University of Virginia Library

Actus Quartus.

Scæna Prima.

Boy danceth.
Wife.

Look George, the little boy's come again, methinks
he looks something like the Prince of Orange in his long
stocking, if he had a little harness about his neck. George,
I will have him dance Fading; Fading, is a fine Jig I'll
assure you Gentlemen: begin brother, now a capers sweet
heart, now a turn a th'toe, and then tumble: cannot you
tumble youth?

Boy.

No indeed forsooth.

Wife.

Nor eat sire?

Boy.

Neither.

Wife.

Why then I thank you heartily, there's two pence
to buy you points withall.

Enter Jasper and Boy.
Jasp.

There boy, deliver this: but do it well. Hast thou
provided me four lusty fellows?

Able to carry me? and art thou perfect
In all thy business?

Boy.
Sir you need not fear,
I have my lesson here, and cannot miss it:
The men are ready for you, and what else
Pertains to this imployment.

Jasp.
There my boy,
Take it, but buy no land.

Boy.
Faith sir 'twere rare
To see so young a purchaser: I flie,
And on my wings carry your destiny.

Exit.
Jasp.
Go, and be happy: Now my latest hope
Forsake me not, but fling thy Anchor out,
And let it hold: stand, six thou rolling stone,
Till I enjoy my dearest: hear me all
You powers that rule in men celestial.

Exit.
Wife.

Go thy ways, thou art as crooked a sprig as ever
grew, in London, I warrant him he'll come to some naughty
end or other: for his looks say no less: Besides, his
father (you know George) is none of the best, you heard
him take me up like a Gill flirt: and sing bawdy Songs upon
me: but i'faith if I live George—

Cit.

Let me alone sweet-heart, I have a trick in my head
shall lodge him in the Arches for one year, and make him
sing Peccavi, 'ere I leave him, and yet he shall never know
who hurt him neither.

Wife.

Do my good Geerge, do.

Cit.

What shall we have Rafe do now boy?

Boy.

You shall have what you will sir.

Cit.

Why so sir, go and fetch me him then, and let the
Sophy of Persia come and christen him a child.

Boy.

Believe me Sir, that will not do so well, 'tis stale,
it has been had before at the Red Bull.

Wife.

George, let Rafe travell over great hills, and let
him be weary, and come to the King of Cracovia's house,
covered with velvet, and there let the Kings daughter
stand in her window all in beaten gold, combing her golden
locks with a comb of Ivory, and let her spye Rafe,
and fall in love with him, and come down to him, and
carry him into her fathers house, and then let Rafe talk
with her.

Cit.

Well said Nel, it shall be so: boy let's ha't done
quickly.

Boy.

Sir, if you will imagine all this to be done already,
you shall hear them talk together: but we cannot
present a house covered with black Velvet, and a Lady in
beaten gold.

Cit.

Sir Boy, lets ha't as you can then.

Boy.

Besides, it will shew ill-favoredly to have a Grocers
Prentice to court a Kings daughter.

Cit.

Will it so Sir? you are well read in Histories: I
pray you what was Sir Dagonet? was not he Prentice to a
Grocer in London? read the Play of the Four Prentices of
London, where they toss their Pikes so: I pray you fetch
him in Sir, fetch him in.

Boy.

It shall be done, it is not our fault Gentlemen.

Exit.
Wife.

Now we shall see fine doings I warrant thee George.
O here they come; how prettily the King of Cracovia's
daughter is drest.

Enter Rafe and the Lady, Squire and Dwarf.
Cit.

I Nell, it is the fashion of that Countrey, I warrant
thee.

Lady.
Welcome sir Knight unto my fathers Court.
King of Moldavia, unto me Pompiona
His daughter dear: but sure you do not like
Your entertainment, that will stay with us
No longer but a night.

Raph.
Damsell right fair,
I'm on many sad adventures bound,
That call me forth into the Wilderness:
Besides, my horses back is something gal'd,
Which will enforce me ride a sober pace.
But many thanks (fair Lady) be to you,
For using errant Knight with courtesie.

Lady.

But say (brave Knight) what is your name and
birth?

Rafe.
My name is Rafe, I am an Englishman,
As true as steel, a hearty Englishman,
And Prentice to a Grocer in the Strand,
By deed indent, of which I have one part:
But fortune calling me to sollow Arms,
On me this holy Order I did take,
Of burning Pestle, which in all mens eyes,
I bear, confounding Ladies enemies.

Lady.
Oft have I heard of your brave Countrymen,
And fertile soil, and store of wholesome food;
My father oft will tell me of a drink
In England found, and Nipitato call'd.
Which driveth all the sorrow from your hearts.

Rafe.
Lady 'tis true, you need not lay your lips
To better Nipitato than there is.

Lady.
And of a wild-fowl he will often speak,
Which poudred beef and mustard called is:
For there have been great Wars 'twixt us and you,
But truely Rafe, it was not long of me.
Tell me then Rafe could you contented be,
To wear a Ladies favor in your shield?

Rafe.
I am a Knight of Religious Order,
And will not wear a favor of a Ladies
That trusts in Antichrist, and false traditions.

Cit.
Well said Rafe, convert her if thou canst.

Rafe.
Besides, I have a Lady of my own
In merry England; for whose virtuous sake
I took these Arms, and Susan is her name,
A Coblers maid in Milkstreet, whom I vow
Nere to forsake, whilst life and Pestle last.

Lady.
Happy that Cobling Dame, who ere she be
That for her own (dear Rafe) hath gotten thee.
Unhappy I, that nere shall see the day
To see thee more, that bear'st my heart away.

Rafe.
Lady farewell, I must needs take my leave.

Lady.
Hard-hearted Rafe, that Ladies dost deceive.

Cit.

Hark thee Rafe, there's money for thee; give
something in the King of Cracovia's house, be not beholding
to him.

Rafe.
Lady before I go, I must remember
Your fathers Officers, who truth to tell,
Have been about me very diligent:
Hold up thy snowy hand thou princely maid,
There's twelvepence for your fathers Chamberlain.
And another shilling for his Cook,
For by my troth the Goose was rosted well.
And twelve pence for your fathers Horse-keeper,
For nointing my horse back, and for his butter
There is another shilling to the maid
That washt my boot-hose, there's an English groat,
And twopence to the boy that wip't my boots.
And last, fair Lady, there is for your self
Three pence to buy you pins at Bumbo Fair.

Lady.
Full many thanks, and I will keep them safe
Till all the heads be off, for thy sake Rafe.

Rafe.
Advance my Squire and Dwarf, I cannot stay.

Lady.
Thou kil'st my heart in parting thus away.

Exeunt.
Wife.

I commend Rafe, yet that he will not stoop to a
Cracovian, there's properer women in London than any are
there I-wis. But here comes Master Humphrey, and his love
again, now George.

Cit.
I Cunny, peace.

Enter Merchant, Humphrey, Luce, and Boy.
Merc.
Go get you up, I will not be intreated.
And Gossip mine I'll keep you sure hereafter
From gadding out again, with boys and unthrifts,
Come they are womens tears, I know your fashion.
Go sirrah, lock her in, and keep the key.
Exit Luce and Boy.
Safe as your life. Now my son Humphrey,
You may both rest assured of my love
In this, and reap your own desire.

Hum.
I see this love you speak of, through your daughter.
Although the hole be little, and hereafter
Will yield the like in all I may or can,
Fitting a Christian, and a Gentleman.

Merc.
I Do believe you (my good son) and thank you.
For 'twere an impudence to think you flattered.

Hum.
It were indeed, but shall I tell you why,
I have been beaten twice about the lye.

Merc.
Well son, no more of complement, my daughter
Is yours again; appoint the time and take her.
Wee'll have no stealing for it, I my self
And some few of our friends will see you married.

Hum.
I would you would i'faith, for be it known
I ever was afraid to lye alone.

Mer.
Some three days hence then.

Hum.
Three days, let me see,
'Tis somewhat of the most, yet I agree,
Because I mean against the pointed day,
To visit all my friends in new array.

Enter servant.
Ser.

Sir, there's a Gentlewoman without would speak
with your Worship.

Mer.

What is she?

Ser.

Sir I askt her not.

Mer.

Bid her come in.

Enter Mistriss Merry-thought, and Michael.
Mist. mer.

Peace be to your Worship, I come as a poor
Suitor to you Sir, in the behalf of this child.

Mer.

Are you not wise to Merri-thought?

Mist. mer.

Yes truly, would I had nere seen his eyes, he
has undone me and himself, and his children, and there
he lives at home and sings, and hoyts, and revels among
his drunken companions, but I warrant you, where to
get a penny to put bread in his mouth, he knows not:
And therefore if it like your Worship, I would intreat
your Letter, to the honest Host of the Bell in Waltham,
that I may place my child under the protection of his Tapster,
in some setled course of life.

Mer.
I'm glad the heavens have heard my prayers: thy Husband
When I was ripe in sorrows laught at me,
Thy son, like an unthankful wretch, I having
Redeem'd him from his fall, and made him mine,
To shew his love again, first stole my daughter:
Then wrong'd this Gentleman, and last of all,
Gave me that grief, had almost brought me down
Unto my grave, had not a stronger hand
Reliev'd my sorrows, go, and weep as I did,
And be unpittied, for here I profess
An everlasting hate to all thy name.

Mist. mer.

Will you so Sir, how say you by that? come
Micke, let him keep his wind to cool his Pottage, we'll go
to thy Nurses, Micke, she knits silk stockings boy, and
we'll knit too boy, and be beholding to none of them all.

Exeunt Michael and Mother.
Enter a Boy with a Letter.
Boy.
Sir, I take it you are the Master of this house.

Mer.
How then boy?

Boy.
Then to your self Sir, comes this Letter.

Mer.
From whom my pretty boy?

Boy.
From him that was your servant, but no more.
Shall that name ever be, for he is dead,
Grief of your purchas'd anger broke his heart,
I saw him dye, and from his hand receiv'd
This paper with a charge to bring it hither,
Read it, and satisfie your self in all.

Merch.

Sir that I have wronged your love, I must confess, in
which I have purchast to my self, besides mine own
undoing, the ill opinion of my friends, let not your anger, good
Sir, outlive me, but suffer me to rest in peace with your forgiveness;
let my body (if a dying man may so much prevail with you)
be brought to your daughter, that she may know my hot flames
are now buried, and withall, receive a testimony of the zeal I
bore her vertue: farewell for ever, and be ever happy.

Jasper.

Gods hand is great in this, I do forgive him,
Yet am I glad he's quiet, where I hope
He will not bite again: boy bring the body,
And let him have his will, if that be all.

Boy.
'Tis here without Sir.

Mer.
So Sir, if you please
You may conduct it in, I do not fear it.

Hum.
I'll be your Usher boy, for though I say it,
He ow'd me something once, and well did pay it.

Exeunt.
Enter Luce alone.
Luce.
If there be any punishment inflicted
Upon the miserable, more than yet I feell,
Let it together seize me, and at once
Press down my soul, I cannot bear the pain
Of these delaying tortures: thou that art
The end of all; and the sweet rest of all;
Come, come oh death bring me to thy peace,
And blot out all the memory I nourish
Both of my father and my cruel friend.
O wretch'd maid still living to be wretched,
To be a say to fortune in her changes.
And grow to number times and woes together,
How happy had I been, if being born
My grave had been my cradle?

Enter servant.
Ser.
By your leave
Young Mistris, here's a boy hath brought a Coffin,
What a would say I know not: but your father
Charg'd me to give you notice, here they come.

Enter two bearing a Coffin, Jasper in it.
Luce.
For me I hope 'tis come, and 'tis most welcome.

Boy.
Fair Mistriss, let me not add greater grief
To that great store you have already; Jasper
That whilst he liv'd was yours; now dead,
And here inclos'd, commanded me to bring
His body hither, and to crave a tear
From those fair eyes, though he deserve not pitty,
To deck his Funeral; for so he bid me
Tell her for whom he di'd.

Luce.
Exeunt Coffin-carrier and Boy.
SONG.

Jasp.
And thus you meet the living.

Luce.
Save me Heaven.

Jasp.
Nay, do not flye, me fair, I am no spirit,
Look better on me, do you know me yet?

Luce.
O thou dear shadow of my friend.

Jasp.
Dear substance,
I swear I am no shadow feel my hand,
It is the same it was, I am your Jasper,
Your Jasper that's yet living, and yet loving,
Pardon my rash attempt, my foolish proof
I put in practice of your constancy:
For sooner should my sword have drunk my blood,
And set my soul at liberty, than drawn
The least drop from that body, for which boldness
Doom me to any thing: if death, I take it
And willingly.

Luce.
This death I'll give you for it,
So, now I am satisfied: you are no spirit,
But my own truest, truest, truest, truest friend,
Why do you come thus to me?

Jasp.
First, to see you,
Then to convey you hence.

Luce.
It cannot be,
For I am lockt up here, and watcht at all hours,
That 'tis impossible for me to scape.

Jasp.
Nothing more possible, within this Coffin
Do you convey your self, let me alone,
I have the wits of twenty men about me,
Only I crave the shelter of your Closet
A little, and then fear me not; creep in
That they may presently convey you hence:
Fear nothing dearest love, I'll be your second,
Lye close, so, all goes well yet; boy.

Boy.
At hand Sir.

Jasp.
Convey away the Coffin, and be wary.

Boy.
'Tis done already.

Jasp.
Now must I go conjure.

Exit.
Enter Merchant.
Merch.
Boy, boy.

Boy.
Your servant Sir.

Merch.

Do me this kindness boy, hold here's a crown: before
thou bury the body of this fellow, carry it to his
old merry father, and salute him from me, and bid him sing,
he hath cause.

Boy.

I will Sir.

Merch.

And then bring me word what tune he is in, and
have another crown: but do it truly.

I have fitted him a bargain, now, will vex him.

Boy.
God bless your Worships health Sir.

Merch.
Farewell boy.

Exeunt.
Enter Master Merry-thought.
Wife.

Ah old Merry-thought, art thou there again? let's
hear some of thy Songs.

Old Mer.
Who can sing a merrier note
Thou he that cannot change a great?

Not a Dinner left, and yet my heart leaps; I do wonder
yet, as old as I am, that any man will follow a Trade, or
serve, that may sing and laugh, and walk the streets: my
wife and both my sons are I know not where, I have nothing
left, nor know I how to come by meat to supper, yet
am I merry still; for I know I shall find it upon the Table
at six o Clock; therefore hang Thought

I would not be a Servingman to carry the cloke-bag still.
Nor would I be a Fawlconer the greedy Hawkes to fill.
But I would be in a good house, and have a good Master too:
But I would eat and drink of the best, and no work would I do.

This is that keeps life and soul together, mirth: this is
the Philosophers stone that they write so much on, that keeps
a man ever young.

Enter a Boy.
Boy.

Sir, they say they know all your Money is gone, and
they will trust you for no more drink.

Old mer.

Will they not? let 'em chuse: the best is I have
mirth at home, and need not send abroad for that, let them
keep their drink to themselves.

For Jillian of Berry, she dwells on a hill,
And she hath good Beer and Ale to fell,
And of good fellows she thinks no ill,
And thither will we go now, now, now, and thither
Will we go now.
And when you have made a little stay,
You need not know what is to pay,
But kiss your Hostess and go your way. And thither, &c.

Enter another Boy.
2. Boy.
Sir, I can get no bread for supper.

Old mer.

Hang bread and supper, let's preserve our mirth,
and we shall never feel hunger, I'll warrant you, let's have a
Catch, boy follow me, come sing this Catch.

Ho, ho, no body at home, meat, nor drink, nor money ha we none,
fill the pot Eedy, never more need I.

Old mer.

So boyes enough, follow me, let's change our
place and we shall laugh afresh.

Exeunt.
Wife.

Let him go George, a shall not have any countenance
from us, not a good word from any i'th' Company,
if I may strike stroke in't.

Cit.

No more, a shannot love; but Nell, I will have Rafe,
do a very notable matter now, to the eternal honour and
glory of all Grocers: sirrah, you there, boy, can none of
you hear?

Boy.

Sir, your pleasure.

Cit.

Let Rafe come out on May day in the morning, and
speak upon a Conduit with all his Scarfs about him, and his
Feathers, and his Rings, and his Knacks.

Boy.

Why sir, you do not think of our plot, what will become
of that then?

Cit.

Why sir, I care not what become on't, I'll have him
come out, or I'll fetch him out my self, I'll have something
done in honor of the City: besides he hath been long enough
upon Adventures, bring him out quickly, for I come amongst
you—

Boy.

Well sir, he shall come out, but if our Play miscarry,
Sir you are like to pay for't.

Exit.
Cit.

Bring him away then.

Wife.

This will be brave i'saith: George shall not he dance
the Morrice too for 'the credit of the Strand.

Cit.

No sweet-heart it will be too much for the boy. O
there he is Nell, he's reasonable well in reparel, but he has
not Rings enough.

Enter Rafe.
Rafe.
London, to thee I do present the merry Month of May,
Let each true Subject be content to bear me what I say:
For from the top of Conduit head, as plainly may appear,
I will both tell my name to you, and wherefore I came here.
My name is Rafe, by due descent, though not ignoble I,
Yet far inferiour to the flock of gracious Grocery.
And by the Common-counsel of my fellows in the Strand,
With gilded Staff, and crossed Skarfe, the May-lord here I stand.
Rejoyce O English hearts, rejoyce, rejoyce O Lovers dear;
Rejoyce O City, Town, and Country, rejoyce eke every Shire;
For now the flagrant flowers do spring and sprout in seemly sort,
The little Birds do sit and sing, the Lambs do make fine sport,
And now the Burchin Tree doth bud that makes the Schoolboy cry,
The Morrice rings while Hobby horse doth foot it featuously:
The Lords and Ladies now abroad for their disport and play,
Do kiss sometimes upon the Grass, and sometimes in the Hay.
Now butter with a leaf of Sage is good to purge the blood,
Fly Venus and Phlebotomy for they are neither good.
Now little fish on tender stone, begin to cast their bellies,
And sluggish snails, that erst were mute, do creep out of their shellies,
The rumbling Rivers now do warm for little boys to paddle,
The Sturdy Steed, now goes to grass, and up they hang his saddle.
The heavy Hart, the blowing Buck, the Rascall and the Pricket,
Are now among the Yeomans Pease, and leave the fearful thicket.
And be like them, O you, I say, of this same noble Town,
And lift aloft your velvet heads, and slipping of your gown:
With bels on legs, and napkins clean unto your shoulders ti'de,
With Scarfs and Garters as you please, and Hey for our Town cry'd:
March out and shew your willing minds, by twenty, and by twenty,
To Hogsdon or to Newington, where Ale and Cakes are plenty.
And let it here be said for shame, that we the youths of London,
Lay thruming of our caps at home, and left our custom undone.
Up then I say, both young and old, both man and maid a Maying
With Drums and Guns that bounce aloud, and merry Taber playing.
Which to prolong, God save our King, and send his Countrey peace,
And root out Treason from the Land, and so my friends I cease.