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Scæne. 9.
Enter Don John and his Land-lady.Land.
Nay Son, if this be your regard.
Jo.
Good mother.
Lan.
Good me no goods; your Cozen, and your self
Are welcome to me, whilst you beare your selves
Like honest and true Gentlemen: Bring hither
To my house, that have ever been reputed
A gentlewoman of a decent, and faire carriage,
And so behav'd my self?
Jo.
I know ye have.
Lan.
Bring hither, as I say, to make my name
Stinke in my neighbours nostrills? your Devises,
Your Brats, got out of Alligant, and broken oathes?
Your Linsey Woolsey worke, your hasty puddings?
I foster up your silch'd iniquities?
Y'are deceiv'd in me, Sir, I am none
Of those receivers.
Jo.
Have I not sworne unto you,
'Tis none of mine, and shew'd you how I found it?
Land.
Ye found an easie foole that let you get it,
She had better have worne pasternes.
Jo.
Will yee heare me?
Lan.
Oathes? what doe you care for oathes to gaine your ends,
When ye are high and pamper'd? What Saint know ye?
Or what Religion, but your purpos'd lewdnesse,
Is to be look'd for of ye? nay, I will tell ye,
You will then sweare like accus'd Cut-purses,
As far of truth too; and lye beyond all Faulconers:
I'me sick to see this dealing.
Jo.
Heaven forbid Mother.
La.
Nay, I am very sick.
Jo.
Who waits there?
Ant.
Sir.
within.
Jo.
Bring down the bottle of Canary wine.
La.
Exceeding sick, heav'n helpe me.
Jo.
Haste ye sirrah,
I must ev'n make her drunk; nay gentle mother;
Lan.
Now fie upon ye, was it for this purpose
You fetch'd your evening walks for your digestions,
For this pretended holinesse? no weather,
Not before day could hold ye from the Matins.
Were these your bo-peep prayers? ye' have praid well,
And with a learned zeale: watcht well too; your Saint
It seems was pleas'd as well: still sicker, sicker.
Enter Anthony with a bottle of wine.
Jo.
There is no talking to her till I have drencht her.
Give me: here mother take a good round draught,
'Twill purge spleen from your spirits: deeper mother.
Lan.
I, I, sonne; you imagine this will mend all.
Jo.
All y'faith Mother.
Lan.
I confesse the Wine
Will doe his part.
Jo.
Ile pledge ye.
La.
But sonne John.
Jo.
I know your meaning mother; touch it once more,
Alas you look not well; take a round draught,
It warmes the bloud well, and restores the colour,
And then wee'll talke at large.
Land.
A civill gentleman?
A stranger? one the Town holds a good regard of?
Jo.
Nay I will silence there.
Lan.
One that should weigh his faire name? oh, a stich!
Jo.
There's nothing better for a stitch, good mother,
Make no spare of it, as you love your health,
Mince not the matter.
Land.
As I said, a gentleman,
Lodge in my house? now heav'ns my comfort, Signior!
Jo.
I look'd for this.
Lan.
I did not thinke you would have us'd me thus;
A woman of my credit: one, heaven knowes,
That lov'd you but too tenderly.
Jo.
Deare mother,
I ever found your kindnesse, and acknowledge it.
Lan.
No, no, I am a fool to counsell yee. Where's the infant?
Come, lets see your Workmanship.
Jo.
None of mine, Mother.
But there 'tis, and a lusty one.
Land.
Heaven blesse thee,
Thou hadst a hasty making; but the best is,
'Tis many a good mans fortune: as I live
Your owne eyes Signior, and the nether lip
As like yee, as ye had spit it.
Jo.
I am glad on't.
Lan.
Blesse me, what things are these?
Jo.
I thought my labour
Was not all lost, 'tis gold, & these are jewels,
Both rich, and right I hope.
Lan.
Well, well sonne Iohn,
I see ye are a wood-man, and can chuse
Your Deere, though it be i'th darke, all your discretion
Is not yet lost; this was well clapt aboard:
Here I am with you now; when as they say
Your pleasure comes with profit; when ye must needs do,
Doe where ye may be done to, 'tis a wisedome
Becomes a young man well: be sure of one thing,
Loose not your labour and your time together,
It seasons of a foole, sonne, time is pretious,
Worke wary whilst ye have it: since ye must traffick
Sometimes this slippery way, take sure hold Signior,
Trade with no broken Merchants, make your lading,
As you would make your rest, adventurously,
But with advantage ever.
Io.
All this time mother,
The childe wants looking too, wants meat and Nurses.
Lan.
Now blessing o' thy care; it shall have all,
And instantly; Ile seek a Nurse my selfe, sonne;
'Tis a sweet childe: ah my young Spaniard;
Take you no further care sir.
Io.
Yes of these Jewels,
I must by your leave Mother: these are yours,
To make your care the stronger: for the rest
Ile finde a Master; the gold for bringing up on't,
I freely render to your charge.
Lan.
No more words,
Nor no more children, (good sonne) as you love me,
This may doe well.
Ioh.
I shall observe your Morals.
But where's Don Ferdinand (Mother)
Lan.
Ten to one
5
He was to finde you out.
Exit.
Io.
Why should he stay thus?
There may be some ill chance in't: sleep I will not,
Before I have found him: now this woman's pleas'd,
Ile seek my friend out, and my care is eas'd.
Exit.
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