University of Virginia Library

Scene. IV.

Pyed-mantle. (to them.
Pyed-mantle
brings the Lady Pecunia her pedigree.
By your leaue, Gentlemen.

Fit.
Her Graces Herald,

Alm.
No Herald yet, a Heraldet.

P. Iv.
What's that?

P. Ca.
A Canter.

P. Iv.
O, thou said'st thou'dst sproue vs all so!

P. Ca.
Sir, here is one will proue himselfe so, streight,
So shall the rest, in time.

Pec.
My Pedigree?
I tell you, friend, he must be a good Scholler,
Can my discent. I am of Princely race,
And as good blood, as any is i'the mines,
Runnes through my veines. I am, euery limb, a Princesse!
Dutchesse o' mynes, was my great Grandmother.
And by the Fathers side, I come from Sol.
My Grand-father was Duke of Or, and match'd
In the blood-royall of Ophyr.

Pye.
Here's his Coat.

Pec.
I know it, if I heare the Blazon.

Pye.
He beares
In a field Azure, a Sunne proper, beamy,
Twelue of the second.

P. Ca.
How farr's this from canting?

P. Iv.
Her Grace doth vnderstand ti.

P. Ca.
She can cant, Sr.

Pec.
What be these? Besants?

Pye.
Yes, an't please your Grace.

Pec.
That is our Coat too, as we come from Or.
What line's this?

Pye.
The rich mynes of Potosi.
The Spanish mynes i'the West-Indies.

Pec.
This?

Pye.
The mynes o' Hungary, this of Barbary.

Pec.
But this, this little branch.

Pec.
The Welsh-myne that.

Pec.
I ha' Welsh-blood in me too, blaze, Sir, that Coat.

Pye.
She beares (an't please you) Argent, three leekes vert
In Canton Or, and tassel'd of the first.

P. Ca.
Is not this canting? doe you vnderstand him?

P. Iv.
Not I, but it sounds well, and the whole thing
Is rarely painted, I will haue such a scrowle,
What ere it cost me.

Pec.
VVell, at better leasure,
We'll take a view of it, and so reward you.

P. Iv.
Kisse him, sweet Princesse, and stile him a Cousin.

She kisseth.
Pec.
I will, if you will haue it. Cousin Pyed-mantle.

P. Iv.
I loue all men of vertue, from my Princesse,
Vnto my begger, here, old Canter, on,
On to thy proofe, whom proue you the next Canter?

P. Ca.
The Doctor here, I will proceed with the learned.
VVhen he discourseth of dissection,
Or any point of Anatomy: that hee tells you,
Of Vena caua, and of vena parta,
The Meseraicks, and the Mesenterium.
VVhat does hee else but cant? Or if he runne
To his Iudiciall Astrologie,
And trowle the Trine, the Quartile and the Sextile,
Platicke aspect, and Partile, with his Hyleg
Or Alchochoden, Cuspes, and Horroscope.
Does not he cant? VVho here does vnderstand him?

Alm.
This is no Canter, tho!

P. Ca.
Or when my Muster-Master
Talkes of his Tacticks, and his Rankes, and Files;
His Bringers vp, his Leaders on, and cries,
Faces about to the right hand, the left,
Now, as you were: then tells you of Redoubts,
Of Cats, and Cortines. Doth not he cant?

P. Iv.
Yes, 'faith.

P. Ca.
My Eg-chind Laureat, here, when he comes forth
With Dimeters, and Trimeters, Tetrameters,
Pentameters, Hexameters, Catalecticks,
His Hyper, and his Brachy-Catalecticks,
His Pyrrhichs, Epitrites, and Choriambicks.
What is all this, but canting?

Mad.
A rare fellow!

Shv.
Some begging Scholler!

Fit.
A decay'd Doctor at least!

P. Iv.
Nay, I doe cherish vertue, though in rags.

P. Ca.
And you, Mas Courtier.

P. Iv.
Now he treats of you,
Stand forth to him, faire.

P. Ca.
With all your fly-blowne proiects,
And lookes out of the politicks, your shut-faces,
And reseru'd Questions and Answers that you game with, As
Is't a Cleare businesse? will it mannage well?
My name must not be vs'd else. Here, 'twill dash.
Your businesse has receiu'd a taint, giue off,
I may not prostitute my selfe. Tut, tut,
That little dust I can blow off, at pleasure.
Here's no such mountaine, yet, i'the whole worke!
But a light purse may leuell. I will tyde.
This affayre for you; giue it freight, and passage.
And such mynt-phrase, as 'tis the worst of canting,
By how much it affects the sense, it has not.

Fit.
This is some other then he seemes!

P. Iv.
How like you him?

Fit.
This cannot be a Canter!

P. Iv.
But he is, Sir,
And shall be still, and so shall you be too:
We'll all be Canters. Now, I thinke of it,
A noble Whimsie's come into my braine!
Canters-Colledge, begun to be erected.
I'll build a Colledge, I, and my Pecunia,
And call it Canters Colledge, sounds it well?

Alm.
Excellent!

P. Iv.
And here stands my Father Rector,
And you Professors, you shall all professe
Something, and liue there, with her Grace and me,
Your Founders: I'll endow't with lands, and meanes,
And Lickfinger shall be my Master-Cooke.
What? is he gone?

P. Ca.
And a Professor.

P. Iv.
Yes.

P. Ca.
And read Apicius de reculinaria
To your braue Doxie and you!

P. Iv.
You, Cousin Fitton,
Shall (as a Courtier) read the politicks;
Doctor, Al-manack, hee shall read Astrology,
Shunfield shall read the Military Arts.

That's Madrigall.
P. Ca.
As caruing, and assaulting the cold custard.

P. Iv.
And Horace here, the Art of Poetry.
His Lyricks, and his Madrigalls, fine Songs,
Which we will haue at dinner, steept in claret,
And against supper, sowc't in sacke.

Mad.
In troth
A diuine Whimsey!

Shv.
And a worthy worke,
Fit for a Chronicle!

P. Iv.
Is't not?

Shy.
To all ages.

P. Iv.
And Pyed-mantle, shall giue vs all our Armes,
But Picklocke, what wouldst thou be? Thou canst cant too.

Pic.
In all the languages in Westminster-Hall,
Fleas, Bench, or Chancery. Fee-Farme, Fee-Tayle,
Tennant in dower, At will, For Terme of life,
By Copy of Court Roll, Knights seruice, Homage,
Fealty, Escuage, Soccage, or Frank almoigne,
Grand Sergeanty, or Burgage.

P. Iv.
Thou appear'st,
Κατ'εξοχην a Canter. Thou shalt read
All Littletons tenures to me, and indeed
All my Conueyances.

Pic.
And make 'hem too, Sir?
Keepe all your Courts, be Steward o'your lands,
Let all your Leases, keepe your Euidences,
But first, I must procure, and passe your mort-maine
You must haue licence from aboue, Sir.

P. Iv.
Feare not,
Pecunia's friends shall doe it.

P. Ca.
But I shall stop it.
Your worships louing, and obedient father,
Your painefull Steward, and lost Officer!
Here his father discouers himselfe.
Who haue done this, to try how you would vse
Pecunia, when you had her: which since I see,
I will take home the Lady, to my charge,
And these her seruants, and leaue you my Cloak,
To trauell in to Beggers Bush! A Seate,
Is built already, furnish'd too, worth twentie
Of your imagin'd structures, Canters Colledge.

Fit.
'Tis his Father!

Mad.
Hee's aliue, me thinks.

Alm.
I knew he was no Rogue!

P. Ca.
Thou, Prodigall,
Was I so carefull for thee, to procure,
And plot wi' my learn'd Counsell, Master Picklocke,
This noble match for thee; and dost thou prostitute,
Scatter thy Mistresse fauours, throw away
Her bounties, as they were red-burning coales,
Too hot for thee to handle, on such rascalls?
Who are the scumme, and excrements of men?
If thou had'st sought out good, and vertuous persons
Of these professions: I had lou'd thee, and them,
For these shall neuer haue that plea 'gainst me,
Or colour of aduantage, that I hate
Their callings, but their manners and their vices,
A worthy Courtier, is the ornament
Of a Kings Palace, his great Masters honour.
This is a moth, a rascall, a Court-rat,
That gnawes the common-wealth with broking suits,
And eating grieuances! So, a true Souldier,
He is his Countryes strength, his Soueraignes safety,
And to secure his peace, he makes himselfe.
The heyre of danger, nay the subiect of it,
And runnes those vertuous hazards, that this Scarre-crow
Cannot endure to heare of.

Shv.
You are pleasant, Sir.

P. Ca.
With you I dare be! Here is Pyed-mantle,
'Cause he's an Asse, doe not I loue a Herald?
Who is the pure preseruer of descents,
The keeper faire of all Nobility,
Without which all would runne into confusion?
Were he a learned Herald, I would tell him
He can giue Armes, and markes, he cannot honour,
No more then money can make Noble: It may
Giue place, and ranke, but it can giue no Vertue.
And he would thanke me, for this truth. This dog-Leach,
You stile him Doctor, 'cause he can compile
An Almanack; perhaps erect a Scheme
For my great Madams monkey: when 't has ta'ne
A glister, and bewrai'd the Ephemerides.
Doe I despise a learn'd Physician?
In calling him a Quick-Saluer? or blast
The euer-liuing ghirlond, alwaies greene
Of a good Poet? when I say his wreath
Is piec'd and patch'd of dirty withred flowers?
Away, I am impatient of these vlcers,
(That I not call you worse) There is no sore,
Or Plague but you to infect the times. I abhorre
Your very scent. Come, Lady, since my Prodigall
Knew not to entertaine you to your worth,
I'll see if I haue learn'd, how to receiue you,
Hee points him to his patch'd cloake throwne off.
With more respect to you, and your faire traine here.
Farewell my Begger in veluet, for to day,
To morrow you may put on that graue Robe,
And enter your great worke of Canters Colledge,
Your worke and worthy of a Chronicle,