University of Virginia Library

The second Scene.

To them Raven, and a little after him Mounsieur Kickshaw.
Is my Bride yet come Cosen?

Raw.

Not yet sir. Mounsieur Kickshaw the French Cook's
come to prepare dinner.

Good.
Hee's welcome; let me see him
I'le have the feast season'd with all variety
Of choice delights.

The.
To me they will not relish;
But like those pills which an unwilling patient
Doubting their vertue takes, and turnes the medicine
Into a worse disease.

Good.
Mounsieur you are welcome.

Kick.
Me tank you Mounsieur.

Good.
I presume you'l shew your best cunning.

Kick.

Me make you de French dish; de pulpatone; de frigasie;
de gran Kickeshaw an de kickeshaw royall; de macarrone:
and two tree dozen ting more for your wedding.

Good.

Pray Cosin take him first into the cellar.

Kick.

Remerce Mounsieur. Me drinke two tree cup a your
Claret a your vite vine sall make a me lusty.

Good.

I shall thankfully consider your paines.

Kick.

Mounsieur ven a me vark is done, you give a me leave
to dance two tree foure dance, an kisse a de vench two tree foure
time. Oh de French man love a de fine vench vary well. You
be de old man Mounsieur, and you love a de young venche
me make your de dish sall get sis Childe.

Good.
Too many on conscience.

Kick.
If de Madame love me, me get twenty.

Good.
To your businesse good Mounsieur.

Kick.
Dat be good businesse, better den go to my vark.

Exit.
The.
Observe you sir this fellow! one that ought
To be kickt into manners how he taunts you?
'Twill be the streets discourse, the conduits lecture:
And not an idle tongue but will abuse.
Your reverend name, which hitherto hath aw'd
Th'unbridled rabble.

Good.
Once more I command thee
Leave off this counsaile, growing but from feare,
That will admit no reason. Cosin Raven
Hasten my Bride: shee makes my patience tyre
With so much expection. And harke you cosin.

Whisper.
Theo.
My sun of joy's ecclipst, and all the hopes
My fancy painted, by this accident
Are blotted out. How have I merited
Of heaven thus to be punisht! But I must not
Tax providence with an injustice to me,
That have deserv'd worse curses for neglect
Of my religious duties. Only he,
My foster Father to possesse those sweets
Love promis'd my inheritance! Wer't another,
I'd from his rude hands snatch her in the Church,
Before the powerfull words should knit that knot
Nothing but death dissolves.