 | The Constant Maid |  |
Act. II.
Enter Close and Nurse.Clo.
A word of thy mouth does it, I am wearie
Of these indentures, like a foole, I was
In hope he should have married Mistresse Frances.
Nur.
A beggar, she his wife; no, Master Startup,
Whom I preferr'd, must carrie her, he's a man
Of lands and money; I must tell you by
The way, he is little better than a foole.
Clo.
The fitter for her husband, and my master.
Nur.
Y'are in the right, he's innocent to your hands,
You may soone come to menage his estate.
Clo.
Which if I do, thou shalt have all.
Nur.
All what?
Clo.
Why all that I can beg, borrow, or steale
From him; what should he do with so much riches?
I'll prompt my mistresse, after the first yeare,
To put him to his pension; he should pay
For's verie diet, and after a moneth or two,
For everie time he comes aloft.
Nur.
Nay, I would wish her to begin betimes,
If she doe meane to rule the rost, I can
Give her some documents; and be you sure
To stick close to your Mistresse, there is something
To be got that way.
Enter Hartwell, Playfaire.
Clo.
My most exquisite Varges,
How I doe love thy documents; but he's here,
I'll not be seene with thee, farewell, we'll talk
The rest at night over a Sack-posset.
Exit Close.
Nur.
I will use this advantage to orcheare 'em.
You tell me strange things; Is it possible
The widdow her selfe loves you?
Hart.
Would I had
But reason to suspect.
Play.
Possible!
Turn'd Colt againe? This love will kill us all:
And can she make no choyce, but where her daughter
Has the same longing? not her dancing dayes
Done yet? why there's no remedy, you must love her.
Hart.
And violate my faith made to her daughter.
Play.
Thou wot not be so much an Infidell,
To think I meane thou shouldst forsake the wench;
Tell me the mother a fine tale of love,
Print kisses on her paper-lip, and hug
Her reverend body; any thing but lye with her:
Write sonnets on the ivorie tooth afore,
Sweare she does cough distinctly, get a rime
To blesse her when she sneezes, and cry up
The method of her nose, which sweats and fals
So perpendicular upon her face:
Admire the wart upon her chin, and motion
Of her blew eyes, that look three wayes at once:
Praise her above thy reason, or her daughter;
And then she will beleeve thou mayst be mad for her.
Hart.
Is this the way to doe me good? she comes
Too fast on me already.
Play.
Let her flye to thee,
Thou mayst clip her wings the sooner, this secures thee;
Shou'd you hold off, and play the modest creature;
Nay, but deny as Maids do when they love it,
And bending of your hams, cry, No forsooth;
Professe with Coxcomb-like civilitie,
You are not worthy of her carnall favors:
She may beleeve it, and in verie spight
Marrie her daughter to a Citizen:
Or should you be so mad, to think to win her
For Mistresse Frances, plaining how Don Cupid
Hath scarrified your heart, you may go hang your selfe:
Go to the Barbers, let him firk your haire up,
Or get a perriwig; wash your sullen face,
And starch your infant upper lip, to look
Like one that would run desperate on a widdow.
Nur.
Precious conspiracie.
Play.
This is the way:
At leisure you may tell your Maiden Mistresse,
Like Jove you have put another shape on,
To cheat the Beldam Juno.
Nur.
Foule mouth'd Rascall.
Hart.
I apprehend: th'ast given me good counsell,
I'll watch the first occasion, to assure
I have preferr'd her in my heart already.
Nur.
I'll conjure up a crosse plot, and that quickly,
Shall mar your mirth, and pay your fine dissembling
As it deserves, my confident Love-gamester.
Exit Nurse.
Play.
I'll take my leave then, y'have no other service
To use my stay? I have a project, Hartwell,
That must not be neglected.
Hart.
May not I communicate?
Play.
Thou art engaged to wait
Vpon thine owne affaires, or I should trouble thee
To be an Actor in't; thou knowest old Hornet?
Hart.
He is a Sutour to the widdow,
And after the rate we cast the plot, my Rivall.
Play.
I'll rivall him; he smothers a poore Gentlewoman
At home with sea-cole, and allowes her no
More light than serves to read in painted cloth
The exposition of the harlots storie:
Hartwell, I love her, and before her father
Di'd we enterchang'd our hearts; 'tis here,
To free her from that slaverie she lives in
Vnder the iron-hearted Jaylor, else
Her portion still; but I have a trick may spoile
His hatching of young bags, thou sha't know all
Hereafter; to the Widdow, Hartwell, I am
For state affaires, be faithfull and pray for me;
We must be bold, farewell, if something hit
Wee'll laugh in spight of Dives and the Devill.
Exit.
Enter Startup, Mistresse Bellamy, Mistresse Frances, Close, Nurse, Hartwell.
Clo.
This is the thing, Sir, that must carrie away
The garland, they have given him a cup
Or two of Sack, and has the prettiest humour,
He does so whistle out his complement:
He weares his feather like the Captaine of
A Countrey Teame, and would become a horse-collar
Rarely; I do not think, but were he put to't,
With little switching, he would draw the cart well.
Star.
Sweet Lady, I'm your humble servant, 'tis
Well knowne what I am, where I live, my father
Died since I was of age; and left me, thank him,
A younger brothers portion:
Bell.
A younger brother.
Star.
I know, sweet Lady, what you'd say, My father
Had no more children, but I must speake modestly
Of my estate, I have land I know enough
For two or three wives; I have a horse in towne,
Your daughter, if we please, shall ride behind me,
Sweet Lady, did you ever see the Countrey?
Fran.
What Countrey, Sir?
Star.
Why any Countrey living,
Sweet Lady, I am your humble servant, if
You affect hawking, hunting, or drinking,
There be good fellowes will beare you company; but you have
better Sack, sweet Lady, is there good Tobacco in London?
Virginia Tobacco growes here, Sir.
Star.
Sweet Sir, I am your humble servant, you
Seeme to be a Gentleman, will you fetch me a pipe?
There's halfe a peece, and I be not troublesome:
Perhaps, sweet Lady, 'twill offend you, then
Let it alone.
Clo.
A verie precious Widgin: Gramercie Sack.
Star.
Ta la la la lero, &c.
Fran.
You dance well, Sir.
Nur.
He has a strong back, I warrant him.
Star.
Sweet Lady, is this your daughter?
Clo.
Ask that now?
Bell.
I was her mother, Sir.
Star.
That may be too: what Gentleman is that?
Sweet Sir, I am your humble servant likewise.
Hart.
You are too humble, Sir, to stoop so low,
It would become my dutie.
Star.
Sweet Sir, 'tis all one,
A leg or an arme is not cast away
Among friends, I am a Countrey Gentleman
All the world knowes, sweet Sir, I ha no businesse
In towne.
Bell.
I thought you came to see my daughter.
Star.
That may be too, sweet Lady, pray uncase me,
I honour your faire daughter; for I know,
As well as another, what belongs to a Gentlewoman:
She's not the first, sweet Lady, I have lov'd
I'th' way of matrimony.
Hart.
Were you ever married?
Star.
Sweet Sir, no: all men are not alike.
Hart.
For some are fooles.
Star.
Sweet Sir, I do confesse it:
But wit is neuer good till it be bought.
They say there are good wits in towne,
I ha brought money a purpose wi' mee for it;
If any will sell me a penny-worth, I'll
A little downe into the Countrey.
Hart.
Is there
A dearth, Sir, in your Countrey?
Star.
Sweet Sir, no;
There's plentie.
Clo.
Of wild oats; I heard you had much
To sow still.
Star.
My servants have, sweet Sir; but 'tis all one,
This Lady shall be Lord o'the Soyle: I wo'not
Give any man six pence for a bushell o' money;
I am a Gentleman, my father was
A Yeoman; but sweet Lady, howsoever
I'm yours, and everie limb is at your service;
My hands shall walk, my feet shall run.
Fran.
Away, away.
Star.
By this gold they shall.
Clo.
He keeps his oath.
Star.
Not run? my Grandfather was a Nobleman Foot-man,
and indeed he run his countrey; my father did outrun the Constable.
Clo.
And he, sweet Lady, being his fathers issue, must run naturally.
Star.
If I live.
Clo.
He'll run himselfe out of all.
Star.
Not run, sweet Lady?
If you have occasion to use me, I wo'not stand upon my feet.
Fran.
No, Sir.
Star.
Nay, I wo'not stand upon my head, sweet Lady, to doe
you courtesie.
Fran.
That were the cleane contrarie way.
Bell.
Please you, a sorrie dinner stayes for you.
Star.
Sweet Lady, I am your servant: will this Gentleman
dine with us?
Bell.
I'll prevaile with Master Hartwell.
Clo.
Do yee know what you ha done? he's you rivall, invite
him?
Sweet Sir, I invite no body, if you love any body here?
Hart.
What then?
Star.
Sweet Sir, I shannot take it kindly, I do not use to quarrel.
Clo.
But when y'are beaten: lay him o're the face, hee sha'not
wrong you.
Star.
Sweet Sir, 'tis dinner time: faire Lady:
Exeunt.
Clo.
I had a great mind to have him beaten;
But he's not valiant, but at meales; would I
Were hired to beat him handsomely after dinner,
And make him thank me for't; I'll have a plot
Upon your precious body, my sweet Sir.
Exit.
Enter Hornet, Playfaires Cosen like a Doctor.
Horn.
You tell me wonders, Sir.
Doct.
I tell you truth:
Alas, you know I have no ends of profit,
I practise not for wealth.
Horn.
Y'are vertuous;
For that you were commended, Sir, to me:
You have a conscience, and wo'not take
Fees for a complement, nor make poore your friends,
To enrich Apothecaries.
Doct.
I have cur'd her melancholly; but she's a t'other side
Now extreme merrie, dance and sing, all aire.
Horn.
'Tis strange, methinks, nothing but extremities:
Good Master Doctor, could you not ha par'd
Her t'other leaden humor.
Doct.
Sir, I could not
Kill the malignitie of her melancholly
Another way; extremities must be cur'd
With extreme applications: my next work
Shall be to abate this levitie of her braine,
And quallifie her spleene, Sir, by degrees;
So state her body in that modest temper
She was possest of.
I complain'd before
Of quietnesse, now she's all noyse and madnesse,
By your description.
Doct.
You must have patience
A month or so, she is not mad, but merrie,
Some few vagaries; you must understand
I have opend, Sir, her fancie, wherein lay
All her imaginations confused,
And on a heap, smother'd for want of vent;
And now the spirits that were imprison'd
Rush out, which causes all her faculties,
Before opprest, to exercise so strangely,
As the agitation of her tongue will manifest:
Shee's here.
Enter Neece.
Neece.
Vncle, how does your body? you appeare
As leane as Lent, I've a great mind to dance
About a May-pole, shall we?
Horn.
She is mad.
Neece.
This Doctor has so tickled me,
I cannot chuse but laugh, ha, ha.
Vnckle, if you'l procure a dispensation
To marrie me your selfe, deduct the charge
Out of my portion, I could love an old man
Rarely, An old man with a bed full of bones, &c.
Sings.
Vnckle, when did you put on a clean shirt?
D'yee heare, I dreamt o'th' Devill last night,
They say 'tis good luck; doe you know him, Vnckle.
Horn.
I know the Devill?
Neece.
He's a fine old Gentleman,
And something like you, no such Bug-beare as
The world imagines, you an he'll keep house
Together one day; but you'll burne Sea-cole
To save charges, and stink the poore soules so.
A little: imagine y'had undone a widdow,
Or turn'd an Orphan begging; ha, ha, &c.
Faith how many Churches doe you meane to build
Before you dye? six bels in everie steeple,
And let 'em all goe to the Citie tune,
Turne agen Whittington; who, they say,
Grew rich, and let his land out for nine lives,
'Cause all came in by a Cat: but let me counsell you
To dye at all adventures, great men doe't in policie.
Horn.
Why does she talk of dying? she's stark mad.
Could you not put into the next receit
Something to make her sleep well? Opium
In a good quantitie, they say, will do't.
Doct.
I'll so proportion it, she shall never wake:
I did it for a Merchants wife last weeke,
Which loved a Knight: a great man, not long since
Was wearie of his Countesse, and I cur'd him
So artificially of his disease.
Horn.
She heares.
Doct.
But collects nothing; all her senses are scatter'd.
Neece.
Stay, you shall give towards the building of a Church
Nothing, see the money first laid out,
That's given already; it were sin and pitie
To abuse the dead: but 'tis no matter, Vnckle,
You'll be as famous for pulling downe the parish,
The Church will fall of it selfe, With ding dong bell.
Sings.
Why did they put the poore fellow in prison?
Horn.
Whom? what fellow?
Neece.
Why the Corne-cutter:
Poore Gentleman, he meant no hurt to the Citie,
His feet were verie wearie, and that made him
In everie street cry out; Ha yee any cornes
In your head or toes? that head spoyl'd all.
Enter Pursevant.
Purs.
Which is Master Hornet?
Ha, with me?
Purs.
A word, Sir.
Neece.
Prethee, what's he? he comes to borrow money
On his wives wedding-ring, or his childs whistle:
You may see by his nose he has no land, he looks
As a Hawke; what do you dreame on?
What Ladies timpany is your next cure?
Or whose stale body must be rectified
Next with a glister?
Purs.
There is no disputing, I must attend you.
Horn.
I am sent for by a Pursevant to his Highnesse;
Alas, I am undone, I never saw him,
How should he know me, a poore wretch?
Doct.
Is't not some complaint, think you?
Horn.
That's my feare, there be
Too many knaves i'th' world, and a man cannot
Grow rich; but one State-Surgeon or other
Must practise on his purse; before this Judge
A veine is open'd in the other Court,
So many ounces he must bleed agen:
Let me see, all the treason I committed
Is that I shifted houses; for I took
Delight to couzen him of his subsidies;
I alwayes live obscurely, to avoyd
Taxations, I never pay the Church
Her superstitious tithes, nor come to trouble
Sermons, for feare of homilies before,
That beg for burning.
Neece.
Why how now, Vnckle, is your Scrivener broke,
You talk such lamentation?
Horn.
I am sent for to the King, Neece, & shall be made a beggar
As I was borne; I see my chattell ceas'd,
This chest is ransackt, and that bag deflour'd,
My doore seal'd up, and with this hungrie Messenger,
I am already marching to the Fleet.
Neece.
Nay, and you be at that ward, I must leave you,
And so I leave you both to the mercy of the Bear-garden.
Doct.
Best make fast her Chamber.
Horn.
I, I, cursed dog.
Doct.
Wo'not some money quallifie your haste?
Purs.
Deale in your owne affairs; Will you go sir?
Horn.
Go, I must go.
Doct.
I'll take my leave;
Have comfort, sir, this cloud may soon blow over.
Exit.
Horn.
Yes, when I am blowne up;
I reade imprisonment in his very looks,
And all my gold confiscate.
Exeunt.
Enter Nurse and Startup.
Nurs.
I heard her say she would walke up to her chamber,
The trick was but to teach him whither he
Should follow; who as nimbly apprehended,
To acquaint her with his new affections:
I do this for your good, that Mistris Frances,
Whom I'll send to you presently, may be
Convinced in Hartwell's falshood, and transplant
Her love on you.
Start.
This will be excellent;
So we shall strangle him in his owne nooze,
And he nere know who hurt him.
Nurs.
I'll loose no time, you know my instructions.
Start.
I had almost forgot, there is a cast of angels more.
Nurs.
They are not cast away.
Star.
If thou dost fear they'll drowne, Nurse, I can give thee
Lighter, I have some want weight.
Nurs.
If you have an evill angel about you,
Your businesse will thrive better when 'tis departed.
Star.
There.
Nurs.
Now all the good ones wait upon your worship.
Exit.
Start.
These things that go to and agen, must have
Their fees, they'll never speak in cause else.
Save you sweet Lady.
Enter Frances
Kinde Mr. Startup.
Start.
Yes, I am kinde if you knew all, but you are
Deceiv'd in some body; love, and love your heart out,
The party does not care a button for you.
Fran.
What party?
Start.
No, I am a foole, a countrey clod, sweet Lady,
Not worth one of your Shooe-tyes, no not I;
I do not know who makes an asse of you.
Fran.
How sir?
Start.
A gull, a coxcomb, I am asham'd you have
So little wit; Tell me, and tell me truly,
Who loves this face of yours besides my selfe.
Fran.
Although it were immodest to commend it,
I must thus far, in gratitude to nature,
Acknowledge it no monster, I have seen
One more deform'd.
Start.
Sweet Lady I know that;
A worse face would become the Countrey, nay,
There are but fifteen women in the parish
I live in, of which, twelve are counted witches,
And wear beards: But it troubles me, sweet Lady,
You should be such an owle.
Fran.
This is course language.
Start.
Not to see who abuses you; Oh I could
Now finde in my heart to baste you, baste you soundly:
You think Mr Hartwell loves you.
Fran.
I
Believe he hates me not.
Start.
You lye.
Fran.
Good words.
Start.
You lye most basely, he affects your mother.
Fran.
My mother? this fool's mad.
Ztart.
I would it were
The fashion for women to weare swords.
Fran.
What then?
Start.
I'de breath you into a little understanding,
Denyes it; Mr Hartwell loves your mother.
Fran.
I hope he does.
Start.
Oh I could kick your ignorance:
He does love her in the way of Matrimony,
And makes a property of you; I'll justifie it.
Fran.
It is impossible.
Start.
D'ee know that couple?
Enter Hartwell and Bellamy.
Step behinde the hangings, and you may
Both hear and see: I say no more, sweet Lady,
I am a rustick puppy, and know nothing.
Hart.
I have considered perfectly, and if
You will vouchsafe me hearing, dare poure forth
My heart, which, full of love, tenders it selfe
To your acceptance; I acknowledge, Lady,
My passions are but young, for could I hope
You should with so much favour look upon me?
Bell.
But may I credit this?
Hart.
But suspect were an injustice to my faith, which lookes
Upon your vertue with as much religion
As love is able to receive; your age
Hath strooke a reverence into my eye;
And what you want of youth and spring upon you,
Your wisedome richly satisfies: Those characters
Which time hath writ upon your carefull forehead,
Are but his vertue and your ornament,
When it shall come to passe by your example,
That youth shall be esteemed an infancy,
And women never ripe for love or Marriage
Without your age upon 'em; 'tis a fault,
That men not guided by the tract of reason,
But heat and wantonnesse of blood, run giddy
To seale such weighty Covenants, better 'twere
The world should end in our virginities,
Than spin it selfe more length by inconsiderate
And hasty marriages.
Have you already
Retriv'd the affection that pursu'd my daughter?
Shall I beleeve no seed of love remains,
Which may grow up and ripen, with repentance
For this exchange; I do allow you, sir,
The consideration of my fortune, which
Might of it selfe, incline you to accept me.
Hart.
That is but an attendant, as you use it,
I must confesse a welcome one; although
The minde is the first beauty, which true love
Aspires to, when 'tis waited on with person
And estate, it comes with greater priviledge
To win upon's; I do not wish you, Lady,
Rashly beleeve what I professe, but measure
My service by the triall; I'll expect
And write your smiles a competent reward,
Till time and your command, demonstrate me;
Although not equall to your full deservings,
Yet one that has ambition to be thought
Not too unworthy.
Bell.
And I ghesse ere long,
Such an occasion will present it selfe.
Hart.
Till then, have Hartwell in your loving memory,
Who wishes no more happinesse of life,
Than to be call'd yours.
Exit.
Fran.
What have I understood?
Start.
Will you beleeve me another time, sweet Lady?
If I loved you not, what would become on you?
Fran.
It is not he, some devill does but cozen us,
And mock our sense with these phantastick bodies,
Hartwell.
Star.
Nay 'tis the man; I hope you'll be converted,
And think a Countrey Gentleman worth favour,
That brought you to this knowledge; I deserve—
Fran.
My curses for this black discovery,
When as before 'twas not impossible,
Henceforth I'll look upon thee as my sins,
And beg as much forgivenesse that I knew thee.
Start.
Nay d'ee but hear.
Fran.
Die quickly, and be forgotten.
Start.
This is very fine ifaith, sweet Lady.
Fran.
My mother, oh my fate, see me no more,
And Ile forgive thee.
Start.
Thanke you, most sweet Lady,
Is my discovery come to this? I'de better
Ha'been tongue-ty'd; Curse me, and call me her sins,
And see her no more? why this is worse and worse;
I must suck better counsell from the Nurse.
Exeunt.
| The Constant Maid | |