University of Virginia Library

Scene. III.

Fitz-dottrell. Mistresse Fitz-dottrel. Pvg.
[Fit.]
How now, sweet heart? what's the matter?

Mrs. Fi.
Good!
You are a stranger to the plot! you set not
Your saucy Diuell, here, to tempt your wife,
With all the insolent vnciuill language,
Or action, he could vent?

Fit.
Did you so, Diuell?

Mrs. Fit.
Not you? you were not planted i' your hole to heare him,
Vpo' the stayres? or here, behinde the hangings?
I doe not know your qualities? he durst doe it,
And you not giue directions?

Fit.
You shall see, wife,
Whether he durst, or no: and what it was,
I did direct.

Her husband goes out, and enters presently with a cudgell vpon him.
Pvg.
Sweet Mistresse, are you mad?

Fit.
You most mere Rogue! you open manifest Villaine!
You Feind apparant you! you declar'd Hel-hound!

Pvg.
Good Sr.

Fit.
Good Knaue good Rascal, and good Traitor.
Now, I doe finde you parcel-Diuell, indeed.
Vpo' the point of trust? I' your first charge?
The very day o' your probation?
To tempt your Mistresse? You doe see, good wedlocke,
How I directed him.

Mrs. Fit.
Why, where Sr, were you?

Fit.
Nay, there is one blow more, for exercise:
After a pause. He strikes him againe
I told you, I should doe it.

Pvg.
Would you had done, Sir.

Fit.
O wife, the rarest man! yet there's another
To put you in mind o'the last. such a braue man, wife!
Within, he has his proiects, and do's vent 'hem,
The gallantest! where you tentiginous? ha?
and againe.
Would you be acting of the Incubus?
Did her silks rustling moue you?

Pvg.
Gentle Sir.

Fit.
Out of my sight. If thy name were not Diuell,
Thou should'st not stay a minute with me. In,
Goe, yet stay: yet goe too. I am resolu'd,
What I will doe: and you shall know't afore-hand.
Soone as the Gentleman is gone, doe you heare?
I'll helpe your lisping. Wife, such a man, wife!
Diuell goes out.
He has such plots! He will make mee a Duke!
No lesse, by heauen! six Mares, to your coach, wife!
That's your proportion! And your coach-man bald!
Because he shall be bare, inough. Doe not you laugh,
We are looking for a place, and all, i' the map
What to be of. Haue faith, be not an Infidell.
You know, I am not easie to be gull'd.
I sweare, when I haue my millions, else, I'll make
Another Dutchesse; if you ha' not faith.

Mrs. Fi.
You'll ha' too much, I feare, in these false spirits,

Fit.
Spirits? O, no such thing! wife! wit, mere wit!
This man defies the Diuell, and all his works!
He dos't by Ingine, and deuises, hee!
He has his winged ploughes, that goe with sailes,
Will plough you forty acres, at once! and mills,
Will spout you water, ten miles off! All Crowland
Is ours, wife; and the fens, from vs, in Norfolke,
To the vtmost bound of Lincoln-shire! we haue view'd it,
And measur'd it within all; by the scale!
The richest tract of land, Loue, i' the kingdome!
There will be made seuenteene, or eighteene millions;
Or more, as't may be handled! wherefore, thinke,
Sweetheart, if th'hast a fancy to one place,
More then another, to be Dutchesse of;
Now, name it: I will ha't, what ere it cost,
(If't will be had for money) either here,
Or'n France, or Italy.

Mrs. Fi.
You ha' strange phantasies!