fare­well. There shall be no Law.

This worm-eaten old fellow has spoil'd our sport. And what says my hour-glass now? Time was i'faith.

How do you feel your self?

As hot as Hell. Come wee'l take our last farewel within; and farwel here all drinking. God send me a good journey, I say.

Then briny tears come trickling down apace,

For loss of him—

And what?

Nay, ye put me out.

Scaen. 1.

Not poysoned you say?

No, hes as well as we.

It may be he has more lives then one, or used himself to poyson, as we now, that are Scholars, and Poets read, of one Mithidrates.

He was never sick.

Yes, very hot.

I, as a painted fire, his fancy made him so; I smell a plot in't. Lucia, you say, urged him then for Truman. 'Twas a meer plot, I doubt, to put him in fear of death.

I shall be taken for a kind of Rogue then, for bearing false witness

You shall not be mistaken, Sir, at all.

Pillory'd, and whipt, with my godly brother Cutter.

Abus'd by the Prentices as you walk in the streets, and have rotten apples slung at you.

Have a hundred blustring oaths o' mine no more beleeved, then when I swear to my Creditors, I'll pay all.

Be abandon'd by all men above a Tapster; and not dare to looke a gentleman i'the face; unless perhaps you sneak into a Play-house, at the fifth Act.

If ever I have to do with women a­gain, but i'the way of all flesh, may I dye an Eunuch. I'll never lye or swear hereafter, but for my self. Were not you the vertu­ous gentlewoman, with the brown paper-face, that perswaded me to it?

The very same, Sir; and I ha' just such another exploit here to imploy thee in: therefore be secret, close as a cokle, my good Rymer.

To imploy me in!

Nay, you must do't i'faith; I ha' sworn first, Dogrel.

By this good light, I will do nothing at thy intreaty: not if thou shouldst intreat me to lye with thee. Must Poet Dogrel?

I, must, if he intend e're to drink Sack again; or to make more use of his little-poc­ket, then to carry Tavern-bills in't; must do't, unless he intend to die without a shirt, and be buried without a winding-sheet.

I like thy wit yet wench, what is't?

I would marry Puny; he's rich you know, and a bravery, and a wit.

He says himself he is so; but few are of his faith.

He dances too, and courteth the Ladies.

Yes in more postures then a dozen of Bowlers.

But he's rich, Dogrel, and will be wise enough; when I have got'um knighted, then I shall be a Lady, Dogrel; have a dozen of French-Taylors, Doct [...]rs, Jewellers, Perfumers, Tyre-women, to sit in consultati­on every morning, how I shall be drest up to play at Gleek, or dance, or see a Comedy, or go to the Exchange i'the afternoon; send every day my Gentleman, to know how such a Lady slept, and dream'd; or whe­ther her dog be yet in perfect health: Then have the young smelling braveries; all adore me, and cut their arms, if I be pleased to be angry: Then keep my close and open Coaches, my yellow sattin Pages, Mon­kies, and women, or (as they call 'um) crea­tures.

Be then a politick, Lady; keep none but ugly ones, you'll ne'er be handsome else. But suppose all this, what's this to Dogrel?

Dogrel shall be maintain'd by me, he shall ha' fine new Serge; and every day more wine then's drunk at a Corona­tion.

This qualifies. And when the good Knight's dicing, or at bowls, or ga­thering notes in private out o' Romances; might not Dogrel have a bit?

Yes, like enough your Poetry might tempt some of my under-women to't. But are you prepar'd to cheat, in your own be­half, [Page] and mine?

I, but how must this be done?

Why thus briefly. First read this Letter.

I'faith, was this her writing?

No▪ but the hand's [...]s like hers as the left is to the right. This you shall shew to Puny; and tell him that you found or stole it from Truman: I need not I suppose in­struct you, to polish over a lye; he knows their love, and cannot suspect any thing; perswade him to make use of the occasion, and come himself.

And you [...]ll meet him vail'd.

Hast thou found it out? thou hast shrew [...]d reaches Dogrel.

I'll do't. Thou shalt be blest. I'll do't i'faith.

About it then; I'll leave you: and fail not, Dogrel; remember wine and serge. But first, I have another way t' undoe thee, Lucia: And that I [...]ll try too.

Go thy ways girl for one, and that's for Puny I hope; I see thou'lt ne'er turn Semstress, nor teach girls; thou'dst be a rare wife for me, I should beget on thee Donnes, and Iohnsons: but thou art too wit­ty. We men that are witty know how to rule our selves, can cheat with a safe consci­ence; 'tis charity to help thee, Aurelia, and I will do't, and merit.

Act. 3. Scaen. 2.

Act 3. Scaen. 3.

Thanks good Taylor; now I'll onely beg that I may buy your secrecy: Fare thee well, Friend.

[Page]I have with much ado gotten to you, and can stay with you to night. (Ha!) Why should we defer our joys longer, since we are married in heart? The opportunity, and impatience of such delays, forc'd me to de­sire that which else my modesty would not suffer me—(Modesty?) —Your desires— to your bed —long wisht-for—(why this is strange) hum-hum-hum— Yours, Lucia. No, no, thou art not Lucia. If thou dost (As thou saist) love me, do not use that name.

Some devil has chang'd thee— This i [...] worse stil—with much ado—to night—joys longer—opportunity—

Act. 3. Scaen. 4.

But how shall I represent this An­thropophagus?

Onely speak softly, lest she chance to know your voice.

I warrant you I'll whisper like wet wood in a Justices chimney at Christmas.

But of all things, take heed of too much wit; that's always dangerous, but especially now. Truman, you know, is an ho­nest harmless fellow, and is contented to speak sense.

I, hang him; there's clotted cream in his head in stead of brains; and no more o' that then will compleatly serve to fill the eye of a needle. But I shall ne'er abstain from these fine things, hyperboles and simi­litudes: my nature stands a tiptoe: Truman has got the cramp; his genius is like some gouty Alderman's that sits in a chair. An' I were in Phalaris's Bull, I think I should be witty.

Nay, I know't; a man may as [Page] well keep a prentice from Moor-fields on a holiday, as you from your Muses, and Ca­nundrums; they're meat and drink to you.

No, my good bag-pipe, they're meat and drink to you, that feed by 'um.

I see you're ashamed of the Muses, and I hope they're even with you. But so much for this: you [...]ll finde wine, I hope, when I have found you the wen [...]h.

Though thou wouldst drink cups bigger then Pa [...]ls-steeple, or the great bell at Westminster, thou shouldst have 'um. How long dost thou think has this night worn her mourning-gown, and lookt like a funeral?

Indeed, she has many torches. Why sure, 'tis just about the Critical time which she appointed. You know your busi­ness: First break a piece of Gold; profess before Heav'n and Angels, you take her for your wife; then give her half of it: and after that, somewhat as you understand me.

Will she be malleable, d'ye think? Shall I stamp Puny on her?

There's a Metaphor indeed! It seems 'tis the fashion; you take your wife for Gold. Hark! the door opens, use your fortune well.

Now, if my Alcocadin be right, I'm sure, I am made.

Act. 3. Scaen. 5.

Pox upon 'um, they put me into a horrible fear; but I am glad I am so hap­pily cheated, for all that. Well, I must de­vise some horrible lye, to justifie my fears; some trick must be thought upon to gull Truman. How now? What news from Tripoly.

Sad news, my Lord; here's an Ar­my at the door, to speak with you.

Who are they? Creditors? a Mer­chant, a Mercer, a Scrivener, a Taylor, a Butcher, Six Cookes, a dozen of Vint­ners, and the rest? Ha? Tell 'um I am sick, taking Physick, or else abroad; hang 'um Rogues, come like quotidian Agues on a man.

No, Sir, 'tis old Mr. Truman, the Widow, and her daughter, and Mr. Dog­rel, and I know not who; there's a stock of 'um.

They are those I wisht for, let 'um in.

Now, Signior Blade, If ever thou wouldst see the golden age of yore, this is the time.

Act. 3. Scaen. 6.

O Sir, my Son has poyson'd you, I see; there's no Law yet, is there?

Mr. Trum [...]n —

True me no more then I true you. Come, Captain Blade, I know what you are, and so shall others too.

You'll hear me, Sir, I hope —

And so shall you hear me, Sir; I can be heard, I would you should know, in as good a place as this is; and before as good as you are, Captain Blade.

First leave your raging, Sir: for though you should roar like Tamerlin at the Bull, 'twould do no good with me.

I Tamerlin? I scorn him, as m [...]ch as you do, for your ears. I'll have an acti­on of slander against you, Captain; you shall not miscal me at your pleasure: remember you call'd me Iethro once before.

O the Father! little did I think, I wuss, to see you ever with these eyes a­gain.

Pray, Sir, hear me; The wrong I did you, when you were last here, came from distraction onely, and not my will; and therefore deserves pardon. The business, if you please, I'll relate truly to you; and by what special providence I escap'd the danger.

Well, Sir, I'm not angry; but [Page] I'll not be call'd Tamerlin by any man.

Upon my faith, Sir, it was an Anti­dote; I vomited up more then any whale could have done; things of more colours then twenty Rhetoricians were ever able to invent.

I shall teach my son—

No good Sir, I forgive him with all my heart: but for my Neece—You remem­ber, Sir, the Will my brother left; you were witness to it. For this her disobedience, the means are faln to me. Now if you please to marry M. Richard to my daughter, Lucia's portion shall all be hers.

Thank you good Captain Blade; I thank you for your love heartily: pray send for 'um; he shall do't presently. I thank you heartily for your love, good Captain: he shall do't, he shall do't.

(What good luck was this, that I spoke not to the widow for her daughter!) How do you, widow? you're melancholy methinks; you're melancholy i'faith, that you are.

Well, I praise God, Sir, in better health then I deserve, vile wretch. I'm glad to see our neighbour so recovered.

I, good man, he has had a dangerous time of it, that he has, a very dangerous time: his neece is a naughty wench, a scurvie girl, to repay him thus for all his care and trou­ble: he has been a father to her, Widow, that he has; to my knowledge he has: Her father was an honest man, I'm sure on't.

Was he? I, as ever trod upon Gods ground, peace be with him; I, and as loving a neighbour too—

We have drunk our half pintes of Muscadel together many a morning, that we have.

My husband too was all in all with him. Hei-ho! I shall never forget how merry we were when we went with him to Mortlake in the Easter-holy-days: and we carried a shoulder of Mutton with us, and a fat Pig, and he carried his bottle of wine down with him: I warrant you he he lov'd a cup of wine as well as his brother; in a fair sort, I mean.

Ah widow! those days are gone: we shall never see those days again. I was a merry grig too then, and would ha'danc'd and cut capers: ha—who but I? I was as merry as the maids.

My daughter Tabytha was just four yeer old then, come Lamas-tide.

Captain, I thought thou hadst been at Ere [...]us by this time: but 'tis no matter; 'tis but an Epitaph lost: hang't, 'twas made ex tempore and so let it pass.

Hadst thou made one i'faith?

Yes, by thi, light.

I'm glad I did not die then. O here they come. She's a good handsome wench; 'tis pity to cozen her. But who can help it? Every one for himself, and God for us all.

Act. 3. Scaen. 7.

Welcome, kinde Neece; you see I live still: there were Antidotes as well as Poisons.

He has been a loving Uncle to you, Mistress Lucia: he might have deserv'd better at your hands: you might had Master Truman, I warrant you, had you but held up your finger to him: he would not ha' seen you perish, Mistris Lu [...]ia; I may say I know him so far. Speak, Mistris Lucia, speak for your self, good chuck; your Uncle will forgive you: we'll all speak for you: He shall forgive you, that he shall: he knows we have all our faults.

I understand the language of her si­lence; it's strong and good. You bound your son, Sir, to an oath never to see nor hear her without your commission: 'tis that troubles her conscience; she has a tender one.

I bound 'um? Well, I absolve 'um then; what's that to you, Sir? I'll binde 'um again, if 't be my pleasure so: if not, a fig for you; that's all I care. I love to speak my minde; you must pardon me, I ha' spoke to as good as you i [...] my days.

D'ye speak thus always? I'll ha' you in a Play if you do.

I'm glad you are so religious, Sir; did I bind you too to silence? Go too, Sir; I told you what your may bees would bring you to, you'll always be wiser then your father: Nay, you may speak, and your Mi­nion too, if she pleases.

Does any man here accuse me of any thing?

We, and your conscience do.

Thou'dst be blacker then a Moor if 'twere. Did not you consent with that damn'd Physitian to give me poyson?

Let her alone, she'll call names and fling stones about anon.

Alas poor soul! you may see she's not her own woman.

What a poor excuse she made! a very idle simple excuse; have you never a better for us?

No, she says true.

You wo'nt bite off my nose? will ye, Sir? pray do not bite off my nose, I pray, Sir, do not?

Act. 3. Scaen. 8.

What a bevy o' men's here! ha! My little Load-stone, art thou here, my lit­tle Diamond? I'll speak to your Uncle now; we'll have a Parson cry I Nicholas presently.

You'r rude, Sir: what do you mean?

I, so you said i'the garden, when I began to gather, you know what fruit: Come put on your vail, you'll blush else; and look like the picture of a red-rose i'the hangings. Captain, Salve, 'tis done.

Done! What?

I have her, i'faith.

God give you joy, Sir.

Nay, she's my own.

I am very glad of 't.

I scal'd the walls, entered the Town, and left a garison there, I hope.

I congratulate your Victory, Mr. Puny.

You shall goe to my wedding, with me and thi [...] fair Chorus. I'm as nimble as a Lybian Rabbit: Come, you must go, though you be as lame as a criple, that b [...]s at Westminster, or a Crow in a gutter with­out her right leg. What d'ye wonder at? I tell you, she's my Penelope now.

May I be so bold, Sir, as to ask, who 'tis you mean?

'Slid, canst thou not see my mean­ing? are your brains in a litter? I'm con­tracted to your Neece, and have got upon her—Nay, never blush, we're as good as married, my dear Agat.

Have you then lien with her?

Ha! No figures nor similitudes, good Mr. Puny; be as open and naked with me, as you were with her.

As plain as a Scholars mourning-cloak. I ha' don't i'faith, but d'ye see? We broke this gold between us first, and will be married to day. Who's that? Truman, ha, ha; he looks like the Globe of the World, now: look how he scratcheth his poul.

God give you joy, Sir: but she has not a farthing portion.

How, Captain?

Not so much as will buy ribbands: all s mine own: a lawful prize, i'faith.

Oh monster of her sex!

Wilt thou, vile man—I cannot speak to him—Witness all these—

So 'tis all forfeited to me. Will you try how your sons affection stands towards Aurelia?

Come, Dick, the Captain has forgiven you: never think of Lucia; she's not worth your thinking on; a scurvie girl: ne'er think o' her; thou shalt marry fair Aurelia: there's a wench, a wench worth gold i'faith.

I can't marry.

What can't you do, Sir?

I can't marry.

Do you know who 'tis you speak to, Sir? you do'n't sure: Who am I, pray? you can [...]t, when I bid you. Surely you know not who 'tis you speak to: you shall do't, or I'll know why you shall not.

I won't marry.

Get you out o' my sight: come within my doors no more; not within my doors, Sir.

Take heed, M Truman, what you do.

I wo'n't marry.

Pray hear me all—

Come, M. Truman, let's talk of these things within: come, Gentlemen.

Hei-ho! I'll ne'er trust a wart o' the right cheek and a twinkling eye again whilst I breathe, for Mistress Lucia's sake. A man would, think, that sees her▪ that butter would not ha' melted in her mouth. Take heed, Tabytha; the still Sow eats up all the draff, I see.

I'll never acknowledge him for my son again: I tell you, Captain, he's al­ways thus; he's always with his may-be's and his wo'nots: I can't abide these wo'­nots, not abide 'um.

I ll follow him about the portion; he sha' not think to make an Asdrubal of me.

Now my plot works.

Act. 3. Scaen. 9.

Scaen. 1.

Act. 4. Scaen. 2.

Hei! the Sisters are ravisht, and we have holy kisses enough. I shall be as great among 'um as—Who's there? What, your Spouse, Pury?

She looks like Niobe on the moun­tains top.

That Niobe, Dogrel, you have us'd worse then Phoebus did. Not a dog looks melancholy, but he's compar'd to Niobe. He beat a villanous Tapster t'other day, to make him look like Niobe.

Why 'faith that 's pretty odde, like one o' mine.

O, Sir, had you the vertuous impu­dence to slander a poor maid thus?

Poor enough now indeed. I will not marry thee: thy portion was a condition of the Contract. I'll sooner marry a woman that sells Orenges with a face like Belins­gate.

I scorn thee—I contracted to thee?

Wert not? Answer.

No, by heaven.

Bear witness, Gentlemen; these words are Ca [...]duus benedictus to me.

And what will you do now, fair Gammer Lucia, you that contemn'd the Co­lonel? Will you knit for your living?

Or else weed gardens for six pence a day and bread.

This is unheard-of rudeness.

Nay let me ha' mine too; I ha' got a pat one for her. Or else turn Apple-wo­man, live in a stall, and sell pippins for eight a peny.

What think ye, Gentlemen? she'll make a pretty Landress.

A Landress? hang her, she looks like a foul handkercher.

Pray let me go; I ha' business re­quires me.

What? you're to meet some Gen­tlemen? How is't? twelve pence a time, I warrant, in these cloathes.

Where do you set up? Nay, we are true strikers. What, is't in Covent-garden?

Or do you renew the decay'd credit of Turnbal-street?

Or honour the Mill-bank at West­minster.

Or flee to Wapping, and engross the Sailors.

Or Moor-fields, and sell cakes.

Are all barbarous here?

Nay tell's; we shall be customers.

Enough, enough; give her a clap o'the breech, and let her go.

Well, fare thee well, girl; we shall finde you at the Play house i' the six-peny-room sometimes.

And d'ye hear, Lucia, Keep your self wholesome: your tub's a terrible thing.

Ha, ha, ha.

A pretty Scene i'faith. Now for the Captain; he'll entertain us like forraign Princes: we'll drink this half-yeer with him before we eat or sleep.

I'll drink like Gog-Magog himself, or the Spanish Tinker on a holy-day.

Leave your verses, Dogrel. I hate your verses, Dogrel, till I be drunk. 'Tis a glori­ous Captain.

As free as Free-town in Germany▪ Here comes Ieronymo.

Act. 4. Scaen. 3.

The story says my neece is run away. The story is not bad. Now will I get the widow, turn off my old rascally companions, and live like an Emperour.

He says he will live like an Empe­rour; ha, ha, ha, brave Captain.

Invincible Captain Priam.

Hei brave Captain!

What do you mean, Gentlemen? Are ye broke loose from Bedlam? Ha' you no other place to play your tricks in, but at my door? If you come here as Mummers, much may be done; haply you may have twelve-pence: or else depart; depart, if you be wise.

Why how now, Captain!

If you be not gone immediately, I'll ha' my men switch you further off—Here are saucy knaves indeed with all my heart—

By this light the Captain's drunk without us.

Prethee, Captain, thou art as hu­morous as a bell-rope. Dost thou know me, man? I'm M. Puny.

Y' are a fool, an addle egge: there's nothing else but cobwebs i' your [Page] head: The height of all thy knowledge is to find out the quarter day against thy rents come in, and thou couldst not finde out that, if 'twere not marke'd i'the Almanack with red letters. Yet you forsooth, because you see some Gentlemen and Poets of late, a little extravagant sometimes in their simi­litudes; because they make a pretty kinde of sound to those that mark 'um not; make that your way of wit, and never speak with­out comparisons. But never were compa­risons so odious as thine are. And these two Rabbit-suckers, for a quart of wine extol thee, and cry good when thou speakest so.

The Captains raging mad like a Baker when his oven is over heated.

And that was one of um—

Come leave your humors, hang you, confound you, pox take you, Captain, we come to drink here.

Mine's no blind Ale-house, where you may roar and swagger with half a pipe of Tobacco in your mouth.

Do you know me, Captain?

I would I never had. Thou art one that sayest thou hast seen the wars, but thou liest basely; for if thou ever wast in a battle, i'm sure thou winkest there. Thou art one that liv'st like a Raven by provi­dence and rapine: one that if thou shouldst chance to go to bed sober, thou wouldst put it down in thy Almanack for an unlucky day; sleep is not death's image with thee, unless thou beest dead-drunk.

He dares not abuse me thus.

Is't even so, Captain? Has your money exalted you?

No, it has humbled me, and made me know my self and you, whom I shall study to forget hereafter.

Come, Captain, shall you and I drink hand to hand?

Oh, you're his Lansprizado, Sirrah, Trundle.

Let not thy wrath swell like the A­drian Sea.

Thou that troublest thy self to be a fool; I will so beat thee, Trundle, that thou shalt hobble like one of thy own Rhyms. Therefore, if ever thou shewest that Poetical face of thine within my doors a­gain, Ile use thee worse then thou didst me, when thou mad'st an Ode in commendation of me.

Then break thine oaten reed—

Fare ye well Gentlemen. I shall see thee Cutter a brave Tapster shortly; it must be so i'faith, Cutter; thou must like Bar­dolph i'the play, the spiggot weild. Dogrel shall make and sell smal Pamphlets i'the play­house, or else Tobacco, or else snuffe Can­dles. As for Puny, his means will serve him to be cheated of these five or six yeers.

'Tis very well the times are so al­ter'd.

Ye cannot want a living Gentlemen, as long as there are Whores, Bowling-allies, or Ordinaries; especially such able men as you are. There will be wars too shortly; never quake, Cutter; here's Dogrel, when his want has spun him out a little thinner, will serve you for a pike.

'Tis very well: pray God your mirth last, Captain.

When you're grown old, and your fingers then only nimble with the palsie, I'll provide an Hospital for you—Sedes ubi fata quietas — Fare ye well, Gallants; and pray be merry: Fare ye well heartily.

Poverty, the pox, an ill wife, and the Devil go with thee, Captain.

I vexed him, when I put that jest up­on him, like a Baker when his oven's over­heated.

If I don't compose a Satyre shall make him hang himself, may I never write verse more.

I would beat him like a Buck, but I shall be bound to the peace for't, and be affronted afterward by every one.

No, no, no—let me see—Besides my Satyre I have another way—let me see—His brother traffickt at Guiny.

Yes, but the Merchants there report him dead.

The more knaves they: he lives, and I am he.

How? How, Dogrel, thou the Mer­chant man?

By this light, I either am, or will be.

How, Dogrel! Though thou be as thin and penetrable as a spirit, yet thou canst not assume dead bodies.

Prithee, Dog [...]el, hold thy peace; thou talkest like a hogs f [...]ce.

De [...]ide not Puny: if I be not more like then any of your similitudes, I'll be hang [...]d for't.

Thy face, indeed, will do exceed [...]ng well to represent one risen from the grave

By long conversation with the Captain, I know all the passages between him and his brother; know what his humour, what his state and fortunes were, better then himself did when he lived.

I, but thou 'lt ne'er act him. Why, man, he was a thing more st [...]ange then any monster in Africk where he travell'd.

What was he, prithee?

I knew him well enough; he had lost his memory, and therefore either writ down every thing, and took his business with him in a scroll, or else trusted it to his man Iohn, whom he carried with him.

O I, that Iohn and he went perpetu­ally together, like the blinde man and his dog.

Or a Tinker and his t [...]ull. But d'ye hear, gallants, let me do apple-Iohn: never was such a Iohn as I'll be, not Iohn a Gaunt himself, nor Iohn a Nook.

But Dogrel, how wilt thou be made like that Cinque- [...]ater?

Why we Poets can do any thing. First you may remember (unless you be like him) 'tis seven yeers since he went from hence; and time, you know, will alter men. I made an Ode upon that subject once: Time, that dost eat, and makst no Lent—

Pox take your Ode; go on i' your business, Dogrel.

Then I and my man Iohn (as simply as he stands here) will swarthy over our faces as if the Countrey had made us so: for if you remember my verses, In Africk they are black as coals—

The devil's i' thy verses. Prithee on.

Besides, we'll be attir'd in some strange habit of those Countries: I know not how; but you shall see't in Speed, Maps.

Why now I like thee, my little Ovid; go about thy Metamorphosis. I'm for Taby­th [...]; she's taken, Dogrel, [...]elted like virgins wax. I ll to her presently, and tell her that the vision appeared to me last, and warn'd me to carry her to S. [...]; there will I have a Priest.

A Priest, Cutter?

A Minister, I mean; a holy, godly, zealous Minister: and she—You conceive me, Dogrel—

Well, let's be going then. Puny, take heed o' your wit when you act Iohn: I shall beat my servant Iohn, if he be witty.

That's the devil; I shall hardly ab­stain.

And Dogrel, you must make no verses, Dogrel: let that be the first thing your memory fails you in.

Well, I'll follow you in a pissing-while.

Do so, good Iohn.

Now will I turn Iohn, as round as a Wedding-ring: and if that plot be cut of [...] by the nose—Ha? Here comes sententious Bias that walks gravely. I'll observe my young Laconian.

Act. 4. Scaen. 4.

'Siid I did not touch her. What would you ha' me say? would I were Iohn the Merchants man now.

I had rather be a pickl'd▪ Oister, then i'this case I am in now.

D'ye hear, Sir—by Heaven I lay with her, but we were contracted first—will you be pleas'd to hear me?

No, be gone.

Most willingly. Fare ye well hear­tily, Sir; I wish you a good night-cap.

Act. 4. Scaen. 5.

I tell you, Captain, he's a stub­born boy, a self-will'd hair-brain'd boy: he has his know-nots, and his wo'nots, and his may be's, when I speak. I have told him of his manner a hundred ti [...]es; nay I may say a thousand.

Pray take [...]y counsel for this once: though I be a souldier, yet I love not to do all things by force. Speak fairly to him.

Speak fairly to my son? I'll see him buried, I'll see his eyes out first.

I mean, desire him.

O, that's another matter. Well, for your perswasion, I'll do it: but if ever I speak fair to him—

I know his nature's such, that kind­ness will sooner win him—Look you, he's here i'faith, as melancholy as an owl i' the day-time.

O, are you there, Jacksauce—

Nay, remember what I told you.

'Tis true indeed How now, son Dick? you're melancholy still, I see.

It best becomes my fortune, Sir, now you have cast me off.

I cast thee off? marry God for­bid, Dick. How dost do, Dick? Thou lookst ill, Dick, in troth thou dost: I must have thee merry.

I see all kindness is against this dotards nature, he does so over-act it.

Wilt thou have a Physitian, Dick? Thou art my onely son, Dick, and I must have a care of thee: thou shouldst ride a­broad sometimes, Dick, and be merry. We'll ha' a wife too for thee, Dick, a good wife, ha—

I thank you, Sir; but I know not—

I, now he's at his know-nots. I will make you leave those know-nots, boy—

Remember, M. Truman, what I told you.

'Tis true indeed. Your father's old now, Dick, you see, and would fain see a grandchilde: tis out of love to you, Dick, that I perswade you to't; you may be a com­fort, Dick, to your father now.

You may comm [...]nd me.

Well said, Dick, I see thou lovest me now, Dick; dost thou want any money, Dick? or cloathes? or horses? You sh [...]uld tell me what you want, you shall have any thing —here's the Captain, a hearty friend of yours—where's your Daughter, Captain? there's a wench, Dick! ha you seen her?

Yes, Sir.

And how do you like her, Dick? speak freely.

I know no cause why any should dislike her.

Why well said, Dick; keep thee o' that minde still, and God will bless thee.

Your father means, Mr. Truman, I suppose, how you like her for a wife.

I can tell my own meaning my self I hope, I'm old enough I'm sure.

Well, Sir, if you esteem her worth your choise, she shall be yours.

Why what should ayre him, Cap­tain? He esteem her? Must he, forsooth, or I be Master pray? Captain Blade, you make him too saucy with such talk; never tell me, Captain Blade, I say it makes him too saucy, I marry does it, it does i'faith; must he be his own Carver? Come no more words, I [...]ll have you married presently: i'saith law, Captain, you make him too sau­cy, that you do, you do i'faith, Sir; I can't abide when sons must come to esteem, he esteem her with a vengeance?

I desire time onely to consider—

I, why I told you this; 'tis such a another wilful, hair-braind Coxcomb, he's always a considering. Captain Blade, I could never keep him from his considering; but I shall so consider you—go get you in, Sir, I'll have it done when I please; get you in, Sir, I'll keep you from considering here­after.

Act. 4. Scaen. 6.

What did you say your name was?

Jane, forsooth.

Well said, Iane; and as I told you, Iane, you shall have six pound a yeer, Iane, for your wages; and then my cloathes will serve you with a little alteration: There's a gown of my Cosens within will almost fit you, you're much about her height, you shall ha' that too. I had a Cousin here was a foolish thing god wot, 'tis well I'm rid of her—and d'ye hear—you must be very se­cret and faithful to your Mistris; a wait­ing womans place, is a place require, secrecy.

I shall ill deserve your favour else.

Nay, I dare trust thee, Iane, thou lookst ingenuously: didst thou ever live at Court?

No forsooth.

O, you must learn the fashions of the Court: I'm already contracted to one Mr. Puny, though he little things of it; Take heed of speaking, Iane, you see I trust you. And when I'm married to him I'll live at Court: He's a simple thing God knows, but I'll have him knighted, and I like him the better for't: A wise woman you know will make the best use of a foolish husband. You know how to dress me, Iane, i'the Court fashion?

Yes forsooth.

And you can lay me on a Fucus hansomly?

I hope I shall quickly learn it.

And when you see a friend with me, or so, that I would be private with; you can stay i'the next room, and see that no body come in, to interrupt us?

I shall not be deficient in my duty.

Well said. And can you tell in pri­vate such a Gentleman that you heard me speak in commendation of him, and that I dreamt of him last night? that will be in your way, Iane, such men will be grateful. And say that I was longing t'other day, for such a jewel or such a toy?

I hope you shall not finde me want­ing in any service to you.

I beleeve thee, Iane. To morrow I'll teach thee more: I shall read to you eve­ry day a lesson, til I see you perfect in the sci­ence: 'tis requisite that you have a little of the Theory first. Go look out the pearle chain in the Cabinet within; and stay till I come to you.

The wench I see is docile, and will learn; but alas she must have time; she has a little to much City breeding, I see, by Court'sies and forsooths.

Act 4. Scaen. 7.

How now? all alone, Aurelia? you're eating soap and ashes here, I warrant you, without so much as saying grace for 'um.

I'd rather repent in ashes, Sir, then eat 'um

What would you think if I should marry now this very day?

I should think, Sir, you'd repent to morrow for [...]t.

And the widow too.

The widow? then you'll repent to night, Sir, I believe.

I woo'd her long ago, and now she sees there's an estate faln to me, faith she's content; and, to save charges, is willing to be married to day privately.

But I hope you are not so, Sir: why we shall have all the silenc'd Ministers hum­ming and hawing thrice a week here; not a dish o' meat but will be longer a blessing then a rosting. I shall never hear my Virgi­nals when I play upon 'um, for her daughter Tabytha's singing of Psalms. The first pious deed will be, to banish Shakespear and Ben. Iohnson out of the parlour, and to bring in their rooms Mar-prelate, and Pryns works. You'll ne'er endure 't, Sir You were wont to have a Sermon once a quarter at a good time; you shall have ten a day now.

Let me alone to deal with 'um. If any of her eating talking tribe shew their ears here, I will so use her tribe, that they shall free the Pope, and call me Antichrist here­after: and the widow, I [...]ll warrant you, I'll convert: I'll carry her to Plays, in stead of Lectures: she shall see them, as well as the dancing o' the ropes, and the Puppet-play of Nineve. But this is not my business, girl: I have an husband too for you.

I could wish you would keep him, Sir, if you have him; I know not what to do with him my self.

Come, 'tis a man you'll like, I'm sure; I have heard you often commend him for his parts. 'Tis young M. Truman.

Truman, Sir? the melancholy cross-arm'd Gentleman that talks to trees and ri­vers as he goes by 'um? We should sit all day together like pictures of man and wife, with our faces towards one another, and never speak I'll undertake, upon our Marriage-night he'll onely sigh a little, cry Cruel Fate, and then go sleep.

Never fear't. Come, thou shalt have him, girl: go quickly and dress your self; we'll both be married on a day. The humor is good, and it saves charges: there's the wi­dows humour too.

You'll give me leave, Sir—

No, no, no; prithee go dress thy self: by heaven it must be as I say: the fates have ordain'd it.

Be pleas'd to hear me, Sir.

I would not hear thee, though thou wert an Angel. I'm as resolute as he that writ the Resolves. Come away, and adorn thy self.

Act. 4. Scaen. 8.

Me thinks. I look now like a two-peny apple pye, I know no [...] how.

Iohn, What's your name, Iohn? I have forgot your name, Iohn.

Do you mean the name that was given me at the Font?

Font? Font? I do not remember that Font. Let me see my scroll.

There's ne'er a such town in Africa as Font. I do not remember Font.

Your memory, Sir, 's as short as an Ephemerides.

Did not I warn you, Iohn, of such strange what-d'ye-call ums? Here's for that word.

I have forgot what word 'twas: for the word I mean.

Pox take you, Dogrel, you strike too hard.

Thou'dst act well, I see: we'll ha' thee to Golden-lane, and there thou shalt do [Page] a King, or else some God in thine own cloathes.

Did not I warn you o' these what-d'ye-call-ums? 'Faith we'll be even, Ma­ster.

Very well, Iohn; those be good Me­morandums for your Master.

I should be angry with thee for it, but that I ha' quite forgot it.

Let's see your scroll.

Me [...]morandum for my house: I have a house in Fleetstreet, with a garden to't. My daugh­ter is call'd Lucia; a handsome fair maid with red cheeks, black eyes, and brown hair, and a little dimple in her chin. My brother's name (to whom I left the charge of my daughter) is Blade. (A most excellent Note indeed.) What ha' we here? Memoran­dums concerning my estate. What, they're all of this stamp, are they not? Take heed, Dogrel, the Captain's a shrewd fellow; he'll examine you more strictly then the Spanish Inquisition can.

Pish, if he pose me in any thing, my memory's weak, he knows; I h' forgot it quite.

And then your voice I fear; and then—

Pox take you, Cutter; a Casuist would not finde so many scruples.

The devil's in't, I shall never do this part; I know not how to speak and not be witty.

Well, look to't, gallants; if the Captain finde you out, he'll abuse you most unmercifully—I'm now for Tabytha.

The Captain abuse me? By this day, I'll jeer with him with my hands bound be­hinde me. Come away, Master.

I, Iohn; but which way did we come?

Why this way, Master.

Then that way we must go. Is not this my house in Fleet street, Iohn I thought you had said t' had been in Fleet street.

Yes, so 'tis, Sir.

Truly I thought you said so. Come away, Iohn.

Scaen. 1.

And the vision told me, sister Taby­tha, that this same day, the twelfth of March, in the yeer of grace 1641, at this same holy place, by a holy man, we two, who are both holy vessels, should be joyned together in the holy band of Matrimony.

My mother will be angry, I'm af­feard.

Your mother will rejoyce. I would not for a world that you should do it, but that we were commanded from above; yea, I may say commanded: for, to do things without a divine warrant, is like unto the building of a fire without a bottom cake.

I (God knows) that it is.

Very well, sister. Now when my eyes were opened in the morning, I awoke: for it was morning-tide, and my eyes were opened; and I looked into my pockets; for my breeches lay upon a joyn'd stool not far from the beds side: and in my pockets, even made with leather, I looked (I say) and found; What did I finde? marry a License written with ink and pen: Where did I finde it? in no other place, but even in a godly Catechism which I had wrapt and folded up long-ways, even in that very pocket.

I wou'd my mother knew it. But I'll not resist, God willing.

There is a godly Teacher within, that never was defiled with the Cap and Surplice, never wore that gambol call'd the Hood; even he shall joyn our hands. Shall we enter, sister?

Brother, I'll not resist.

Act. 5. Scaen. 2.

Faith, Sir, I would not willingly be a man, if they be all like you.

Our sex is little beholding to you, Sir; I would your mother were alive to hear you. But pray, Mr. Truman, what shall we do when we are married?

We may do this, me thinks, and ne­ver marry for the business.

Sure. Sir, you knew, when you were a suitor to my cousin Lucia.

Why here's a husband for a wench of clouts! May I never laugh again, if his company has not made me duller then Ale and butter'd cakes wou'd ha' done. I marry him? the old men must excuse me. I'll sooner chuse a fellow that lies bed-rid, and can do nothing a-nights but cough. Well, if I don't teach 'um what 'tis to force a wench that has wit, may my husband beat me when I have one, and I sit still and cry. I like this very well—It shall be so. Iane, come hi­ther, Iane.

Act. 5. Scaen. 3.

O Iane, that's well; little think you what good's towards you; 'tis that you have wisht for, I dare say, th [...]se five yeers; a good handsome husband. What think you of young Truman?

Nay saith thou shalt e'en have him [Page] thy self for better or worse. He's too han­some indeed, unless he could make better use of his beauty; for by my troth, wench, I'm afraid thou'lt finde thy pillow as good a bed-fellow.

I pray do not mock your servant.

Thou shalt see, Iane, I do not; come in, wench, and I'll tell thee all my plot.

Act. 5. Scaen. 4.

Well, Sir, is the Cook doing accor­ding to my directions?

Yes, Sir, he's very hard at his busi­ness i'the kitchin: h' has been a swearing and cursing at the scullions at least this hour, Sir.

'Tis such an over-wasted Coxcomb; an other wedding dinner would make him a S. Lau [...]ence: bid him be sure the Venison be well season'd

Troth, Sir, I dare not speak to him now, unless I put on the armor in the hall: he had like to have spitted me next to a goose, for saying that he look'd like an ox that was roasted whole at S. Iame's fayre.

You have invited a [...]l the guests to dinner you talk [...]d of?

Yes, Sir.

And the widdows round-headed kin­dred?

Yes, Sir.

They'l come i'their garded petticoats, will they not? You should have bid 'um eat no por [...]ige at home, to seem more mannerly here at dinner. The widdow will be angry at their charges, but I'll please her at night. Go bid the Butler look to his plate, and not be drunk till he sees it all in again. Whose at the door there?

Act. 5 Scaen. 5.

Faith, Sir, you know as well as I; some charitable beast come to be drest here. Shall I call the Cook, Sir?

Why this is my house here, Iohn: ha! ha! little thought I to have seen my house in Fleet-street again. Where's my brother Blade?

They call me Captain Blade.

Is this he Iohn? Let me see

A proper burly man, with a whitei [...]h beard, a quick eye, and a nose inclining to red, 'tis true Save you good brother, you did not ex­pect me here; did you brother? Stay let me see how many yeers ago is't since we went from home?

'Tis now just seven, Sir.

Seven! me think's I was here but yesterday: How the what-d'ye-call-'um runs? What do ye call it?

Time, Sir.

I, I, Time. What was't I was say­ing? O, I was telling you brother, that I had quite forgot you: was I not telling him so Iohn?

By my troth, Sir, we are both quits then; for I have forgot you too. Why, you were dead five yeers ago.

Was I so? I ha' quite forgot it. Iohn, was I dead five yeers ago? My memo [...]ry failes me very much of late▪

We were worse then dead I'm sure; we were taken by a barbarous kind of Nati­on, and there made slaves these five yeers. Iohn quoth he! I was poor Iohn indeed: I'm sure they fed us three whole yeers with nothing but Acorns and water: we lookt like wicker-bottles.

How, Sirrah? Did your Master look like a wicked boat-man?

Nay I remember what you said we lookt like Did we look like what-d'ye-call-ums?

Where did they take you prisoners?

Nay ask Iohn, he can tell you I warrant you. 'Twas in—tell him, Iohn, where it was.

In Guiny, Sir.

By what Country-men were you taken?

Why they were call'd—I know not [Page] what they call'd 'um 'twas an odde kinde of name; but Iohn can tell you.

'Slife, who I Sir? d'ye think I can remember all things?

'Tis in my book here; I remember well the name of any Country under the Sun.

I know their names, Sir, well enough; but I onely tri'd my Masters memory. They 're call'd Tartarians.

How say you? what were they?

Tartarians, Sir.

I, I, these were the men

How, Iohn! why all the world, man, lies between 'um: they live up i' the North.

The North?

I, the very North, Iohn.

That's true indeed: but these were another nation of the Tartarians that liv'd by us.

Well, how escap'd you, Iohn, at last?

Why 'faith, Sir, to tell you the truth, for I love not to tell a lye, the Kings daugh­ter fell in love with me, and for my sake there set us free. My master has it all in his book; 'tis a fine story.

Strange! In what ship did you come back?

What ship? why 'twas call'd—a thing that swims—How d'ye call it?

What? the Mermaid?

No, no, no, let me see—

What? was't the Triton?

No, no—it swims, I tell you.

The Dolphin?

No, no— I have forgot what 'twas.

What say you, Iohn?

(Pox take him.) I, Sir? O God, my Master, Sir, can tell as well as I.

He says he has forgot.

Tis his pleasure to say so, Sir: he may say what he pleases. (A plague upon him.) You can't conceive the misery we have past, Sir.

Well, brother, I'll make bold to ask one question more of you. Where did you leave your Will when you went away?

'Slife, now he's pos'd again.

I'll tell you presently, brother; let me see.

Memorandum for my Will: Left to my brother Blade the whole charge of my estate—hum—What did you ask me brother?

In what place you left your Will?

I, that was it indeed; you're i' the right; 'twas the very thing you askt me; and yet see how quickly I forgot it. My memo­ry's short, alas, God help me.

This is no answer to my question, yet.

'Tis true indeed. What was your question, pray?

Where you left your Will.

Good lord [...] I had forgot you askt me this; I had forgot, i'faithlaw, that I had: you'll pardon my infirmity, I hope, brother; for alas—alas—I ha' forgot what I was going to say to you; but I was a saying somthing, I am sure.

Did not you know us, Will? prithee tell's true.

No, by this light: why, you're grown as black as the chimney-stock.

That's the nature of the Country where we liv'd. O the stories that I shall tell you! And how does Nell, and little bonny Bess? are they as merry grigs as e'er they were?

No; Bess, poor wench, is married to a Chandler; but she's true blue still, as right as my leg, I'll warrant you.

What is't, Iohn? what was I going to say, Iohn, to my brother?

I know not, Sir; was't not about your daughter?

I, I, my daughter—What d'ye call her?

Lucia, Sir.

'Tis true indeed; my daughter Lu­cia, brother.

Pray walk into the parlour; I'll come to you presently, and tell you all.

Well, Iohn, put me in minde o' my daughter Lucia. (A plague o' your Tarta­rians.)

(And o' your what-d'ye-call ums.)

('Slife, Tartarians.)

If these be rogues, they are as impu­dent as Mountebanks and Juglers: and if I [Page] finde 'um to be rogues, (as I see nothing yet to the contrary) how I will exercise my rogues! The tyranny of a new Beadle over a beggar, shall be nothing to mine. Come hither, Will, what think you of these two fellows?

'Faith, Sir, I know not: but if you think it be not my old Master, I'll beat 'um worse then the Tartarians did.

No, no, let's try um first. Thou wast wont to be a very precious knave, and a great acter too, a very Roscius. Didst not thou once act the Clown in Musidorus?

No, Sir; but I plaid the Bear there.

The Bear? why that's a good part; th'art an acter then, I'll warrant thee. The Bear's a well pen'd part. And you remem­ber my brothers humour, don't you? They have almost hit it.

Yes, Sir, I know the shortness of my Masters memory; he would forget some­times to pay me my wages till he was put in minde on't.

Well said. I'll dress thee within in his own chamber; and all the servants shall acknowledge you. But who shall do trusty Iohn?

O, Ralph the Butler, Sir; he's an old actor, Sir, h'has plaid a King he says. I have heard him speak a Play ex tempore in the Buttry, Sir.

O Ralph, excellent Ralph, incompa­rable Ralph, Ralph against the world! Come away, William; I'll give you instructions within. It must be done in the twinkling of an eye.

Act. 5. Scaen. 6.

Now, Mistress Tabytha Cutter, let me kiss thee.

Pray God my mother be not angry.

Think not o' thy mother, Spouse; I tell thee, Spouse, thou shalt be a mother thy self, within these nine months.

Is that a Psalm, brother husband, that you sing?

No, no, a short ejaculatory. Sirrah boy, are the things within that I spoke for?

Yes, Sir.

Go fetch 'um in.

Come, Tabytha, let's be merry: Canst thou sing a catch, wench? O well said, Boy!

What? do these cloathes befit Queen Tabytha ▪s husband? this hat with a chimny-crown, and brims no broader then a mode­rate hat-band? Give me the Periwig, boy. What? shall Empress Tabytha's husband go as if his head were scalded? or with the seam of a shirt for a band? Shall I walk without a sword, and not dare to quarrel i' the streets, and thrust men from the wall? Will the Fidlers be here presently, boy?

Yes, Sir.

Pish, I can't abide these doings. Are you mad? O lord! what will my mother say? There shall come no Fidlers here.

Be peaceable, gentle Tabytha; they will not bring the Organs with 'um. I say be peaceable; he vision bid me do thus. Wilt thou resist the vision?

An' these be your visions—Little did I think 'twere—Is this your religion and praying? Which of all the Prophets wore such a map about his head, or such a sheet about his neck? What shall I do? I am undone.

What shalt thou do? Why, thou shalt dance, and sing, and drink, and laugh; thou shalt go with thy brests open, and thy hair braided; thou shalt put fine black stars upon thy face, and have great bobs for thy ears. Nay, if thou dost begin to look rusti­ly, I'll have thee paint thy face like the whore of B [...]bylon.

O that ever I was born to see this day!

What? dost thou weep, Queen Did [...]? Thou shalt have Sack to drive away thy sor­row. Come hither, boy, fetch me a quart of Canary.

Thou shalt see I'll be a loving husband to thee. The vision, Ta­bytha, bid me give you drink: we must obey these visions. Sing, Tabytha: Cry on your wedding-day? 'tis ominous.

O art thou come, boy— Well said, fill a brimmer; nay fuller yet, yet a little fuller. So. Here's to the Lady-Spouse; to our good sport to night.

Drink it your self, if you will; I'll not touch it.

By this hand, thou shalt pledge me, seeing the vision said so. Drink, or I'll take a Coach and carry thee to a Play immedi­ately.

I can't abide—

Why, this will clear thy heart, wench: Sack, and an husband, wench, are both com­fortable things. Have at you again.

I'll pledge you no more. not I.

Here, take this glass, and take it off too, or else I'll swear an hundred oathes in a breathing-time. Here—

Well, you're the strangest man—

Why this is right now. Nay off with it. So. But the vision said that whatsoever we left of this same wine, would turn to poison straight. There, here's to you, Taby­tha, once again: 'tis the visions will.

What? must I drink again, then? Well, I'll not resist. You're such another brother-husband.

There's a whole one now—

How was't? Twas a pretty one.

O divine Tabytha! Here come the Fidlers too. Strike up, you rogues.

What? must we dance now? is not that the fashion? I could have danc'd the Coranto when I was a girl. The Coranto's a curious dance.

We'll dance out the disease of the Tarantula: but first we'll have a health to my pretty Tabytha.

I'll begin't my self. Here, Duck, here's to all that love us.

A health, you eternal scrapers sound a health. Bravely done, Tabytha: what thinkst thou now o' thy mother?

A fig for my mother; I'll be a mother my self. Come, Duckling, shall we go home?

Go home? the Bride and the Bride­groom go? We'll dance home. Afore us, squeakers: that way, and be hang'd. So. O brave Queen Tabytha! excellent Empress Tabytha! On, you rogues

Act. 5. Scaen. 7.

I must not be fob'd off thus about my daughter: I remember not your excuse; but Iohn can tell well enough, I warrant you.

I have told you the plain truth: you'll not be angry, I hope.

I shall have cause to be angry, I fear: Did not I leave her to his charge, Iohn? Brother, I tell you—

I must not answer, brother—

I know you put me out, that I might forget what I said to you before: remember, Iohn: I'll be as cunning as you're crafty: remember, John. How now? what's the matter?

Ho, my old Master's come; he's lighted now at the door with his man John: he's asking for you; he longs to see you: my Master, my old Master.

This fellow's mad.

If you wo'n't believe me, go in and see, Sir: he's not so much alter'd, but you'll quickly know him. I knew him as soon as I saw him. Pray, Sir, go in.

Why this is strange.

If this be true, what course shall we take, Dogrel? I begin to shake like a plum-tree-leaf.

We'll shift some way or other, I war­rant you.

How, Dogrel? prithee how?

Let the worst come, we can be but whipt, or burnt in the hand, a [...] the most.

Ho, our best way will be to hang our selves—'Slife, here's John.

Act. 5. Scaen 8.

Give me thy hand i'faith, boy: is't possible that thou shouldst be alive still?

Ha rogue! art thou come i'faith? I have a pottle o' Sack to welcome thee.

Why you'll not look upon your poor friends, John Give me thy golls, John. How hast thou done this great while?

I thank you all heartily for your love; thank you with all my heart-law. What? my old bed-fellow Robin? how dost do? when shall we steal Apricocks ag [...]in? d'ye remem­ber, Robin?

A murrain take you; you'll never forget your roguery.

A murrain take you all: this was your plot, and be hang'd▪ Would I were Puny the Wit again.

Accursed Fate—

Come, John, let's go to the Buttry and be merry: Ralph longs to see you, I'm sure.

And how does Ralph? good honest Ralph? That Ralp's as honest a fellow, though I say't my self; I love him with all my heart-law, that I do; and there's no love lost, I dare say for him.

Come, my masters, will you go in? I'll prevail with the Cook for a slice or two of Beef; and we'll have a cup of Stingo, the best in the ce [...]lar.

Well said, steel to the back still; that was your word, you know. My master [...]s com­ing in: go. I'll follow you straight.

Make haste, good John, for I can't stay.

Here's a company of as honest fel­lows a [...]sa ma [...] would with to live i' the house withal; all, no man excepted▪

Would I were out of the house, as honest as they are. Here they come, John.

John, quoth he, with a pox.

Act. 5. Scaen. 9.

Thank you good brother. Truly we ha' past through many dangers; my man shall tell you all, I'm old and crasy, and forget these things.

Pox on't, the Widow's come already; keep 'um here John, till I come back. O are you here sweet-heart?

Who have you yonder, I pray?

O you should not ha' seen 'um yet, they are Maskers.

Not vagrant players, I hope?

No, no, they can onely tumble, and dance upon the rope, you shall see 'um after dinner. Let [...]s away sweet-heart, the Parson stays for us, he has blown his fingers this hour.

I'm glad the Captain's gone, now will I sneak away, like one that has stolen a silver-spoone.

I'll be your man and follow you.

Who are these Iohn? By your leave, Sir; would you speak with any here?

The Captain, Sir. But I'll take some other time to wait on him, my occasi­ons call me now.

Nay, pray, Sir, stay. Whom did you say you would speak withall?

The Captain, Sir. But another time will serve. I ha' some haste of busi­ness.

Whom would he speak with, Iohn? I forget still.

The Captain Sir.

Captain? What Captain Sir?

Your brother I suppose he is.

'Ti, true indeed, I had forgot that my brother was a Captain. I cry you mer­cy, [Page] Sir, he'll be here presently. Are you an English-man, Sir?

Yes, Sir.

Where were you born I pray?

In London, Sir. I must leave you—

In London? y'are an English-man then I see, Sir. Would you have spoke with me Sir?

No, with your brother, but my busi­ness with him requires not haste, and there­fore—

You're not in haste you say; pray sit down then: may I crave your name, Sir?

My name's not worth your know­lede, Sir; but my mans name's Iohn.

(If I be John any more I'll be hang'd) No my name's Timothy, Sir.

Mr. John Timothy? Very well, Sir. You seem to Be a Travellor.

We're newly come out of Affrick, and therefore have some business that re­quires us

Of Affrick? Law you there now. What Country pray?

Prester John's Country. Fare you well, Sir. now.

Marry God forbid. What come from Prester John, and we not drink a cup of Sack together?

(What shall I do?) Friend, shall I trouble you to shew me where your house of office is?

You'll stay here Mr.—what's your name, pray?

Timothy, Sir.

Gods me, 'tis true indeed Mr. John Timothy.

Ill only make water, and come to you.

The door, Sir, is lockt; the Cap­tain has lockt us all in here, if you [...]ll be pleas'd to stay, Sir, till he comes—

(I'd as live stay to meet the Devil, or a Sargeant.)

(Would I were hid like maggot in a pescod; we shall be abused I see, oh, oh, oh,)

What makes you quake so, Sir?

Nothing, onely I have an extream list to make water: 'Tis nothing else by this light.

My brother would not have you gone it seems. Your names Mr. John Ti­mothy, is it?

No, that's my mans name.

O, your mans name; 'tis true, 'tis very true indeed, that's your man's name. You'll pardon me, Sir?

Pray, friend, do you know the great City call'd Astervadil, where my name-sake Prester-Iohn keeps his Court?

Know't? I, very well; I have liv'd there a great while, I have cause to know't.

Ther's a brave Castle of three miles long.

I, and many stately building too.

The noble mens houses are all built of Marble.

They make indeed a glorious show. I ha' seen 'um.

It may be so. But to my knowledg, friend, there is no such City there.

It may be the names are alter'd since I was there. (Here's the Captain, I'll sneak behind the hangings.)

Act. 5. Scaen. 10.

I like this Person well, h' has made short work on't, he had appointed sure some meetting at an Ale-house. Welcome wife, welcome home now. But I ha' two brethren which you must know.

Marry, Heav'ns for [...]sheild, Sir.

Brethren in God sweet-heart, no o­therwise. Come hither Guiny brother; what say you?

This Gentleman, Brother, has stay'd for you here; pray use him kindly, he's a Traveller: where did you say you travell'd Sir?

O yes! How do you, brother?

I your brother? what d'ye mean?

Why, are not you my brother Blade that was taken captive by the Tartars? Ha!

You're merrily dispos'd, Sir: I your brother! I taken captive by the Tartars! Ha, ha, ha! I understand not your meaning, Sir.

What an impudent slave's this! Sir­rah monster, didst not thou come with thy man Iohn?

I, my man Iohn? here's no such fellow here, you see: how you're mistaken, Sir! you mean some other man. This is the strangest humour.

Sirrah, dost thou see this fist? dost thou see this foot? I'll wear these out upon thee—

Hold, pray Sir, hold. I remember now indeed that I was Blade the Merchant; but I had quite forgot it. You must pardon me; my memory's very weak.

I like the humour. But I must know, Sir, who you are, now you ha' left being my brother.

Who, I? don't you know me? I'm Dogrel the Poet, and Puny was my man Iohn. Lord that you should not know▪ me all this while! not know Poet Dogrel!

O thank you, M. Dogrel; Can you dance upon the ropes, and tumble? Truely I never knew it before, not I.

Where's that fool, Puny? Is he slipt away?

(He was wise enough to do so, I'll warrant you.)

I will beat him so, that he shall not finde a similitude for himself. As for you, Dogrel, because you came off pretty hand­somely, with the best at the last, like an Epi­gram, I may chance to pardon you; but up­on this condition, that you make no Epitha­lamiums upon my marriage.

Well said, Will; bravely done,

Will: i'faith thou shalt ha' two laces more to thy Livery, for doing this so well. I told thee, Will, what 'twas to have acted the Bear in Musidorus. And Ralph was a brave Iohn too—

How's this? I plainly see I'm an Ass then: 'twas this damn'd Puny's fearful­ness spoil'd all.

(A pox o' this coward Dogrel: I thought they were not the right ones.)

I see my Players had more wit then my Poet. Here's something for you to drink. Go in now: this is your Cue of Exit; and see all things there in a readiness.

Nay, let the Master go first. Follow me, Iohn.

What, husband? Ha' you giv'n 'um any thing? Indeed, Love, you're too la­vish.

'Twas very wittily put off o' me, howsoever.

Act. 5. Scaen. 11.

How now? what ha' we here? ano­ther Puppet-play? Any thing now but bro­thers, and I'm for 'um. Who? Cutter? What's the matter, Poet? Come, what de­vice is this? like one o' yours?

Stay at the door, ye sempiternal squeakers. Come, Queen o' fame.

Lord, I'm so weary with dancing as passes. Yonder's my mother. Oh mother! what d'ye think I ha' been doing to day?

Why what, childe?

Nay nothing: I have onely been married a little; and my husband and I ha' so danc'd it since!

Brave Tabytha still! Never be an­gry, Widow; you know where Marriages are made. How now, Captain? If I turn Tapster now, 'twill be happie for you: for I shall be rich enough to trust you, Captain.

'Twas Gods will, I see, and there­fore there's no resisting. But what d'ye mean, son? I hope you'll not turn swag­gerer?

'Tis for special reasons, gentle mo­ther. Why how now, Dogrel? M. Blade the Merchant looks as if he were broke: he has turn'd away his servant too.

Who's that? M. Dogrel i' these Players clothes? Can M. Dogrel dance too, husband?

Prithee, Cutter, what hath exalted Tabytha thus?

What? this good fortune she has got by me: You know what a dull creature she was before; her soul was in her body, like butter in a hot cake; now she's as full of Spirits as Hell it self. My counsel and two cups o' Sack, have wrought this miracle.

Act. 5. Scaen. 12.

Well said! You are joyn'd then now, my blessing on you both; come in to your father Blade. Nay, daughter Aurelia, off with your veil now. Ha! Whom ha' you married here?

I know not, Sir. She was Aurelia when we went to Church.

This is my daughters maid. Where's the wench? Ho! Aurelia?

Act. 5. Scaen. 13.

Here, Sir.

Here, Sir? Why do you make your husband lead your maid in thus?

My husband, Sir? what's that?

Why, huswife is not Mr. Truman your husband?

No, by my troth, Sir, I thank God.

These are fine tricks; delicate, dainty tricks. Sirrah, how durst you Sir­rah?—and for your minion—marry come up, marry a Chamber-maid? Well, Cap­tain, this was your plotting. You said in­deed you'd make a Iethron o' me: y' ha' don't indeed; I thank you, Captain Blade, 'tis well. Out o' my sight, Sir, with your minion there, I say out o' my sight. Ha! am I fool'd thus? I shall make some repent it, I hold a groate on't.

D'ye hear, Mr. Truman—

Yes, Sir, I do hear; and I will not hear if it please me, Sir; but some body shall hear o' this Captain. But, Captain, you're deceived, this is not a lawful mar­riage.

Ha!

Ha, ha, ha! To see how things are come about! I thought Dick would not [Page] be such a fool as to marry one that he knew not. He knew her well enough, I'll war­rant you. How do you, Captain? I was somewhat rash: I'm an old man, alas.

(I'll venture out amongst 'um.)

Nay ne'er laugh at me; I know I look like a door without hinges. A pox upon you, Dogrel; are you there?

What? my son Iohn? d'ye know this Gentlewoman?

D'ye know this piece of gold, Sir, which you broke?

Hum? Yes 'faith, 'tis the same: thou art my Cynthia, wench, my Endymion: we'll be married presently. O for a witty Parson to marry us two Wi [...]s!

Slife, one, two, three, i'faith four matches here at one time! What accursed fortune [...]s this! there's three feasts lost: they'll dine all together.

I will not kiss thee, my little maga­zine, till I have washt my face Ha, M. Do­grel, hast thou got no Spouse too?

The thrice three Sisters are my wives.

Well, because thou art a Poet, and my Jews-trump and I are Wits, thou shalt eat and drink at my pavilion always.

You shall ha' wine and serge. D'ye remember, Dogrel?

Thank you: but I'll ne'er lye for you again.

Come, let's all in to dinner.