University of Virginia Library

Scene. II.

Pvg. Mistresse Fitzdottrell.
[Pvg.]
I haue no singular seruice of this, now?
Nor no superlatiue Master? I shall wish
To be in hell againe, at leasure? Bring,
A Vice from thence? That had bin such a subtilty,
As to bring broad-clothes hither: or transport
Fresh oranges into Spaine. I finde it, now;
My Chiefe was i'the right. Can any feind
Boast of a better Vice, then heere by nature,
And art, th'are owners of? Hell ne'r owne mee,
But I am taken! the fine tract of it
Pulls mee along! To heare men such professors
Growne in our subtlest Sciences! My first Act, now,
Shall be, to make this Master of mine cuckold:
The primitiue worke of darknesse, I will practise!
I will deserue so well of my faire Mistresse,
By my discoueries, first; my counsells after;
And keeping counsell, after that: as who,
So euer, is one, I'le be another, sure,
I'll ha' my share. Most delicate damn'd flesh!
Shee will be! O! that I could stay time, now,
Midnight will come too fast vpon mee, I feare,
Shee sends Diuell out.
To cut my pleasure—

Mrs. Fi.
Looke at the back-doore,
One knocks, see who it is.

Pvg.
Dainty she-Diuell!

Mrs. Fi.
I cannot get this venter of the cloake,
Out of my fancie; nor the Gentlemans way,
He tooke, which though 'twere strange, yet 'twas handsome,
And had a grace withall, beyond the newnesse.
Sure he will thinke mee that dull stupid creature,
Hee said, and may conclude it; if I finde not
Some thought to thanke th'attemp. He did presume,
By all the carriage of it, on my braine,
For answer; and will sweare 'tis very barren,
Diuell returnes.
If it can yeeld him no returne Who is it?

Pvg.
Mistresse, it is, but first, let me assure
The excellence, of Mistresses, I am,
Although my Masters man, my Mistresse slaue,
The seruant of her secrets, and sweete turnes,
And know, what fitly will conduce to either.

Mrs. Fi.
What's this? I pray you come to your selfe and thinke
What your part is: to make an answer. Tell,
Who is it at the doore?

Pvg.
The Gentleman, Mr s,
Who was at the cloake-charge to speake with you,
This morning, who expects onely to take
Some small command'ments from you, what you please,
Worthy your forme, hee saies, and gentlest manners.

Mrs. Fi.
O! you'll anon proue his hyr'd man, I feare,
What has he giu'n you, for this message? Sir,
Bid him put off his hopes of straw, and leaue
To spread his nets, in view, thus. Though they take
Master Fitz-dottrel, I am no such foule,
Nor faire one, tell him, will be had with stalking.
And wish him to for-beare his acting to mee,
At the Gentlemans chamber-window in Lincolnes-Inne there,
That opens to my gallery: else, I sweare
T'acquaint my husband with his folly, and leaue him
To the iust rage of his offended iealousie.
Or if your Masters sense be not so quicke
To right mee, tell him, I shall finde a friend
That will repaire mee. Say, I will be quiet.
In mine owne house? Pray you, in those words giue it him.

He goes out.
Pvg.
This is some foole turn'd!

Mrs. Fi.
If he be the Master,
Now, of that state and wit, which I allow him;
Sure, hee will vnderstand mee: I durst not
Be more direct. For this officious fellow,
My husbands new groome, is a spie vpon me,
I finde already. Yet, if he but tell him
This in my words, hee cannot but conceiue
Himselfe both apprehended, and requited.
I would not haue him thinke hee met a statue:
Or spoke to one, not there, though I were silent.
How now? ha' you told him?

Pvg.
Yes.

Mrs. Fi.
And what saies he?

Pvg.
Sayes he? That which my self would say to you, if I durst.
That you are proude, sweet Mistresse? and with all,
A little ignorant, to entertaine
The good that's proffer'd; and (by your beauties leaue)
Not all so wise, as some true politique wife
Would be: who hauing match'd with such a Nupson
(I speake it with my Masters peace) whose face
Hath left t'accuse him, now, for't doth confesse him,
What you can make him; will yet (out of scruple,
And a spic'd conscience) defraud the poore Gentleman,
At least delay him in the thing he longs for,
And makes it hs whole study, how to compasse,
Onely a title. Could but he write Cuckold,
He had his ends. For, looke you—

Mrs. Fi.
This can be
None but my husbands wit.

Pvg.
My pretious Mr s.

M. Fi.
It creaks his Ingine: The groome neuer durst
Be, else, so saucy—

Pvg.
If it were not clearely,
His worshipfull ambition; and the top of it;
The very forked top too: why should hee
Keepe you, thus mur'd vp in a back-roome, Mistresse,
Allow you ne'r a casement to the streete,
Feare of engendering by the eyes, with gallants,
Forbid you paper, pen and inke, like Rats-bane.
Search your halfe pint of muscatell, lest a letter
Be suncke i'the pot: and hold your new-laid egge
Against the fire, lest any charme be writ there?
Will you make benefit of truth, deare Mistresse,
If I doe tell it you: I do't not often?
I am set ouer you, imploy'd, indeed,
To watch your steps, your lookes, your very breathings,
And to report them to him. Now, if you
Will be a true, right, delicate sweete Mistresse,
Why, wee will make a Cokes of this Wise Master,
We will, my Mistresse, an absolute fine Cokes,
And mock, to ayre, all the deepe diligences
Of such a solemne, and effectuall Asse,
An Asse to so good purpose, as wee'll vse him.
I will contriue it so, that you shall goe
To Playes, to Masques, to Meetings, and to Feasts.
For, why is all this Rigging, and fine Tackle, Mistris,
If you neat handsome vessells, of good sayle,
Put not forth euer, and anon, with your nets
Abroad into the world. It is your fishing.
There, you shal choose your friends, your seruants, Lady,
Your squires of honour; I'le conuey your letters,
Fetch answers, doe you all the offices,
That can belong to your bloud, and beauty. And,
For the variety, at my times, although
I am not in due symmetrie, the man
Of that proportion; or in rule
Of physicke, of the iust complexion;
Or of that truth of Picardill, in clothes,
To boast a soueraignty o're Ladies: yet
I know, to do my turnes, sweet Mistresse. Come, kisse—

Mrs. Fi.
How now!

Pvg.
Deare delicate Mist. I am your slaue,
Your little worme, that loues you: your fine Monkey;
Your Dogge, your Iacke, your Pug, that longs to be
Stil'd, o'your pleasures.

Mrs. Fit.
Heare you all this? Sir, Pray you,
Shee thinkes her husband watches.
Come from your standing, doe, a little, spare
Your selfe, Sir, from your watch, t'applaud your Squire,
That so well followes your instructions!