 | The late Lancashire VVitches |  |
ACTVS, I.
SCENA, I.
Enter Master Arthur, Mr. Shakstone, Mr. Bantam: (as from hunting.)Arthur.
Was ever sport of expectation,
Thus crost in th' height.
Shak.
Tush these are accidents, all game is subject to.
Arth.
So you may call them
Chances, or crosses, or what else you please,
But for my part, Ile hold them prodigies,
As things transcending Nature.
Bantam.
O you speake this,
Because a Hare hath crost you.
Arth.
A Hare? a Witch, or rather a Divell I think.
For tell me Gentlemen, was't possible
In such a faire course, and no covert neere,
We in pursuit, and she in constant view,
Our eyes not wandring but all bent that way,
The Dogs in chase, she ready to be ceas'd,
And at the instant, when I durst have layd
My life to gage, my Dog had pincht her, then
To vanish into nothing!
Shak.
Somewhat strange, but not as you inforce it,
Arth.
Make it plaine
That I am in an error, sure I am
That I about me have no borrow'd eyes.
They are mine owne, and Matches.
Bant.
She might find some Muse as then not visible to us,
And escape that way.
Shak.
Perhaps some Foxe had earth'd there,
Have knowne or heard the like, there squat her selfe,
And so her scape appeare but Naturall,
Which you proclaime a Wonder.
Arth.
Well well Gentlemen, be you of your own faith, but what I see
And is to me apparent, being in sence,
My wits about me, no way tost nor troubled,
To that will I give credit.
Banth.
Come, come, all men
Were never of one minde, nor I of yours.
Shak.
To leave this argument, are you resolv'd
Where we shall dine to day?
Arth.
Yes where we purpos'd.
Banth.
That was with Master Generous.
Arth.
True, the same.
And where a loving welcome is presum'd,
Whose liberall Table's never unprepar'd,
Nor he of guests unfurnisht, of his meanes,
There's none can beare it with a braver port,
And keepe his state unshaken, one who sels not
Nor covets he to purchase, holds his owne
Without oppressing others, alwayes prest
To indeere to him any knowne Gentleman
In whom he finds good parts.
Bantham.
A Character not common in this age.
Arth.
I cannot wind him up
Vnto the least part of his noble worth.
Tis far above my strength.
Enter Whetstone.
Shak.
See who comes yonder,
A fourth, to make us a full Messe of guests
At Master Generous Table.
Arth.
Tush let him passe,
He is not worth our luring, a meere Coxcombe,
It is a way to call our wits in question,
To have him seene amongst us.
Bant.
He hath spy'd us, there is no way to evade him.
Arth.
That's my griefe; a most notorious lyar, out upō him.
Let's set the best face on't.
Whet.
What Gentlemen? all mine old acquaintance?
A whole triplicity of friends together? nay then
'Tis three to one we shall not soone part Company.
Shak.
Sweet Mr. Whetstone.
Bant.
Dainty Mr. Whetstone.
Arth.
Delicate Master Whetstone.
Whet.
You say right, Mr. Whetstone I have bin, Mr. Whetstone
I am, and Mr. Whetstone I shall be, and those that know me,
know withall that I have not my name for nothing, I am hee
whom all the brave Blades of the Country use to whet their
wits upon; sweet Mr. Shakton, dainty Mr. Bantham, and dainty
Mr. Arthur, and how, and how, what all lustick, all froligozone?
I know, you are going to my Vncles to dinner, and so am I too,
You need not doubt of your welcome.
Shak.
No doubt at all kind Mr. Whetstone; but we have not
seene you of late, you are growne a great stranger amongst us,
I desire sometimes to give you a visit; I pray where do you lye?
Whet.
Where doe I lye? why sometimes in one place, and
then againe in another, I love to shift lodgings; but most constantly,
wheresoere I dine or sup, there doe I lye?
Arth.
I never heard that word proceed from him
I durst call truth till now.
Whet.
But where so ever I lye 'tis no matter for that,
I pray you say, and say truth, are not you three now
Going to dinner to my Vncles?
Bant.
I thinke you are a Witch Master Whetstone.
Whet.
How? A Witch Gentlemen? I hope you doe not
meane to abuse me, though at this time (if report be true there
are too many of them here in our Country) but I am sure I look
like no such ugly Creature.
Shak.
It seemes then you are of opinion that there are Witches,
for mine own part, I can hardly be induc'd to think there
is any such kinde of people.
Whet.
No such kinde of people! I pray you tell me Gentlemen,
did never any one of you know my Mother?
Why was your Mother a Witch?
Whet.
I doe not say as Witches goe now a dayes, for they
for the most part are ugly old Beldams, but she was a lusty
young Lasse, and by her owne report, by her beauty and faire
lookes bewitcht my Father.
Bant.
It seemes then your Mother was rather a yong wanton
wench, than an old wither'd witch.
Whet.
You say right, and know withall I come of two ancient
Families, for as I am a Whetstone by the Mother-side, so
I am a By-blow by the Fathers.
Arth.
It appeares then by your discourse, that you came in
at the window.
Whet.
I would have you thinke I scorne like my Granams
Cat to leape over the Hatch.
Shak.
He hath confest himselfe to be a Bastard.
Arth.
And I beleeve't as a notorious truth.
Whet.
Howsoever I was begot, here you see I am,
And if my Parents went to it without feare or wit,
What can I helpe it.
Arth.
Very probable, for as he was got without feare,
So it is apparent he was borne without wit.
Whet.
Gentlemen, it seemes you have some private businesse
amongst your selves, which I am not willing to interrupt, I
know not how the day goes with you, but for mine owne part,
my stomacke is now much upon 12. You know what houre
my Vncle keeeps, and I love ever to bee set before the first
grace, I am going before, speake, shall I acquaint him with
your comming after?
Shak.
We meane this day to see what fare he keepes.
Whet.
And you know it is his custome to fare well,
And in that respect I think I may be his kinsman,
And so farewell Gentlemen, Ile be your fore-runner,
To give him notice of your visite.
Bant.
And so intyre us to you.
Shak.
Sweet Mr. Whetstone.
Arth.
Kind Mr. Byblow.
Whet.
I see you are perfect both in my name & sirname; I have
bin ever bound unto you, for which I will at this time be your
him per præsentes, and that I take to be presently.
Exit.
Arth.
Farewell As in præsenti.
Shak.
It seemes hee's peece of a Scholler.
Arth.
What because he hath read a little Scriveners Latine,
hee never proceeded farther in his Accidence than to Mentiri
non est meum; and that was such a hard Lesson to learne, that
he stucke at mentiri; and cu'd never reach to non est meum
since, a meere Ignaro, and not worth acknowledgement.
Bant.
Are these then the best parts he can boast of?
Arth.
As you see him now, so shall you finde him ever: all in
one strain, there is one only thing which I wonder he left out.
Shak.
And what might that be:
Arth.
Of the same affinity with the rest.
At every second word, he his commonly boasting
either of his Aunt or his Vncle.
Enter Mr. Generous.
Bant.
You name him in good time, see where he comes.
Gener.
Gentlemen, Welcome, t'is a word I use,
From me expect no further complement:
Nor do I name it often at one meeting,
Once spoke (to those that understand me best,
And know I alwaies purpose as I speake)
Hath ever yet suffiz'd: so let it you;
Nor doe I love that common phrase of guests,
As we make bold, or we are troublesome,
Wee take you unprovided, and the like;
I know you understanding Gentlemen,
And knowing me, cannot persuade your selves
With me you shall be troublesome or bold,
But still provided for my worthy friends,
Amongst whom you are lifted.
Arth.
Noble sir, you generously instruct us, and to expresse
We can be your apt schollers: in a word
Wee come to dine with you.
Gener.
And Gentlemen, such plainnesse doth best please me, I had notice
Of so much by my kinsman, and to show
Rose from my chayre to meet you at the gate.
And be my selfe your usher; nor shall you finde
Being set to meat, that i'le excuse your fare,
Or say, I am sory it falls out so poore;
And had I knowne your comming wee'd have had
Such things and such, nor blame my Cooke, to say
This dish or that hath not bin sauc'st with care:
Words, fitting best a common Hostesse mouth,
When ther's perhaps some just cause of dislike
But not the table of a Gentleman;
Nor is it my wives custome; in a word, take what you find, & so
Arth.
Sir without flattery
You may be call'd the sole surviving sonne
Of long since banisht Hospitality.
Gener.
In that you please me not: But Gentlemen
I hope to be beholden unto you all,
Which if I proove, Ile be a gratefull debtor.
Bant.
Wherein good sir.
Gener.
I ever studied plainenesse, and truth withall.
Shak.
I pray expresse your selfe.
Gener.
In few I shall. I know this youth to whom my wife is Aunt
Is (as you needs must finde him) weake and shallow:
Dull, as his name, and what for kindred sake
We note not, or at least, are loath to see,
Is unto such well-knowing Gentlemen
Most grossely visible: If for my sake
You will but seeme to winke at these his wants,
At least at table before us his friends,
I shall receive it as a courtesie
Not soone to be forgot.
Arth.
Presume it sir.
Gener.
Now when you please pray Enter Gentlemen.
Arth.
Would these my friends prepare the way before,
To be resolved of one thing before dinner
Would something adde unto mine appetite,
Shall I intreat you so much.
O sir you may command us.
Gener.
I'th meane time
Prepare your stomackes with a bowle of Sacke.
Exit Bant. & Shak.
My Cellar can affoord it; now Mr. Arthur
Pray freely speake your thoughts.
Arth.
I come not sir
To presse a promise from you, tak't not so,
Rather to prompt your memory in a motion
Made to you not long since.
Gener.
Wast not about
A Mannor, the best part of your estate,
Morgag'd to one slips no advantages
Which you would have redeem'd.
Arth.
True sir the same.
Gener.
And as I rhinke, I promist at that time
To become bound with you, or if the usurer
(A base, yet the best title I can give him)
Perhaps should question that security,
To have the money ready. Wast not so?
Arth.
It was to that purpose wee discourst.
Gener.
Provided, to have the Writings in my custody.
Else how should I secure mine owne estate.
Arth.
To denie that, I should appeare toth' World
Stupid, and of no braine.
Gener.
Your monie's ready,
Arth.
And I remaine a man oblig'd to you.
Beyond all utterance.
Gener.
Make then your word good
By speaking it no further, onely this,
It seemes your Vncle you trusted in so far
Hath failed your expectation.
Arth.
Sir he hath, not that he is unwilling or unable.
But at this time unfit to be solicited,
For to the Countries wonder, and my sorrow,
Hee is much to be pitied.
Gener.
Why I intreat you.
Arth.
Because hee's late become the sole discourse
For his discretion and knowne gravitie,
As master of a govern'd Family,
The house (as if the ridge were fixt below,
And groundsils lifted up to make the roofe)
All now turn'd topsie turvy.
Gener.
Strange, but how?
Arth,
In such a retrograde & preposterous way
As seldome hath hin heard of. I thinke never.
Gener.
Can you discourse the manner?
Arth.
The good man, in all obedience kneels vnto his son,
Hee with an austere brow commands his father.
The wife presumes not in the daughters sight
Without a prepared courtesie. The girle, shee
Expects it as a dutie; chides her mother
Who quakes and trembles at each word she speaks,
And what's as strange, the Maid she dominiers
O're her yong mistris, who is aw'd by her.
The son to whom the Father creeps and bends,
Stands in as much feare of the groome his man.
All in such rare disorder, that in some
As it breeds pitty, and in others wonder;
So in the most part laughter.
Gener.
How thinke you might this come.
Arth,
T'is thought by Witchcraft.
Gener.
They that thinke so dreame,
For my beliefe is, no such thing can be,
A madnesse you may call it: Dinner stayes;
That done, the best part of the afternoone
Wee'le spend about your businesse.
Exeunt.
Enter old Seely and Doughty
Seely.
Nay but vnderstand me neighbor Doughty.
Doughty.
Good master Seely I do understand you, and over
and over understand you so much, that I could e'ene blush at
your fondnesse; and had I a sonne to serve mee so, I would conure
a divell out of him.
See.
Alas he is my childe.
No, you are his childe to live in feare of him, indeed
they say oldmen become children againe, but before I would
become my childes childe, and make my foot my head, I would
stand upon my head, and kick my heels at the skies.
Enter Gregory.
See.
You do not know what an only son is, O see, he comes
now if you can appease his anger toward me, you shall doe an
act of timely charity.
Dou.
It is an office that I am but weakly versd in,
To plead to a sonne in the fathers behalfe,
Blesse me what lookes the devilish young Rascall
Frights the poore man withall!
Greg.
I wonder at your confidence, and how you dare appeare
before me.
Doug.
A brave beginning.
See.
O sonne be patient.
Greg.
It is right reverend councell, I thanke you for it, I shall
study patience shall I, while you practice waies to begger mee,
shall I?
Dough.
Very handsome.
See.
If ever I trangresse in the like againe—
Greg.
I have taken your word too often sir and neither can
nor will forbeare you longer.
Dough.
What not your Father Mr. Gregory?
Greg.
Whats that to you sir?
Dough.
Pray tell me then sir, how many yeares has hee to
serve you.
Gre.
What do you bring your spokesman now, your advocat,
What fee goes out of my estate now, for his Oratory?
Dou.
Come I must tell you, you forget your selfe,
And in this foule unnaturall strife wherein
You trample on your father. You are falne
Below humanitie. Y'are so beneath
The title of a sonne, you cannot clayme
To be a man, and let me tell you were you mine
Thou shouldst not eat but on thy knees before me.
See.
O this is not the way.
This is to raise Impatience into fury.
I can beare all his chidings and his threats,
And take them well, very exceeding well,
And finde they do me good on my owne part,
Indeed they do reclaim me from those errors
That might impeach his fortunes, but I feare
Th'unquiet strife within him hurts himselfe,
And wastes or weakens Nature, by the breach
Of moderate sleepe and dyet, and I can
No lesse than grieve to finde my weaknesses
To be the cause of his affliction,
And see the danger of his health and being.
Dou.
Alas poore man? Can you stand open ey'd
Or dry ey'd either at this now in a Father?
Greg.
Why, if it grieve you, you may look of ont,
I have seen more than this twice twenty times,
And have as often bin deceiv'd by his dissimulations
I can see nothing mended.
Dou.
He is a happy sire that has brought vp his son to this.
See.
All shall be mended son content your selfe,
But this time forget but this last fault.
Greg.
Yes, for a new one to morrow.
Dou.
Pray Mr. Gregory forget it, you see how
Submissive your poore penitent is, forget it,
Forget it, put it out o'your head, knocke it
Out of your braines. I protest, if my Father,
Nay if my fathers dogge should have sayd
As much to me, I should have embrac't him.
What was the trespasse? It c'ud not be so hainous.
Greg.
Wel Sir, you now shall be a Iudge for all your jeering.
Was it a fatherly part thinke you having a sonne
To offer to enter in bonds for his nephew, so to indanger
My estate to redeeme his morgage.
See.
But I did it not sonne?
Gre.
I know it very well, but your dotage had done it,
If my care had not prevented it.
Dou.
Is that the businesse: why if he had done it, had hee not
himselfe.
Greg.
He does nothing but practice waies to undo himselfe,
and me: a very spendthrift, a prodigall sire, hee was at the Ale
but tother day, and spent a foure-penny club.
See.
'Tis gone and past sonne.
Greg.
Can you hold your peace sir? And not long ago at the
Wine he spent his teaster, and two pence to the piper,
That was brave was it not?
See.
Truely we were civily merry. But I have left it.
Greg.
Your civility have you not? For no longer agoe than
last holiday evening he gam'd away eight double ring'd tokens
on a rubbers at bowles with the Curate, and some of his idle
companions.
Dou.
Fie Mr. Gregory Seely is this seemely in a sonne.
You'le have a rod for the childe your father shortly I feare.
Alasse did hee make it cry? Give me a stroke and Ile beat him,
Blesse me, they make me almost as mad as themselves.
Greg.
'Twere good you would meddle with your own matters sir.
See.
Sonne, sonne.
Greg.
Sir, Sir, as I am not beholden to you for house or Land,
for it has stood in the name of my ancestry the Seelyes above
two hundred yeares, so will I look you leave all as you found it.
Enter Lawrence.
Law.
What is the matter con yeow tell?
Greg.
O Lawrence, welcom, Thou wilt make al wel I am sure.
Law.
Yie whick way con yeow tell, but what the foule evill
doone yee, heres sick an a din.
Dou.
Art thou his man fellow ha? that talkest thus to him?
Law.
Yie sir, and what ma' yoew o'that, he mainteynes me
to rule him, and i'le deu't, or ma'the heart weary o'the weambe
on him.
Dou.
This is quite upside downe, the sonne controlls the father,
and the man overcrowes his masters coxcombe, sure they
are all bewitch'd.
Greg.
'Twas but so, truely Lawrence; the peevish old man
vex't me, for which I did my duty, in telling him his owne, and
Law.
I forbodden yeow to meddle with the old carle, and
let me alone with him, yet yeow still be at him, hee serv'd yeow
but weell to bast ye for't, ant he were stronk enough, but an I
faw foule with yee an I swaddle yee not savorly may my girts
brast.
See.
Prethee good Lawrence be gentle and do not fright thy
Master so.
Law.
Yie, at your command anon.
Dough.
Enough good Lawrence, you have said enough.
Law.
How trow yeou that? A fine World when a man cannot
be whyet at heame for busie brain'd neighpors.
Dou.
I know not what to say to any thing here,
This cannot be but witchcraft.
Enter Ioane and Winny.
Win.
I cannot indure it nor I will not indure it.
Dou.
Hey day! the daughter upon the mother too.
Win.
One of us two, chuse you which, must leave the house,
wee are not to live together I see that, but I will know, if there
be Law in Lancashire for't, which is fit first to depart the house
or the World, the mother or the daughter.
Ioane.
Daughter I say.
Win.
Do you say the daughter, for that word I say the mother,
unlesse you can prove me the eldest, as my discretion almost warrant
it, I say the mother shall out of the house or take such courses
in it as shall sort with such a house and such a daughter.
Joan.
Daughter I say, I wil take any course so thou wilt leave
thy passion; indeed it hurts thee childe, I'le sing and be merry,
weare as fine clothes, and as delicate dressings as thou wilt
have me, so thou wilt pacifie thy selfe, and be at peace with me.
Win.
O will you so, in so doing I may chance to looke
upon you. Is this a fit habite for a handsome young Gentlewomans
mother, as I hope to be a Lady, you look like one o'the
Scottish wayward sisters, O my hart has got the hickup, and all
shalt be my white girle.
Ioan.
Ha, ha, ha! she's overcome with joy at my conversion.
Dough.
She is most evidently bewitcht.
Song.
Joane.
There was a deft Lad and a Lasse fell in love,
with a fa la la, fa la la, Langtidowne dilly;
With kissing and toying this Maiden did prove,
with a fa la la, fa la la, Langtidowne dilly;
So wide i' th wast, and her Belly so high,
That unto her mother the Maiden did cry,
O Langtidowne dilly, O Langtidowne dilly,
fa la la Langtidowne, Langtidowne dilly.
Enter Parnell.
Parn.
Thus wodden yeou doone and I were dead, but while
I live yoeu fadge not on it, is this aw the warke yeou con
fine?
Dough.
Now comes the Mayd to fet her Mistresses to work.
VVin.
Nay pri'thee sweet Parnell, I was but chiding the
old wife for her unhandsomnesse, and would have been at my
work presently, she tels me now she will weare fine things,
and I shall dresse her head as I list.
Dough.
Here's a house well govern'd?
Parn.
Dresse me no dressings, lessen I dresse yeou beth, and
learne a new lesson with a wainon right now; han I bin a servant
here this halfe dozen o' yeares, and con I fee yeou idler
then my selve!
Ioa., VVin.
Nay prithee sweet Parnell content, & hark thee—
Dought.
I have knowne this, and till very lately, as well govern'd
a Family as the Country yeilds, and now what a nest of
severall humors it is growne, and all divellish ones, sure all the
VVitches in the Country, have their hands in this home-spun
medley; and there be no few 'tis thought.
Parn.
Yie, yie, ye shall ye shall, another time, but not naw
I thonke yeou, yeou shall as soone pisse and paddle in't, as flap
me in the mouth with an awd Petticoat, or a new paire o
to see sicky doings I.
Lawr.
Hold thy prattle Parnell, aw's com'd about as weene
a had it, wotst thou what Parnell? wotst thou what? o deare,
wotst thou what?
Parn.
VVhat's the fond wexen waild trow I.
Lawr.
We han bin in love these three yeares, and ever wee
had not enough, now is it com'd about that our love shall be at
an end for ever, and a day, for wee mun wed may hunny, we
mun wed.
Parn.
What the Deowl ayles the lymmer lowne, bin thy
braines broke lowse trow I.
Lawr.
Sick a waddin was there never i' Loncoshire as ween
couple at on Monday newst.
Par.
Awa awaw, sayn yeou this sickerly, or done you but
jaum me?
Lawr.
I jaum thee not nor flam thee not, 'tis all as true as
booke, here's both our Masters have consented and concloyded,
and our Mistresses mun yeild toyt, to put aw house and lond and
aw they have into our hands.
Parn.
Awa, awaw.
Lawr.
And we mun marry and be master and dame of aw.
Parn.
Awa, awaw.
Lawr.
And theyn be our Sijourners, because they are weary
of the world, to live in frendiblenesse, and see what will come on't.
Par.
Awa, awaw, agone.
Seel. & Greg.
Nay 'tis true Parnell, here's both our hands
on't, and give you joy.
Ioan. & VVin.
And ours too, and 'twill be fine Ifackins.
Parn.
Whaw, whaw, whaw, whaw!
Dou.
Here's a mad businesse towards.
Seel.
I will bespeake the Guests.
Greg.
And I the meat:
Ioan.
I'le dresse the dinner, though I drip my sweat.
Law.
My care shall sumptuous parrelments provide.
VVin.
And my best art shall trickly trim the Bride.
Parn.
VVhaw, whaw, whaw, whaw.
Greg.
Ile get choyce musick for the merriment.
And I will waite with wonder the event.
Parn.
VVhaw, whaw, whaw, whaw.
| The late Lancashire VVitches | |