 | The City-Night-Cap : Or, Crede quod habes, & habes |  |
Actus Quartus.
Enter Abstemia.Abst.
Here miserable despis'd Abstemia,
In Millain let thy misery take breath,
Wearied with many sufferings. Oh Lorenzo!
How far in love I am with my affliction,
Because it calls thee father! unto this house,
Where gentlewomen lodge, I was directed;
But I here discover
Strange actions closely carried in this house.
Great persons (but not good) here nightly revel
In surfets, and in riots, yet so carried,
That the next day the place appears a sanctuary,
Rather then sins foul receptable; these ways
Have to me still been strangers; but Lorenzo,
Thou couldst nor though believe it: Oh jealousie!
Loves eclipse, thou art in thy disease,
A wild mad patient, wondrous hard to please.
Enter Timpanina and Morbo.
Mor.
Yonder she walks mumbling to her self; the Prince
Antonio has blest her with's observation; and ye win her
but to him, your house bears the bell away; accost her
quaintly.
I warrant thee, Morbo Madona, Timpania has effected
wonders of more weight then a maiden head: have I ruin'd
so many City-Citadels, to let in. Court-martialists, and
shall this Country-Cottage hold out? I were more fit for a
Cart then a Coach, then yfaith: how now Millicent, how d'ye
this morning?
Abst.
Well, I do thank so good a Landlady.
Tim.
But hark you, Mill, is the door close, Morbo?
Mor.
As a Usurers conscience. Grace was coming in, till she
saw the door shut upon her:
Tim.
I'll set Grace about her business, and I come to her: is
here any work for Grace, with a wansion to her? we shall have
Eaves-droppers, shall we?
Abst.
Chastity guard me, how I tremble!
Tim.
Come hither mistress Millicent; fie, how you let your
hair hang about your ears too? how do you like my house,
Mill?
Abst.
Well, indeed well.
Tim.
Nay I know a woman may'rise here in one month, and
she will her self: but truths truth, I know yoo see something,
as they say, and so forth. Did you see the gallant was here last
till 12?
Abst.
Which of them mean you? here was many.
Tim.
Which? he in the white feather that supp'd in the gallery,
was't not white Morbo?
Mor.
As a Ladies hand, by these five fingers.
Tim.
White? no, no, 'twas a tawny, now I remember.
Mor.
As a Gipsie, by this hand; it look'd white by candle-light
though.
Tim.
That lusty springal Millicent, is no worse man
Then the Duke of Millains Son.
Abst.
His excellent carriage spoke him of noble birth.
Tim.
And this same Dukes son, loves you, Millicent.
Abst.
Now heaven defend me!
Tim.
What from a Dukes son? many come up with a murren,
from whence came you tro, ha?
Mor.
Thus nice Grace was at first, and you remember.
Tim.
I would have ye know, houswife, I could have taken my
Coach and fetch'd him one of the best pieces in Millain, and
her husband should have look'd after me, that's neighbours
might have noted, and cry'd farewel Naunt, commend me to
mine Uncle.
Mor.
And yet from these perfum'd fortunes, heaven defend
you.
Abst.
Perfum'd indeed.
Mor.
Perfum'd! I am a Pander, a Rogue, that hangs together
swore yesterday that my mistres perfum'd the coach! so they
were fain to unbrace all she side-parts, to take in fresh air.
Tim.
I'le tells you true, I keep no common company. I warrant
ye; we vent no breath'd ware here.
Abst.
But have ye so many several women to answer so many
men that come?
Mor.
I'll answer that by demonstration: have ye not observ'd
the variation of a Cloud? sometimes 'twill be like a Lyon,
sometimes like a horse, sometimes a Castle, and yet still a Cloud.
Abst.
True.
Mor.
Why so can we make one wench one day look like a
Country-wench, another day like a Citizens wife, another day
like a Lady; and yet still be a punk.
Abst.
What shall become of me? Oh the curse
Of goodness, to leave one wo for a worse!
Enter Philippo.
Phil.
Morrow sweet Madam; Oh look how like the Sun behind
a Cloud, the beams do give intelligence it is there.
Tim.
You're reciprocal welcome, sir.
Phil.
What have ye not brought this young wild haggard to
the lure yet?
Tim.
Faith sir, she's a little irregular yet; but time, that
turns Citizens Caps into Court-periwigs, will bring the wonder
about.
Phil.
Bless you, sweet mistres.
Enter Antonio and Slave.
Mor.
'Sfoot here's the Prince, I smell thunder.
Tim.
Your Grace is most methodically welcome: you must
pardon my vareity of phrase, the Courtiers e'en cloy us with
good words.
Anto.
What's he?
Mor.
A gentleman of Ferrara, sir, one Pedro Sebastiano.
Anto.
And do ye set her out to sale, I charg'd ye reserve for me
alone?
Tim.
Indeed sir.
Anto.
Pox of your deeds.—
Kicks her.
Tim.
Oh my Sciatica!
Anto.
Sirrah, you perfum'd rascal.
[Kicks Philippo, they draw.
Tim.
Nay good my Lord.
Mor.
Good sir, 'tis one of the Dukes chamber.
Phil.
Let him be of the devils chamber.
Sirrah, leave the house, or I will send thee out with
thunder.
Slave.
Good sir, 'tis madness here to stand him.
Phil.
'Sfoot kickt? pray that we meet no more again, sir;
Still keep heaven about you.
Abst.
What ere thou art, a good man still go with thee.
Anto.
Will you bestow a cast of your professions?
Mor.
We are vanish'd, sir.
Tim.
This 'tis to dream of rotten glasses, Morbo.
Abst.
O what shall become of me? in his eye
Murder and lust contends.
Anto.
Nay flie not, you sweet,
I am not angry with you, indeed I am not:
Do you know me?
Abst.
Yes, sir, report hath given intelligence
You are the Prince, the Dukes son.
Anto.
Both in one.
Abst.
Report sure
Spoke but her native language; you are none of either.
Anto.
How?
Abst.
Were you the Prince, you would not sure be slav'd
To your bloodspassion: I do crave your pardon
For my rough language; truth hath a forehead free,
And in the tower of her integrity,
Sits an unvanquish'd virgin: can you imagine
'Twill appear possible you are the Prince?
Why when you set your foot first in this house,
You crush'd obedient duty unto death,
And even then fell from you your respect:
Honour is like a goodly old house, which
If we repair not still with vertues hand,
Like a Citadel being madly rais'd on sand,
It falls, is swallow'd and not found.
Anto.
If you rail upon the place, prethee how cam'st thou hither?
Abst.
By treacherous intelligence: honest men so
In the way ignorant, through theeves purlewes go.
Are you son to such a noble Father?
Send him to's grave then
Like a white Almond-tree, full of glad days,
With joy that he begot so good a son.
Oh sir, methinks I see sweet Majesty
Sit with a mourning sad face full of sorrows
To see you in this place: this is a cave
Of Scorpions and of Dragons; Oh turn back;
The very air poysons a good mans breath.
Enter Timpanina and Morbo.
Anto.
Within there!
Mor.
Sir.
Anto.
Is my Caroach at door?
Tim.
And your horses too, sir; ye found her pliant.
Anto.
Y'are rotten hospitals hung with greasie sattin.
Tim.
Ah!
Mor.
Came this nice piece from Naples, with a pox to her?
Tim.
And she has not Neapolitanis'd him, I'll be flead for't.
Exeunt Baud and Pander.
Anto.
Let me borrow goodness from thy lip: farewel:
Here's a new wonder, I have met heaven in hell.
Exeunt.
Enter Venice, Vorona, Lodovico, Pandulpho, Jaspro.
Vero.
Is this your chast religious Lady?
Lod.
Nay good my Lord, let it be carried with a silent reputation,
for the credit of the conclusion; as all here are privy to
the passage, I do desire not to be laugh'd at, till after the
Mask and we are all ready: I have made bold with some of
your Graces gentlemen, that are good dancers.
Vero.
'Tis one of my greatest wonders, credit me,
To think what way she will devise here openly,
To perform her so strict penance.
Ven.
It busies me, believe me too.
Jasp.
Ye may see now, sir, how possible 'tis for a cunning
Lady, to make an Ass of a Lord too confident.
Lod.
An Ass! I will prove a contented Cuckold the wisest
man in's company.
Vero.
How prove you that, sir?
Lod.
Because he knows himself.
Vero.
Very well brought in.
Is all our furniture fit, against the morning,
To go for Millain?
Jasp.
Ready, and like your Grace.
Vero.
We are given to understand, the injur'd Princess,
Whom Count Lorenzo and noble Philippo
Are (unknow to one another) gone in search of,
Hath been seen there disguis'd: strict inquisition
Give our hopes a satisfaction.
Enter Dorothea, Ladies, Francisco and Clown.
Jasp.
The Ladies, sir; Francisco keeps before, sir;
And Pambo keeps all well behind.
Lod.
Yes, there's devout lechery between hawk and buzzard:
but please ye set the Ladies: the Mask attends your Grace.
Exit.
Vero.
Come Ladies sit: Madona Dorothea,
Your ingenious Lord hath suddenly prepar'd us
For a conceited Mask, and himself it seems
Playes the presenter.
Dor.
Now fie upon this vanity:
A profane Mask! chastity keep us, Ladies.
Ven.
What, from a Mask? whereon grounds your wish?
Dor.
Marry my Lord upon experience.
I heard of one, once brought his wife to a Mask,
As chaste as a cold night; but poor unfortunate fellow
He lost her in the throng, and she poor soul
Came home so crush'd next morning!
Ven.
'Las that was ill:
But women will be lost against their will.
Vero.
Silence, the Masquers enter.
Enter Lodovico, Clown and Masquers; a Stag, a Ram, a Bull and a Goat.
Clown.
Look to me, Master.
Lod.
Do not shake, they'll think th'art out.—A Mask.
Clown.
A Mask, or no Mask; no Mask but a By-clap;
And yet a Mask yclep'd a City-Night-Cap.
Lod.
And conve—
Clown.
And conveniently for to keep off scorns,
Considerately the cap is hedg'd with hornes.
Lod.
We insinuate.
Clown.
Speak a little louder.
Lod.
We insinuate.
Clown.
We insinuate by this Stag and Ram so pritty,
With Goat and Bull, Court, Country, Camp and City.
Lod.
Cuckold
Clown.
Cuckold my Lord.
Lod.
'Tis the first word of your next line.
Oh—Cuckold begins with C. And is't not sport?
Then C. Begins with Country, Camp and Court:
But here's the fine figary of our Poet,
That one may wear this Night-Cap, and not know it.
Dor.
Why chicken, shall they make such an Ass of thee? good
your Grace, can a woman indure to see her loving husband wear
horns in's own house?
Vero.
Pray Lady, 'tis but in jest.
Dor.
In jest? nay for the jest sake, keep then on sweet bird.
Clown.
Now to our Masks name: but first, be it known-a,
When I name a City, I only mean Verona.
Those two lines are extempore, I protest, sir; I brought them in
because here are some of other Cities in the room that might
snuff pepper else.
Ven.
You have fairly ta'en that fear off; pray proceed.
Lod.
Your kindest men.
Clown.
Your kindest men most cuckolds are, Oh pity!
And where have women most their will, Oh City!
Sick for a Night-Cap, go to cuckolds luck;
Who thrives like him, who hath the daintiest duck
To deck his stall? nay at the time of rapping,
When you may take the watch at corners napping;
Take it forsooth, it is a wondrous hap
If you finde Master Constable without his cap:
So a City-Night-Cap; for whilst he doth rome
And frights abroad, his wife commits at home.
Ven.
A Verona Constable.
Clown.
A Constable of Verona; we will not meddle with your
City of Venice, sir.
Should have a Cap call'd Cornucopia.
Lod.
To Con—
Clown.
To conclude our Cap, and stretch it on the tenter,
'Tis known a City is the whole lands center:
So that a City-Nights-Cap, ours we call,
By a conclusion philosophical.
Heavie bodies tend to th'center so (the more the pity)
The heaviest heads do but upon the City:
And to our dance this title doth redound,
A City-Night-Cap, alias Cuckolds round.
Dor.
Cuckolds round! and my sweet bird leads the dance!
Vero.
Be patient, Madam, 'Tis but honest mirth:
From good construction pleasure findes full birth.
Dance.
Vero.
Jaspro, fill some wine.
Jasp.
'Tis here, sir.
Count Lodovico!
Lod.
Sir.
Vero.
I'll instantly give you a fair occasion to produce
The performance of her penance.
Lod.
I'll catch occasion by the lock, sir.
Vero.
Here, a health to all, it shall go round.
Lod.
'Tis a general health, and leads the rest into the
field.
Clown.
Your honour breaks jests as serving-men do glasses, by
chance.
Vero.
As I was drinking, I was thinking, trust me,
How fortunate our kind host was to meet
With so chast a wife; troth tell me, good Count Lodowick,
Admit heaven had her.
Lod.
Oh good your Grace, do not wound me.
Admit heaven had her I 'las what should heaven do with her?
Vero.
Your love makes you thus passionate; but admit so:
Faith, what wife would you chuse?
Lod.
Were I to chuse then, as I would I were, so this were at Japan,
I would wish, my Lord, a wife so like my Lady,
That once a week she should go to confession;
And to perform the penance she should run,
Nay should do nought, but dream on't till 'twere done.
Jasp.
A delicate memento, to put her in mind of her penance.
Dor.
Now you talk of dreams; sweet heart, I'll tell ye a very
unhappie one; I was a dream'd last night of Francis there.
Lod.
Of Franck?
Dor.
Nay, I have done with him.
Lod.
Now your Grace shall see the devil out-done.
Vero.
Pray let us hear your dream?
Dor.
Bless me! I am e'en asham'd to tell it: but 'tis no matter, chick,
A dream is a dream, and this it was:
Me thought, sweet husband, Francis lay with me.
Lod.
The best friend still at home, Francisco.
Could the devil, sir, perform a penance nearer,
And save his credit better? on, chick, a dream is but a dream.
Dor.
Me thought I prov'd with child, sweet heart.
Lod.
I, bird?
Fran.
Pox of these dreams.
Dor.
Me thought I was brought to bed, and one day fitting,
I'th' gallery, where your Masking suits and vizards hang,
Having the child me thought upon my knee,
But thou, sweet heart, and Francis?
Lod.
Frank and I! does your Grace mark that?
Vero.
I do, and wonder at her neat conveyance on't.
Dor.
Ye had not play'd three venies, but me thought
He hot thee such a blow upon the forehead,
It swel'd so that thou couldst not see:
Lod.
See, see!
Dor.
At which the child cri'd, so that I could nor still it;
Whereat, me thought, I pray'd thee to put on
The hat thou wor'st but now before the Duke, thinking thereby
To still the child: but being frighted with't,
He cri'd the more.
Lod.
He? Frank thou get'st boys.
Fran.
In dreams it seems, sir.
Dor.
Whereat I cri'd, me thought, pointing to thee,
Away you naughty man, you are not this childs father.
Lod.
Meaning the child Francisco got.
Dor.
The same: and then I wak'd and kist thee.
Omn.
A pretty merry dream!
Enter Jaspro.
Jasp.
Your servant tells me,
Count Lodowick, that one father Antony,
A holy man, stays without to speak with you.
Lod.
With me, or my Lady?
Jasp.
Nay, with you, and about earnest business.
Lod.
I'll go send him up, and he shall interpret my Ladies
dream. Pist Jaspro.
Exeunt.
Dor.
Why husband, my Lord.
Fran.
Didst mark? I must interpret.
Clown.
I smell worm-wood and vineger.
Ven.
She changes colour.
Dor.
He will not sure reveal confession.
Vero.
We'll rise and to our lodgings: I think your Highness
Keeps better hours in Venice?
Ven.
As all do, sir,
We many times make modest mirth, a necessity
To produce Ladies dreams.
Fran.
How they shoot at us! would I were in Millain:
These passages frye me.
Jasp.
Here's strange jugling come to light.
Vero.
Ha, jugling?
Jasp.
This Fryer hath confest unto Count Lodowick.
That his Lady here being absolv'd,
Confess'd this morning to him here, in her own house,
Her man Francisco here had lain with her
At which her Lord runs up and down the garden
Like one distracted, crying, Ware hornes ho.
Dor.
Art mad? deny it yet, I am undone else.
Clown.
Father Tony.
Lod.
I confess it, I deny it, I any thing, I do every thing, I do
nothing.
Vero.
The Fryer's fallen Frantick; and being mad,
Depraves a Lady of so chast a brest
A bad thought never bred there.
Dor.
'Tis my misfortune still to suffer, sir.
Lod.
Did you not see one slip out of a cloak-bag i'th' fashion
of a flitch of bacon, and run under the table amongst the
hogs?
Ven.
He's mad, he's mad.
Clown.
I, I, a tythe-pig twas overlaid last night, and he speaks
nonsence all the day after.—
Dor.
Shall I, sir, suffer this in mine own house too?
Clown.
I'd scratch out's his eyes first.
Vero.
Since Lady you and your man Francisco
Are the two injur'd persons; here disrobe
This Irregular son of his religious mother,
Expose him to the apparent blush of shame,
And tear those holy weeds off.
Fran.
Now you my frantick brother,
Had you not been better spar'd your breath?
Dor.
And ye keep counsel sir no better?
We'll ease you of your orders.
Clown.
Nay, let me have a hand in't: I'll tear his coat with
more zeal then a Puritan would tear a surplis.
Fran.
See what 'tis to accuse when you're mad.
Dor.
I confess again to you now sir, this man did lie with
me.
Clown.
And I brought him to her chamber too: but come,
turn out here.
Dukes.
Who's this?
Omn.
'Tis Count Lodowick.
How dreams, sweet wife, do fall out true!
Clown.
I was a dream'd, now I remember, I was whipt through
Verona.
Lod.
I was your confessor:
Did not I enjoyn your chaste nice Ladiship
A dainty penance?
Jasp.
And she perform'd it as daintily, sir, we'll be sworn for
that.
Dor.
Oh good sir, I crave your pardon!
Lod.
And what say you, Francis?
Fran.
You have run best sir, vain 'tis to defend,
Craft sets forth swift, but still fails in the end.
Lod.
You brought him to her chamber, Pambo.
Clown.
Good my Lord, I was merely inveagled to't.
Lod.
I have nothing to do with ye, I take no notice of ye, I
have plaid my part off to th'life, and your Grace promis'd to perform
yours.
Vero.
And publickly we will still raise their fame:
Who ere knew private sin scape publick shame?
You sir that do appear a gentleman,
Yet are within slave to dishonest passions;
You shall through Verona ride upon an Ass
With your face towards his back-parts, and in your hand his
tail 'stead of a bridle.
Clown.
'Snailes, upon and Asse! an 'th ad been upon an horse it
had been worthy gramercy.
Vero.
Peace, sirrah:
After that, you shall be branded in the forehead,
And after banish'd: away with him!
Fran.
Lust is still
Like a midnight-meal, after our violent drinkings,
'Tis swallowed greedily: but the course being kept,
We are sicker when we wake then ere we slept.
Exit.
Clown.
He must be branded, if the whore-master be burnt:
what shall beome of the procuret?
Vero.
You Madam, in that you have cosen'd sanctity,
To promise her the vows you never paid,
You shall unto the Monasterie of Matrons,
And spend your daies reclusive: for we conceive it
Her greatest plague, who her daies in lust hath past
And soil'd, against her will to be kept chaste.
Dor.
Your doom is just, no sentence can be given
Too hard for her plays fast and loose with heaven.
Lod.
I will buss thee, and bid fair weather after thee: but for
you, sirrah.—
Nay sir, 'tis but Crede quod habes & habes, at most;
believe I have a halter, and I have one.
Vero.
You sirrah, we are possest were their pander.
Clown.
I brought but flesh to flesh sir, and your Grace does as
much when you bring your meat to your mouth.
Vero.
You sirrah at a Carts tail shall be whipt
Through the City.
Clown.
there's my dream out already; but since there is no
remedy but that whipping chear must close up my stomach,
I would request a noat from your Grace, to the Carman,
to intreat him to drive apace; I shall never indure it
else.
Vero.
I hope, Count Lodowick, we have satisfied ye.
Lod.
To th'full; and I think the Cuckold catch'd the
Cuckold-makers.
Vero.
'Twas a neat penance; but oh! the art of woman in the performance.
Lod.
Pshew sir, 'tis nothing, had she been in her great Granams
place.
And cheated her, she would have cheated him.
Vero.
Let all to rest; and noble sir, i'th' morning,
With a small private train, we are for Millain.
Vice for a time may shine, and vertue sigh;
But truth like heavens Sun plainly doth reveal,
And scourge or crown, what darkness did conceal.
| The City-Night-Cap : Or, Crede quod habes, & habes | |