University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—A rich Apartment at the Widow Welsted's.
Enter Widow and Clown, R.
Widow.
(C.)

Sirrah, will the churchman come I sent
you for?

Clown.

Yes, mistress, he will come: but pray resolve
me one thing for my long service; what business have
you with the churchman? Is it to make your will or to
get you a new husband?

Widow.

Suppose to make my will, how then?

Clown.

Then I would desire you to remember me,
mistress—I have served you faithfully—make a good will
if you mean to die, that it may not be said “Though
most women be long lived, yet they all die with an ill
will.”

Widow.

How if it be for marriage?

Clown.

Then I would desire you to remember yourself,
mistress. Take heed how you give away the sword, to
defend yourself with the scabbard. This is the instruction
of a friend; I would be loth to see you cast down
and not well taken up.

Widow.

Well, sir, well, let not this trouble you;—see
he's come: will you be gone?

Enter Churchman, L.
Clown.

I will first give him a caveat to use you as
kindly as he can. [To Churchman,—crosses to meet

him.]
Save you, reverend sir.

Church.

And you, fool.

[Widow walks up the stage.
Clown.
(L. C.)

Sir, if you find my mistress have a mind
to a fresh husband or so, use her as well as you can; let
her enter into as easy bands as may be.

Church.

Fool, this is none of my traffic—I sell no husbands.

Clown.

There you are wrong, sir, for you take money
for them—what woman can have a husband if she pay

not you for him? [She comes down on R.]
and often the
ware proves naught too, not worth the impost.

Church.
[To Widow]

Your man is merry, madam.

Widow.
(R. C.)

He's saucy, sir,—sirrah, you'll begone!

Clown.

Nay, at the second hand you'll have a fee too;
you sell in the church, and they bring 'em again to your
churchyard. There's more tollage! methinks if a man
die whether you will or no, he should be buried whether
you will or no.

Wid.
(C.)

Begone, I say, sirrah.

Clown.

Mistress, make him your friend: for he knows
what rate good husbands are at.—Nay, I am gone, mistress.

[Exit Clown, L.
Church.
(C.)
You sent for me, madam.

Wid.
I did, sir: to this end:
I have some scruples, Doctor, in my conscience;
Some doubtful problems which I cannot answer,
Nor reconcile; I'd have you make them plain.

Church.
This is my duty: pray you speak your mind.

Wid.
And as I speak I must remember Heav'n
That gave those blessings which I must relate.
Sir, you behold in me, a wond'rous woman—
You only wonder at the epithet;
I can approve it good: guess at mine age.

Church.
At the half way between twenty and thirty.

Wid.
Not much amiss; yet nearest to the last.
How think you then, sir, is not this a wonder?
That a woman lives full eight and twenty years
Maid to a wife, and wife unto a widow,
Now widow'd and mine own, yet all this while
From the extremest verge of my remembrance,
Even from my weaning hour unto this minute.
Did never taste what was calamity?
I know not yet what grief is, yet have sought
An hundred ways for its acquaintance.
Prosperity hath watch'd so closely o'er me,
That even those things I have meant a cross
Have that way turn'd a blessing—I'st not strange?

Church.
Unparallel'd; this gift is singular,
Belonging but to you—You are the moon,
For there's but one. All women else are stars,
For there are none of like condition.
But soft, I pray you, let me question you;
You lost a husband, grieved you not for that?

Wid.
O, sir, your pardon. Death's the heritage
Of all mankind: the grief from which
No mortal is exempt—Be not so literal
In your constructions—Though even from death,
I have known less affliction than pertains
Unto the common lot. My parents died
Ere I could know their loss: and for my husband,
Although I mourn'd him much, in grief's despite
I joy'd withal that I had found a grief.
And this is all the sorrow I have known.

Church.
No trip of fate?—Sure it is wonderful!

Wid.
Aye, sir, 'tis wonderful:—but is it well?
Sure I have heard you say the child of heav'n
Shall suffer many tribulations; nay,
E'en kings and princes share them with their subjects:
Then I that know not any chastisement,
May I not doubt my part in heaven's dear love?

Church.
'Tis a good doubt—but make it not extreme;
'Tis some affliction, that your are afflicted
For e'en affliction's want. Cherish thou that.
Your blessings, lady, are free gifts from heaven,
Health, wealth, and peace; nor can they turn to curses,
But by abuse.

Re-enter Clown, L.
Clown.

Mistress, there's one without would speak with
you, that vexeth as fast against crosses as you do against
good luck.

Wid.
I know her, sure, then, 'tis my gossip, Foster.
Request her in. Say, here's good company.

Clown.
Marry, I'll say so for my own credit's sake.

[Exit Clown, L.
Wid.
Now you shall see a perfect contrary.
Would I could change hearts with her for a time!
'Twould make me better relish happiness.

Enter Mrs. Foster, L.
Mrs. F.
(L.)
O, friend and gossip, where are you?—I am
O'erladen with my griefs. Sure never woman
Had a more sinister fate! All ominous stars
Were in conjunction at my hapless birth,
And still attend me!

Wid.
What's the matter, gossip.

Church.
[Aside, R.]
This is a perfect contrary indeed!

Mrs. E.
Unless seven witches had set spells about me,
I could not be so cross'd; never at quiet,
No happy hour, not a minute's content.

Wid.
That cannot be, friend—You've a most kind husband.

Church.
A man of fair condition, well reputed.

Mrs. F.
(L. C.)
Alack it matters not. He hath a son
That makes my state his prodigality.
Aye, and a brother, one o' the city scandals,
One is the hand, the other is the maw;
And between both my goods are swallow'd up.
Believe me, what I brought unto mine husband
Is now consumed to half!

Wid.
Canst thou devise
To lay a part of these same griefs on me?
I'll bear them willingly.

Mrs. F.
O! would I could! that I might rest the while!
But you are wise to heed at other's harms;
You'll keep you happy in your widowhood.

Wid.
I'faith, not I, were I but sure that marriage
Would ruffle this smooth stream of happiness
With a brisk storm or two.

Mrs. F.
I warrant you—
Try, gossip, try, you shall not need to wish:
You'll sing another song, and bear a part
In my grief's descant. You have a light heart now.

Widow.
And so should you have were you ruled by me.
It is spleen that weighs it down. Come, friends,
We'll dine together; after walk abroad
Unto my suburb garden; where, if thou
[To Mrs. F.
Wilt hear, I'll read my heart to thee, and school thee
How to put by the thrust of care with patience.

[Takes her hand, and leads off, R.