 | The Coxcombe |  |
Actus Tertius
Scæna Prima.
Enter Mercury and Servant.Mer.
Who is it? can you tell?
Ser.
By my troth Sir I know not, but 'tis a Gentlewoman
Mer.
A Gentleman I'le lay my life you puppy, h'as sent
his wife to me: if he have, fling up the bed.
Ser.
Here she is Sir.
Enter VVife with a letter.
VVife.
I am glad I found you Sir, there take your letter
and keepe it till you have another friend to wrong, 'tis too
malicious false to make me sin, you have provoked mee to
be that I love not, a talker, and you shall heare me.
So light a huswife, that from four hours knowledge
You might presume to offer to my credite
This rude and ruffian tyrall, I am sure
I never courted you, nor gave you tokens,
That might concerne assurance, you are a foole.
Mer.
I cannot blame you now, I see this letter
Though you be angry, yet with me you must not,
Unlesse you'l make me guilty of a wrong,
My worst affections hate—
VVife.
Did not you send it?
Mer.
No upon my faith, which is more, I understand
malice.
Wife.
This is strange.
Mer.
It is so, and had been stranger, and indeed more hatefull,
Had, that have receiv'd such courtesies, & owe so many
Thanks, done this base office.
Wife.
Your name is at it.
Mer.
Yes, but not my nature, and I shall hate my name
worse then the manner, for this base broking; you are
wise and vertuous, remove this fault from me; for on the
love I beare to truth and goodnesse, this letter dare not
name me for the author.
Wife.
Now I perceive my husbands knavery, if my man
can but finde where he has been, I will goe with this Gentleman
whatsoever comes on't: and as I meane to carry it
both he and all the world shall thinke it fit, and thank me
for it.
Mer.
I must confesse I loved you, at first, however this
made me leave your house unmannerly, that might provoke
me to do something ill, both to your honour & my
faith, and not to write this letter, which I hold so truly
wicked, that I will not thinke on't.
Wife.
I do beleeve you, and since I see you are free, my
words were not meant to you, but this is not the halfe of
my affliction.
Mer.
'Tis pitty you should know more vexation; may I
enquire?
Wife.
Faith Sir I feare I have lost my husband.
Mer.
Your husband? it cannot be: I pitty her, how
shee's vext?
Enter Servant.
Wife.
How now? what news? nay speake, for we must
know.
Ser.
Faith I have found at length by chance where he has been
Wife.
Where?
Ser.
In a blind out-house in the Suburbs, pray God all
be well with him.
Wife.
Why?
Ser.
There are his cloaths, but what's become of him, I
cannot yet enquire.
Wife.
I am glad of this; sure they have murtherd him,
what shall I do?
Mer.
Be not so grieved before you know the truth, you
have time enough to weepe, this is the sodainst mischiefe;
did you not bring an Officer to search there, where you
say you found his cloaths.
Ser.
Yes, and wee searcht it, and charg'd the fellow
with him. but he like a rogue, stubborn rogue, made answer,
he knew not where he was; he had been there, but
where he was now, he could not tell: I tell you true I fear
him.
Wife.
Are all my hopes and longings to enjoy him,
After this 3 yeares travell, come to this?
Ser.
It is the rankest house in all the City, the most
cursed roguy bawdi-house? hell fire it.
Mer.
This is the worst I heard yet; will you go home?
I'le beare you company, and give you the best help I may:
this being here will wrong you.
Wife.
As you are a Gentleman, and as you loved your
dead friend, let me not goe home, that will but heape one
sorrow on another.
Mer.
Why purpose any thing and I'le perform't; I am at
my wits end too.
Ser.
So am I, O my deare Master!
Mer.
Peace you great foole.
Wife.
Then good Sir cary me to some retired place, far
from the sight of this unhappy City, whether you will indeed,
so it be far enough.
Mer.
If I might councel you, I think 'twere better to go home,
and try what may be done yet, hee may bee at home afore
you, who can tell?
Wife.
O no, I know he's dead, I know hee's murder'd;
tell me not of going home, you murder me too.
Mer.
Well, since it pleases you to have in so, I will no
more perswade you to go home, I'le be your guide in the
Countrey, as your griefe doth command me, I have a Mother
dwelling from this place some 20. miles, the house
though homely, yet able to shew something like a welcome:
thither I'le see you safe with all your sorrows.
Wife.
With all the speed that may be thought upon; I
have a Coach here ready, good Sir quickly, I'le fit you my
fine husband.
Mer.
It shall be so; if this fellow be dead, I see no band of
any other man, to tye me from my will, and I will follow
her with such carefull service, that she shall either be
my Love or Wife; will you walke in?
Wife.
I thank you Sir, but one word with my man, and
I am ready; keepe the Irish fellow safe, as you love your
life, for he I feare has a deep hand in this, then search agen,
& get out warrants for that naughty man, that keeps
the bad house, that he may answer it, if you find the body,
give it due buriall; farewell. You shall heare from mee,
keep all safe.
Exeunt.
Ser.
O my sweet Mr!
Antonio knocking within.
Ant.
within.
Man-a-cree, the Devill take thee, wilt thou
kill me here, I prethee now let me goe seeke my Mr. I shall
be very cheel else.
Enter Servant.
Ser.
Do you hear man-a-cree, i'le cree your coxcombe,
and you keep not still, down you rogue.
Ant.
Good sweet fact serving-man, let me out I beseech
de, and by my trot I will give dye Worship 2. shillings in
good argott, to buy dy VVorship pippines.
Ser.
This rogue thinks all the worth of man consists in
Peepins; by this light I'le beate rebellion out of you for
ever.
Ant.
Wilt thou not heare me man? is fet, i'le give thee
all I have about me.
Ser.
I thank you Sir, so I may have picking worke,
Ant.
Here is five shillings man,
Here is a cudgell, a very good one.
Enter two Serving-men.
2 Ser.
How now, what's the matter, wher's the Irishman.
1 Ser.
There, a wyth take him, he makes more noyse alone
there, then ten Lawyers can do with double & a scurvy
Case.
2 Ser.
Let him out, I must talke with him.
Enter Antonio.
Ant.
Wilt thou give me some drinke, ô hone? I am very
dry man.
2 Ser.
You shall have that shall quench your thirst, my friend.
Ant.
Fate dost thou meane man.
2 Ser.
Even a good tough halter.
Ant.
A halter? ō hone!
2 Ser.
Sirha you are a mischievous rogue, that's the truth.
Ant.
No fet I am not.
1 Ser.
Shall I knocke out his braines? I have kill'd dogs
have been worth three of him for all uses.
2 Ser.
Sirah, the truth on't is, you must with mee to a
Justice. O Roger, Roger.
1 Ser.
Why, what's the matter William?
2 Ser.
Heavy newes Roger, heavy newes, God comfort us.
1 Ser.
What is't man?
Ant.
What's the matter now? I am e'ne weary of this
way, would I were out on't.
1 Ser.
My Mr. sure is murdered, Roger, and this cursed rogue
feare has had a hand in't.
No fet not.
1 Ser.
Stand away, i'le kickt out of him: come sirha,
mount, i'le make you dance, you Rascall, kill my Master?
If thy breech were cannon proofe, having this good cause
on my side, I would encounter it; hold faire, Shamrocke.
Ant.
Why how now sirs? you wil not murder me indeed.
2 Ser.
Blesse us Roger!
Ant.
Nay, I am no spirit.
2 Ser.
How do you Sir, this is my very Master.
Ant.
Why well enough yet, but you have a heavy foote
of your owne; where's my wife?
1 Ser.
Alas poor sorrowfull Gentlewoman, she thinks
you are dead, and has given o're house-keeping.
Ant.
Whether is she gone then?
1 Ser.
Into the Countrey with the Gentleman your
friend Sir, to see if she can wear her sorrows out there; she
weeps and takes on too too—
Ant.
This falls out pat; I shall be everlasting for a name:
doe you hear? upon your lives and faiths to me, not one
word I am living, but let the same report passe along, that
I am murther'd still; I am made for ever.
1 Ser.
Why Sir?
Ant.
I have a Cause Sir that's enough for you; well, if
I be not famous, I am wrong'd much; for any thing I know
I will not trouble him this weeke at least, noe, let them
take their way one of another.
1 Ser.
Sir, will you be still an Irish-man.?
Ant.
Yes a while.
2 Ser.
But your Worship will be beaten no more?
Ant.
No I thanke you William.
1 Ser.
In truth Sir, if it must be so, I'le doe it better then
a stranger.
Ant.
Goe, you are Knaves both, but I forgive you, I am
almost mad with the apprehension of what I shall be, not
a word I charge you.
Exeunt.
Enter Valerio, and Viola.
Val.
Come pretty soul, we now are neer our home,
And whilst our horses are walkt downe the hill,
Let thou and I walke here over this Close:
The foot-way is more pleasant, 'tis a time
My pretty one, not to be wept away,
For every living thing is full of love;
Art not thou so too? hah?
Uio.
Nay, there are living things empty of love,
Or I had not been here, but for my selfe!
Alas, I have too much.
Val.
It cannot be, that so much beauty, so much youth
and grace should have too much of love.
Vio.
Pray what is love? for I am full of that I doe not know.
Val.
Why, love faire maid is an extream desire,
That's not to be examin'd but fulfil'd,
To aske the reason why thou art in love,
Or what might be the noblest end in love,
Would overthrow that kindly rising warmth,
That many times slides gently o're the heart,
'Twould make thee grave, & staid thy thoughts would be,
Like a thrice married Widow, full of ends,
And void of all compassion, and to fright thee
From such enquiry, whereas thou art now
Living in ignorance, mild, fresh, and sweet,
And but sixteen, the knowing what love is,
Would make thee sixe and forty.
Vio.
Would it would make me nothing, I have heard
Schollers affirme the world is upheld by love,
But I beleeve women maintain all this,
For ther's no love in men.
Val.
Yes, in some men.
Vio.
I know them not.
Ual.
Why, there is love in me.
Uio.
Ther's charity I am sure towards me.
Ual.
And love; which I will now expresse, my pretty maide,
I dare not bring thee home, my Wife is foule,
And therefore envious, she is very old,
And therefore Jealous; thou art faire and young,
A subject fit for her unlucky vices.
To worke upon, she never will endure thee.
Uio.
Shee may endure
If she be ought, but Divell, all the friendship
That I will hold with you; can she endure
I should be thankfull to you? may I pray
For you and her, will she be brought to thinke
That all the honest industry I have
Deserves browne bread? if this may be endur'd,
Shee'l picke a quarrell with a sleeping childe,
E're she fall out with me.
Val.
But trust me she doe's hate all handsomenesse.
Vio.
How fell you in love with such a creature?
Val.
I never lov'd her.
Vio,
And yet married her?
Val.
Shee was a rich one.
Vio.
And you swore I warrant you, she was a faire one then too.
Val.
Or beleeve me I thinke I had not had her.
Uio.
Are you men all such? wood you wood wall us in a place
Where all we women, that are innocent,
Might live together.
Ual.
Do not weep at this,
Although I dare not for some weighty reason
Displease my Wife, yet I forget not thee.
Uio.
VVhat will you do with me?
Ual.
Thou shalt be plac'd
At my mans house, and have such food and rayment
As can be bought with money: these white hands
Shall never learn to worke, but they shall play
As thou saist they were wont, teaching the strings
To move in order, or what else thou wilt.
Uio.
I thanke you Sir, but pray you cloath me poorly,
And let my labour get me meanes to live.
Ual.
But faire one, you I know do so much hate
A foule ingratitude, you will not looke
I should do this for nothing.
Uio.
I will worke as much out as I can, and take as litle
That you shall have as duly paid to you
As ever servant did.
Ual.
But give me now a tryall on't, I may beleeve
We are alone, shew me how thou wilt kisse
And hug me hard, when I have stolne away
From my too clamorous Wife that watches me,
To spend a blessed houre or two with thee.
Uio.
Is this the love you mean? you would have that
Is not in me to give, you would have lust.
Val.
Not to dissemble, or to mince the word,
'Tis lust I wish indeed.
Vio.
And by my troth I have it not: for heavens sake use
mee kindely.
As this world goes.
Val.
I doe
But speak to thee; thy answers are thy owne,
I compell none, but if thou refuse this motion,
Thou art not then for me, alas good soule?
What profit can thy worke bring me.
Uio.
But I feare I pray goe, for lust they say will grow
Outragious being deni'd, I give you thankes
For all your courtesies, and there's a Jewell
That's worth the taking, that I did preserve
Safe from the robbers, pray you leave me here
And Heaven will blesse you for it.
Val.
Pretty maid I am no Robber nor no Ravisher,
I pray thee keepe thy Jewel, I have done
No wrong to thee, though thou beest vertuous
And in extremity, I doe not know,
That I am bound to keepe thee.
Viol.
No sir, for gods sake if you know an honest man
in all these countries, give me some directions to find him
out.
Val.
More honest then my selfe good sooth I doe not
know; I would have lain with thee with thy consent, and
who would not in all these parts, is past my memory, I
am sorry for thee, farwell gentle maid, god keepe thee
safe.
Exit.
Vio.
I thanke you sir, and you;
Woman they say, was onely made of man,
Me thinks tis strange they should be so unlike,
It may be all the best was cut away
To make the woman and the nought was left
Behind with him, I'le sit me downe and weepe,
All things have cast me from 'em but the earth;
The evening comes and every little flower
Droops now, as well as I.
Enter two Milkmaides with pailes.
Nan.
Good Madg lets rest a little, by my troth I am weary,
this new pail is a plaguy heavie one, would Tom were
hang'd for choosing it, 'tis the antowardst foole in a
Country.
Mag.
With all my heart, and I thanke you too, Nan.
Vio.
What true contented happinesse dwells here,
More then in Cities? wood to God my father
Had lived like one of these and bred me up
To milke and doe as they doe: me thinks
Tis a life that I wood choose, if I were now
To tell my time agen, above a princes; maids for charity
Give a poore wench one draught of Milke
That wearinesse and hunger have nigh famisht.
Nan.
If I had but one Cows Milke in all the world,
you should have some on't; there drink more, the cheese
shall pay for it, alas poore heart! shees dry.
Mag.
Doe you dwell here abouts?
Vio.
No, would I did.
Nan.
Madge if she do not looke like my cosen Sue o'th
more lane as one thing can looke like another—
Mag.
Nay Sue has a hazell eye, I know Sue well, and
by your leave not so trim a body neither, this is a feate
bodied thing I tell you.
Nan.
She laces close by the masse I warrant you, and
so does Sue too.
Vio.
I thanke you for your gentlenesse faire maids.
Nan.
Drinke agen pray thee.
Vio.
I am satisfied, and heaven reward thee for't, yet
thus far I will compell you to accept these trifles, toyes
onely that expresse my thanks, for greater worth, I'm
sure they have not in them; indeed you shall, I found
e'm as I came.
Nan.
Madge, look you here Madge.
Mag.
Nay I have as fine a one as you, mine's all gold
and painted, and pretious stone in't; I warrant it cost a
crowne wench.
Nan.
But mine is the most sumptuous one that ere I
saw.
Uiol.
One favour you must doe me more, for you are
well acquainted here.
Nan.
Indeed wee'le doe you any kindnesse sister.
Vio.
Onely to send me to some honest place, where I
may finde a service.
Nan.
Vds me, our Dorithy went away but last weeke,
and I know my Mistris wants a Maid, and why may shee
not be placed there? this is a likely wench I tell you truly,
and a good wench I warrant her.
Mag.
And tis a hard case if wee that have served four
yeares a piece cannot bring in one servant, we will preferr
her; harke you sister, pray what's your name?
Uiol.
Melvia.
Nan.
A feate name ifaith; and can you milke a Cow?
and make a merry-bush? that's nothing.
Vio.
I shall learne quickly.
Nan.
And dresse a house with flowers? and serve a pigg?
this you must doe, for we deale in the dary, and make a
bed or two?
Vio.
I hope I shall.
Nan.
But be sure to keepe the men out, they will mar
all that you make else, I know that by myselfe; for I have
been so touz'd among e'm in my days, come you shall een
home with us and be our fellow, our house is so honest,
and we serve a very good woman, and a Gentlewoman,
and we live as merrily, and dance a good dayes after evensong,
our wake shall be on Sunday; doe you know what
a wake is? we have mighty cheer then, and such a coyle,
'twould blesse ye; you must not be so bashfull, you'l spoile
all.
Mag.
Let's home for Gods sake, my Mistris thinkes by
this time we are lost, come wee'l have a care of you, I warrant
you; but you must tell my Mistris where you were
borne, and every thing that belongs to you, & the strangest
things you can devise, for she loves those extreamly,
'tis no matter whether they be true or no, shee's not so
scrupulous; you must be our sister, and love us best, and
tell us every thing, and when cold weather comes wee'l ly
together, will you do this?
Viola.
Yes.
Nan.
Then home again a gods name, can you go apace.
Vio.
I warrant you.
Exeunt.
| The Coxcombe | |