 | A Tale of a Tub |  |
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Act I.
Scene I.
Sir Hugh. Tub. Hilts.Hug.
Now o' my faith, old Bishop Valentine,
You' ha' brought us nipping weather: Februere
Doth cut and sheare; your day, and diocesse
Are very cold. All your Parishioners;
As well your Layicks, as your Quiristers,
Had need to keepe to their warme Fether-beds,
If they be sped of loves: this is no season,
To seeke new Makes in; though Sir Hugh of Pancrace,
Be hither come to Totten, on intelligence,
To the young Lord o'the Mannor, Squire Tripoly,
On such an errand as a Mistris is.
What, Squire! I say?
Tub.
I should call him too:
Sir Peter Tub was his father, a Salt-peeter-man;
Who left his Mother, Lady Tub of Totten-
Court, here, to revell, and keepe open house in;
With the young Squire her sonne, and's Governour Basket-
Hilts, both by sword, and dagger: Domine,
Armiger Tub, Squire Tripoly, Expergiscere.
I dare not call aloud, lest she should heare me;
And thinke I conjur'd up the spirither, sonne,
In Priests-lack-latine: O shee is jealous
Of all man-kind for him.
Tub.
Chanon, i'st you?
At the Windoe.
Hug.
The Vicar of Pancrace, Squire Tub! wa' hoh!
Tub.
I come, I stoop unto the call; Sir Hugh!
He comes downe in his night Gowne.
Hug.
He knowes my lure is from his Love: faire Awdrey,
Th'high Constables Daughter of Kentish Towne, here Mr.
Tobias Turfe.
Tub.
What newes of him?
Hug.
He has wak'd me,
An houre before I would, Sir. And my duty,
To the young worship of Totten-Court, Squire Tripoly;
Who hath my heart, as I have his: your Mrs.
Is to be made away from you, this morning,
Saint Valentines day: there are a knot of Clownes,
The Counsell of Finsbury, so they are y-styl'd,
Met at her Fathers; all the wise o'th' hundred;
Old Basi' Clench of Hamsted, petty Constable;
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And Headborough; with lowd To-Pan the Tinker,
Or Mettall-man of Belsise, the Third-borough:
And D'ogenes Scriben, the great Writer of Chalcot.
Tub.
And why all these?
Hug.
Sir to conclude in Counsell,
A Husband, or a Make for Mrs. Awdrey;
Whom they have nam'd, and prick'd downe, Clay of Kilborne,
A tough young fellow, and a Tile-maker.
Tub.
And what must he doe?
Hugh.
Cover her, they say:
And keepe her warme Sir: Mrs. Awdrey Turfe,
Last night did draw him for her Valentine;
Which chance, it hath so taken her Father, and Mother,
(Because themselves drew so, on Valentine's Eve
Was thirty yeare) as they will have her married
To day by any meanes; they have sent a Messenger
To Kilborne, post, for Clay; which when I knew,
I posted with the like to worshipfull Tripoly,
The Squire of Totten: and my advise to crosse it.
Tub.
What is't Sir Hugh?
Hugh.
Where is your Governour Hilts?
Basquet must doe it.
Tub.
Basquet shall be call'd:
Hilts, can you see to rise?
Hil.
Cham not blind Sir
With too much light.
Tub.
Open your tother eye,
And view if it be day.
Hil.
Che can spy that
At's little a hole, as another, through a Milstone.
Tub.
Hee will ha' the last word, though he talke Bilke for't.
Hugh.
Bilke? what's that?
Tub.
Why nothing, a word signifying
Nothing; and borrow'd here to expresse nothing.
Hugh.
A fine device!
Tub.
Yes, till we heare a finer.
What's your device now, Chanon Hugh?
Hugh.
In private.
Lend it your eare; I will not trust the ayre with it;
Or scarce my Shirt; my Cassock sha' not know it;
If I thought it did, Ile burne it.
Tub.
That's the way,
You ha' thought to get a new one,
Hugh:
Is't worth it?
They whisper. Hilts enters, and walkes by, making himselfe ready.
Let's heare it first.
Hugh.
Then hearken, and receive it.
This 'tis Sir, doe you relish it?
Tub.
If Hilts
Be close enough to carry it; there's all.
Hil.
It i'no sand? nor Butter-milke? If't be,
Ich'am no zive or watring pot, to draw
Knots i' your 'casions. If you trust me, zo:
If not, praforme it your zelves. 'Cham no mans wife,
But resolute Hilts: you'll vind me i'the Buttry.
Tub.
A testie Clowne: but a tender Clowne, as wooll:
And melting as the Weather in a Thaw:
Hee'll weepe you, like all Aprill: But he'ull roare you
Like middle March afore: He will be as mellow,
And tipsie too, as October: And as grave,
And bound up like a frost (with the new yeare)
In Ianuary; as rigid, as he is rusticke.
Hug.
You know his nature, and describe it well;
Ile leave him to your fashioning.
Tub.
Stay, Sir Hugh;
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And let this guard you home-ward, as the blessing,
To our devise.
Hug.
I thanke you Squires-worship,
Most humbly (for the next, for this I am sure of.)
The Squire goes off.
O for a Quire of these voices, now,
To chime in a mans pocket, and cry chinke!
One doth not chirpe: it makes no harmony.
Grave Justice Bramble, next must contribute;
His charity must offer at this wedding:
Ile bid more to the Bason, and the Bride-ale;
Although but one can beare away the Bride.
I smile to thinke how like a Lottery
These Weddings are. Clay hath her in possession;
The Squire he hopes to circumvent the Tile-Kill:
And now, if Justice Bramble doe come off,
'Tis two to one but Tub may loose his botome.
Scene II.
Clench. Medlay. Scriben. Pan. Puppy.Cle.
Why, 'tis thirty yeare, eene as this day now:
Zin Valentines day, of all dayes cursin'd, looke you;
And the zame day o'the moneth, as this Zin Valentine,
Or I am vowly deceiv'd.
Med.
That our High Constable,
Mr. Tobias Turfe, and his Dame were married.
I thinke you are right. But what was that Zin Valentine?
Did you ever know 'um, Good-man Clench?
Cle.
Zin Valentine,
Hee was a deadly Zin, and dwelt at High-gate,
As I have heard, but 'twas avore my time:
Hee was a Cooper too, as you are. Medlay,
An' In-an-In: A woundy, brag young vellow:
As th'port went o'hun, then, and i'those dayes.
Scri.
Did he not write his name, Sim Valentine?
Vor I have met no Sin in Finsbury bookes;
And yet I have writ 'hem sixe or seven times over.
Pan.
O' you mun looke for the nine deadly Sims,
I' the Church bookes, Doge'; not the' high Constables;
Nor i' the Counties: Zure, that same Zin Valentine,
Hee was a stately Zin: an' hee were a Zin,
And kept 'brave house.
Cle.
At the Cock and Hen, in High-gate,
You ha' 'fresh'd my rememory well in't! neighbour Pan:
He had a place, in last King Harrie's time,
Of sorting all the young couples; joyning 'hem;
And putting 'hem together; which is, yet,
Praform'd, as on his day—Zin Valentine;
As being the Zin o' the shire, or the whole Countie:
I am old Rivet still, and beare a braine,
The Clench, the Varrier, and true Leach of Hamsted.
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You are a shrewd antiquity, neighbour Clench!
And a great Guide to all the Parishes!
The very Bel-wether of the Hundred, here,
As I may zay. Mr. Tobias Turfe,
High Constable, would not misse you, for a' score thus,
When he doe' scourse of the great Charty to us.
Pup.
What's that, a Horse? Can scourse nought but a Horse?
I neere read o' hun, and that in Smith-veld Chartie:
I' the old Fabians Chronicles: nor I thinke
In any new. He may be a Giant there,
For I ought I know.
Scri.
You should doe well to study
Records, Fellow Ball, both Law and Poetry.
Pup.
Why, all's but writing, and reading, is it Scriben?
An't be any more, it's meere cheating zure.
Vlat cheating: all your Law, and Poets too.
Pan.
Mr. High Constable comes.
Pup.
Ile zay't avore 'hun.
Scene III.
Turfe. Clench. Medlay. Scriben. Puppy. Pan.Tur.
What's that, makes you'all so merry, and lowd, Sirs, ha?
I could ha' heard you to my privie walke.
Cle.
A Contervarsie, 'twixt your two learn'd men here:
Annibal Puppy sayes, that Law and Poetry
Are both flat cheating; All's but writing and reading,
He sayes, be't verse or prose.
Tur.
I thinke in conzience,
He do' zay true? Who is't doe thwart 'un, ha?
Med.
Why my friend Scriben, and't please your worship.
Tur.
Who D'oge? my D'ogenes? a great Writer, marry!
Hee'll vace mee down, mee my selfe sometimes,
That verse goes upon veete, as you and I doe:
But I can gi' 'un the hearing; zit me downe;
And laugh at 'un; and to my selfe conclude,
The greatest Clarkes, are not the wisest men
Ever. Here they'are both! What Sirs, disputin,
And holdin Arguments of verse, and prose?
And no greene thing afore the Door, that shewes,
Or speakes a wedding?
Scr.
Those were verses now,
Your worship spake, and run upon vive feet.
Tur.
Feet, vrom my mouth, D'oge? Leave your 'zurd uppinions:
And get me in some boughes.
Scr.
Let 'hem ha' leaves first.
There's nothing greene but Bayes, and Rosemary.
Pup.
And they're too good for strewings, your Maids say.
Tur.
You take up 'dority still, to vouch against me.
All the twelve smocks i' the house, zur, are your Authors.
Get some fresh hay then, to lay under foot:
Some Holly and Ivie, to make vine the posts:
Is't not Sonne Valentines day? and Mrs. Awdrey,
Your young Dame to be married? I wonder Clay
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And the Clowne sluggard's not come fro' Kilborne yet?
Med.
Do you call your Son i' Law Clowne, and't please your worship?
Tur.
Yes, and vor worship too; my neighbour Medlay.
A Midlesex Clowne; and one of Finsbury:
They were the first Colon's o' the kingdome here:
The Primitory Colon's; my D'ogenes sayes.
Where's D'ogenes, my Writer now? What were those
You told me, D'ogenes, were the first Colon's
O' the Countrey? that the Romans brought in here?
Scr.
The Coloni. Sir, Colonus is an Inhabitant:
A Clowne originall: as you'ld zay a Farmer, a Tiller o'th' Earth,
Ere sin' the Romans planted their Colonie first,
Which was in Midlesex.
Tur.
Why so, I thanke you heartily, good D'ogenes, you ha' zertified me.
I had rather be an ancient Colon, (as they zay) a Clowne of Midlesex:
A good rich Farmer, or high Constable.
I'ld play hun 'gaine a Knight, or a good Squire;
Or Gentleman of any other Countie
I' the Kindome.
Pan.
Out-cept Kent, for there they landed
All Gentlemen, and came in with the Conquerour,
Mad Iulius Cæsar; who built Dover-Castle:
My Ancestor To-Pan, beat the first Ketle-drum,
Avore 'hun, here vrom Dover on the March:
Which peice of monumentall copper hangs
Vp, scourd, at Hammer-smith yet; for there they came
Over the Thames, at a low water marke;
Vore either London, I, or Kingston Bridge—
I doubt were kursind.
Tur.
Zee, who is here: Iohn Clay?
Zonne Valentine, and Bride-groome! ha' you zeene
Your Valentine-Bride yet, sin' you came? Iohn Clay?
Scene IV.
Clay.To them.
Cla.
No wusse. Che lighted, I, but now i' the yard:
Puppy ha' scarce unswadled my legges yet.
Tur.
What? wispes o' your wedding day, zonne? This is right
Originous Clay: and Clay o' Kilborne too!
I would ha' had bootes o' this day, zure, zonne Iohn.
Cla.
I did it to save charges: we mun dance,
O this day, zure: and who can dance in boots?
No, I got on my best straw-coloured stockins,
And swaddeld 'hem over to zave charges; I.
Tur.
And his new shamois Doublet too with points;
I like that yet: and his long sawsedge-hose,
Like the Commander of foure smoaking Tile-kils,
Which he is Captaine of; Captaine of Kilborne:
Clay with his hat turn'd up, o' the leere side, too:
As if he would leape my Daughter yet ere night,
And spring a new Turfe to the old house:
Looke, and the wenches ha' not vound un out;
And doe parzent un, with a van of Rosemary,
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Of my best vore-horse: wee shall all ha' Bride-laces,
Or points, I zee; my Daughter will be valiant;
And prove a very Mary Anbry i' the busines.
Cle.
They zaid, your worship had sur'd her to Squire Tub
Of Totten-Court here; all the hundred rings on't.
Tur.
A Tale of a Tub, Sir; a meere tale of a Tub.
Lend it no eare I pray you: The Squire Tub
Is a fine man, but he is too fine a man,
And has a Lady Tub too to his Mother:
Ile deale with none o' these vine silken Tubs.
Iohn Clay, and Cloath-breech for my money, and Daughter.
Here comes another old Boy too, vor his colours
Enter Father Rosin.
Will stroake downe my wives udder of purses, empty
Of all her milke money, this Winter Quarter;
Old Father Rosin, the chiefe Minstrell here:
Chiefe Minstrell too of High gate: she has hir'd him
And all, his two Boyes for a day and a halfe,
And now they come for Ribbanding, and Rosemary;
Give 'hem enough Girles, gi' 'hem enough, and take it
Out in his tunes anon.
Cle.
I'll ha' Tom Tiler,
For our Iohn Clay's sake, and the Tile kils, zure.
Med.
And I the jolly Joyner, for mine owne sake.
Pan.
Ile ha' the joviall Tinker for To. Pans sake.
Tur.
Wee'll all be jovy this day, vor sonne Valentine.
My sweet sonne Iohn's sake.
Scri.
There's another reading now:
My Mr. reades it Sonne, and not Sinne Valentine.
Pup.
Nor Zim: And hee is i' the right: He is high Constable.
And who should reade above un, or avore 'hun?
Tur.
Sonne Iohn shall bid us welcome all, this day:
Wee'll zerve under his colours: Leade the troop Iohn,
And Puppy; see the Bels ring. Presse all noises
Of Finsbury, in our name; D'ogenes Scriben
Shall draw a score of warrants vor the busines.
Do's any wight parzent hir Majesties person,
This Hundred, 'bove the high Constable?
All.
No, no.
Tur.
Vse our Authority then, to the utmost on't.
Scene V.
Hugh. Preamble. Metaphor.Hugh.
So, you are sure Sir to prevent 'hem all;
And throw a block i' the Bride-groomes way, Iohn Clay,
That he will hardly leape ore.
Pre.
I conceive you,
Sir Hugh: as if your Rhetoricke would say,
Whereas the Father of her is a Turfe,
A very superficies of the earth;
Hee aimes no higher, then to match in Clay;
And there hath pitch'd his rest.
Hug.
Right Justice Bramble;
You ha' the winding wit, compassing all.
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Subtile Sir Hugh, you now are i' the wrong,
And erre with the whole Neighbour-hood, I must tell you;
For you mistake my name. Justice Preamble
I write my selfe; which with the ignorant Clownes, here
(Because of my profession of the Law,
And place o' the peace is taken to be Bramble.
But all my warrants Sir, doe run Preamble:
Richard Preamble.
Hugh.
Sir I thanke you for't.
That your good worship, would not let me run
Longer in error but would take me up thus—
Pre.
You are my learned, and canonick neighbour:
I would not have you stray; but the incorrigible
Knot-headed beast, the Clownes, or Constables,
Still let them graze; eat Sallads; chew the Cud:
All the Towne-musicke will not move a log.
Hug.
The Beetle and Wedges will, where you will have 'hem.
Pre.
True, true Sir Hugh, here comes Miles Metaphore,
My Clarke: Hee is the man shall carry it, Chanon,
By my instructions.
Hug.
Hee will do't ad unguem,
Miles Metaphor: Hee is a pretty fellow.
Pre.
I love not to keepe shadowes, or halfe-wits,
To foile a busines. Metaphore! you ha' seene
A King ride forth in state.
Met.
Sir that I have:
King Edward our late Leige, and soveraigne Lord:
And have set downe the pompe.
Pre.
Therefore I ask'd you.
Ha' you observ'd the Messengers o' the Chamber?
What habits they were in?
Met.
Yes; Minor Coats.
Vnto the Guard, a Dragon, and a Grey-hound,
For the supporters of the Armes.
Pre.
Well mark'd;
You know not any of 'hem?
Met.
Here's one dwels
In Maribone.
Pre.
Ha' you acquaintance with him?
To borrow his coat an houre?
Hug.
Or but his badge,
'Twill serve: A little thing he weares on his brest.
Pre.
His coat, I say, is of more authority:
Borrow his coat for an houre. I doe love
To doe all things compleately, Chanon Hugh;
Borrow his coat, Miles Metaphore, or nothing.
Met.
The Taberd of his office, I will call it,
Or the Coat-Armour of his place: and so
Insinuate with him by that Trope—.
Metaph. goes out.
Pre.
I know your powers of Rhetorick, Metaphore.
Fetch him off in a fine figure for his coat I say.
Hug.
Ile take my leave Sir of your worship too:
Bycause I may expect the issue anone.
Pre.
Stay my diviner Counsell, take your fee;
Wee that take fees, allow 'hem to our Counsell;
And our prime learned Counsell, double fees:
There are a brace of Angels to support you
I' your foot-walke this frost, for feare of falling;
Or spraying of a point of Matrimony,
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Hug.
I' your worships service;
That the exploit is done, and you possest
Of Mrs. Awdrey Turfe—
Pre.
I like your project.
Preamble goes out.
Hug.
And I, of this effect of two to one;
It worketh in my pocket, 'gainst the Squire,
And his halfe bottome here, of halfe a peice:
Which was not worth the stepping ore the stile for:
His Mother has quite marr'd him: Lady Tub,
She's such a vessell of fæces: all dry'd earth!
Terra damnata, not a drop of salt!
Or Peeter in her! All her Nitre is gone.
Scene VI.
Lady Tub. Pol-Marten.Lad.
Is the Nag ready Marten? call the Squire.
This frosty morning wee will take the aire,
About the fields: for I doe meane to be
Some-bodies Valentine, i' my Velvet Gowne,
This morning, though it be but a beggar-man.
Why stand you still, and doe not call my sonne?
Pol.
Madam, if he had couched with the Lambe,
He had no doubt beene stirring with the Larke:
But he sat up at Play, and watch'd the Cock,
Till his first warning chid him off to rest.
Late Watchers are no early Wakers, Madam;
But if your Ladiship will have him call'd—.
Lad.
Will have him call'd? Wherefore did I, Sir, bid him
Be call'd, you Weazell, Vermin of an Huisher?
You will returne your wit to your first stile
Of Marten Polcat, by these stinking tricks,
If you doe use 'hem: I shall no more call you
Pol-marten, by the title of a Gentleman,
Pol-marten goes out.
If you goe on thus—
Pol.
I am gone.
Lad.
Be quick then,
I' your come off: and make amends you Stote!
Was ever such a Full-mart for an Huisher,
To a great worshipfull Lady, as my selfe;
Who, when I heard his name first, Martin Polcat,
A stinking name, and not to be pronounc'd
Without a reverence.
In any Ladies presence; my very heart eene earn'd, seeing the Fellow
Young, pretty and handsome; being then I say,
A Basket-Carrier, and a man condemn'd
To the Salt-peeter workes; made it my suit
To Mr. Peeter Tub, that I might change it;
And call him as I doe now, by Pol-marten,
To have it sound like a Gentleman in an Office,
And made him mine owne Fore-man, daily waiter,
And he to serve me thus! Ingratitude!
Beyond the Coursenes yet of any Clownage,
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He returnes.
Pol.
Stirring betimes out of his bed, and ready.
Lad.
And comes he then?
Pol.
No Madam, he is gone.
Lad.
Gone? whither? aske the Porter: Where's he gone?
Pol.
I met the Porter, and have ask'd him for him;
He sayes he let him forth an houre agoe.
Lad.
An houre agoe! what busines could he have,
So early? where is his man; grave Basket Hilts?
His Guide, and Governour?
Pol.
Gone with his Master.
Lad.
Is he gone too? O that same surly knave,
Is his right hand: and leads my sonne amisse.
He has carried him to some drinking match, or other:
Pol-marten, I will call you so againe;
I'am friends with you now. Goe get your horse, and ride
To all the Townes about here, where his haunts are;
And crosse the fields to meet, and bring me word;
He cannot be gone farre, being a foot.
Be curious to inquire him: and bid Wispe
My woman come, and waite on me. The love
Wee Mothers beare our Sonnes, we ha' bought with paine,
Makes us oft view them, with too carefull eyes,
And over-looke 'hem with a jealous feare,
Out-fitting Mothers.
Scene VII.
Lady Tub. Wispe.Lad.
How now Wispe? Ha' you
A Valentine yet: I'm taking th'aire to choose one.
Wis.
Fate send your Ladiship a fit one then.
Lad.
What kind of one is that?
Wis.
A proper man,
To please your Ladiship.
Lad.
Out o' that vanity,
That takes the foolish eye: Any poore creature,
Whose want may need my almes, or courtesie;
I rather wish; so Bishop Valentine,
Left us example to doe deeds of Charity;
To feed the hungry; cloath the naked, visit
The weake, and sicke; to entertaine the poore;
And give the dead a Christian Funerall;
These were the workes of piety he did practise,
And bad us imitate; not looke for Lovers,
Or handsome Images to please our senses.
I pray thee Wispe, deale freely with me now:
Wee are alone, and may be merry a little:
Tho' art none o' the Court-glories; nor the wonders
For wit, or beauty i' the Citie: tell me,
What man would satisfie thy present phansie?
Had thy ambition leave to choose a Valentine,
Within the Queenes Dominion, so a subject.
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Yo' ha' gi' me a large scope, Madam, I confesse,
And I will deale with your Ladiship sincerely:
I'll utter my whole heart to you. I would have him,
The bravest, richest, and the properest man
A Taylor could make up; or all the Poets,
With the Perfumers: I would have him such,
As not another woman, but should spite me:
Three Citie Ladies should run mad for him:
And Countri-Madams infinite.
Lad.
You'ld spare me,
And let me hold my wits?
Wis.
I should with you—
For the young Squire, my Masters sake: dispense
A little; but it should be very little.
Then all the Court-wives I'ld ha' jealous of me;
As all their husbands jealous of them:
And not a Lawyers Pusse of any quality,
But lick her lips, for a snatch in the Terme time.
Lad.
Come,
Let's walke: wee'll heare the rest, as we goe on:
You are this morning in a good veine, Dido:
Would I could be as merry. My sonnes absence
Troubles me not a little: though I seeke
These wayes to put it off; which will not helpe:
Care that is entred, once into the brest,
Will have the whole possession, ere it rest.
| A Tale of a Tub | |