SCENE. I.

THou hast delivered my Letter?

Yes Sir, to Mr. Saveall your Unkles friend: But hee has stood your friend so long, and so often, to so little purpose in moving your Unkle for you, that he holds it utterly in vaine, to urge him any further, he told me.

Thou should'st ha' told him, I would not be so answer'd.

Yes; and then he would have told me, let your Master take his course.

Then you should ha' told him again, I have taken all the courses I could, or as any Gentleman can to main­taine my selfe like one; But all my courses are run out, and I have not breath, nor know any ground whereon to begin a new one, unlesse that thing my Unkle sets me [Page] up againe, nor have I any meanes to attaine to that, but by his Mediation.

Then would he ha' told me againe, what all your courses have been. Namely, running into debt by all the wayes can be imagin'd, and cheating by all could be in­vented, then that the said thing, (as you call it) your Unkle, before he cast you quite off, had redeem'd you out of Prison, and severall holds, within the space of 15. Moneths 14. times.

That was not once a Moneth then, or if it had, what had that been to him? 'twas I that suffer'd, thou shouldst ha' told him, not he.

Hee would ha' told me then againe, That seve­rall Redemptions, cost your Unkle at least 2000 l. And that upon your last revolt when he quite gave you over for a cast-away, two yeares since, he cast the third thou­sand with you, upon condition never to afflict him more. And then he Married in hope to get an heire.

I that Marrying spoy'ld all.

Because you should not after his death cast away all the rest of the thousands, and ten thousands which you might have liv'd to inherit, if your Unkles love or Mr. Savealls counsell could have prevay'd with you against the Divill, and Debauchednes.

Pox on't, let it all goe, let that wretched Unkle goe, and let Saveall goe for a punctuall asse as hee is. I confesse he has by his saving helpe peec'd mee with my Unkle a score of times at least. What had once more been to him?

Sir, it were better for you to thinke upon some course by our selfe, and me your Creature (that have stuck to you, or followed you through all fortunes) to maintaine Rich Lace, and Bravery upon you. And thinke in time too before this be worne out, upon some new wayes for your supplies—

I cannot, nor will I trouble my braines to thinke of any, I will rather die here in Ram alley, or walk down to the Temple, and lay my selfe down alive, in the old Synagogue, cross-leg'd among the Monumentall Knights there, till I turne Marble with'em. Thinke quoth a [...] what should I think on?

On your poor Whore Sir (as you have brought her) shee's in worse case then your selfe; your Cloaths are good enough—

I ther's the Devill. I would doe something for her if I knew how. But what have I not done that can be done by a forlorn heire?

Why though the Dice, and all other Household games, and all the Cheats belonging unto them have fayld you by your and their discoveries, till none dare venture so neare you as a Man hu [...]les a Die or Skirrs a Card. Though all your hidden wayes in Hide-parke races are trod out, and all your bowling booties beaten bare off o' the Grounds and Allies; and the sweete Honey-combes of all your Cockpit cosenages cut off. Though all your Arts of borowing are crost out of all Mens Bookes before you offer at 'em, while your old Debts stand fairely written, and all your Marts miscarry of putting out for credit, Venison to Citizens, or early Cherries, Codlings and Apricocks to their Wives availe you nothing, cannot something yet be found?

Nothing, nothing. All Projects are confounded.

Did your Father leave you nothing but wit to live upon for this? And did hee leave you that but for yeares, and not for Life? and is the terme ex­pir'd?

Hold thy peace. I am casting for something to be done by me, that shall be worth, and cost my life, to shame my Unkle.

There's a plot! Think of your poore whore Sir, [Page] how shall she live, if you cast away your selfe?

I must leave her once thou knowst.

If you could leave her now, and betake your selfe handsomely to other Women, I have thought on a course.

What, quickly, what ist?

To set up a Male bawdy house.

Fy upon' [...].

You are handsome, lovely, and I thinke able to do one Mans worke, two or three such Gentlemen more which I know, and can describe to you, with the wayes I'le finde to bring in custome shall fill your purses—

And empt our bones. I ever had enough of one Mistris Variety would destroy me. No Gentlemen can be able to hold it out. They are too weake to make com­mon He whores.

For a little while Sir, till we have got a stock of rich cloathes; And then we will put Drey-men, and Wine­porters, Cornish Wrastlers & such like into those cloaths; and make them Country Cavaliers. Have you not seen course snowt-faire drudges, clapt into bravery, that would doe more bodily service in a Brothell then twenty Ladies Daughters? They are the Game-beares of a Bawdy-house, can play ten single courses for a cleane-bred Gentle-wo­mans one, wee will hire fellowes for groates a peece a day, that shall (without the additaments of Clary, Cawdle or Cock-broth) get us forty peeces a Man before Night, or perhaps a hundred by next Morning, out of such shee▪ customers, as an Aunt of mine shall finde ou [...] for us.

O base Villaine! No I'le never fall so deep below a Gentleman, as to be Master of a Baudy-house.

Very good decay'd Gentlemen have done a much; though I urge this, but for your pastime sir.

No my first plot shall stand, I will do some no­torious death-deserving thing (though these cloaths goe to th'Hangman for't, what care I) in defiance of him that was my Unkle, and his Methodicall, Grave, and Ortho­graphicall speaking friend, Mr. Saveall that cals People Pe-o-ple.

O Mr. Saveall how have you honord mee, how am I bound to you for this visit! Sir hearing that my Unkle was come to Town, and you with him, I did pre­sume to write to you.

Send forth your Man.

Goe forth—

One Servant is not fit for all Offices, although you keepe no more; you presumed indeed, I can no lesse then call it a presumption, although it were but unto mee you write; I speak not this in the behalfe of any dignity in me; but that you should overweene that I had ability to wrastle any more with your overgratefull Unkle in your behalfe. Therein was your outrecuidance.

The miserablest Man on Earth! in having we [...] ­ried out my worthiest friend, on whom the sum of all my hopes was cast.

No, I am not wearied; But still in the same full strength: yet my modesty disswadeth mee from using strength above reason, and my reason prevaileth with me not to strive against a Torrent.

He is then inexorable, and I must perish. But did you try him for me this last time?

I have both tryed, and tempted him to his vexation.

But did you urge that pious act of mine Which he once vow'd should never be forgot, O [...] unrewarded by him?

I and my Man I'me sure made four of the stowtest purses fly for't, that ever set our Country o' the skore: After they had him downe, and their points at his brest and throat, hee crying out for helpe, when I came on by chance at a time too when I was in his displeasure, nay he hated mee a whole yeare together before that, and yet I did it, and more then so—

Fare you well Sir, I thought to have said all this for you, and more then so too. But—

Nay sweet Mr. Saveall—

Good Mr. Carelesse, as I can hear I would be heard sometimes.

Ind [...]ed I cry you mercy, pray sir speake.

Poore Rogue! and he deserv'd it, I'le be sworne for a Theeves marke that he receiv'd; a cut o' the Cocks­combe that crackt his skull, so that [...]ee could never bear his drinke since, as hee could ha' done before. For sir, as we [Page] came in, I having put by the thrusts of three of 'em, the fourth man with a full blow—

Fare you well Sir the second time—

Nay curteous Mr. Saveall.

I came to speake not with you altogether, but unto you for to be heard.

Sir I will heare you with all due respect.

Yet then I liv'd and could have done till now, meerly by being his Nephew, and suppos'd his heire, had not he married; but his Marriage turnd the hearts of all believing Citizens from me, where before a Taylor could have made mee run through all the credit i' the Town, When in a sute Chinquant, and Ala-mode They could informe themselves, whose heire I was, But to say truth I vex'd him into Wed-lock, for before he valud not a Wife at a batchelors Button.

Farewell to you the third time.

Sir, you shall see mee die first, and that instantly; That you may tell my Uncle I'le be no more his trouble, or charge, unlesse in charity hee'l send to bury me.

You will not desperately work a violent end up­on your selfe?

No Sir, the D [...]vills not so great with mee; but my heart, I feele it ready to breake. My Unkle is no more my Unkle, nor you my friend, all by my own fau [...]t, and what should I do here, but in to my Bed, and out o' the World presently. Wat. Wat.

I here Sir!

I have dalyed too long, and tempted him too far I feare.

Lay down my Bed.

Your Wench is come indeed, but I hope you will not to bed before he be gone.

Lay down my bed I say. But first unbutton me.

Lord how his heart beats! pangs of death I fear.

Not so I hope. I will now come to the point Sir, Mr. Carelesse be comforted.

I am, and well resolv'd, I thanke my better Angell.

Your Unkle's friends with you.

Alas, how can that be?

I thought your spirit had been higher.

It will be Sir anon, I hope.

I have but dallied with you to search your temper.

But you have searched too deep I feare sir.

Ah!—

Your Unkle is friends with you, I say so farre as to make a further tryall of your nature, you may be yet his heire; for your Aunt despaireth of any Child by him, having fruitlesly been married now these two years.

Ah!—But good Sir, can this be?

It is, and I will bring you to him. And see that all be well.

Your noble friendship hath reviv'd me sir, O run and fetch my cloake.

Tell Phebe I cannot stay to give her any satisfaction now, I must go see my Unkle first.

Poore Gentleman, how weakly he standeth! The sight of his Unkle will recover him. Come Mr. Careless let us goe.

Sir what do you thinke if I should first according to the reformation of my mind cut off my undecent hair, and change this garish apparrell for a civill well worne Students sute, I can be fitted presently hard by.

No, the mind reformed is enough, your habit well becometh you.

Now Wit and't be thy will go with him. And I hope this will be his last hot fit of the Unkle.

Your Masters gone forth it seemes.

Cal'd by his fortune, hee is so.

Shuns he the sight of me? i'le overtake him.

O your patience sweete Mistris Phebe, a little patience.

Hee's gone to be happy, and to make you happy. I dare promise you a Sattin Gowen within this sea'night.

For let me tell thee Mistris Phebe bright Hee's reconciled to his Unkle Knight.

Away Pimpe, Flamsted, I came to be serious with him, to let him know the miseries I suffer, by the wrongs hee has done mee, and that I can nor will no longer beare 'em.

Nor him neither will you? Take heede what you say Madam Marion▪

No nor him neither, you pandarly Parasite, till [...]e make his vowes good, and me an honest Woman.

Birlady, a shrewd taske, and I fear an impossible worke.

Sirra, I will claw your ugly Face till thou under­tak'st it with him, to make it easie.

Hold, hold, I'le doe you all the good I can,

O will you so?

How desperatly valiant a Whore growes, when she is so poore that her cloathes feare no tearing.

But by what meanes can you hope to bring this worke about?

You know I have a wealthy Kinsman in the City.

O Mr. Saleware, and he has a Wife too that bears it up bravely.

Pimpe impudent, shall I claw your Face into blushes at my injuryes, to be mockt out of my Mayden­head, when I was upon a good Match in the Countrey; Then with a promise of Marriage, to be intic'd from my friends into fooles Paradice (that was a new title for the City) and here to be used, and abused from Lodging to Lodging, by him that now flies me, for the decayes hee hath brought mee to? But my Kinsman has money though I have none, and for money there is Law to be found, and in a just cause he will not let me sink, he sayes: for I have told him all.

But not the how many times, the whens, the where's, and the wherewithalls, I hope have you?

Sirrah, I shall shew you and your Master too a way to more civility, since I am thus abused, and slighted.

You have schoold mee handsomely, and brought mee into sense of your injuries: you have beene over­wrong'd, but not over-wrought, nor over-worne, you doe excell in Beauty, Strength and Spirit, which makes you in your very anger now appeare so lovely, that I professe my selfe your Creature. What would a kisse of this faire Hand now make mee do, and of those Lipps what not?

Away you Creature.

Leave these temptations; doe not strike me too deeply in love with you.

Away you Creature.

'Tis true I am your Creature, as I am my Masters; And sometimes the serving Creature, breakes his fast with a bit off the Spit before the same meat is serv'd up to his Masters table, but is never denyed to Diue upon his Ma­sters leavings, you cannot thinke what an appetite that frown gives me.

You are no saucy Rascall.

Good wit too! My appetit [...] needs no Sauce; nor shall you need to make use of Law, or Friend against my Master, but my selfe.

You!

Be rul'd by me, if I doe not lay you downe, and joyne with you presently in a course that shall content you, then—hang me Lady at your doore.—

What doe you meane?

In the next roome we shall finde Pen, Inke and Paper, you shall write him such a Letter (as I will dictate to you) that shall so nettle him.

Nay I did intend to leave him part of my mind in writting before I went.—

O Cosen, I want you.—

A pox of this interupting Cuckold, hee hinders all Trading, but his Wives, zownds I was going with full speed a Tilt, as the learned say, had not this horne-head come, we had writ lines together should have put down Her [...] and Leander—

Harke you Mistris Phebe, is this your Kinsman that you told me, you had told all the businesse to?

Yes, sir, I am the Gentleman, and shee has told me so much, Sir that I must tell you, to tell your Master from mee, and as I would tell him my selfe if hee were here personally present, hee is a most dishonest Gentle­man if he doe her not lawfull right by Marrying her; and [Page] that right I came to demand, and obtaine of him, or to denounce the Law against him.

How happy are you, that you came short to tell him so, else hee would ha [...] so beaten you, as never was Citizen beaten, since the great Battaile of Finsbury-Field.

Your great words cannot make▪ mee feare his blowes (I am not dasht nor basht) nor crosse him out of my Booke, for feare of any such payment. I have him there for foure score pound as you know, though you are pleas'd to forget mee, But Sapientia mea mihi stultitia tua tibi.

Cry mercy Mr. Saleware, is it you? I hope Mi­stris Saleware is well, your most exquisite, and most court­ly wife; the Flower-de-luce of the City.

Well wag well, you must not now put me off with my wife, shee's well and much respected; I come to speake of, and for my distressed Kinswoman, her whom your wicked Master has most wickedly dealt withall. Hee has deflower'd and deluc'd her, and led her from her Friends, and out of her Countrey into Fooles Pa­radice—By making her believe he would Marry her, and here he has put her on, and put her off, with hopes and delayes till shee is come to both woe and want; And (which may prove her most affliction, if hee be suffered to forsake her) shee is with child by him.

Say you so, Mistris Phebe? here's small shew of it yet.

Sirrah, I shall shew you and your Master too a way to more civility, if I be thus abused and slighted.

By the way Mr. Saleware, how many children have you by your most amiable wife?

Sir, that needs not to fall by the way of our dis­course.

But by the way I speake of getting children. Or [Page] I pray tell me, did not you correct one of her children once, for which your wife reprehended you, and bad you correct your own? And how then shall my Master be sure that this (if it be one) is his?

What an Asinego's this? I shall finde a time sir, to talke with your Master. In the meane time I tell you that my Kinsewoman is a Gentlewoman of as good blood as himself, and of the best in Herefordshire.

Yes, Welsh-blood.

And shall find friends that shall not see her abus'd by you nor him. There is Law to be found for money, and money to be found for Friends, and Friends to be found in the Arches, and so tell your Master, come away Cosen.

But one word before you goe Sir, is this Gentle­woman, (who was but a Countrey Chamber-maide when my Master tooke her to his mercy) of such boasted blood, your Cozen by your owne, or by your Wives side I pray?

Sirrah, like a saucy companion as you are, though you meddle with me that am a Common-councell-Man; I charge you meddle not with my wife, you have had two or three jerks at her.

I was warn'd before Sir, in my own understand­ing: for she is for great persons.

Then know your distance Sir.

Yet give me leave to wait you down Sir, cud shoe did it tell it Kinseman that it is got with Champkin.

You are a Pandarly Rascall, and I'le be a terror both to you, and your Patron.

How can you thinke so?

Thinke! I see't apparently upon your Face, and heare it in your sighes, your broken sleepes to night, when your owne groanes wak'd you, declard no lesse; [Page] But had I had the power of some wifes with their hus­bands I could have fetch'd it out of you waking once ( [...] thanke you) you tooke me in your arme, but when you found 'twas I you turn'd away as in a dreame.

Sure you dreame now, whence can this talke pro­ceed else?

I must not give it over till I know the cause of your melancholly fit, doe you doubt my duty, or my loyalty? perhaps you do, and so make me the cause of your affliction.

May such a thought within mee, stick mee to the endlesse torments.

'Tis lately entertained, what e're it be; you came heart whole to Town, and Joviall. Ha' you been drawn for security into Bonds by any of my friends, for great summs, and forc'd to pay 'em?

Fie, fie.

Are any great friends of yours in question, attaint­ed, imprisoned, or run away?

Psewh.

Or are you further griev'd about your Nephew, Carelesse? I thought that your friend Saveall, and my selfe had made his peace with you; and that you had sent for him, do you repent that?

No, no, sweete heart, hee shall be welcome. And pray let me intreate you make no further inquisition; If (as you suppose) there be a trouble in my thoughts, I shall soon passe it over.

Tell me, or I shall prove the greater trouble. I would those few examples of women, that could not keepe their husbands counsells had beene burnt, and the woman too rather then I should be distrusted thus, and slighted by a Husband—

Nay then you'l grieve me indeed.

There has beene many examples of discreet wo­men [Page] that have not onely kept their husbands councells, but advise and help 'em in extremities, and deliver'd 'em out of dangers.

I pray content your selfe.

Be you content to tell me then what troubles you. And I pray you tell mee speedily, now presently; or (excuse me in my vow,) it is the last request that ever I will make to you, and the last question I'le ever aske you, and (the easier to get it from you) I promise you by the continuance of my faith to you (which by this kisse I seale) Be it a deadly injury to my selfe, I will for­give it freely; not be troubled at it.

You are resolv'd it seems to keepe your secret Unto your selfe, much good Sir may it doe you.

'Tis said; and now your doome.

And can you be so mild? then farwell thought.

No upon my vow.

Thou shalt know all to purge me of my folly.

Well said.

It is confess'd.

Faire dealing still.

A Pepper-corne a quarter, if shee be Pepper­proofe.

But shee at my very next approach, which was but yesterday denyes me Egresse, except I make it a new purchase at the same former rate, and so for all times after.

Troth 'tis unreasonable, a hundred pound a time? How rich would Citizens be, if their wives were all so paid, and how poore the Court and Country! But husht, here comes Mr. Saveall with your Nephew, I take it; A handsome Gentleman, could hee be so de­bauch'd?

Sir, I have brought you home a Reformado▪ [Page] and doe intreat (for what I have said unto him, and he hath fairely answered unto me) that words may not by you be multiplied.

Not a word of unkindnesse, Nephew, you are welcome, give me your hand. George, thou art welcome.

I shall be George o' horse-back once more I see. In all humility I thanke you Sir.

Nay now thou speakest, and look'st too tamely George, I would have thee keepe and use the lively spirit that thou hadst, but not to let it flie at randome, as it has done George.

Sir, I have learnt now by the inconveniences I have met with, in those extravagant out fl [...]ghes, the better to containe it within the limits of your leave, and faire allowance hereafter.

Well said, and againe welcome George. But (and this you shall give me leave to say Mr. Saveall) I remit your thanks for any inclination I had towards this re­concilement till I doe you some further kindnesse; only you had good advocates, who pleaded friendly for you, Mr. Saveall, and your Aunt there before she ever saw you whom you may thanke.

A man must be so tied now.

Pray take notice of her.

I cannot use respect enough Sir.

I like that modesty.

Doubt him in nothing, for he is come home.

Madam as you are my gracious Patronesse, and my selfe so all unworthy, my duty checks me in my ap­proach to you.

You are the more intirely welcome Cosen.

Shee Kisses like an old mans wife, That is, as a Child late sterv'd at Nurse, sucks a fresh flowing Breast.

You must not Sir be bashfull.

'Twill lesse become mee to presume good Ma­dam.

George, here's a Lodging for you in this house, and my Table has a place for you, send for your man to wait upon you.

Ha' you Wat still?

Yes Sir, an honest true hearted civill fellow he is, as I have manag'd him, he can say grace now.

The world's well mended. To morrow you shall give me a note of your debts George, which I'le take or­der for, if I may presume you have any.

Some driblets Sir, My credit has not lately wrong'd me much.

You speake sententiously, for credit sought With Trades-men, then their wares are dearer bought; So Gentlemen are wronged.

Then not to wrong our selves, lets in to Dance.

SCENE I.

ALL Cheape-side, and Lombard streete Madam, could not have furnish'd you with a more com­pleat bargaine, you will find it in the wearing, and thanke me both for the goodnesse of the stuffe, and of the Manu­facture.

But now the price Mistris Saleware. I grant your Commodity is good, The Gold and Silver Laces, and the Frienges are rich, and I hope well wrought. Has your Man made a note of the particulars, and their prices, at [Page] the rate of ready-money (for I buy so) and not as you would booke 'em to an under-ag'd heire, or a Court-Cavalier to expect payment two or three yeares hence; and finde it perhaps never. I come with Here is one for tother.

I know your Ladiships payment such; And they are priz'd so Madam to a farthing.

Let mee see, broad plate Silver and Gold-lace, 206 Ounces halfe, and a dram, at five and ten pence the Ounce. 60 l. 5 s. 3 d. ob. 4. five and ten pence an Ounce is deare.

I protest unto you Madam that parcell of Lace for a Bed as you intend it, was bespoken, and agreed for at six shillings the Ounce by a very great person: but be­cause ready money came not to fetch it off, Fortune re­serv'd it here for you, you could not have been so fitted on the sodaine else within London walls; and I am glad the same fortune was so favourable to me, as by my hands to designe it for your Ladiships use and pleasure. I hope Madam we shal hear of a young heir a comming shortly, and that will make it a rich and fortunate Bed indeed; And then Sir Olyv [...]r would thanke me too.

What a bold slut it is, well then the rest of the particulars here of Laees, and Frienges, Loopes, and Buttons, makes the sum of all an hundred pound eight shillings foure pence, halfe-penny. I am no good Arith­metician, but if any be overcast, and overpaid, you must allow restitution.

Yes, good Madam.

Is all put up into this Box?

All Madam.

Give mee my Purse. Take you home that while I make payment for it; your Gold-weights Mistris Sale­wa [...]e.

Here Madam all in readinesse.

You take no Gold but what is weight I presume.

'Tis but light paines to weigh it Madam. But let me save your Ladiship that labour.

Nor shall it be your trouble, command your Ser­vant I pray for a glasse of your beere—

Some beere for my Lady presently.

That I may tell you in more privacy, what per­haps you would not have him heare: for Prentises though they are bound to keepe their Masters secrets, are not all privy to their Mistresses; that's more a Journeymans Office.

Your Ladiship is pleas'd.

Not very well with my selfe, for I have gone be­yond my Commission in this bargaine, and exceeded my Husbands allowance. Here's one hundred pounds eight shillings 4 d. ob. in the Bill, and he allowes me but the bare hundred pound.

The od money is but a small matter Madam.

A great matter in an honest poore Countrey La­dies purse, may serve her a whole Christmas at Post and Pare, or Farthing gleeke, when the gay Gamsters wives o'the City may command the hundreds, out of the pur­ses of such poore Ladies Husbands. But here is the odd money, eight shillings foure pence, half penny, and so all's paid.

What meanes your Ladiship?

Doe you not understand mee then? I'le tell you that which I thought fit to conceale from your servant; And from your husband too had hee been here, perhaps he knowes not on't. My husband left with you, or lent you the last Terme a hundred pound, which hee assign'd to me; and now I have it in Commodity. Had you for­got it, when it was to do you a good turne, when your absent husband faild you, and you wanted it.

A good turne Madam?

Yes, was it not to have the free use of a hundred pound ready money, a whole quarter of a yeare, through a dead Vacation, and at last to take it out in wares? A good turne I thinke for a Trades-woman; take heed you do not by your fullennesse make me suspect another kind of good tu [...]ne, or that you did my husband any to my injury, nor deny the receipt of his money, lest I take up a violence that will not become mee, no [...] you be able to beare. Be therefore well advis'd both in what you say, and who heares m [...]. Somebody comes.

Madam your Beere.

I' [...]e pledge you Mistris Saleware.

I shall presume then Madam—Drinks.

This was right cast, was it not friend?

Your Ladyship will finde it so—La. Drinks.

And I hope you will finde your money so well bestowd Madam, that you will vouchsafe always to know the Shop.

Ever upon the like occasion, Mistris Saleware, so most kindly farwell sweet Mistris Saleware.

The humblest of your servants Madam. Open the Boot for my Lady.

'Tis done my Coach-man does it.

I would the Devill were in your Coachmans Coat to take his carriage for his paines.

One word more Mistris Saleware, can it be he?

Lay your comands on me good Madam.

Not to your trouble, I perceive a young Gentle­man attends for conference with you. Is not his name Fitzgerrard?

No Madam, his name is Bellamie, much depend­ing on the young Lord Lovely.

I thought I had known him, hee is a handsome youth. I cannot blame you now with him: but beware [Page] of old Knights that have young Ladies of their owne. Once more adieu sweet Mistris Saleware.

Most courteous Madam—and once more to the Devill. But on my life her chast Ladiship is taken with this beard-lesse Bellamie. How shee shot eyes at him!

Now may your servant obtaine a hearing L [...]y.

My eares are open Sir.

But you are sad or angry, why seemes that brow to threaten a subjection over him that is your vanquish'd captive; or has Cupid plac'd his Bow there be [...]t at me, whose heart already lodges all his Arrowes, never to be restor'd but by your pity?

Fie, fie upon't! what talke is this? I am vex'd, and you would m [...] me.

What has displeas'd you?

A crosse businesse that has happened in my Shop to day, I being none of the wisest Chapwoman, have un­dersold a parcell of the best Commodities my husband had. And should hee know't wee should have such a scwable.

Husbands should be so serv'd that do impose Those mercenary Offices on their wives.

Talke so, and I will heare you, your amorous notes sound like Play-speeches.

Servile, nay slav [...]sh Offices, ranking their wives with their prentises.

They pretend onely that wee should over-looke our servants, when they but set us there for shew to draw in custome: but in making us such over-seers they are overseene themselves; Shopkeepers-wives will be med­ling and dealing in their kinde, and as they are able, as wel as their husbands (some much better, and more profit­able) but I was overreach'd I confesse.

For no great matter I hope.

No, the matter was not much (that never fretted me) but the manner has eene kild a Shee shop-keeper. I cannot be long-liv'd, here under a Pent-house, as my Lord (you know) told mee when he said he would shut mee out of this servitude, and that I should change my Coat, though my husband could not, before hee were an Alderman, and be rank'd with Ladies.

My Lord has still the same regard of you.

So it appeares by the Tailor and the Mercer, whom he sent foure dayes since to measure me out, and sute mee to his Honour, and no returne of them found, yet his Land might ha [...] beene measur'd all and sold, while a poore sute is dreampt on, had he borne the mind of some Lord?

I doubt not but this paper will cleare that jea­lousie. And while you reade I'le speake that which I dare not utter through, Sighes and Blushes to an intire attention.

At the beare at the Bridge-foot six a clock, good.

Sir, I finde my Lords honorable appointments here, and have heard you all this while.

Now I could wish, and was in hope you had not.

You have school'd mee fairely, I am humbled, Lady—

Pray attend you the tother end o' th' Shop, If I cannot handle a Customer, why dos [...]your Master trust mee? Could a frowne fright you? Let a smile then cheare you.

Pray leave your Player-like passionate expressions▪ And if you love mee, like a Man speake to me.

As I am a Woman; are you silent? if you doubt th [...] length of my mans Eares at that distance, you may whis­per what so? But that is a right shop-whisper indeed with Trades-women that are handsome; Is that the most you will give sir? Could I afford it so, doe you thinke I'd make two words w'ye? yet this before you goe—Kisse. Now match it for the price I'le give it you for nothing.

I shall forget I have a Lord. I must forget him here.

Doe so, and if (I say) you love mee, speake plainely what you▪ would have mee doe, or what you would doe with mee (I love to dant these young thing [...] that love before they can love to the purpose, or speake to't▪ handsomely like a Boy that would faine be shoot­ing at wild-fowle, before hee knowes how to discharge a Birding-piece) I would heare you speake, you have often mu [...]tered and fribled some intentions towards me, but I would heare you speake. Come, if you love me lay by the feare of the Lord that sent you, and tell me round­ly now, what you would have me doe?

I would intreat you—

Well; what?

That you would be pleas'd—

With what? or to doe what?

To weare this paire of Silke stockins for me▪

Is that all your sute, 'tis granted, with my thanks to you; Have you no more to say?

Yes, I say you are the beautifull'st of Women; and that my Lord in your enjoyment is the hap­piest—

Nay thinke not of your Lord, but aske me, some­thing.

I would but dare not hope for such a favour, [...]ou'l never grant i [...], my unworthinesse.

How can you tell?

You will not wrong my Lord, so as to doe it.

Not in his sight perhaps. What is it? come.

It is—

It is then, let it be so. Go to Schoole child.

Will that be a wrong to your Lord?

Yes, to weare any favours, but his own.

Dos he know this?

No, nor I would not that he should (and given by me) for all the Rubies in Cheapside, where I bought this but now, over the way.

Come sir, I'le dally w'ye no longer, I know what you would have with me.

And now you will betray me: I am sham'd then and undone.

No, but I have you o' [...] the hip. 'Tis plaine you would lie with me: deny it if you can.

O deare, did I say so now?

What need you when I know it, you would lie with me, and you shall. Take courage man.

But, in good earnest, shall I? shall I?

Yes, in good earnest, you'l finde it no trifling businesse, when you come to't once. But sir, upon con­dition.

Any condition Lady.

All purpose on't is lost, and all comes out else.

Name your condition, I'le performe it if it be in the power of my life.

You saw here at your comming a faire Lady.

I tooke no notice of her.

But she did of you, she is calld the Lady Thrivewell.

Sir Oliver Thrivewells Lady?

The same, you have known her it seemes.

Seene her before shee was married.

I will be briefe with you, as you love mee shee loves you as eagerly, but with much more boldnesse, you saw her whisper mee, and how loth shee was to depart, when her eye was upon you.

I did observe it.

Shee is my noble friend, and the sweetest Lady, I need not set her out. But though you thinke you suffer in your honour, in being an instrument twixt your Lord and mee, with the base blot of Pander sticking on you, (these were your words) I have ingag'd my selfe for her to be your Pandaresse; be so, I shall be even with you in businesse if you account it so.

What dee meane Lady?

To urge against my selfe, for that sweete Lady, which no Woman else I thinke would doe, that loves you so unfainedly as I. But 'tis my fate, and the injuncti­on I must lay upon you, to make mee yours. That first you give your selfe to her Embraces; I'le give you means for your accesse to her, and your successe with her, which done, and on your faith affirm'd to mee, 'tis so, I will perpetually bee yours more freely then your Lords.

You urge this but to try my constancy.

For that I'le satisfie you soon, my husband coming we must to night at the Beare—

My Lord writes so.

And there I will direct you in your progresse.

Ally how dost? Mr. Bellamy how ist? How dos my noble Lord? You are sad methinks. Ha' you overbought any thing here, and so repent your bargaine? Or cannot my wife, and you agree upon't▪ you must use Mr. Bellamy [Page] kindly my sweet Ally: hee is our noblest Lords most spe­ciall favorite, and must finde all faire dealing here, as well when I am abroad as at home sweet heart.

You heare not mee complaine sir, fare you well.

What an Assinego's this! He might ha' thank'd mee for my good words, though I meant him no good will, I hope thou hast overreach'd him indeed.

Thomas your hopes are vaine, Thomas in seating mee here to overreach, or underreach any body. I am weary of this Mechanick course Thomas; and of this courser habit, as I have told you divers and sundry times Thomas, and indeed of you Thomas that confine me to't, but the bound must obey.

Never the sooner for a hasty word, I hope sweete Ally; Not of me nor of my shop I prethee at seasonable times Love. But for thy habit (though this be decent on a Citizens wife) use thine owne fancy, let it be as Courtly, or as Lady-like as thou pleasest, or my Lords desires.

Then I am friends agen.

Troth, and I'le call thee friend, and I prethee, let that be our familiar and common compellation: friend it will sound daintily, especially when thou shalt appeare too gallant to be my Wife.

Then let it be so friend.

Intruth it shall, and I am very much taken with it. Friend I have found a Customer to day that will take off my rich parcell of broad Bed-lace, that my Lord Paylate bespoke, and left on my hands, for lack of money.

I have sold it already friend, with other Laces at a good rate.

And all for ready money friend?

Yes friend, a hundred pounds, and somewhat more.

Who would be, or who could live without such a friend, in such a shop? This money comes so pat for a present occasion, to stop a gap. It has stopt a gap already friend.

I have dispos'd of the money, the odd hundred pound for apparrell, friend, and other accommodations for my selfe.

Never the sooner for a hasty word I hope friend.

I have done it friend, whereby to appeare more Courtly, and Ladilike as you say, to gaine you more cu­stome to your Shop.

Uuch friend—Is it so?

And friend you must not be angry, or thinke much of it, if you respect your profit friend.

I were no friend but a wretch if I would. No let it goe friend, and—Sapientia mea mihi is my word, I must not grudge at my friend in any thing.

Then friend, let your shop be your own care for the rest of this day, I have some busines abroad.

Whither sweet friend?

Is that a friendly question?

I am corrected friend, but will you not take a Man to wait upon you?

To watch me, shall I? and give you account of my actions? was that spoke like a friend?

Yet againe?

And agen, I am corrected friend?

Neither to supper, nor to bed perhaps.

Never the sooner for a hasty word I hope.

But if I chance to stay, you cannot be a faithfull friend and aske mee where, or in what company, friend­ship you know allowes all liberty.

Better then wee know how to have payd, for that's the glory on't.

I need no more insconsing now in Ram-alley, nor the Sanctuary of White-fryers, the Forts of Fullers­rents, and Milford-lane, whose walls are dayly batter'd with the curses of bawling creditors. My debts are payd; and here's a stock remayning of Gold, pure Gold harke how sweetly it chincks.

Yes, and 'twill ring the changes shortly.

For necessaries Wat, for necessaries it shall change, and Ring all out, and 'twil so long as I have an Unkle, and know to mannage him, let money flie,

I can no faster spend then he supply.

For necessaries sir, but you must not now count Sack and Tobacco, Whores and Fidlers in abundance, neces­saries.

Why pray?

Because you'l have but little then for extraor­dinaries, That is to say in a Gentleman for charitable, and pious works and uses.

The fellow's spoy'ld.

Not spoy'ld neither: For I would but wave your purpose of flying at all new Game, and neglect your poore whore, who now begins to be so violent for [Page] wrongs, shee can no longer beare, that shee intends to pursue you with her complaints hither to your Unkles House.

My Unkles house? my house. Is not the first Mor­nings draught mine?

With great reason, for you are first dry in the morning.

Is not the question first ask'd mee, what will you have to breakfast? what will please you for Dinner, and what for Supper? Has not my Unkle let out mo­nies, and taken Bonds and Morgages in my name? doe not his Tenants crowch to mee, and his servants all call me young Master? And dos not my Unkle take care to marry mee to ten thousand pound, and a thing like a wife?

You have got a brave possession here, I must needs say; and I applaud your fortune most in this, tha [...] your young Aunt the noble Lady here, who you see feard would prove a cruell Stepdame to you, appeare [...] to be more friend to you then your Unkle. 'Tis a mo [...] gracious Sun-shine in her.

Shee shall lose nothing by't. I have thought a way to requite her.

But sir, for Mistris Phebe, will you take no or­der for the poore soule?

I do not like your zealous solicitation, but her [...] an order for her, in answer of her Malipert Letter yo [...] brought me last night. Give it her, and these five pieces upon condition that shee never come, write, or send to me againe, till I send to her.

That's somewhat hard Sir.

Nay look you Wat, you are a little mistaken i [...] me. I must give over whoring, for speciall causes there unto me moving.

O now I finde you. And 'twere richly wort [...] [Page] your patience, if you could winne the Widow by't, for whom you stood in faire election once, untill your last debauchment.

I shall stand fairer for her sir, when I leave wor­king but a weeke or two, shall I not?

Yes, if you leave it quite, but to forsake her whom you have brought low, to fall to others, were such a thing—

Well sir, it may be I will, it may be I wo'nt, what's that to you? carry you the Letter, and the Money, and try how that will worke with her.

I'le doe my best, but if shee should exclaime, and bring on her Cosen Mr. Saleware to bee clamo­rous—

Her Cozen's a Cuckold, exclaime and clamorous! give me my money againe.

Nay I am gone sir.

The Rogue's in faction with 'em; O noble Mr. Saveall, you have most fairely kept your minute with me, I have written my Letter, seald it and all, here to the Widow.

So early? that is well.

I have written no lesse then six large Epistles this morning, and sent'em now by my Man to be con­vey'd into the Country to Lords and Knights, with all the news spirituall, and temporall, forraine and dome­stick that could possibly fall into a private Gentlemans Collection.

Is it possible?

With such dexterity, that if I would make a Trade on't, I could undoe all the Newes-mongers in Town that live by't.

It is a most commendable practise in a Gentle­man, and it will mature your judgement in the both [Page] Common-wealth and State affaires, and in short time in­vite you unto the chaire of Helme.

When I am once married, and setled, you shall see what an asse 'tis, he believes me.

How am I comforted in my Meditation for you, and how over-joy'd will your Unkle be at the use you make of your retirements!

I confesse it is (by reason of my unwontednesse to it) some difficulty for me to write to women; where­fore since you have so nobly undertaken the conveyance of this, let me beseech you to apologize for the rudenes of my stile.

To the faire hands of the most acomplish'd in ver­tue Mistris Anne Crostill, present, I pray with my service; The out-side hath no rudenesse on it, and (I doubt it not) shee shall finde within all sweetenesse and ur­banity.

As you may interpret it to her sir.

Sir, what I have already said, and do intend to say unto her from your Unkle, and my selfe on your be­halfe, together with what you have here written, shall (I doubt it not) prepare so faire a way of proceeding for you; That at your visit of her you may say, veni, vidi, vici, she is your own.

And then—a ha, Mr. Saveall!

Expect your fortune modestly, and when it comes embrace it with discretion.

Sir, I am edified.

It is well if you be so; I will put my undertaking in action presently, Pray for my good successe.

I dare not tell him now I cannot; but I wish well for the Monies sake; and let the Vintners pray, and all the decay'd Sparks about the Towne, whom I will raise out of ashes into flame againe. Let them pray for my good wokes. O my young Lady aunts grave waiting [Page] Woman. If shee were not hers, and out of this house I should take her for a Bawd now. But being hers, and here how much may I mistake? all flesh is frayle.

Not to disturbe your morning Meditations, my Lady has sent you—

And you have brought me, what sweet Mistris Closet?

A part of her Ladiship [...] own breakfast, it is very cordiall and comfortable to the spirits, I assure you, and delectable to the younger sort, and profitable to the old.

One of Robert Greenes workes, or the mad Doctor that preaches boyld in't I thinke.

'Tis a composition of mine owne Sir, of many excellent decoctions, of most wholesome restorative, and costly ingredients.

That it was sent by her makes it more excel­lent, whose bounteous care of me, I must acknowledge exceeds all cost in carving to me, and countenancing me at her Table, in gracing me in presence of the Ladies that come to visit her; in giving charge for decency in all things for my Chamber, my fires shining, my odours burning, my livery serv'd in, my soft and costly bed pre­par'd and spread with perfum'd linnen—here's Amber­greece in this now—

O is it so, doe you finde that?

But though shee is my own Unkles wife, I could [...]'ne say 'tis pity a young man had her not.

What a wag's this?

Shee is a most sweet Lady.

Shee is a sweete Lady indeed, I can best speake [Page] it that have knowne her from the wombe hitherto: A sweete infant shee was borne, and a sweete babe I swad­led it, and a sweete child I nurs'd it, I traynd it up a sweete child. It was in manners a sweet child, at her Booke and Sample a sweet child. I never whipt it but once, and then it was sweete too, and sprawl'd but a little, and whimper'd but a little it was so sweet a child; And so shee grew upwards, and upwards towards wo­man, and a sweet youngling shee was, and so grew up­wards and upwards towards man, and then a sweete Bride shee was, and now a most sweet Lady shee is, (as you say, and I commend you for it) And so she stands at a stay. For now shee growes no more upwards then upon her Wedding day, not upwards as I would have her upwards, here I meane young Gentlemen, could I but see a sweet babe of hers once by my Master, I could be then content to sleep with my Ancestors.

I had rather see your Gibship hang'd up with Polcatts in a Warren, and your sweet Lady with you, though I confesse that were some pitty. I hope her bar­rennesse, or his will preserve her from my curse.

I hope still, and shee hopes still; and I make him of this broth for every morning, and many other good strengthning things (I cannot say for the same purpose) for I shall never see him have an heire by her.

Excellent! that's best of all.

Because you then are heire, say you so? Is that your love to your Aunt?

No I protest Nurse, I meant by the broth, the bottome was the best of all.

Then I cry mercy.

Cannot all thy art, and her cost finde helpe for my Unkle, think'st thou, to get a child?

Helpe! what dee meane. He might have helpe [Page] and helpes enough, were she not too vertuous.

Still thou mistak'st me Nurse.

Away wag away, your Aunt loves you too well to thinke so of her.

Nurse as I hope to inherit any thing here­after—

I should but serve you well to tell her your good thought of her.

Nurse, by this good—peece I thinke no harme.

Nay, nay.

Take it I say. And tell her if thou wilt, that I love her so well, that were shee not mine Unkles wife, I would get her an heire my selfe rather then be his.

Kinde young Master, now I am heartily sorry that I mov'd you.

And for my Unkle were I his heire apparent, I rather wish he might live till all this World were weary of him, and the next affraid to take him.

Then I survive him (Tonuge, a pox punish you for lying)

Now I live well, and merily good Nurse,

Wealth and Estates, bring cares and troubles with'em,

Were all young heires of my contented mind,

Parents and Patrons would be better prayd for.

Good Gentleman.

Nurse Closet.

O my Lady calls.

Present my thanks and best respects unto her.

I should ha' told you first—I ha' forgot. My head is naught,

What member hast thou good then?

My Lady desires you—This talke has put me out—O this head! My Lady desires you—

Desires shee me Nurse?

Yes sir, shee desires you.

Refuse me if I desire not her as much, for all she is my Unkles leavings.

My Lady desires you.

And shee shall have me Nurse—And she were ten Unkles wives, and she ten of mine Aunts.

O this head! nay now you will not heare mee, shee desires you to goe abroad in the Coach with her.

Any whither, to Islington, Newington, Pading­ton, Kensington, or any of the City out-leaps (I know'em all) for a spirt and back againe, tell her I am up and ready for her, and could ha' been without her stirrup porredge, though I thanke her for her care. A man can not be too well prepar'd, or provided for so sweete a Lady, in so much distresse. A very Andromeda, chain'd to a Rock.

What's this you say? I understand no word of it, I would take your answer right, though I falter'd in my Ladies message.

The Devills in this overruning Tongue of mine, I could finde in my heart to worme him out with my teeth.

What must I tell my Lady Sir?

That I am more oblig'd to her Ladiship then I was to my Mother, shee has brought mee a new man into the World, and that my Being and my Life is hers.

I hope hee's a true convertite, did I send you to hold discourse here, Closet?

Nor did I Madam but I could heare this Gentle­man a whole day methinks. Hee speakes so acknow­ledgingly of your Ladiships vertue, and goodnesse to­wards him.

I am beholding to him, will you goe with mee Nephew to the Exchange? I am to buy some toyes there for the Country, you may get a fancy by't.

Good, I must weare her favours.

Or cannot you forbeare your study so long?

To doe you service Madam, under whose com­mands I build my happinesse.

Be not at the distance of complement with mee good Nephew.

I would not be thought insolent deare Madam.

Come the Coachman grumbles at my stay, and 'twill be Dinner-time presently, so the Cooke will be an­gry too.

You are all tendernesse to your servants Ma­dam.

A sweete Gentleman, and bountifull, if my Lady had been blest with such a Husband, what a place had I had!

SCENE I.

DOe you know the contents Mr. Saveall of the familiar Epistle you have brought me here?

No Lady, but I guesse it a faire expression of the Writers affection to you, although hee desired mee to crave your pardon for the rudenesse of his stile, it being the first that hee hath composed of that con­sequence.

Ha, ha, ha, I'le trust you sir, with the full know­ledge of it, pray read it your selfe.

I finde shee is pleased, and my indeavour pros­perous, for the young Gentleman, I am sorry that I de­laid a day in the delivering of it.

Pray read it out sir, for I finde it so pleasant that I could heare it a whole day together.

In the first place you shall give mee leave to wonder at your impudence (though it be but in your dreames) to have a thought that I ever intended, or can be drawne by perswasion, force, or the power of witch­craft to marry you—

Blesse mee! sure if hee writ this, the Devill dictated to him.

On sir, that's but his first charge.

Secondly, I am to tell you, that I am warme in mine Ʋnkles favour. And 'tis not a peece a time, or five peeces for a peece of pleasure can undoe mee; and so I can have change, and scape the captivity of Wedlock.

This could no otherwise be done but by the Devill that ought him the shame.

What follows I pray, there's the first and second point past? marke his method.

Have you ever heard so queint a Love Letter?

Lady, the injury done in it, to your selfe is un­answerable, but my wrong in being his Messenger, I will make him answer.

Excuse me Sir, he has done me a favour; I pray informe him so with my great thankes. But for what you conceive a wrong to your selfe, use your discretion, you have no more to say to me for him at this present, have you sir?

Not for him but against him, I will un say all that I sayd before intended for his good.

But i'le not heare you wrong your former love, and judgement of him so, which made so deepe impres­sion here, that I had lock'd his love up as a Jewell in my Breast, and you in striving now to wrest it thence may breake the Cabinet; I rather wish you'l be a friend­ly meanes to draw his presence hither, that I my self may mildly question him.

Are you serious Lady?

I feare I shall not rest before I see him, but doe not tell him that, lest in this [...]ullen humour, hee force his absence to afflict mee more; I'le hold you sir no lon­ger, deale for me as you can, I know you have a guesse at my desire.

I'le doe you service in it.

I guesse that her desire is to doe some act of Revenge upon him. And (so it be not mortall) it were but Ju­stice in her for so grosse a scorne by him cast upon a well reputed Gentleman. Yet is it observ'd in her that shee has a violent humour to do, and not to doe things often­times wilfully against all good councell or perswasion, shee has the spirit of contradiction in her, and an unal­terable resolution upon sodaine intentions, a most incor­rigible will shee has that will not bow nor breake. This crosse abusive Letter therefore may doe good upon her, [Page] however mischievous hee might intend it. If shee meant well to him before, it may the faster bring her on, but it amazes me that hee should write so, bearing his Unkle, and my selfe in hand, that hee so fairely lov'd her, and besought us to negotiate with her for him, should shee forgive it, yet the wrong to us in his vile manners is un­pardonable, and so sir, I come to you.

O Mr. Saveall—

What doe you meane good sir?

Hold I beseech you, and sir, though I lose the Widow by my error (which was indeed but a meere accident) let mee not be so miserable made as to lose you, before you heare a short Examination—

How could you erre so strangely?

It was not so directed.

Do you thinke shee'l part with't sir?

Cannot you beat it out of her sir?

I cannot tell how to do that.

Thus sir—i'le give you demonstration, you ma­licious Rogue, you that conspirst with her to betray me, so good a Master I have beene to thee, and so good a friend to her, i'le recompence you both.

You have undone us both, and will discard us now you are warme in your Unkles bosome agen—but—

But what you Traitor you?

You put me in good minde, and if I do not some­what.

I owe you somewhat for your last-nights absence, too pernicious Villaine that kepst thy selfe out o' the way o' purpose that I should bee drunke, and abuse my self, and the house here all lay o' your absence, There's somewhat more for that.

'Tis all upon account sit.

Who knowes an honest Servingman that wants a good Master.

Was it your mans fault Mr. Carelesse? if I be not reveng'd &c.

No faith, To speak truth he was as much abus'd in it, as you in doing a thing as contrary to his vile con­ditions, as you did to your noble Name. But I crave onely your pardon, I know not what I doe besides. This crosse blow of chance staggers my reason so—

Well sir, since I have found the errour, my reason reconciles me to you, and since it grew out of your equall intent to cast off the evill, as to embrace the good, I will re-mediate for you to the widow.

But yet shee'l know I have had a whore. Yet then you may say, 'tis such a running Disease among young Gentlemen, that not one of a hundred has scap'd it, that have prov'd stay'd men afterwards, and very so­ber husbands; As looke you yonders one may prove, whom now I have in good sooth a great desire to beate.

In your Aunts presence, and your Unkles house; Though I were not his friend; could you be so outragi­ous? I muse I see him here though.

Cry you mercy sir, are you his friend?

I make my selfe so, hee being dependent to my noblest Lord, whom I am bound to honour.

What Lord I pray, that I may honour him too.

The Lord Lovely.

That loves women above wine, wine above wealth, wealth above friend, and friends above himselfe. There's no scandall in all that sir.

It goes so of him indeed, but he loves honor above all those.

Mr. Saveall a word.

Your servant Madam.

In the name of flesh, for what dos his Lordship employ that Angle-worme to my Aunt? Hee has had her this houre in private conference, close chamberd up together, not so much as Matron Nurse in the roome with 'em, 'Tis a fine sleeke thing, and almost pitty to hunt it, but sure I must beat it, as place and time conve­nient may serve.

Pray [...] Mr. Saveall move you my Husband for it, I would not medle in his money matters wil­lingly.

Five hundred pound for my Lord upon the men­tioned security, I will break it to sir Oliver.

Is that the businesse after so much privacy? [...]very prety, my Aunts a woman too, and me Unkle may have as forked a fortune, as any of the City, that lend out mo­ney to hedge in Lordships.

I am his Lordships servant.

And I your Lordships good Madam. And yours Mr. Saveall.

I am for your way Mr. Bellamy.

And I sir, and't please you.

George Carelesse, I would speak with you.

May I not wait upon your Gentleman to the Gate Madam?

No good George, though I commend your cur­tesie, yet would I not you should neglect your owne dignity.

Umh—I am under Government.

The young man, if you have modesty will thinke you mock him, if not you'l make him become arrogant, know you not whose man he is?

No tis apparent, this over-slighting of him pro­claimes shee loves him, whose follower Madam, and I know Lords followers, Knights fellows.

Not all Lords followers to all Knights George.

To as many as their faire Ladies will give way to, that are not faint-hearted.

I understand you not George; something troubles you, you are not right to day.

I am only as I am in your favour Madam.

Come I know what perplexes you▪ and 'tis there­fore that I desire to talke with you; I am not angry with you, but let mee tell you George, although not openly I tooke notice of the pickle you came home in last night, after your Unkle was in Bed; to whom, mer­vayling at your absence I excus'd you, as gone at my request to visit some Ladies with whom you staid Supper, I told him, when you were with your Roucers.

But did you never go?

Indeed I did, and he was satisfied.

O my sweet Lady Aunt [...]! I was indeed amongst'em, and deeply merry.

And drunke as deeply!

I will abuse your goodnesse so no more.

Say and hold George, for your own good.

What's now become of mee, I am under cor­rection.

I would you could have seene your selfe, and how your disguise became you, as I was told, I do but friend­ly tell you of some passages, as they were to mee related, by those whom I have charm'd to speake no more on't. Be secure therefore in your Unkle.

O my deare heavenly Aunt!

First, at the doore you bounc'd like a Giant at the Gate of an inchanted Castle, before which could be opened offence was taken by you at your Sedan-men; for asking money (as appeard afterwards) more then you brought from the Taverne, and leaving their office fouler by a distemper'd stomach-full, then you found it. In the strife for these sad causes your Sword being seiz'd on, you being unable to use it, were found by my servants at Luggs with your brace of Corps bearers, in the dirt, and their poore hovill Chaire turnd on his ridge in the Kennell.

I'le never be drunk agen.

I hope you will say so, when you have heard all George; but by the way your late stock being spent, here are ten peeces towards a supply.

O sweet golden Aunt!

Well sir, the striefe appeas'd, you were tane in. Then hay is there no Sack i'the house? Tis for you in you Chamber is replid, up you are had, where is the Rogue my man? not seene since Yesterday; Fetch me a wench. Blesse us cries old Sim the Butler, wee have none i'th house, nor cannot send for any out o' dores. Dost—tell me that? is not my Ladies Woman, my Ladies Chamber-maide, the Laundry-maide, the wench under the Cooke, my Ladies Nurse old Winter plum, nor my Lady her selfe within? I know, or will know all the shee things in the house.

But why me up in your bedroll George?

P [...]eigh.

You remember none o' this!

It is not worth it Madam.

Nor how you scar'd Chamber-maid, whom I sent in love to see care taken for you, not dreaming of any ill thought in you, doe you remember how you told her, and what you would give her, when your Unkle died for a small present curtesie? she was faine to saisfie you with a false promise to steale to bed to you before foure men could force, or humor you into it.

What an unhallowed Rascall was I!

'Tis well you consider it now. And still consider George.

How ill excesse of Wine, Roaring and VVhoring be­comes a Gentleman, and how well sobrietie, curtesie, and noble action, and dangers wait upon the one sort, and what safety accompanies the other!

Wine, Roaring and Whoring, I will lay that say­ing of yours Madam to my heart; but Wine is the great wheele that sets the rest a whirling.

True George, for had you not first beene [...]ullied with Wine, you would not have abus'd your selfe to ha tumbled in the dirt with your Litter-mules, nor offer'd to seduce my Chamber-maide. Suppose you had over­come her, how could you have come off but with shame to your selfe, and the utter ruine of the poore Wench?

Still shee corrects me for my medling with base matters and people, shee is not angry shee sayes, though I call'd for her last night i'my drinke, shee gives me mo­ny, I will now understand her, and whereunto all her former favours and her later admonitions are directed, and presently appeare a gratefull Nephew.

Nay, bee not sad upon it George, as I would win you from your faults, I would have you still be cheer­full. If any thought troubles you, you may be free with me George.

O Madam you have made me, and now take me to you.

How meane you?

Freely and wholly, the truest, faithfullst servant, and I thinke the ablest that any Lady of your lacks and longings ever bestowd a favour on, though I say' [...] my self. You'l swear't when you have tri'd me, and't be but houre­ly for a month together.

Is the man sound troe?

I defy Surgeon, or the Potecary can come against mee.

Sound i' your senses sir, I meane.

O for blabbing Madam never feare mee, now I am resolv'd to live soberly, and be onely yours. And with such pleasure, with such safety, secresie, and fulnesse, I will so constantly supply you, that you shall not have time to dreame of the defects of your old man.

Doe you meane your Unkle, and not know whose wrong you unnaturally and sinfully pursue?

No man living Madam can doe it for him, more naturally and lesse sinfully; I am of the same flesh and blood, and bring his youth to your pleasure, how can you thinke old Unkles children are got? or how came up the proverbe, Shee is one of mine Aunts, doe you thinke? You would have a child by him. All your Cawdells and Cock-broaths will never doe it, An old mans generative spirit runs all into braine, and that runs after covetousnesse too, get wealth, not children. Believe it, much Nephews helpe belongs to it, and then the chil­dren are not degenerate, I cannot thinke but many Unkles know it, and give way to it, because stranger bloods shall not inherit their Lands, and so sweet Aunt if I live not to inherit his, my son may, in your first born. There will be a sweet comfort to you.

But is all this in earnest?

In earnest? yes, And I pray so take it, and let it be a bargaine, and now presently in the Chamber, I will make you my first payment for the purchace.

Fie, fie, you doe but say so?

That shall be tri'd presently. Come sweet Ma­dam, I finde you are willing, and I sweare I am resolute, and will be as secret as your own woman, if you will not goe I protest i'le carry you.

Nay preythee George set me down a little.

Psewgh—I need none o' these whesings I.

But prathee tell mee, dost thou not all this onely to trie me, or am I a Rogue thinke you, or wouldst thou seriously that thine own naturall Unkle, thy bountifull Patron, nay thy father on the matter, should suffer such a wrong, and done by us?

Harke there againe, Madam have I not proved sufficiently and plainely, that I shall in doing the feate for him doe him the greatest right in the world, in getting him, and you an indubitable heire, and to give him both the comfort, and the glory of it?

Was ever such a Reprobate?

And you can doe him no wrong (though you had not a Ladies priviledge) to Cuckold him, for assure your selfe hee Cuckqueanes you, now come Madam.

You speake not on your knowledge.

I never was his Pimpe, but what I have heard, I have heard. Now come Madam.

I heard Mr. Saveall protest within these three days that hee thought my Husband the chastest man (of a Gentleman) that he knows.

O did hee so, Madam, believe it they two have whor'd together, and that Saveall has pimpt for him of­tener then you ever lay with my Unkle.

What! since he married me?

What else? Saveall is not onely his grave Para­site, but his Pimpe, and has spent my Unkle more in these civill punctuall wayes, then I in all my whole de­bauches, what did you thinke hee kept him for? O they are a brace of subtle dry Tweakes, come now Madam.

What an inhumane Villain's this▪

I'le tell you all now upon our inward acquain­tance.

You have told too much already to have any ac­quaintance with me at all, nor shall you, unlesse you pre­sently recant all that you have, or would have said upon this subject.

Madam—

Stand further and replie not, lesse I call in those that shall sadly silence you. Have you abus'd your Unkle, and the next best friend you have i' the World, in hope thereby to abuse mee most, that was no enemy of yours till now you justly have provok'd me?

I tooke not a right course.

Was this the best construction you could make of my love to you, or a fit requitall, to make me an incestu­ous Whore?

Yes, yes, a pox my course was right enough, but I undertooke her at an ill season. Her spruce springall left her but now, i'le tell her so Madam.

Come I perceive you are sorry; and that's a part of satisfaction. Therefore for once I'le winke at your transgression, especially before others. Here's one you see.

I doe, the Devill blind her.

Madam—

But tempt me so againe, and i'le undoe you.

I know how you'l undoe mee witty Madam, Ah—

Nay be not sad George, discover not your selfe, and you are safe, for once I tell you.

Shee'l come about I see.

But will you Cozen goe, and doe that for me?

Most readily good Madam, I have your full di­rections.

All Cosen, if you forget not.

I cannot be so negligent in your service Madam, I finde by this fain'd errand shee dares not trust her trol­lop there, I love her wit now too.

He is both schoold, and coold I hope. Now Closet what's your News?

Of a Citizen Madam that intreats to speake with your Ladiship.

Doe you not know his Name, or Trade?

Yes, I had both eene now, but I have such a Head.

If you have lost 'em by the way pray go back and seeke 'em, or bring you his businesse.

I ask'd his businesse Madam, and told him hee might trust mee with it without a hand to his booke, but he said it could not be delivered, but by his owne word o' mouth to your Ladiship.

What strange matter is it troe? or what Citizen, is not his Name Saleware?

Yes Madam, and he is a (O this head) a—

A Silkeman is he not?

Yes Madam the same.

I hope his impudent Wife has not told him all; if shee has, where's his remedy in this Womans Law­case?

There's a Gentleman with him too Madam.

Then wee shall have it, 'Tis his Wife sure, well I [Page] am prepar'd for the incounter. Bid 'em come up, if they grow violent or too bold with mee, i'le set my Nephew George upon 'em. 'Tis not his Wife, what Creature is it troe with me, Mr. Saleware?

Craving your pardon Madam, a few words in the behalfe of this poore Kinsewoman of mine, touching a Gentleman, who I heare lives in your House, Mr. George Carelesse, Madam, by whom shee has received much injury.

How sir I pray?

Pray Madam read this Letter, weepe not, but hold up thy head Cuz, wee will not be dasht, nor basht in a good cause; pray read you Madam.

Wherein appeares the injury to your Kinswo­man?

In flying from his Word, and Deed Madam. He has borne her in hand these two yeares, and use her at his pleasure, detaining her from her choyce of many good fortunes, and at last sends her this to make amends for all, and denies his act the next day, sending his man to take the Letter from her, pretending 'twas directed to another. But never the sooner for a hasty word Cosen, we will not be dasht nor basht, I warrant thee.

Here's the direction. To the Lilly white Hands of Mistris Mariana Gymcrack, is that your Name Lady?

I am the sorrowfull one that is knowne by it Madam.

Never the sooner for a hasty word Cosen.

I conceive the businesse, and find the error, and my great doubt is over.

Weepe not I say.

What would you have me doe Mr. Saleware?

You have discretion Madam, and I made choice of your Ladiship to open this matter unto you, rather then to Sir Oliver himselfe, whom I would not willing­ly exasperate against his Nephew, you may be pleased in a milder way to temper him, and worke a satisfaction for my Kinsewoman; Sir Oliver and your selfe Madam, are noble Customers to my Shop, and for your sakes I would not deale rigourously with your Kinseman, if a gentle end may be made. But, if you cannot so compound it, the Law lies open, money and friends are to be found, a good cause shall not be sterv'd, I will not be dasht not basht, Sapientia mea mihi is my word, and so good Madam you know my mind.

'Tis pity a Gentlewoman should suffer too much, and I like her so well at first sight, that I am easily mov'd to doe good for her, is shee your Kinsewoman in blood Mr. Saleware, or your wifes?

Mine I assure your Ladiship, though my wife can boast as great and noble friends I thank fortune, as the wife of any Tradesman that carries a head in the City, (but that's by the by) yet I came of a better house, and am a Gentleman borne, none disprais'd.

Well Mr. Saleware, leave your Kinsewoman with me a little while, you shall not be scene in my act, i'le try what I can doe for her.

With all my heart good Madam, and dee heare Marina, This is a noble Lady, beare your selfe discreetly in the businesse, and towards her: you may get a Hus­band by't, or at least a composition that may purchace one to sholder you up. But carry it high and worthy of the house I brag of, or—Sapientia mea mihi, stultitia tua tibi, That's my sentence.

Well sir, you neede not doubt my high Car­riage.

Closet.

Madam.

Take▪ this Gentlewoman to your Chamber, and I charge you let none see her, or take notice of her, but your selfe and me, till I give order.

I shall doe something for her doubt not Master Sale­ware.

I shall be bound to your Ladiship, now to my Shop, to which I thanke my Wife shee has beene a Wild­cat these two dayes, which must be borne with as wee are friends. And from my House all Night, and yet no Greene-goose-faire-time; Nor though shee were so ab­sent must I be so unfriendly as to question her, where, or with whom shee was; a new Article this twixt Man and Wife! But Sapientia mea mihi, stultitia sua sibi. Thus it must be where Man and Wife are friends, and will continue so in spight of chance, or high heeld shooes, that will awry sometimes with any Women. Shee is not yet come home heere. WhatThe Shop discover'd, Alicia, & Bellamy. Ladies that, and not my Wife there to handle her handsomely for her Money? My servants are such Assinegoes! stay, are mine eyes perfect? 'Tis shee, 'tis my Friend­wife, and in the Courtly habit, which so long shee has long'd for. And my Lord Lovelies Gammed with her. [Page] His Lordship lay not at home to Night, neither at his Lodging, I heard that by the way. I cannot thinke my Lord and shee both sate up all Night to see the Taylors at worke, and to hasten the finishing of those Cloaths, if shee were with him which I would not be so unfriend­ly to inquire for the worth of a Wife. 'Twas right ho­norably done of him to send her home as gallantly at­tended as attir'd, if shee die—a—a—lie with him all Night, which I will not be such a beast to believe al­though I kn [...]w it. I must come on her with a little wit though, for which I will precogitate.

Once more your story, for I am not satisfied with thrice being told it.

Can a Woman take so much delight in hearing of another Womans pleasure taken?

As it was given by you I can, for I am prepard by it to take pleasure from you, and shall with greedinesse expect it till I have it.

Then know I pleas'd her so, that shee protest­ed, (and I believe her) her Husband never pleas'd her so.

Or any other man you should ha' put her to that, her Husband's but a Bungler.

How know you that?

I doe but guesse.

Nay shee swore deeply, and I believ'd her there too, no man besides her husband but my selfe had e're injoy'd her, but let me tell you Lady, as shee was amply pleas'd she may thanke you.

For sending you, I know shee did and will.

Indeed!

In reall deed, I can speak now like an embolden'd Lover.

Well, but what in your Acts of Love?

I had you still in my imagination, and that en­abled mee to be more gratefull to her Ladyship, which wrought her thankfulnesse to you, exprest in a hundred pieces, sent by me, more then I tould before, which are your own shee sayes, since tother morning shee was here with you.

That token confirmes all. Had I the spirit of Witchcraft, when puting upon chance for my Revenge, to find Reward! Have you the money?

Safe at my Chamber for you.

O you are cunning, lesse I should breake with you you thought to oblige me by't.

I'le rather run and fetch you twice the summe, I conceal'd it onely to give it you unexpectedly.

Sweete Bellamy I am yours, I could be sorry now I have lost so much of thee. This Kisse, and Name your time—

Would they had done whispering once, that I might enter safe in my manners.

To morrow night.

Shall you be ready so soone thinke you after your plentifull Lady-feast.

O with all fulnesse both of Delight and Ap­petite.

And with all faith and secresie I am undone else, you know my vowes unto my Lord.

And can you thinke I dare be found your meane, to break'em.

No more my husband comes. Pray Sir returne my thanks unto my Lord for his right noble bounty, and not mine alone, for so my husband in much duty bound also presents his thanks unto his Lordship.

Yes, I beseech you sir.

I am your willing Messenger.

Hee is my most honored Lord, and has so many wayes obliged me both by my wife, and in mine owne particular that—

I take my leave.

Still this is an Assinego. I can never get him to stand a Conference, or a Complement with mee. But Sapientia mea mihi, what was that friend you made mee send thanks for to his Lordship, what new favour has hee done us, besides his councell—These Clothes, the cost was mine you told mee, out of the odd hundred pound you tooke, what late Honour has hee done us?

I [...]t not enough I know Friend? will you ever trans­gresse in your impertinent inquisitions?

I cry you mercy friend, I am corrected justly.

Will you never be governd by my judgement, and receive that onely fit for you to understand, which I de­liver to you undemanded? Doe not I know the weight of your floore thinke you? Or doe it you on pur­pose to infringe friendship, or breake the peace you live in?

Never the sooner for a hasty word, I hope Friend.

Did you not Covenant with mee that I should weare what I pleased, and what my Lord lik'd, that I should be as Lady-like as I would, or as my Lord desir'd; that I should come, and go at mine own pleasure, or as my Lord requir'd; and that we should be alwayes friends and call so, not after the sillie manner of Citizen and Wife, but in the high courtly way?

All this, and what you please sweete Courtly­friend I grant as I love Court-ship, it becomes thee bravely.

O dos it so?

And I am highly honor'd; And shall grow fat by [Page] the envy of my repining Neighbours, that cannot main­taine their Wives so like Court-Ladies, some perhaps (not knowing wee are friends) will say shee's but Tom Salewares Wife, and shee comes by this Gallantry the Lord knowes how, or so. But Sapientia mea mihi, let the Assinegos prate while others shall admire thee, sitting in thy Shop more glorious, then the Maiden-head in the Mercers armes, and say there is the Nonparrell, the Pa­ragon of the Citie, the Flower-de-luce of Cheapside, the Shop Court-ladie, or the Courtshop Mistris, ha' my sweet Courtlie friend?

How do you talke? As if you meant to instruct'em to abuse me.

Sapientia mea mihi.

To prevent that I will remove out of their walke, and keepe shop no more.

Never the lesse for a hasty word I hope Friend.

Fie, 'tis uncourtly, and now i'le tell you Friend, unaskd, what I have done for you besides in my late ab­sence, and all under one.

Under one! yes, I could tell her under whom if I durst.

What's that you say Friend? mee thinkes you mutter.

No Friend, I was guessing what that other thing might bee that you have done for mee, all under one. You have taken the House i'le warrant, that my Lord lik'd so.

By my Lords favour and direction I have taken it, And I will furnish it so Courtly you'l ad­mire.

Must I then give up Shop, or lie so far remote?

No you must keepe your Shop Friend, and lie here if you please.

And not with you but there?

No not with me at all Friend, that were most un­courtly.

But I shall have a Chamber in your house, and next to yours. Then in my Gowne and Slippers Friend at Mid­night—or the first Cock.—

Softly for stumbling Friend, i'le doe you any honourable offices with my Lord, as by obtaining sutes for you, for which you must looke out, and finde what you may fitly beg out of his power, and by courtly fa­vour. But keepe your Shop still Friend, and my Lord will bring and send you such custome, that your Neighbours shall envy your wealth, and not your Wife; you shall have such commings in abroad and at home, that you shall be the first head nominated i' the next Sheriffe sea­son, but I with my Lord will keepe ▪you from prick­ing. Bee you a Cittizen still Friend, 'tis enough I am Courtly.

Here's a new Courtlie humour, I see no remedy, unlesse I run my selfe out of credit, defie the life of a Cit­tizen, and turn Courtly too.

What's that you say? doe you not mutter now Friend?

No, not a sillable Friend, but may not I give up Shop and turne Courtly too Friend?

As you respect my Lord, and your own profit, you must be a Cittizen still, and I am no more a Cittizens Wife else, and shee must be a Cittizens Wife, that wust doe all in all with my Lord Friends. Though my Lord loves the Clothes of the Court, hee loves the diet of the City best Friend, what ever I weare outwardly hee must finde me Cittizens Wife, which Friend, O hee's a sweet Lord.

Well it shall be then as the sweete Lord will have it, Sapientia mea mihi.

SCENE I.

Your Lordship is dispos'd to mirth;

In marrying of that stripling!

My Lord you said youl'd tell me.

You may as well suppose i'l [...] say 'twas well.

What say you to two or three!

The more the merrier.

He has no lesse then five old Gentlemens Young Wives with child this Moone, but got all in One weeke.

Indeed!

Yes, in good deed, and lusty.

Good deed call you it, to get other Mens Children?

Suppose they have the husbands consents.

I suppose they are wittalls then.

No they are wisealls, and 'tis a thing in much request among landed men, when old and wanting issue of their owne, to keepe out riotous Kindred from in­heritance, who else would turne the Land out of the Name.

An excellent policie!

You know the Lady Thrivewell.

And her old husband, and his riotous Kinseman too.

You will heare more hereafter, but now to him agen, for whom I am spokesman.

In a strange way me thinks.

Hee is sent for farre and neere on those occasions, hee is of so sweete a Composure, and such sure taking mettall, that hee employes my care to have him well bestowd before he begins to wast.

Ist possible hee has done so much, and sayes so little?

The deepest waters are most silent,

But he can speake, and well to Bellamy.

My Lord.

I have made your love knowne to this Lady.

My love my Lord?

And have begun your suit; follow't your selfe.

My suit my Lord to her? I never mov'd your Lordship to't, Tho' I presume she may be a happy fortune to one of my condition; a poore and younger brother; onely made rich and happy in your Lordships service, and over-flowing favours.

Which i'le take off o' you if you slight my care in seeking your preferment to this Lady, of beauty equall with her faire estate, in both which shee is great, and her atchievement will be the Crowne, and the continuance of all my favours to you, you are lost▪ if you pursue it not, I would thy old Unkle Bellamy saw thy Bash­fulnesse.

Your Lordship seemes now to wooe for me, not him, however I am bound in thanks to your noblenesse, in your faire proportion, I hope, I shall not be so poore to require an advocate, when I shall yeild to have a hus­band. But your mirth becomes your honor, and the young gentlemans reservednes him, Ha, ha, ha.

How meane you Mistris Crostill?

I doe commend your mirth my Lord, for the lusty straine you spoke him in, that he had yet five children in one weeke, wherein I may presume you thought you had mov'd to my liking, ha, ha, ha—

I am glad I have made you merry, But you will wish if you reject him—

If I reject one that tenders not himselfe! yet I commend his caution.

As how I pray?

Come now he shall have none of you.

I'le heare him say he will not first, by your Lord­ships leave.

Spirit of contradiction!

Stay sir, would you be content to have me?

You heard my Lord say I should not.

But say he say agen you shall, speake, will you have mee?

Say no (I finde her now) that is the way to win her.

Without instructions good my Lord.

Is your love limited by his favour then?

He speakes within me now.

Stay, let us retire. Here is the Lord Lovely.

Be he a Lord of Lords i'le not retire a foot.

The humblest of your Lordships servants.

What Gentlemen is that you bring with you?

It is the Newphew of the good Knight Sir Oliver Thrivewell, of which Sir Oliver, I have procured unto your Lordship the sum which you desired by your servant Mr. Bellamy.

For that I thanke him and you, but I could wish you had not brought that Nephew hither now.

Certes my Lord I am sorry.

My reason is, I have enter'd Bellamy a suitor to the Widow.

He also comes a suiter.

And is in deepe discourse with her already, [Page] I'le see faire play.

But you shall heare mee Widow, and that to the point and purpose.

Lady at my request, doe this Gentleman (who made the first approach) the favour to be, heard, and answer'd first.

As his approach was first my Lord, shee has heard him first already, and my request is to be heard now, and then let her answer both him, or me, or neither, what care I?

Your Name is Carelesse I take it.

I came to talke with this Gentlewoman.

Pray my Lord forbeare him, and let him speake, what do you say sir?

I say I love you, doe resolve to marry you, and then to use you as I list.

I say I love you, doe resolve to marry you, and then to use you as I list.—To Bell.—

This to mee Lady? i'le take you at your word.

Stay, I doe but tell you what he sayes.

Take her at her word againe sir, and I shall take you by the luggs. I say againe you shall have none but me.

I say again, you shall have none but me,—To Bel.

What, doe you foole mee, or him, your selfe, or all?

Pray sir how old are you?

Are you good at that, pray sir, how old are you?—To Bel.

You presse beyond your priviledge, which is only to speake to the Gentlewoman.

My Lord I am a Gentleman.

You may tell her so.

Let we beseech your Lordship.

What Gentleman's that you speake of?

The man that speakes it I am he.

All this sir in effect, and more of my affection, can I speake to you.

Uns, but you shall not, you mistake the person to whom you are, or ought to direct your affection, you mistake strangely.

What can I say now! Slife if that anger you after the errour found, and confest, i'le write worse to you, and in earnest.

Mr. Bellamy some other time I shall be glad to see you.

Shee meanes that to mee now, but i'le take no notice; i'le finde as good a Widow in a Taverne Chim­ney, O shee's a dainty Widow!

Let your will guide you.

Mr. Saveall I thanke you for my Suitor.

Nay but Lady.

Yes you shall controwle mee in my owne House.

Yes, yes, I meane so too, but you shall wooe mee hard first.

'Tis a mad Widow, which of these two now think you has the Better on't?

I thinke he shall in the end have the best my Lord, that can slight her most.

'Tis my opinion too, and heare mee—

Sir, I have seene you but twice, and it has beene at places where I cannot allow of your resorts, first at my Aunts, and now here at my Widowes.

Your Widow sir! I thought shee had beene the Widow of one deceas'd.

Thou art a witty, pretty Child. But doe you here use your wit, out of the smell-reach of your Lords perfum'd Gloves, and I shall take you by the Nose.

Forbeare sir, I have a Handkercher.

And let me finde you there no more, nor here I charge you.

I heare your charge sir, but you must leave it to my discretion to obey it, or not.

Trust to your discretion!

And so commend mee to my Lady Thrivewel Come Bellamy away, what's your discourse?

All faire and friendly my Lord.

Very good.

So should it be with Rivalls, fare you well Mr. Carelesse.

Your Lordships—with a whew.

Will you walke homewards?

Excuse me sir I pray.

It will not be convenient to returne this day un­to the Widow.

Feare it not sir, I like her not so well now.

Doe your pleasure.

Ha' you crosse tricks Mistris Crostill? well I will goe drinke your Crotchets out of my Pate, then home, and doe that which mine Aunt and I must only know. This is her Night of Grace, if shee keepe touch with me.

ACT IV. SCENE II.

IN truth your story is pittifull, but your own folly has brought your scourge upon you.

'Twas through the blindnesse of my love, and my credulity Madam, wrought by his strong Temp­tations.

Well, for this once i'le straine a point of honour for you, chiefly indeed in answer of his rude unnaturall presumption in attempting mee. That a Villaine can still be so barbarously lustfull! If in this way I fit him not, and cause him to desist his beastly purpose, I will discover all to his undoing. Closet you know my minde, and fu [...]l directions for the conveyance of our designe.

Yes Madam, doubt not. Though I have but a naughty head at most, other matters, I dare not trust it for a sure one at such conveyances.

I presume to further the matter, hee'l come [Page] [...] [Page] [...] [Page] home Drunke by his not comming to Supper.

Then he may forget what he so much expected, or sleepe away his expectation.

No, hee will then be the more vehement till his desire be over.

You know his humour best it seemes, away, away, my husband comes.

Well Wat, for this discovery i'le make thy re­ward worth ten such masters services.

Sweet heart I have a suit to you—But first what Woman's that with Nurse?

A Kinswoman of hers whom shee would pre­ferre to mee, but I have answer'd her, I will not charge your purse with more attendants; onely I have given her leave to entertaine, and lodge her this night.

That's my good Girle.

Now what's your suite sir, (as you are pleas'd to call it) which I would have to be your free com­mand?

'Tis for my absence from thee, to accompany Mr. Saveall, to bring a deare friend on his way to Graves­end to night, who is sodainly to depart the Land.

These sodaine departures of friends out of the Land, are so frequent, and that I may believe you intend really, and no fained excuse; now will I thinke as long as you have good and substantiall Made-worke at home, that you will seeke abroad for any more slight sale-ware.

No more o'that Sweet heart, farewell, expect me early in the morning.

I am glad of his absence to night, lest there should happen some cumbustion in the house by his un­ [...]uly Nephew, in case hee should discover my deceipt in beguiling him with his own wench instead of me, I do even [Page] tremble to thinke upon the unnaturall Villaine, that would offer so to wrong his Unkle. I thought I had school'd him sufficiently, and beaten him off at his first attempt, and hee to assaile me againe with more forcible temptations urging me to a promise.

The young Gentleman is come in Madam, and as you foresaw very high flowne, but not so drunke as to forget your promise! Hee's going to bed in expectation of your approach.

And have you put his Damsell into her night­attire?

Most Lady-like I assure you Madam.

And let her be sure to steale from him before Day.

Yes, with all silence Madam, she has promised.

ACT IV. SCENE III.

NAy but looke you Mr. Bellamy, it is not I protest that I am jealous, I make this inquiry for my wife. I jealous? I an Asinego then, I am as confident of my wife, as that she is in this house, how ere you deny her to me.

Why Lady, you are not jealous now? If you were not, you would believe me she is not here.

Without equivocation, Mr. Bellamy, shee is not here—indeed, under your foot, but shee's here in the house, and under some body for ought any body knows, but my selfe, that doe confide in her as I say, and will [Page] know no such matter; And so my Lords will be done with her, I hope I shall see h [...]r well to morrow, and at her own house.

Can such language proceed out of any but a jealous mouth?

What an Assinego's this! I say againe, I doe con­fide in her, nor will I be dasht, or basht at what any man sayes of, or against her; And therefore me thinks tis very strange that you should deny her to me, that comes not to molest her.

There you are againe. But since no denyall will serve your turne, indeed shee is here in this house, and in bed by this time.

Away, away, you mock ifaith, you are a wag shee's no more here then I am, if sh [...]e were here can I thinke you would tell?

How came you to thinke, or dreame shee was in this house at all?

I neither thought it, or dreamt it. I but sir, a wa­terman brought me a Letter in hast from one Mr. Ano­nimus, intimating that my Ally was with a private friend at this house, and to lie here all night (a very likely matter) what private friend has shee but my Lord, and that in a right honorable way, I confide in 'em both for that; but at this house is such a thing my Lord having divers Lodgings, and shee a house of her own at his dis­pose and command, that is such a thing to be thought or dreamt on!

Why came you to inquire then of such a thing?

Why sir, this Anonimus writ that I should come hastily hither, and aske to speake with you Mr. Bellamy, and I should know further; hither I came, here I finde you▪ you deny shee is here, and what doe I inquire any further?

You heare mee say agen shee is here.

Goe you are a wag agen, shee here? is my Lord here? or any private friend? alas, alas you are too young Mr. Bellamy, and may as well perswade mee I am jealous.

Well sir, to put you out of all jealousie and doubt (if you be in any) I was the Anonimus that sent you the Letter to draw you hither and declare my selfe your friend, which shall instantly be manifest to you, if now you have a minde to lie with your own wife before any other man.

Then shee is here indeed belike.

Pray come with me into the next Chamber.

This is some waggery plotted by my wife, I smell it.

But you must be sure to say when shee discovers you, that you came of your owne accord, unsent for, as inspir'd or possest by some Dreame or Vision, to finde her here.

Well, if this be not my wifes waggery in a maine proof of her chastity, I am not here. I will doe so sir.

So then, obscure your selfe a while, while I ap­proach her.

Who's there?

'Tis I, your servant Lady.

Sweet Bellamy why come you not to Bed?

Good.

Dos the love that was so hot, and the desire that was so fervent, begin to coole in you?

Good agen, as if hee an Assinego had ever made love to her fine waggery!

Has my meere consent to satisfie you, cloy'd you?

Consent to my Lords man, a likely matter!

Or did you court me to a promise onely to try my fidelity to your Lord, and then betray me?

Deare Lady thinke not so, but that I am struck into stone with wonder, and amazement at the most un­expected accident that ever crost a Lover.

Dainty waggery this, what little mad Rogues are these to plot this to make me jealous?

Pray, are you serious? what is the accident?

I will not be so crost, but kill him rather. To in­joy such a Mistris, who would not kill a horn'd beast? yet blood is such a horror—

Very pretty.

Will you not tell mee?

Speak lower gentle Lady.

Why prithee, who can heare us?

I know not by what Magick your jealous hus­band has made discovery of our being here, he wrought sure with the Devill!

I am undone then. He will tell my Lord.

I shall undoe my selfe then Friend. No, Sapientia mea mihi. Be not dasht nor basht for that good Friend, if there were any such matter: but this is waggery, fine waggery plotted betwixt you▪ to tempt my jealousie, but never the sooner for a hasty word I warrant you. Mr. Bellamy that my Wife is here I thank you; But how I came to know it you shall never know from me; you sent not for mee, I am sure you were not the Anonimus. Indeed it should have been Anonima Friend-wife: for it was thy act I dare sweare; However you doe not heare mee say I was sent, or writ for at all, more then by a Dreame or Vision: But here I am and meane to remaine to night; I hope the house can afford you another Bed in't Mr. Bellamy, and you to leave mee to my owne Friend-wife, I like the lodging most curiously sweete Friend, and I prethee, lets try heartily what luck [Page] we may have in a strange place, I would so faine have a little one like thee.

I'le leave you to your wishes, a good night to you.

Pray sir a word first, husband be farther.

Faces about Tom Saleware, and march forwards.

You told mee sir, of a hundred pound that your sweete Lady Thrivewell sent me.

'Tis true I have it for you.

But shee has since countermanded you to keepe it, has shee, and to mock my expectation of that, and you▪ why have you foold me thus?

I rather should suspect your craft in this preven­tion: but love forbids me, and I must conclude, 'tis witch­craft in your husband.

Come let's kisse friends, and (sweet) to morrow night I will prevent his Witchcraft, in the full enjoyment of our free pleasures: be you true to me.

May all that's Man in me forsake me else.

Another kisse and then good night.

Are you [...]still whispering? no matter, let 'em whiswer.

Good night.

Now may the spirits of all injur'd women, be ad­ded to mine owne, for my revenge, which I this night will dreame of slighted and mock'd, hee and his like shall know,

O hee's gone—Ally, Friend I would say, And now I prithee tell mee how, or why thou cam'st hither.

Will you pardon me?

Yes faith, I were no friend else.

'Twas but to try if I could make thee jealous.

In waggery! did not I say so! when doe my pro­phecies faile?

But what brought you hither thinke you?

A Letter from one Anonimus, but i'le eate Spi­ders, and breake if you sent it not.

Give me the Letter.

Where is it? facks I ha' lost it.

'Twas I indeed that sent it.

Did not I say so too? and that it should ha' been Anonima, Sapientia mea mihi, when doe my prophecies faile? i'le to bed instantly while the prophetick spirit is in mee, and get a small Prophet or a South­sayer.

No, i'le have no bed-fellow to night.

Nere the lesse for a hasty word, I hope Friend.

I am at a word for that.

I'le lie upon thy feet then.

Well, you may draw the Curtaines, and sleepe by me.

ACT IV. SCENE IV.

MAdam, Madam, sweet Madam, 'twill not be day these three houres, stay but three minuits longer, but a touch more, she's whipt into her Cham­ber. Could I but finde the Dore—I know my Unkle's from home—O shee returnes with light: that's well.

What aile you! Are you mad?

Would not any man be mad for losing such a Bed-fellow? sweet Madam, let us retire without any noise.

What an insatiate beast are you? would you un­doe for ever both me and your selfe?

Not with one doe more I warrant you, come away Madam, Madam, somebody knocks mainly at the gate; and I believe it is my Master return'd before his time!

I cannot thinke 'tis he.

'Tis the Rogue my man I warrant drunke, and has forgot I turnd him away, but he shall spoyl no sport. Come away Madam.

Closet, goe your wayes downe, and hearke before you—

—I will Madam—

So now come Madam, I commend you in the charge you have given your watch-woman.

What charge doe you guesse?

Why to tell my Unkle (if he be come) that hee must not come neare you, that you have had no rest to Night till just now you are fallen asleepe, and so forth.

Goe you are a wicked fellow; I am sorry for any the least favour I have done thee, and doe thou dare to attempt me once more, i'le ha' thee turnd headlong out of my dores.

I have got her with child to night, with a sparke of mine owne spirit, and longs already to doe me mis­chiefe. The boy will be like mee, therefore 'tis pity to knock't o'the head: But come Madam tother crash and good night, must I drag you to't?

Touch mee but with a finger, and I'le raise the House.

You dare not sure, and now take heed you vex me not, have you not been my whore?

You dare not say so, for spoyling your fortune.

Faith but I dare, and if you will not obey me in a course of further pleasure to night, fetch me a hundred peeces to take a course abroad withall, doe yee looke? I'le make you fetch me hundred after hundred Huswife, when I want it, or shall be pleas'd to call for't. All comes out else, the gates of your fame flies open Lady, I will proclaime our Act.

Dare you forfit your own Reputation so?

I shall gaine Reputation by't in the company I keepe abroad, and if the Cuckold my Unkle come to the knowledge of it at home, I shall possesse him that you lustfully tempted me to it.

Canst thou be so villanously impudent todestroy thine own fortune to ruine me?

You may conceale all then, and so will I, and mend my fortune by yours, I will live bravely upon your fortune, and the heire which I have got to Night shall inherit it, my Unkles estate. And therefore indeed I would have all conceald; for my childs good, or rather for mine owne: for it shall goe hard if I put him not in­to a course in his minority to consume the estate upon me before he come to age.

I am undone.

And O that ever I did it!

Thou Villaine, hast undone me.

Life to me is torment.

O the Devill, what a case am I in now!

Pray heare me sir?

Let me intreat you heare her.

O grosse dissimulation.

Mr. Saveall, you have done many faire offices for his Nephew, doe this for me, intreat him to a Confe­rence a few minutes in my Chamber; if I cleare not my selfe in his and your opinion, and that by witnesses, let me be found the shame of all my Sex.

Sir, my councells have been prevalent with your judgement, let me perswade you.

But I will have that friend thrust out of dore first.

I would not that you should, nor give a looke, or word to him till you have heard me; Then exercise your Justice.

Sir be induc'd to it.

You have prevayl'd.

Goe to your Bed agen George, and sleepe, be not affraid of Bug-beares.

Hows this? Shee's come about agen, and has patch'd all up already. I hope shee'l worke mine Unkle to reward mee for my Night-worke, and bring him in time to hold my sti [...]rop while his George mounts her; Shee's a delicate well-going beast! I know but one to match her in a course, just the same pace and speede as if I had onely had the breaking, and managing of her my selfe, but the marke goes out of Phebes mouth now; and i'le play my Aunt against all the Town. But how shee thought to fright mee with villaine and impudent. And now goe to bed George, ha, ha, ha, I find her drift. No wit like womens at a sodaine shift.

SCENE I.

BEllamy thou art welcome, and for thy Nephew I must ever thanke thee, he is my best companion.

O my good Lord without boast be it spoken, I have ever beene right and straight to your honour, and never did you an ill office in Man, Woman, or Child, what I have said of 'em they have proved at first, or I have wrought 'em to at last. But what doe I speake on't, I [Page] have ever beene for your Lordship, all things I have sworne for you, I have fought for you, I have brok'd for you; I have pimpt for you, but what doe I speake on't?

You need not Bellamy: for I know all.

Oh the Gentlemens Wives, and Farmers Daugh­ters that I have presented to you in your Summer Pro­gresses, and winter Journeys about the Countries. But what doe I speake on't—

Because thou lov'st to champ upon the bit to please thy old coltish tooth still, thou lov'st the memo­ry of the former sweets which now thou canst not relish.

And here i' the City, I have pledg'd more of your severall Mistresses, then in my conscience there be honest Women in't. But what doe I speake on't?

I never had so many man.

Or if you had, what doe I speake on't? and in my conscience agen, I have drunke more to your Lord­ships health in my dayes, then any Wine-cellar in the City at this day, containes of Spanish French, and Rhe­nish; but what doe I speake of that either?

True Bellamy, fall then upon [...]ome other subject.

Yes, my good Lord, and I pray your Lordship tell mee, dos not my Nephew drinke and wench pretty handsomely? I would faine have him take after me, and not his drunken father.

How well hee shifts his subject, wicked old fel­low!

Dos he not begin to fall to yet?

Not he.

Not a bit nor a soope? dos hee doe nothing by example? or has your Lordship left it? or dos he carry it like a Gentleman?

Discreetly and Virgin-like.

Pretty commendation for a young Courtier.

I would for my deserved love to him have put him upon a faire young Widow of a great fortune, but could not make him looke upon her like a suitor.

Just such a bashfull puppy was my brother, his Father; I wonder how my Mother came by him; My Fa­ther was right, and she was right, and I have beene right, but what doe I speake on't?

True Bellamy, speake of somewhat else.

The Boy will nere grow up to me, I thought to have left him somewhat, I must discard him.

If you do, he is in me provided for.

What can your Lordship love him for?

Come i'le tell thee, and be comforted. Hee has something of thee in him. Hee will pimpe most conve­niently.

That's something indeed.

And for his modesty which is a rare benefit of na­ture in him, I dare trust him with a Mistrisse, as I would an Eunuch.

Benefit! A defect I feare, yet I may hope in time some Mistris of your Lordships may tempt, and bring him forwards.

No I am confident—Now your news.

Good Bellamy walke in the Gallery a while.

Some Mistris is comming to him, but what doe I speake on't?

Stay you at distance yet a while Friend, till I call you.

Faces about Tom Saleware.

How now! How is it with my love? Ha! How comes a trouble on this Face, where my delights are ever wont to Revell?

O my Lord—

Say who has injur'd thee? Has thy husband taken up the uncivill boldnesse to abuse thee? or be it any other man, it shall be death, or an undoing to him.

My Lord, I am wrong'd, but would be loth to ingage your noble person in my quarrell, some servant of yours may do it.

Of what condition is thy wrong? tell mee; and who of my Servants thou wouldst have to right thee?

I would have Bellamy, how thinke you? is hee faith­full to you?

How canst thou question it? Has hee not ever been so?

Your Lordship has well trusted him I know.

I doe not know the man, I trust, or love so well.

But would your Lordship part with any Jewell, or choyce thing you love, and have intended onely for your own particular use, to him, or let him be your own partner in it?

Troth I thinke I should; onely thy selfe excepted, but what's thy wrong I prithee, or wherein should Bella­my right thee?

Bellamy has wrong'd mee to thinke me so unwor­thy as to be tempted to his lust; Bellamy has wrong'd your honour in that ambitious attempt.

Thou amazest me.

And Bellamy must right me, and your honour; or you must cast off him or me.

Give mee at least some circumstance to make this probable.

Must not▪ I be believ'd? you shall have instance then to make it truth, Friend Thomas.

Pray verifie unto my Lord the discovery you made last night of me, and Mr. Bellamy.

'Twas thus my Lord an't like your Lordship, my wife was forth at evening ant like your Lordship, as shee may have often beene ant like your Lordship, and may be as oft agen ant like your Lordship.

Well pray thee on.

Forth shee was ant like your Lordship, I staid supper, and almost bed time for her ant like your Lord­ship; And had even given her over for all night ant like your Lordship, as I may of any night ant like your Lordship.

O [...] I pray thee.

Yes ant like your Lordship upon some private notice given to me an't like your Lordship, that she was at a private lodging ant like your Lordship, with a pri­vate friend ant like your Lordship, over I went, and found her abed ant like your Lordship, and Mr. Bellamy even ready to go to bed to her ant like your Lordship.

Is this true?

As true as your Lordship lives ant like your Lordship.

How could you be betrayd so?

The Villaine fetch'd mee forth, and lodg'd mee there as by your appointment, and for your own plea­sure; but when 'twas late, and that your Lordship came not, thinking hee had an advantageous opportunity, hee soone discovers his love to me, and his treachery to your Lordship; I being in a strait onelyAside. (finding happy meanes to send for my husband [Page] to prevent him) made him a false promise being secure in my husband; and what had follow'd your Lordship understands.

I'le nere trust man can blush and weepe agen.

Insooth ant like your Lordship I thought all had been but waggery ant like your Lordship, to tempt mee unto jealousy, and my wife knowing well enough that I was by, bade Sweet Bellamy come to Bed, O Wag!

What messenger brought you the notice Mr. Sale­ware?

A waterman my Lord, and like your Lordship, here's the letter, and like your Lordship.

You told me you had lost it, when I ask'd [...]ort to burne it.

I thought I had Friend, but I found it now, and given it my Lord before I was aware Friend.

Hell take that Letter.

Now abotts on't for mee, if thou beest angry Friend.

You had better ha swallow'd it full of Ratsbane.

Nere the sooner for a hasty word I hope Friend.

Mr. Saleware, if you will avoyd a new addition of hornes, come with this bearer over into Montagues close, where you shall finde your Wife with a private Friend, at a private lodging; Hast thither, and aske for one Bellamy.

What Ridles this? This is Bellamies owne hand, I know it, why should hee send to prevent himselfe? or how could shee write his Character? This Woman is not right.

Doe you note my art my Lord, to write as in a Mans Name, when I wrought it my self?

And did not I tell you Friend, it should ha' been Anonima? Sapientia mea mihi.

Within there call Bellamy.

Hee's not within my Lord, and has not beene to night.

His absence is another circumstance to a probabi­lity my Lord.

But hee was seene this morning to goe in at Sir Anthony Thrivewels.

Goe let my Coach be ready presently.

He should receive 500 l. there for me, I trust he will not [...]urnish himselfe with it for a flight.

My Lord I gave you an inkling of a familiarity be­twixt him and the Lady Thrivewell, he has since declar'd their act of lust to me, and urg'd it for an instance to my yeilding.

Can you affirme this?

Yes, to his face and hers.

O Mr. Saveall! welcome.

My Lord your servant Bellamy is receaving your money at Sir Anthony Thrivewells.

I thanke you.

But my Lord, there is fallen an unhappy accident betweene Sir Anthony, his Lady and his Nephew, in which your servant Bellamy also is concern'd; And your Lord­ship is much, and most humbly besought by the Lady to heare, and examine the difference.

I was preparing thither. Oh Mr. Bellamy, you have not eavesdropt, have you?

Will you pardon me my Lord?

Yes if thou hast.

I have my Lord, and am overjoyd to heare so well of my Nephew.

You may heare more anon, come all along with me.

I may heare more anon, your Lordship tho' knowes not of what so well as I doe know.

ACT V. SCENE II.

I Need not cast thee off, or bid thee goe Now, and for ever from me, thine own shame Will force thee hence.

You are deceiv'd in that.

Shee was mine own before your wife became our coupler, in English plaine our Bawd.

Use no uncivill Language while you are well.

For which you have your witnesses, this false Traytor, that brought you on.

By my direction George.

No Traytor neither fince you left to be my Master, wounded and turnd me off.

And this darke Lanthorne here, this old deceptio visus, That juggled the wrong party into my Bed.

Ha, ha, ha.

Doe you grin Grim Malkin? But sweete Ma­dam, if your fine Springall Bellamy had lien there in my stead she would ha [...] brought the right party; your Ladi­ships Lilly white selfe.

How's that?

No more o' that good George.

Nay, it shall out, since you have wrought my ruine, I will be the destruction of you all; And there­fore now heare mee O Knight, and first resolve to make me rich in my reward, for wonders i'le unfold.

Canst thou expect reward from mee for any thing that can by thee be utterd?

Reward? why not? why should not you reward my good Offices as well as punish my ill? I must and will rely upon you for all the good that can befall mee; or if I must expect no further from you, i'le give't you gratis, And if you be any thing but a Wittall heare mee.

What doe you meane?

To set you out livelyer, then all your paintings: or dee heare, will you give mee a hundred pound a quarter for my silence?

Not a penny; if you seeke my undoing, heaven forgive you.

What (Villaine) canst thou speake to her pre­judice?

That which (if you are no Wittall) you'l be leath to hear, but you shall have it.

Darst thou talke so?

And since you hold my attempt at her, so hay­nous, you may be pleas'd to know I was incited to't by example of him I nam'd, that smooth Fac'd Bellamy.

Darst thou accuse her with him?

You may aske her bolster there, her Madam Nurse old Mother Cock broth.

O me.

I, O you aske her sir, what shee did with him, or he with her, in their two houres privacy in her chamber, [Page] when hee came to take up five hundred pound for his Lord, There was a sweet taking up, sir shee confessed all to me, and on purpose, I dare be sworn to embolden mee in my attempt to her Ladyship.

I confesse?

What did shee confesse?

That hee made use of your Bed with your wife, what language shall I utter't in? you were best fee it done before you believe it.

O me most miserable if this be true!

Well, there's for them two.

Goe Closet till I call you.

Now for that Rogue (because I must expect no further good of you, but this which is mine owne you say) i'le lay him open to you, you remember how once I ingratiated my selfe to you by rescuing you from a Robbery and Murder (as you suppos'd) for which you took me into favour—

Yes, and have wish'd a thousand times since, that I had lost the thousand pound I had about me then, and tane some wounds for't in exchange rather then by that rescue to have taken thy Viperous selfe into my bo­some.

This Rogue plotted that businesse, 'twas a mere trick of his invention. The supposed Theeves were his companions, and wrought by him only to scare you and run away when wee came to your succour, onely to in­deare mee to you. There was no hurt meant, but the slap I gave him over the Pate to colour the businesse, with little blood, I wish now I had cleft his braines.

Your wish tho' against your will is a good re­ward to him, for I love him the better for his wit in that plot, and care of his then Master.

Doe you so sir? Then 'twas mine own invention, let him deny't if he can.

Indeed the plot was his sir, I onely found the Actors.

I cannot condemne the conceipt however; and am something taken with the wit on't, would all the rest were no worse.

And now I have utterd my whole mind sir, and you declard I must expect no further good of you, come away Phib, I have injur'd thee long, i'le make the [...] now amends for all; i'le marry thee, and sell Tobacco with thee.

Let him not go sir, I beseech you in this desperate way, nor till I answer to his accusation.

Sir you shall stay, and make your selfe good be­fore authority, or cleare my wife.

You'l have your house then known to have beene a bawdy-house?

The Courts of Princes and Religious Houses May so have been abus'd.

Under such Governesses.

You'l anon be silent, what's the matter? wee are busy.

Mistris Crostill, Madam is come in great hast to visit you, and a Kinseman of your Ladiships with her.

At such a time? excuse your selfe.

They are here sir, enterd against all resistance.

I have a private sute to you Madam.

Pray Mr. Thrivewell entertaine the Lady.

Another sprunt youth.

He is a villaine, seekes my utter ruine,

Pray say not so, for feare you force mee love him.

You are undone for ever if you doe.

I tell you, shee's a Whore with Child by him, layes claime to him, and I think hee'l marry her.

Still you speake better of him, and my love must not see him so lost, sir let me speake with you.

Me Lady? I am busy; I am busy.

I blush for you, what would you say now, were it not too late?

Nay onely to your eare.

Stand off a while Phib.

How doe you meane?

Had I thought so, I had spoke well of him [Page] Against my conscience.

I understand you not.

Can you so slight me?

But say on composition shee acquit you.

O but conscience is conscience.

You are then undone.

I care not sir, for your ill will: no more shall hee.

Are you catch'd Widow? Future, for Unkles now?

Why answer you not me, in troth plight?

I'le give her a brace of hundred pounds.

The Woman will not take it.

The Woman shall take it, for now know sir, I love you not so ill as to undoe you. This Woman has beene mine as much as yours, shee has done as much with mee for Offices, and Service I have done for her, as shee has done with you for Love and Money, let her deny't.

I have lately suspected so.

And if her Friends will make her brace of hun­dreds a leash i'le marry, and honestifie her.

Honest Wat in good earnest [...] Gentlewoman with your hand give him your consent, and i'le supply you with the od hundred pound, for Wats love to his Master.

Will you?

Yes, and with your allowance; it shall be in lieu of the hundred I tooke in Commodity of her Kinswo­man Mistris Saleware, which would never thrive with mee (as it may properly with them) as 'twas the price of lust you know it was, and how untowardly things have chanc'd amongst us since it was so; And now that [Page] I have declin'd it, you shall se [...] how sweetly all will be reconcil'd.

Doe as you please.

Goe get you to the Priest presently, and bring him hither for thy Master, Wat.

Madam you sent for mee, though I had former cause to require a conference with you.

My cause my Lord, is almost ended among our selves. Pray let your former therefore be determin'd first, your Lordship may be pleas'd to sit.

I desire first by good Sir Anthony's patience, Madam a word with you in absence of all the rest, except this Gentlewoman.

With all respect my Lord.

No you shall stay, and all the rest, speake openly my Lord, I doe beseech you.

My modesty forbids.

I'le speake it for you then; Good my Lord sit judge▪ This Woman comes to accuse me of incontinency with your servant Bellamy, is it not so?

I marry dos shee Madam to make her word good to my Lord that he would have lien with her too; And sayes that Bellamy affirm'd to her that he did, I ma­ry did he with your Ladiship.

Ha, ha, ha, I have a Nephew here affirm'd as much.

I am sorry I said so much, 'twas but my suspition in the dayes of my wickednesse, I am honest now, and can thinke no such matter—O is the parson come—

I feare I shall be wretched.

You are wretched in your feare, note your Wifes confidence; Can Guilt looke with that Face?

I understand that Bellamy is in your house.

Forth comming my good Lord. Good Master Bellamy, fetch your Nephew, you'l finde him in my Chamber.

Where is my Sister Amie?

Aske you mee?

Then I forc'd her not.

To hazard of my life I will my Lord.

That shee is lost I am grieved; But for your stout demand i'le answer you at Weapons, time and place convenient.

I'le end your difference Cosen Fitzgerrard, here is your Sister Amie my Lord, here is your servant Bellamy, whom I preferr'd to you as my Nephew, to be a Go-betwixt you and Mistresses, which quality I now abhorre, as I could wish your Lordship would leave—Wenching for this inconstant Womans sake that would be prostitute unto your servant. 'Twas a flat bargaine, and but a flat one, but for the non-per­formance her husband may thanke their party of Sex, not his wifes want of desire.

Nere the sooner for a hasty word I hope.

What further end shee had to serve your Lord­ship she may relate her selfe.

Sweet let us speake aside.

What ayles my Friend? is not all this now but a plot to make me jealous?

I am discover'd and undone.

Nere the sooner for a hasty word I hope Friend. Come leave your waggery, is not all this but a plot now to make me jealous?

Your Plot good Mistris Saleware would not hold.

Nor shall it hold good Madam, I cannot be jea­lous, Sapientia mea mihi.

Yet the young Gentleman (such as you see he is) has lien with mee of old, before I was married; doe not looke so dismaydly, I will not detect you with my hus­band for a hundred pound—

Nor will I be jealous for a thousand Madam, your plot's too weake Facks, but where's my injur'd Kinswo­man, Madam?

O Phebe Gin crack! shee is by this time righted, that is Married.

Sapientia mea mihi, agen then for that, that was my plot, and it held Madam.

Now doe you note the effect of all Sir An­thony?

I doe with my much joy.

Your Lordship councells well.

Hang feares and jealousies, I would there were no greater in the Kingdome, then in Tom Salewares Cox­combe; But by your favour friend, we will be friends no more, but loving man and wife henceforward.

That shall be as you please.

See new Married couples, please your Lordship [Page] to take notice?

Unkle and Madam, I am come to call you to my house to Dinner, and your Lordship if you please, and all the rest here, I want one, my Rivall Bellamy, where is he? wee'l be all friends to day; and at night sweete heart,—at night, at night, at night—

Wee'l get the Boy that shall become a Knight

You promise lustily.

And Phebe if thou beest not better provided al­ready, if I get not thee with Squire, let me turne clown.

But where's this Bellamy, what new Ladies that?

This new Lady sir, is that Bellamy you inquire for.

The same Gentleman that you accus'd your Aunt with.

That I confesse had line with her.

Ha, is't so ifaith? and (now I thinke on't) introth I thought so; would I have tax'd'her thinke you, but with a Woman? pray Mr. Bellamy let me salute your lips, and good Unkle now wee are Neighbours, and both good House-keepers, let us not be strangers to one another.

Well sir, as I shall finde you by your wifes report I shall be still your Unkle.

I shall be his heire in spight o' the Devill, and all his workes and mine.

Come Madam, I finde here's Musick, let's leade the Brides a Dance to stirre their appetites to Dinner.

SCENE I.

Deare Piso peace.

That would be thought on.

Stay; who comes here?

Pray forbeare.

Looke there Fabritio, Venus can it be?

Come y'are deceav'd.

I pray thee peace.

They say shee's yet a Virgine.

Fie! 'twas not he.

Not hee! peace and stand close.

Is shee so rare a Creature, this Novella?

You have not seene her often?

And all this Beauty, and this seeming vertue Offer'd to sale?

I thought 'twas such a peece.

Why Francisco? Why?

Francisco! is it hee?

Would he had her Piso.

O here they pitch, stand close, wee'l heare their Musick.

Tis he, and I will speake to him.

Good forbeare.

Francisco must not so forget his Flavia.

What are you?

VVhat doe you meane?

Here stands the man denies it, speake Fabritio.

I must embrace you sir.

I understand you, Take mine honor of it.

ACT I. SCENE II.

Your servants are all here and ready sir.

Up and ready too sir.

Sirrah haste you to Pantalonies house.

The rich Magnifico?

It shall be done sir, please you give me passage.

See shee's here sir.

Alas my Francisco—

No I could weepe for that.

Deare Father—Father—

Sir, I beseech you heare me—

Sir,—deare sir—

My selfe will be your Keeper, Cook, and Carver.

Indeed you will be sorry.

Sorry! for what?

For the mistake you run away withall.

Didst thou not say thou wept'st, because to mor­row was come so nigh?

Ha! I beginne to be now sorry indeed.

Speake yet, and I will heare attentively.

What's this you say?

Nay deare sir flie not off.

Well, on then, on.

Sweet Modesty.

Happy successe attend you sir, whilst I Rest here in prayers for you.

With due respect.

Come lock the doore I say.

Now or never helpe me!

Yes, at sixteene; you would die at sixteene?

Else let thy pitty of my youth preserve me.

Nay deare Astutta hast thou thought a course?

Thou tortur'st me.

Madona Flavia▪ newes.

What I beseech you?

From your elected Bridegroome, brave Fabritio.

How dos hee Nanulo?

That was well said.

VVill you marre all? the reason?

Most readily.

Yes, and wish there a second Maydenhead,

[Page]On the condition.

Now thou comforts me.

SCENE I.

IS this Checquino's house, your Advocate?

For your revenge sir.

Right my Nicolo.

I must acknowledge it.

Yet must I heare it—?

May I not aske what end your project aimes at?

Nor what, nor unto whose—

Then you would use me in some treachery Against my old one.

Thou art a Soothsayer.

Tis well done Nicolo: try the bottome of't—thrice

Cou'dst thinke me such a Villaine?

Is not Fabritio mist at home this morning?

In good time sir.

In good time may you I'le do something for you▪

Honest, deserving Nic.

I know her, and will fit you with directions.

Thou hast given a hint, for which I will renown thee.

Prithee inquire not further, 'twas not he▪

The doubtfull light deceav'd you sir.

I could unshale a plot.

Nere doubt but doe't then,

My noble Nicolo out with't I say.

Take your free choyce.

On.

How Nicolo? but first what was th' affront?

But seekes Revenge How, how, good Ni­colo?

I know it Nicolo. But what can follow?

But what disguise shall shrowd the Hangman thither, whose own shape is as horrid as the Plague?

Sir, if I faile—

Sir—

I leave all to you sir. And crave my dismis­sion.

What! Has he done?

We have beene plotting too.

So to your severall wayes.

I am for the Novella.

ACT II. SCENE II.

VVhat say you Borgio?

Why not it my person?

Still Borgio in your old morality!

Peace Borgio, peace.

I would give o're, would you; and change my Function.

Ha, ha, ha,—

O are you there Devill?

Your reason sir?

I thinke I coold his grave concupiscence.

You need not doubt me.

But one at once good Borgio.

Pray thee hold. No more.

Praythee speake nearer home, who hast thou hous'd?

I saw his punctuality passe by.

O like fierce Beasts, from sent of one another.

SCENE I.

And I my selfe too blame—

Let us retire then.

Is this earnest?

Yes in sooth is it.

Nor a child neither sir, that's lesse.

You are better read then I sir.

Why should it trouble you sir?

I am enough instructed.

O [...]ce more farewell—pray ponder on these things.

Feare not I shall.

Indeed and so I doe.

Indeed farwell then.

Good sit beware idolatry.

Indeed i'le heare no more.

No Courtier Lady?

Sir, your further pleasure

Yes, where I finde the worth exceed the price.

(I am betray'd. Hee brings the Money sure)

What's this si [...], to a thousand double Duccatts?

To notes my voyce can master?

Hee Reades the Song.

Now try your voyce, Maide.

To come the closer to you, the Novella.

I am but weakly practis'd yet in that.

Some other then.

How like you it Lady?

You doe not flout me Lady?

Did ever woman talke so?

I dreampt as much. Shee has a devillish wit.

Be hand'd.

Is it perform'd sir? have you done the feat?

Pox o' your Fates.

Very good!

No more.

Ha' you done?

Have you not in that a double meaning sir?

I vow, for ought I know shee is a virgin.

Thinke of me then.

My profit pricks me to it.

Respect it then, Adieu.

Your blood and honour, will not feed or cloath mee.

Not upon my submission sir?

It must be great and sodaine if it move me.

Hee lookes that I should kneele and beg a Kisse.

You will not ravish me! within there! help!

Villaine die.

Well si [...] I am silent.

Abus'd and Jeer'd!

Take from my hand a peece of foure Gazetts.

To keep the fl [...]sh flies off, you know my aime sir.

You favours make me bold.

See all in readinesse Jacconet.

SCENE I.

What wouldst thou do?

What wonders thou wouldst doe!

But thou hast set him down no meanes▪

That's in the Postscript, marke,

The last minute that I will expect you shall be three in the morning, when from the back Window I will either fall into your Armes, or on my Death.

I thank thee good Astutta. O that the messenger Would be as true to mee!

I pray thee peace.

Why I doe not thinke there's any of 'hem within hearing.

Thou dalliest with my feares.

Not before you good sit.

Are you so coy of your toyes?

I must give way. Shee has a devilish tongue. Exit

I hope you will not offer it.

Even cry out right perhaps.

I hate their price and them, the Sender more.

Pray peace.

I cannot: let mee goe.

He is not noble.

Pray Mistris see 'hem! Open your Box I pray.

I doe accept them.

I must reject any from him but these.

It is exceeding like him! what's the plot troe?

Recall your selfe, sweet Lady▪ tender heart!

'Twas his great care to worke mee to this Message,

Seale it Astutta.

Nay I dare trust you (Read it if you please)▪

O my Francisco!

Slight what meane you si [...]?

By all the blisse that a true Lover wishes—

Will you hold your peace?

By all the oathes and practises of Lovers—

Will you undoe all now?

Will you lose all you came for with your clamor?

Francisco—

Shee comes already.

Speake my Flavia.

Out, out alas my Master in all hast—

What shall we doe?

None else to speake with mee?

You shall not need to urge it.

Say I am comming.

What have you done with him?

I am undone then.

Where are you Flavia?

O me he comes!

Why speake you not?

Flavia.

You were best betray all with your sillinesse.

Why Flavia I say?

O Father, Father—

What's the matter? ha!

Tis like I let it fall.

Doe, or break it open.

Peace giddy headed harlot, watch that none Take it away, while I runne to recover't, Nanulo, Nanulo.

What shall we say?

Do as you are bidden, and say nothing.

Nanulo! The Key to let me forth.

St. Marke and fortune make it a good prize.

Hands off Sir, that's not yours.

Nor yours I am sure.

Halfe part then brother Zaffi.

The Key I saw.

Sir you are none oth' Zaffi.

Villaine slave! come open the dore.

How came you by this habit?

I feare you can be quicker in my absence.

The fault was in your hast sir.

Took you not up a Cabinet, friends?

Zaff N [...]t we sir, we saw none.

O you watch well above there.

This fellow has it under his coat sir.

But who shall know't for yours sir?

Fortune has sent my master to relieve me.

Carry this in; and send away the woman

Now do you know me I have done the feat.

Hast treated with the Hangman Nicolo?

Astutta! Madona Flavia! Astutta!

What's the matter there?

The best jest, ha, ha, ha.

You'l open the dore?

What's that?

Why stay you there sirrah?

The dore is fast sir, and they will not heare mee.

Were you not here before, and in the house?

I fear a new, and further secret mischief.

How gotst thou thither?

Ravish'd or murderd is shee?

How, how, how!

O me accursed wretch.

O sir, your Sonne!

Where is he? speake.

We both are wrought upon by hellish Magick.

Devills are in this plot.

Thinke you of Devills?

Sir, use your jerks and quillets at the bar.

Cast there your petulant wit on misery.

Good sir, your best advise.

Take her to custody.

Mistris come with me.

VVhither? for what?

You shall know that hereafter.

VVhat can I discover?

Away with her.

VVhat can I discover?

ACT IV. SCENE II.

FOund you the Fort, then, so impregnable?

Against all force of armes, or braines.

I'm sure she jeerd me out of my Monsieurship.

Did she, and all thy fine french qualities?

Shee lives at a good rate how ere maintaind.

Thou art no worshipper of faire women Piso.

Now Nicolo?

S [...]w you my young Master Gentlemen?

How like you this for a beard?

Why what news Nicolo?

Your Father is in busy quest of you.

Then he dos misse me?

Has he got her off?

Hymen be their speed.

But how I pray thee scap'd they?

A Bravo speake with me?

Come leave your fooling.

By mine Eares tis true.

Goe call him in, I feare no Knavery.

Your lodging protects me.

My disguise me.

This is the Gentleman.

Tis the proud Bra [...]es whiske!

What! Is shee come about? Has shee sent for mee?

So would any man: Hee has hit his shape so right.

I have found the error, and will make good use [...]'t.

Your businesse then is to that strangers sir—

Only your selfe, and briefly from Francisco.

Francisco! where?

But are they Married?

But where is that Fabritio?

I am gone sir—

You have heard all Fabritio; what d [...] thinke on't?

We wish you safe aboard sir.

O, it is ready; and I know my quue.

SCENE I.

No, but hee's sent for; and comes instantly.

This is the Lady I am bound to serve.

And I to honour.

Setting aside your suit sir.

I cannot promise that.

You still stand in your good conceit of me.

Yes, and I would so stand to' [...], ha—

You are a merry Gentleman.

Wee'l talke of that hereafter.

What acted you, Tit, in this Comedy?

And what thinke you of this?

Wee'l all observe you Lady.

Yes Mistris, a brave fellow.

Didst thou see' [...]?

Why stop you Borgio?

Hee's doing no such thing.