 | Wit without Money |  |
Scena Prima.
Enter Isabella, and Luce.Luc.
By my troth Mistris I did it for the best.
Isab.
It may be so, but Luce, you have a tongue,
a dish of meat in your mouth, which if it were minced Luce,
would do a great deal better.
Luce.
I protest Mistress.
Isab.
It will be your own one time or other: Walter.
Walter
[within.]
Anon forsooth.
Isab.
Lay my hat ready, my fan and cloak, you are so full
of providence; and Walter, tuck up my little box behind
the Coach, and bid my maid make ready, my sweet service
to your good Lady Mistress; and my dog, good let the
Coachman carry him.
Luce.
But hear me.
Isab.
I am in love sweet Luce, and you are so skillfull, that
I must needs undo my self; and hear me, let Oliver pack up
my Glass discreetly, and see my Curles well carried. Oh
sweet Luce, you have a tongue, and open tongues have open
you know what, Luce.
Luce.
Pray you be satisfied.
Isab.
Yes and contented too, before I leave you: there's
a Roger, which some call a Butcher, I speak of certainties, I
do not fish Luce, nay do not stare, I have a tongue can talk
too: and a Green Chamber Luce, a back door opens to a
long Gallerie; there was a night Luce, do you perceive, do
you perecive me yet? O do you blush Luce? a Friday night
I saw your Saint, Luce: for t'other box of Marmalade, all's
thine sweet Roger, this I heard and kept too.
Luce.
E'ne as you are a woman Mistress.
Isab.
This I allow as good and Physical sometime, these
meetings, and for the cheering of the heart, but Luce, to
have your own turn served, and to your friend to be a
dogbolt.
Luce.
I confess it Mistress.
Isab.
As you have made my sister jealous of me, and
foolishly, and childishly pursued it, I have found out your
haunt, and traced your purposes; for which mine honour
suffers; your best waies must be applied to bring her back
again, and seriously and suddenly, that so I may have a
means to clear my self, and she a fair opinion of me, else,
you peevish—
Luce.
My power and prayers Mistress.
Isab.
What's the matter?
Enter Shorthose, and Widow.
Short.
I have been with the Gentleman, he has it, much
good may do him with it.
Wid.
Come, are you ready? you love so to delay time, the
day grows on.
Isab.
I have sent for a few trifles, when those are come;
And now I know your reason.
Wid.
Know your own honour then, about your businesse, see
the Coach ready presently, I'le tell you more then.
[Ex. Luce, and Shorthose.
And understand it well, you must not think your sister so
tender eyed as not to see your follies, alas I know your heart,
and must imagine, and truly too; 'tis not your charitie can
coin such sums to give away as you have done, in that you
have no wisdom Isabel, no nor modesty, where nobler uses
are at home; I tell you, I am ashamed to find this in your
years, far more in your discretion, none to chuse but things
for pity, none to seal your thoughts on, but one of no standing,
of no name; nothing to bring you to but this, cold
and hunger: A jolly Joynture sister, you are happy, no
mony, no not ten shillings.
Isab.
You search nearly.
Wid.
I know it as I know your folly, one that knows not
where he shall eat his next meal, take his rest, unless it be
i'th' stocks; what kindred has he, but a more wanting
Isab.
You have had rare intelligence, I see, sister.
Wid.
Or say the man had vertue, is vertue in this age a
full inheritance? what Joynture can he make you, Plutarchs
Morals, or so much penny rent in the small Poets? this is not
well, 'tis weak, and I grieve to know it.
Isab.
And this you quit the town for?
Wid.
Is't not time?
Isab.
You are better read in my affairs than I am, that's
all I have to answer, I'le go with you, and willingly, and
what you think most dangerous, I'le sit laugh at.
For sister 'tis not folly but good discretion governs our main
fortunes.
Wid.
I am glad to hear you say so.
Isa.
I am for you.
Enter Shorthose, and Humphrey, with riding rods.
Hum.
The Devil cannot stay her, she'l on't, eat an egg
now, and then we must away.
Short.
I am gaul'd already, yet I will pray, may London
wayes from henceforth be full of holes, and Coaches crack
their wheels, may zealous Smiths so housel all our Hackneys,
that they thay feel compunction in their feet, and tire
at High-gate, may it rain above all Almanacks till Carriers
sail, and the Kings Fish monger ride like Bike Arion upon
a Trout to London.
Hum.
At S. Albanes, let all the Inns be drunk, not an Host
sober to bid her worship welcom.
Short.
Not a Fiddle, but all preach't down with Puritans;
no meat but Legs of Beef.
Hum.
No beds but Wool Packs.
Short.
And those so crammed with Warrens of starved
fleas that bite like Bandogs; let Mims be angry at their S.
Bel-Swagger, and we pass in the heat on't and be beaten, beaten
abominably, beaten horse and man, and all my Ladies linnen.
Sprinkled with suds and dish-water.
Short.
Not a wheel but out of joynt.
Enter Roger laugh-ing.
Hum.
Why dost thou laugh?
Rog.
There's a Gentleman, and the rarest Gentleman,
and makes the rarest sport.
Short.
Where, where?
Rog.
Within here, h'as made the gayest sport with Tom
the Coachman, so tewed him up with Sack that he lies
lashing a But of Malmsie for his Mares.
Short.
'Tis very good.
Rog.
And talks and laughs, and sings the rarest songs, and
Shorthose, he has so maul'd the Red Deer pies, made such an
alms i'th' butterie.
Short.
Better still.
Enter Val. Widow.
Hum.
My Lady in a rage with the Gentleman?
Short.
May he anger her into a feather.
[Exeunt.
Wid.
I pray tell me, who sent you hither? for I imagine
it is not your condition, you look so temperately, and like a
Gentleman, to ask me these milde questions.
Val.
Do you think I use to walk of errands, gentle Lady,
or deal with women out of dreams from others?
Wid.
You have not know me sure?
Val.
Not much.
Wid.
What reason have you then to be so tender of my
credit, you are no kinsman?
Val.
If you take it so, the honest office that I came to do
you, is not so heavy but I can return it: now I perceive you
are too proud, not worth my visit.
Wid.
Pray stay, a little proud.
Val.
Monstrous proud, I griev'd to hear a woman of your
value, and your abundant parts stung by the people, but
how I see 'tis true, you look upon me as if I were a rude and
saucie fellow that borrowed all my breeding from a dunghil,
or such a one, as should now fall and worship you in hope of
pardon: you are cozen'd Lady, I came to prove opinion a
loud liar, to see a woman only great in goodness, and Mistress
of a greater fame than fortune, but—
Wid.
You are a strange Gentleman, if I were proud now,
I should be monstrous angry, which I am not, and shew the
effects of pride; I should despise you, but you are welcom
Sir: To think well of our selves, if we deserve it, it is a
lustre in us, and every good we have, strives to shew gracious,
what use is it else? old age like Seer trees, is seldom seen affected,
stirs sometimes at rehearsal of such acts as his daring
youth endeavour'd.
Val.
This is well, and now you speak to the purpose, you
please me, but to be place proud?
Wid.
If it be our own, why are we set here with distinction
else, degrees, and orders given us? In you men, 'tis held a
coolness, if you lose your right, affronts and loss of honour:
streets, and walls, and upper ends of tables, had they tongues
could tell what blood has followed, and what feud about
your ranks; are we so much below you, that till you have us,
are the tops of nature, to be accounted drones without a difference?
you will make us beasts indeed.
Val.
Nay worse than this too, proud of your cloaths, they
swear a Mercers Lucifer, a tumour tackt together by a Taylour,
nay yet worse, proud of red and white, a varnish that
butter milk can better.
Wid.
Lord, how little will vex these poor blind people!
if my cloaths be sometimes gay and glorious, does it follow,
my mind must be my Mercers too? or say my beauty
please some weak eyes, must it please them to think, that
blows me up, that every hour blows off? this is an Infants
anger.
Val.
Thus they say too, what though you have a Coach
lined through with velvet, and four fair Flanders mares, why
should the streets be troubled continually with you, till Carmen
curse you? can there be ought in this but pride of shew
Lady, and pride of bum-beating, till the learned lawyers with
their fat bags, are thrust against the bulks till all their causes
crack? why should this Lady, and t'other Lady, and the
third sweet Lady, and Madam at Mile-end, be daily visited,
and your poorer neighbours, with course napses neglected,
fashions conferr'd about, pouncings, and paintings, and
young mens bodies read on like Anatomies.
Wid.
You are very credulous, and somewhat desperate,
to deliver this Sir, to her you know not, but you shall confess
me, and find I will not start; in us all meetings lie open
to these lewd reports, and our thoughts at Church, our
very meditations some will swear, which all should fear to
judge, at least uncharitably, are mingled with your memories,
cannot sleep, but this sweet Gentleman swims in
our fancies, that scarlet man of war, and that smooth
Senior; not dress our heads without new ambushes, how to
surprize that greatness, or that glorie; our very smiles are
subject to constructions; nay Sir, it's come to this we
cannot pish, but 'tis a favour for some fool or other: should
we examine you thus, wer't not possible to take you without
Perspectives?
Wid.
It may be, but these excuse not.
Wid.
Nor yours force no truth Sir, what deadly tongues
you have, and to those tongues what hearts, and what inventions?
O' my conscience, and 'twere not for sharp justice,
you would venture to aim at your own mothers, and account
it glorie to say you had done so: all you think are counsels,
and cannot erre, 'tis we still that shew double, giddy, or
gorg'd with passion; we that build Babels for mens conclusions,
we that scatter, as day does his warm light; our
killing curses over Gods creatures, next to the devils malice:
lets intreat your good words.
Val.
Well, this woman has a brave soul.
Wid.
Are not we gaily blest then, and much beholding to
you for your substance? you may do what you list, we what
beseems us, and narrowly do that too, and precisely, our
names are served in else at Ordinaries, and belcht abroad in
Taverns.
Val.
O most brave Wench, and able to redeem an age of
women.
You are no Whoremasters? Alas, no, Gentlemen,
it were an impudence to think you vicious: you are so holy,
handsome Ladies fright you, you are the cool things of
the time, the temperance, meer Emblems of the Law, and
veils of Vertue, you are not daily mending like Dutch
Watches, and plastering like old Walls; they are not
Gentlemen, that with their secret sins increase our Surgeons,
and lie in Foraign Countries, for new sores; Women
are all these Vices; you are not envious, false, covetous,
vain-glorious, irreligious, drunken, revengeful, giddie-eyed
like Parrots, caters of others honours.
Val.
You are angry.
Wid.
No by my troth, and yet I could say more too, for
when men make me angry, I am miserable.
Val.
Sure 'tis a man, she could not bear it thus bravely
else, it may be I am tedious.
Wid.
Not at all, Sir, I am content at this time you should
trouble me.
Val.
You are distrustful.
Wid.
Where I find no truth, Sir.
Val.
Come, come, you are full of passion.
Wid.
Some I have, I were too near the nature o' God else.
Val.
You are monstrous peevish.
Wid.
Because they are monstrous foolish, and know not
how to use that should try me.
Val.
I was never answered thus; were you never drunk
Lady?
Wid.
No sure, not drunk, Sir; yet I love good Wine, as
I love health and joy of heart, but temperately, why
do you ask that question?
Val.
For that sin that they most charge you with, is this
sin's servant, they say you are monstrous—
Wid.
What, Sir, what?
Val.
Most strangely.
Wid.
It has a name sure?
Val.
Infinitely lustful, without all bounds, they swear
you kill'd your Husband.
Wid.
Let us have it all for Heavens sake, 'tis good mirth,
Sir.
Val.
They say you will have four now, and those four
stuck in four quarters, like four winds to cool you: will she
not cry nor curse?
Wid.
On with your story.
Val.
And that you are forcing out of dispensations with
sums of money to that purpose.
Wid.
Four Husbands! should not I be blest, Sir, for example?
Lord, what should I do with them? turn a Maltmill,
or Tithe them out like Town bulls to my Tenants,
you come to make me angry, but you cannot.
Val.
I'le make you merry then, you are a brave Woman,
and in despite of envy a right one, go thy wayes, truth thou
art as good a Woman, as any Lord of them all can lay his
Leg over, I do not often commend your Sex.
Wid.
It seems so, your commendations are so studied for.
Val.
I came to see you and sift you into Flowr to know
your pureness, and I have found you excellent, I thank you;
continue so, and shew men how to tread, and women how
to follow: get an Husband, an honest man, you are a good
woman, and live hedg'd in from scandal, let him be too
an understanding man, and to that stedfast, 'tis pity your
fair Figure should miscarry, and then your are fixt: farewel.
Wid.
Pray stay a little, I love your company now you are
so pleasant, and to my disposition set so even.
Val.
I can no longer.
[Exit.
Wid.
As I live a fine fellow, this manly handsome bluntness
shews him honest; what is he, or from whence?
bless me, four Husbands! how prettily he fooled me into
Vices, to stir my jealousie, and find my nature; a proper
Gentleman: I am not well o'th' sudden, such a companion
I could live and dye with, his angers are meer mirth.
Enter Isabella.
Isa.
Come, come, I am ready.
Wid.
Are you so?
Isa.
What ails she? the Coach staies, and the people, the
day goes on, I am as ready now as you desire, Sister fie, who
stays now, why do you sit and pout thus?
Wid.
Prethee be quiet, I am not well.
Isa.
For Heavn's sake let's not ride staggering in the
night, come, pray you take some Sweet-meats in your
pocket, if your stomach—
Wid.
I have a little business.
Isab.
To abuse me, you shall not find new dreams, and
new suspicions, to horse withal.
Wid.
Lord who made you a Commander! hey ho, my
heart.
Isab.
Is the wind come thither, and Coward like, do you
lose your Colours to 'em? are you sick o'th' Valentine? sweet
Sister, come let's away, the Country will so quicken you,
and we shall live so sweetly: Luce, my Ladies Cloak, nay,
you have put me into such a gog of going, I would not stay
for all the world; if I live here, you have so knock'd this
love into my head, that I shall love any body, and I find
my body, I know not how, so apt—pray let's be gone,
Sister, I stand on thorns.
Wid.
I prethee Isabella, i'faith I have some business that
concerns me, I will suspect no more, here, wear that for
me, and I'le pay the hundred pound you owe your Taylor.
Enter Shorthose, Roger, Humphrey, Ralph.
Isab.
I had rather go, but—
Wid.
Come walk in with me, we'll go to Cards, unsaddle
the Horses.
Short.
A Jubile, a Jubile, we stay, Boys.
Enter Uncle, Lan. Foun. Bella. Harebrain following.
Unc.
Are they behind us?
Lan.
Close, close, speak aloud, Sir.
Unc.
I am glad my Nephew has so much discretion, at
length to find his wants: did she entertain him?
Lance.
Most bravely, nobly, and gave him such a welcome!
Unc.
For his own sake do you think?
Lance.
Most certain, Sir, and in his own cause bestir'd
himself too, and wan such liking from her, she dotes on
him, h'as the command of all the house already.
Unc.
He deals not well with his friends.
Lance.
Let him deal on, and be his own friend, he has
most need of her.
Unc.
I wonder they would put him—
Lan.
You are in the right on't, a man that must raise
himself, I knew he would couzen 'em, and glad I am he has
he watched occasion, and found it i'th' nick.
Unc.
He has deceived me.
Lan.
I told you howsoever he wheel'd about, he would
charge home at length: how I could laugh now, to think of
these tame fools!
Unc.
'Twas not well done, because they trusted him, yet.
Bel.
Hark you Gentlemen.
Unc.
We are upon a business, pray excuse us, they have
it home.
Lanc.
Come let it work good on Gentlemen.
[Exeunt Uncle, Lance.
Font.
'Tis true, he is a knave, I ever thought it.
Hare.
And we are fools, tame fools.
Bell.
Come let's go seek him, he shall be hang'd before
he colt us basely.
[Exeunt.
Enter Isabella, Luce.
Isab.
Art sure she loves him?
Luce.
Am I sure I live? and I have clapt on such a commendation
on your revenge.
Isab.
Faith, he is a pretty Gentleman.
Luce.
Handsome enough, and that her eye has found out
Isa.
He talks the best they say, and yet the maddest.
Luce.
H'as the right way.
Isa.
How is she?
Bears it well, as if she cared not, but a man may
see with half an eye through all her forced behaviour, and
find who is her Valentine.
Isa.
Come let's go see her, I long to prosecute.
Luce.
By no means Mistress, let her take better hold
first.
Isab.
I could burst now.
[Exeunt.
Enter Valentine, Fountain, Bellamore, Harebrain.
Val.
Upbraid me with your benefits, you Pilchers, you
shotten, sold, slight fellows? was't not I that undertook
you first from empty barrels, and brought those barking
mouths that gaped like bung-holes to utter sence? where
got you understanding? who taught you manners and apt
carriage to rank your selves? who filled you in fit Taverns?
were those born with your worships when you came hither?
what brought you from the Universities of moment matter
allow you, besides your small base sentences?
Bell.
'Tis well, Sir.
Val.
Long Cloaks with two-hand-rapiers, boot-hoses
with penny poses, and twenty fools opinions, who looked
on you but piping rites that knew you would be prizing,
and Prentices in Paul's Church-yard, that scented your want
of Britains Books.
Enter Widow, Luce, Hairbrain.
Font.
This cannot save you.
Val.
Taunt my integrity you Whelps?
Bell.
You may talk the stock we gave you out, but see no
further.
Hair.
You tempt our patience, we have found you out,
and what your trust comes to, ye're well feathered, thank
us, and think now of an honest course, 'tis time; men now
begin to look, and narrowly into your tumbling tricks,
they are stale.
Wid.
Is not that he?
Luce.
'Tis he.
Wid.
Be still and mark him.
Val.
How miserable will these poor wretches be when I
forsake 'em! but things have their necessities, I am sorry,
to what a vomit must they turn again, now to their own
dear Dunghil breeding; never hope after I cast you off, you
men of Motley, you most undone things below pity, any
that has a soul and six pence dares relieve you, my name
shall bar that blessing, there's your Cloak, Sir, keep it
close to you, it may yet preserve you a fortnight longer
from the fool; your Hat, pray be covered, and there's
the Sattin that your Worship sent me, will serve you at a
sizes yet.
Fount.
Nay, faith Sir, you may e'ne rub these out now.
Val.
No such relique, nor the least rag of such a sordid
weakness shall keep me warm, these Breeches are mine
own, purchased, and paid for, without your compassion,
Christian Breeches founded in Black-Friers, and so I'le
maintain 'em.
Hare.
So they seem, Sir.
Val.
Only the thirteen shillings in these Breeches, and
the odd groat, I take it, shall be yours, Sir, a mark to
know a Knave by, pray preserve it, do not displease more,
but take it presently, now help me off with my Boots.
Hare.
We are no Grooms, Sir.
Val.
For once you shall be, do it willingly, or by this
hand I'le make you.
Bell.
To our own, Sir, we may apply our hands.
Val.
There's your Hangers, you may deserve a strong
pair and a girdle will hold you without buckles; now I am
perfect, and now the proudest of your worships tell me!
I am beholding to you.
Fount.
No such matter.
Val.
And take heed how you pity me, 'tis dangerous,
exceeding dangerous, to prate of pity; which are the poorer?
you are now puppies; I without you, or you without my
knowledge? be Rogues, and so be gone, be Rogues and reply
not, for if you do—
Bell.
Only thus much, and then we'll leave you: the
Air is far sharper than our anger, Sir, and these you may
reserve to rail in warmer.
Hare.
Pray have a care, Sir, of your health.
[Ex. Lovers.
Val.
Yes Hog-hounds, more than you can have of your
wits; 'tis cold, and I am very sensible, extreamly cold
too, yet I will not off, till I have shamed these Rascals; I
have indured as ill heats as another, and every way if one
could perish my body, you'll bear the blame on't; I am
colder here, not a poor penny left.
Enter Uncle with a Bag.
Unc.
'Thas taken rarely, and now he's flead he will be
ruled.
Lan.
To him, tew him, abuse him, and nip him close.
Unc.
Why how now, Cousin, sunning yourself this
weather?
Val.
As you see, Sir, in a hot sit, I thank my friends.
Unc.
But Cousin, where are your Cloaths man? those
are no inheritance, your scruple may compound with those
I take it, this is no fashion, Cousin.
Val.
Not much followed, I must confess; yet Uncle I
determine to try what may be done next Term.
Lance.
How came you thus, Sir, for you are strangely
moved.
Val.
Rags, toys and trifles, fit only for those fools that
first possessed 'em, and to those Knaves they are rendred.
Freemen, Uncle, ought to appear like innocents, old Adam,
a fair Fig-leaf sufficient.
Unc.
Take me with you, were these your friends, that
clear'd you thus?
Val.
Hang friends, and even reckonings that make
friends.
Unc.
I thought till now, there had been no such living,
no such purchase, for all the rest is labour, as a list of honourable
friends; do such men as you, Sir, in lieu of all
your understandings, travels, and those great gifts of nature,
aim at no more than casting off your Coats? I am
strangely cozen'd.
Lance.
Should not the Town share at the cold you feel
now, and all the Gentry suffer interdiction, no more sense
spoken, all things Goth and Vandal, till you be summed again,
Velvets and Scarlets, anointed with gold Lace, and
Cloth of silver turned into Spanish Cottens for a penance,
wits blasted with your Bulls, and Taverns withered, as
though the Term lay at St
Albans?
Val.
Gentlemen, you have spoken long and level, I beseech
you take breath a while and hear me, you imagine
now, by the twirling of your strings, that I am at the last,
as also that my friends are flown like Swallows after Summer.
Unc.
Yes, Sir.
Val.
And that I have no more in this poor Pannier, to
raise me up again above your rents, Uncle.
Unc.
All this I do believe.
Val.
You have no mind to better me.
Unc.
Yes, Cousin, and to that end I come, and once
more offer you all that my power is master of.
Val.
A match then, lay me down fifty pounds there.
Unc.
There it is, Sir.
Val.
And on it write, that you are pleased to give this,
as due unto my merit, without caution of land redeeming,
tedious thanks, or thrift hereafter to be hoped for.
Unc.
How?
[Luce lays a Suit and Letter at the door.
Val.
Without daring, when you are drunk, to relish of
revilings, to which you are prone in Sack, Uncle.
Unc.
I thank you, Sir.
Lance.
Come, come away, let the young wanton play
a while, away I say, Sir, let him go forward with his naked
fashion, he will seek you too morrow; goodly weather, sultry
hot, sultry, how I sweat!
Unc.
Farewel, Sir.
[Exeunt Uncle and Lance.
Val.
Would I sweat too, I am monstrous vext, and
cold too; and these are but thin pumps to walk the
with me; besides, 'tis an ill winter wear,—What
art thou? yes, they are clothes, and rich ones, some fool
has left 'em: and if I should utter—what's this paper
here? Let these be only worn by the most noble and deserving
Gentleman Valentine,—dropt out o'th' clouds!
I think they are full of gold too; well, I'le leave my wonder,
and be warm again, in the next house I'le shift.
[Exit.
| Wit without Money | |