 | Wit without Money |  |
Actus Quartus.
Scena Prima.
Enter Widow, and Luce.Wid.
My sister, and a woman of so base a pity! what was
the fellow?
Luce.
Why, an ordinary man, Madam.
Wid.
Poor?
Luce.
Poor enough, and no man knows from whence
neither.
Wid.
What could she see?
Luce.
Only his misery, for else she might behold a hundred
handsomer.
Wid.
Did she change much?
Luce.
Extreamly, when he spoke, and then her pity, like
an Orator, I fear her love framed such a commendation, and
followed it so far, as made me wonder.
Wid.
Is she so hot, or such a want of lovers, that she must
doat upon afflictions? why does she not go romage all the
prisons, and there bestow her youth, bewray her wantonness,
and flie her honour, common both to beggery: did she
speak to him?
Luce.
No, he saw us not, but ever since, she hath been
mainly troubled.
Wid.
Was he young?
Luce.
Yes, young enough.
Wid.
And looked he like a Gentleman?
Luce.
Like such a Gentleman, that would pawn ten oaths
for twelve pence.
Wid.
My sister, and sink basely! this must not be, does
she use means to know him?
Luce.
Yes Madam, and has employed a Squire called
Shorthose.
Wid.
O that's a precious Knave: keep all this private, but
still be near her lodging: Luce, what you can gather by any
means, let me understand: I'le stop her heat, and turn her
charity another way, to bless her self first; be still close to
her counsels; a begger and a stranger! there's a bless'dness!
I'le none of that; I have a toy yet, sister, shall tell you this
is soul, and make you find it, and for your pains take you the
last gown I wore; this makes me mad, but I shall force a
remedy.
Enter Fountain, Bellamore, Harebrain, Valentine.
Fount.
Sirra, we have so lookt for thee, and long'd for
thee; this widow is the strangest thing, the stateliest, and
stands so much upon her excellencies.
Bel.
She hath put us off, this month now, for an answer.
Hare.
No man must visit her, nor look upon her, no, not
say, good morrow, nor good even, till that's past.
Val.
She has sound what dough you are made of, and so
kneads you: are you good at nothing, but these after
games? I have told you often enough what things they are,
what precious things, these widows—
Hare.
If we sad 'em.
Val.
Why the Devil has not craft enough to wooe 'em,
there be three kinds of fools, mark this note Gentlemen,
mark it, and understand it.
Fount.
Well, go forward.
Val.
An Innocent, a knave fool, a fool politick: the last
of which are lovers, widow lovers.
Bell.
Will you allow no fortune?
Val.
No such blind one.
Fount.
We gave you reasons, why 'twas needful for us.
Val.
As you are those fools, I did allow those reasons, but
as my Scholars and companions damn'd 'em: do you know
what it is to wooe a widow? answer me coolely now, and
understandingly.
Hare.
Why to lie with her, and to enjoy her wealth.
Val.
Why there you are fools still, crafty to catch your
selves, pure politick fools, I lookt for such an answer; once
more hear me, it is, to wed a widow, to be doubted mainly,
whether the state you have be yours or no, or those old boots
you ride in. Mark me, widows are long extents in Law.
upon news, livings upon their bodies winding-sheets, they
that enjoy 'em, lie but with dead mens monuments, and
beget only their own ill Epitaphs: Is not this plain now?
Bell.
Plain spoken.
Val.
And plain truth; but if you'le needs do things of
danger, do but lose your selves, not any part concerns your
understandings, for then you are Meacocks, fools, and miserable,
march off amain, within an inch of a Fircug, turn
me o'th' toe like a Weather-cock, kill every day a Sergeant
for a twelve month, rob the Exchequer, and burn all the
Rolls, and these will make a shew.
Hare.
And these are trifles.
Val.
Considered to a Widow, empty nothings, for here
you venture but your persons, there the varnish of your persons,
your discretions; why 'tis a monstrous thing to marry
at all, especially as now 'tis made; me thinks a man, an
understanding man, is more wise to me, and of a nobler tie,
than all these trinkets; what do we get by women, but out
senses, which is the rankest part about us, satisfied, and when
that's done, what are we? Crest-fallen Cowards. What
benefit can children be, but charges and disobedience?
What's the love they render at one and twenty years? I
pray die Father: when they are young, they are like bells
rung backwards, nothing but noise and giddiness; and
come to years once, there drops a son byth' sword in his
Mistresses quarel, a great joy to his parents: A Daughter
ripe too, grows high and lusty in her blood, must have a
heating, runs away with a supple ham'd Servingman: his
twenty Nobles spent, takes to a trade, and learns to spin
mens hair off; there's another, and most are of this nature,
will you marry?
Fount.
For my part yes, for any doubt I feel yet.
Val.
And this same widow?
Fount.
If I may, and me thinks, however you are pleased
to dispute these dangers, such a warm match, and for you,
Sir, were not hurtfull.
Val.
Not half so killing as for you, for me she cannot
with all the Art she has, make me more miserable, or much
more fortunate, I have no state left, a benefit that none of
you can brag of, and there's the Antidote against a Widow,
nothing to lose, but that my soul inherits, which she can
neither law nor claw away; to that, but little flesh, it were
too much else; and that unwholsom too, it were too rich
else; and to all this contempt of what she do's I can laugh
at her tears, neglect her angers, hear her without a faith,
so pity her as if she were a Traytour, moan her person, but
deadly hate her pride; if you could do these, and had but
this discretion, and like fortune, it were but an equal venture.
This is malice.
Val.
When she lies with your land, and not with you,
grows great with joyntures, and is brought to bed with all
the state you have, you'le find this certain; but is it come
to pass you must marry, is there no buff will hold you?
Bel.
Grant it be so.
Val.
Then chuse the tamer evil, take a maid, a maid not
worth a penny; make her yours, knead her, and mould
her yours, a maid worth nothing, there's a vertuous spell in
that word nothing; a maid makes conscience of half a
Crown a week for pins and puppits, a maid will be content
with one Coach and two Horses, not falling out because
they are not matches; with one man satisfied, with one rein
guided, with one faith, one content, one bed, aged she makes
the wife, preserves the fame and issue; a widow is a Christmas
box that sweeps all.
Fount.
Yet all this cannot sink us.
Val.
You are my friends, and all my loving friends, I spend
your mony, yet I deserve it too, you are my friends still, I
ride your horses, when I want I sell 'em; I eat your meat,
help to wear her linnen, sometimes I make you drunk, and
then you seal, for which I'le do you this commodity, be
ruled, and let me try her, I will discover her, the truth is, I will
never leave to trouble her, till I see through her, then if I
find her worthy.
Hare.
This was our meaning Valentine.
Val.
'Tis done then, I must want nothing.
Hare.
Nothing but the woman.
Val.
No jealousie, for when I marry, the Devil must be
wiser than I take him; and the flesh foolisher: come let's to
dinner, and when I am well whetted with wine, have at
her.
[Exeunt.
Enter Isabella, and Luce.
Isab.
But art thou sure?
Luce.
No surer than I heard.
Hare.
That it was that flouting fellows Brother?
Luce.
Yes, Shorthose told me so.
Hare.
He did searce out the truth?
Luce.
It seems he did.
Har.
Prethee Luce call him hither, if he be no worse, I
never repent my pity, now sirra, what was he we sent you
after, the Gentleman i'th' black?
Enter Shorthose.
Short.
I'th' torn black?
Isab.
Yes, the same Sir.
Short.
What would your Worship with him?
Isab.
Why, my Worship would know his name, and
what he is.
Short.
'Is nothing, he is a man, and yet he is no man.
Isab.
You must needs play the fool.
Short.
'Tis my profession.
Isab.
How is he a man, and no man?
Short.
He's a begger, only the sign of a man, the bush
pull'd down, which shows the house stands emptie.
Isab.
What's his calling?
Short.
They call him begger.
Isab.
What's his kindred?
Short.
Beggers.
Isab.
His worth?
Short.
A learned begger, a poor Scholar.
Isab.
How does he live?
Short.
Like worms, he eats old Books.
Isab.
Is Valentine his Brother.
Short.
His begging Brother.
Isab.
What may his name be?
Short.
Orson.
Isab.
Leave your fooling.
Short.
You had as good say, leave your living.
Isab.
Once more tell me his name directly.
Short.
I'le be hang'd first, unless I heard him Christned,
but I can tell what foolish people call him.
Isab.
What?
Short.
Francisco.
Isab.
Where lies this learning, Sir?
Short.
In Pauls Church yard forsooth.
Isab.
I mean the Gentleman, fool.
Short.
O that fool, he lies in loose sheets every where
that's no where.
Luce.
You have glean'd since you came to London in the
Country, Shorthose, you were an arrant fool, a dull cold
coxcombe, here every Tavern teaches you, the pint pot has
so belaboured you with wit, your brave acquaintance that
gives you Ale, so fortified your mazard, that now there's no
talking to you.
Isab.
'Is much improved, a fellow, a fine discourser.
Short.
I hope so, I have not waited at the tail of wit so
long to be an Ass.
Luce.
But say now, Shorthose, my Lady should remove
into the Country.
Short.
I had as lieve she should remove to Heaven, and as
soon I would undertake to follow her.
Luce.
Where no old Charnico is, nor no Anchoves, no
Master such a one, to meet at the Rose, and bring my Lady,
such-a-ones chief Chamber-maid.
Isab.
No bouncing healths to this brave Lad, dear Shorthose,
nor down o'th' knees to that illustrious Lady.
Luce.
No fiddles, nor no lusty noise of drawer, carry this
pottle to my Father Shorthose.
Isab.
No plays, nor gally foists, no strange Embassadors
to run and wonder at, till thou beest oyl, and then come
home again, and lye byth' Legend.
Luc.
Say she should go.
Short.
If I say, I'le be hang'd, or if I thought she
would go.
Luce.
What?
Short.
I would go with her.
Luce.
But Shorthose, where thy heart is?
Isab.
Do not fright him.
Luce.
By this hand Mistris 'tis a noise, a loud one too,
and from her own mouth, presently to be gone too, but
why, or to what end?
Short.
May not a man die first? she'l give him so much
time.
Isab.
Gone o'th' sudden? thou dost but jest, she must not
mock the Gentlemen.
Luce.
She has put them off a month, thy dare not see
her, believe me Mistris, what I hear I tell you.
Isab.
Is this true, wench? gone on so short a warning
what trick is this? she never told me of it, it must not be
sirra, attend me presently, you know I have been a careful
friend unto you, attend me in the Hall, and next be faithful
cry not, we shall not go.
Short.
Her Coach may crack.
Enter Valentine, Francisco, and Lance.
Val.
Which way to live! how darest thou come to town,
to ask such an idle question?
Fran.
Me thinks 'tis necessary, unless you could restore
that Annuitie you have tipled up in Taverns.
Val.
Where hast thou been, and how brought up Francisco,
that thou talkest thus out of France? thou wert a pretty fellow,
and of a handsom knowledge; who has spoiled thee?
Lan.
He that has spoil'd himself, to make him sport, and
by Copie, will spoil all comes near him: buy but a Glass, if
you be yet so wealthy, and look there who?
Val.
Well said, old Copihold.
Lan.
My heart's good Freehold Sir, and so you'l find
this Gentleman's your Brother, your hopeful Brother, for
there is no hope of you, use him thereafter.
Val.
E'ne as well as I use my self, what wouldst thou have
Frank?
Fran.
Can you procure me a hundred pound?
Lan.
Hark what he saies to you, O try your wits, they
say you are excellent at it, for your Land has lain long bed-
rid and unsensible.
Fran.
And I'le forget all wrongs, you see my state, and to
may be, by this benefit, if timely done, and like a noble
Brother, both you and I may feel, and to our comforts.
Val.
(A hundred pound!) dost thou know what thou hast
said Boy?
Fran.
I said a hundred pound.
Val.
Thou hast said more than any man can justifie, believe
it: procure a hundred pounds! I say to thee there's no
such sum in nature, forty shillings there may be now i'th'
Mint and that's a Treasure, I have seen five pound, but let me
tell it, and 'tis as wonderful as Calves with five Legs; here's
five shillings, Frank, the harvest of five weeks, and a good
crop too, take it, and pay thy first fruits, I'le come down
and eat it out.
Fran.
'Tis patience must meet with you Sir, not love.
Lanc.
Deal roundly, and leave these fiddle faddles.
Val.
Leave thy prating, thou thinkest thou art a notable
wise fellow, thou and thy rotten Sparrow Hawk; two of
the reverent.
Lanc.
I think you are mad, or if you be not, will be,
with the next moon, what would you have him do?
Val.
How?
Lanc.
To get money first, that's to live, you have shewed
him how to want.
Val.
'Slife how do I live? why, what dull fool would ask
that question? three hundred three pilds more, I and live
bravely: the better half o'th' Town live most gloriously,
and ask them what states they have, or what Annuities,
or when they pray for seasonable Harvests: thou hast a handsome
Wit, stir into the world, Frank, stir, stir for shame,
thou art a pretty Scholar: ask how to live? write, write,
write any thing, the World's a fine believing World, write
News.
Lan.
Dragons in Sussex, Sir, or fiery Battels seen in the
Air at Aspurge.
Val.
There's the way Frank, and in the tail of these,
fright me the Kingdom with a sharp Prognostication, that
shall scowr them, Dearth upon Dearth, like leven Taffaties,
predictions of Sea-breaches, Wars, and want of Herrings
on our Coast, with bloudy Noses.
Lan.
Whirl-winds, that shall take off the top of Grantham
Steeple, and clap it on Pauls, and after these, a Lenvoy
to the City for their sins.
Val.
Probatum est, thou canst not want a pension, go
switch me up a Covey of young Scholars, there's twenty nobles,
and two loads of Coals, are not these ready wayes?
Cosmography thou art deeply read in, draw me a Map
from the Mermaid, I mean a midnight Map to scape the
Watches, and such long sensless examinations, and Gentlemen
shall feed thee, right good Gentlemen, I cannot stay
long.
Lan.
You have read learnedly, and would you have him
follow these Megera's, did you begin with Ballads?
Fran.
Well, I will leave you, I see my wants are grown
ridiculous, yours may be so, I will not curse you neither;
you may think, when these wanton fits are over, who bred
me, and who ruined me, look to your self, Sir, a providence
I wait on.
Val.
Thou art passionate, hast thou been brought up with
Girls?
Enter Shorthose with a bag.
Short.
Rest you merry, Gentlemen.
Val.
Not so merry as you suppose, Sir.
Short.
Pray stay a while, and let me take a view of you,
I may put my Spoon into the wrong Pottage-pot else.
Val.
Why, wilt thou muster us?
Short.
No, you are not he, you are a thought too handsome.
Lan.
Who wouldst thou speak withal, why dost thou
peep so?
Short.
I am looking birds nests, I can find none in your
bush beard, I would speak with you, black Gentleman.
Fran.
With me, my friend?
Short.
Yes sure, and the best friend, Sir, it seems you
spake withal this twelve month, Gentleman, there's money
for you.
Val.
How?
Short.
There's none for you, Sir, be not so brief, not a
penny; law how he itches at it, stand off, you stir my colour.
Lan.
Take it, 'tis money.
Short.
You are too quick too, first be sure you have it,
you seem to be a Faulkoner, but a foolish one.
Lan.
Take it, and say nothing.
Short.
You are cozen'd too, 'tis take it, and spend it.
Fran.
From whom came it, Sir?
Short.
Such another word, and you shall have none on't.
Fran.
I thank you, Sir, I doubly thank you.
Short.
Well, Sir, then buy you better Cloaths, and get
your Hat drest, and your Laundress to wash your Boots white.
Fran.
Pray stay Sir, may you not be mistaken.
Short.
I think I am, give me the money again, come
quick, quick, quick.
Fran.
I would be loth to render, till I am sure it be so.
Short.
Hark in your ear, is not your name Francisco?
Fran.
Yes.
Short.
Be quiet then, it may Thunder a hundred times,
before such stones fall: do you not need it?
Fran.
Yes.
Short.
And 'tis thought you have it.
Fran.
I think I have.
Short.
Then hold it fast, 'tis not fly-flown, you may pay
for the poundage, you forget your self, I have not seen a
Gentleman so backward, a wanting Gentleman.
Fran.
Your mercy, Sir.
Short.
Friend, you have mercy, a whole bag full of mercy,
be merry with it, and be wise.
Fran.
I would fain, if it please you, but know—
Short.
It does not please me, tell over your money, and
be not mad, Boy.
Val.
You have no more such bags?
Short.
More such there are, Sir, but few I fear for you,
I have cast your water, you have wit, you need no money.
[Exit.
Lan.
Be not amazed, Sir, 'tis good gold, good old gold,
this is restorative, and in good time, it comes to do you
good, keep it and use it, let honest fingers feel it, yours be
too quick Sir.
Fran.
He named me, and he gave it me, but from whom.
Lan.
Let 'em send more, and then examine it, this can
be but a Preface.
Fran.
Being a stranger, of whom can I deserve this?
Lan.
Sir, of any man that has but eyes, and manly understanding
to find mens wants, good men are bound to do so.
Val.
Now you see, Frank, there are more wayes than
certainties, now you believe: What Plow brought you this
Harvest, what sale of Timber, Coals, or what Annuities?
These feed no Hinds, nor wait the expectation of Quarter-daies,
you see it showers in to you, you are an Ass, lie plodding,
and lie fooling, about this Blazing Star, and that bopeep,
whining, and fasting, to find the natural reason why
a Dog turns twice about before he lie down, what use of
these, or what joy in Annuities, where every man's thy
study, and thy Tenant, I am ashamed on thee.
Lan.
Yes, I have seen this fellow, there's a wealthy Widow
hard by.
Val.
Yes marry is there.
Lan.
I think he's her servant, or I am couzen'd else, I
am sure on't.
Fran.
I am glad on't.
Lan.
She's a good Woman.
Fran.
I am gladder.
Lan.
And young enough believe.
Fran.
I am gladder of all, Sir.
Val.
Frank, you shall lye with me soon.
Fran.
I thank my money.
Lan.
His money shall lie with me, three in a Bed, Sir,
will be too much this weather.
Meet me at the Mermaid, and thou shalt see what
things—
Lan.
Trust to your self Sir.
[Exeunt Fran. and Val.
Enter Fount. Bella. and Valentine.
Fount.
O Valentine!
Val.
How now, why do you look so?
Bella.
The Widow's going, man.
Val.
Why let her go, man.
Hare.
She's going out o'th' Town.
Val.
The Town's the happier, I would they were all gone.
Fount.
We cannot come to speak with her.
Val.
Not to speak to her?
Bel.
She will be gone within this hour, either now Val.
Fount., Hare.
Now, now, now, good Val.
Val.
I had rather march i'th' mouth o'th' Cannon, but
adiew, if she be above ground, go, away to your prayers, away
I say, away, she shall be spoken withall.
[Exeunt.
Enter Shorthose with one boot on, Roger, and Humphrey.
Rog.
She will go, Shorthose.
Short.
Who can help it Roger?
Raph.
[within.]
Help down with the hangings.
Rog.
By and by Raph. I am making up o'th' trunks here
Raph.
Shorthose.
Short.
Well.
Raph.
Who looks to my Ladys wardrobe? Humphrey.
Hum.
Here.
Raph.
Down with the boxes in the gallery, and bring away
the Coach cushions.
Short.
Will it not rain, no conjuring abroad, nor no devices
to stop this journey?
Rog.
Why go now, why now, why o'th' sudden now?
what preparation, what horses have we ready, what provision
laid in i'th' Country?
Hum.
Not an egge I hope.
Rog.
No nor one drop of good drink boyes, there's the
devil.
Short.
I heartily pray the malt be musty, and then we must
come up again.
Hum.
What sayes the Steward?
Rog.
He's at's wits end, for some four hours since, out of
his haste and providence, he mistook the Millars mangie
mare, for his own nagge.
Short.
And she may break his neck, and save the journy.
Oh London how I love thee!
Hum.
I have no boots nor none I'le buy: or if I had,
refuse me if I would venture my ability, before a Cloak-Bag,
men are men.
Short.
For my part, if I be brought, as I know it will be
aimed at, to carry any durty dairy Cream-pot, or any gentle
Lady of the Laundry, Chambring, or wantonness behind my
Gelding, with all her Streamers, Knapsacks, Glasses, Gugawes,
as if I were a running slippery, I'le give 'em leave to
cut my girts, and slay me. I'le not be troubled with their
Distibations, at every half miles end, I understand my self,
and am resolved.
Hum.
To morrow night at Olivers! who shall be there
boys, who shall meet the wenches?
Rog.
The well brew'd stand of Ale, we should have
met at!
Short.
These griefs like to another Tale of Troy, would
mollifie the hearts of barbarous people, and Tom Butcher
weep, Æneas enters, and now the town's lost.
Raph.
Well whither run you, my Lady is mad.
Short.
I would she were in Bedlam.
Raph.
The carts are come, no hands to help to load 'em? the
stuff lies in the hall, the plate.
[Within Widow.]
Why knaves there, where be these idle fellows?
Short.
Shall I ride with one Boot?
Wid.
Why where I say?
Raph.
Away, away, it must be so.
Short.
O for a tickling storm, to last but ten days.
[Exeunt.
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