 | Wit without Money |  |
Actus Quartus.
Scena Prima.
Enter Francisco, Uncle, and Lance.Fran.
Why do you deal thus with him? 'tis unnobly.
Unc.
Peace Cousin peace, you are too tender
of him, he must be dealt thus with, he must be cured thus,
the violence of his disease Francisco, must not be jested with,
'tis grown infectious, and now strong Corrosives must cure
him.
Lance.
H'as had a stinger, has eaten off his clothes, the
next his skin comes.
Unc.
And let it search him to the bones, 'tis better, 'twill
make him feel it.
Lance.
Where be his noble friends now? will his fantastical
opinions cloath him, or the learned Art of having nothing
feed him?
Unc.
It must needs greedily, for all his friends have slung
him off, he is naked, and where to skin himself again, if
I know, or can devise how he should get himself lodging,
his Spirit must be bowed, and now we have him, have him
at that we hoped for.
Lance.
Next time we meet him cracking of nuts, with
half a cloak about him, for all means are cut off, or borrowing
six-pence, to shew his bounty in the pottage Ordinary?
Fran.
Which way went he?
Lance.
Pox, why should you ask after him, you have been
trimm'd already, let him take his fortune, som spun it out
himself, Sir, there's no pitie.
Unc.
Besides some good to you now, from this miserie.
Fran.
I rise upon his ruines! fie, fie, Uncle, fie honest
Lance. Those Gentlemen were base people, that could so
soon take fire to his destruction.
Unc.
You are a fool, you are fool, a young man.
Enter Valentine.
Val.
Morrow Uncle, morrow Frank, sweet Frank,
and how, and how d'ee, think now, how shew matters?
morrow Bandog.
Unc.
How?
Fran.
Is this man naked, forsaken of his friends?
Val.
Th'art handsom, Frank, a pretty Gentleman, i'faith
thou lookest well, and yet here may be those that look as
handsom.
Lance.
Sure he can conjure, and has the Devil for his
Tailor.
Unc.
New and rich! 'tis most impossible he should recover.
Lan.
Give him this luck, and fling him into the Sea.
Unc.
'Tis not he, imagination cannot work this miracle.
Val.
Yes, yes, 'tis he, I will assure you Uncle, the very
he, the he your wisdom plaid withall, I thank you for't,
neighed at his nakednesse, and made his cold and poverty
your pastime; you see I live, and the best can do no more
Uncle, and though I have no state, I keep the streets still,
and take my pleasure in the Town, like a poor Gentleman,
wear clothes to keep me warm, poor things they serve me,
can make a shew too if I list, yes uncle, and ring a peal in
my pockets, ding dong, uncle, these are mad foolish wayes,
but who can help 'em?
Unc.
I am amazed.
Lan.
I'le sell my Copyhold, for since there are such excellent
new nothings, why should I labour? is there no Fairy
haunts him, no Rat, nor no old woman?
Unc.
You are Valentine.
Val.
I think so, I cannot tell, I have been call'd so, and
some say Christened, why do you wonder at me, and swell, as
if you had met a Sergeant fasting, did you ever know desert
want? y'are fools, a little stoop there may be to allay him,
he would grow too rank else, a small eclipse to shadow him;
but out he must break, glowingly again, and with a great
lustre, look you uncle, motion and majesty.
Unc.
I am confounded.
Fran.
I am of his faith.
Val.
Walk by his careless kinsman, and turn again and
walk, and look thus Uncle, taking some one by the hand
he loves best, leave them to the mercy of the hog-marke,
come Frank, Fortune is now my friend, let me instruct
thee.
Fran.
Good morrow Uncle, I must needs go with him.
Val.
Flay me, and turn me out where none inhabits, within
two hours I shall be thus again, now wonder on, and laugh
at your own ignorance.
[Ex. Val. and Fran.]
Unc.
I do believe him.
Lan.
So do I, and heartily upon my conscience, burie him
stark naked, he would rise again, within two hours embroidered:
sow mustard-seeds, and they cannot come up so
thick as his new sattens do, and clothes of silver, there's no
striving.
Unc.
Let him play a while then, and let's search out what
hand:—
Lan.
I, there the game lies.
[Exeunt.
Enter Fountain, Bellamore, and Harebrain.
Foun.
Come, let's speak for our selves, we have lodg'd him
sure enough, his nakedness dare nor peep out to cross us.
Bel.
We can have no admittance.
Hare.
Let's in boldly, and use our best arts, who she deign
to favour, we are all content.
Foun.
Much good may do her with him, no civil wars.
Bel.
By no means, now do I wonder in what old too Ivie
he lies whistling for means, nor clothes he hath none, nor
none will trust him, we have made that side sure, teach him
a new wooing.
Hare.
Say it is his Uncles spite.
Foun.
It is all one Gentlemen, 'thas rid us of a fair incumbrance,
and makes us look about to our own fortunes. Where
are these?
Enter Isabel and Luce.
Isab.
Not see this man yet! well, I shall be wiser; but Luce,
didst ever know a woman melt so? she is finely hurt to hunt.
Luce.
Peace, the three Suitors.
Isab.
I could so titter now and laugh, I was lost Luce, and I
must love, I know not what; O Cupid, what pretty gins thou
hast to halter Woodcocks! and we must into the Country in
all haste, Luce.
Luce.
For Heavens sake, Mistris.
Isab.
Nay, I have done, I must laugh though; but Scholar,
I shall teach you.
Foun.
'Tis her sister.
Bel.
Save you Ladies.
Isab.
Fair met Gentlemen, you are visiting my sister, I
assure my self.
Hare.
We would fain bless our eyes.
Isab.
Behold and welcom, you would see her?
Foun.
'Tis our business.
Isab.
You shall see her, and you shall talk with her.
Luce.
She will not see 'em, nor spend a word.
Isab.
I'le make her frat a thousand, nay now I have found
the sab, I will so scratch her.
Luce.
She cannot endure 'em.
Isa.
She loves 'em but too dearly, come follow me, I'le bring
you toth' party Gentlemen, then make your own condition.
She is sick you know.
Isab.
I'le make her well, or kill her, and take no idle answer,
you are fools then, nor stand off for her state, she'l scorn
you all then, but urge her still, and though she fret, still follow
her, a widow must be won so.
Bel.
She speaks bravely.
Isab.
I would fain have a Brother in law, I love mens
company, and if she call for dinner to avoid you, be sure you
stay; follow her into her chamber, if she retire to Pray, pray
with her, and boldly, like honest lovers.
Luce.
This will kill her.
Foun.
You have shewed us one way, do but lead the tother.
Isab.
I know you stand o'thorns, come I'le dispatch you.
Luce.
If you live after this.
Isab.
I have lost my aim.
Enter Valentine, and Francisco.
Fran.
Did you not see 'em since.
Val.
No hang 'em, hang 'em.
Fran.
Nor will you not be seen by 'em?
Val.
Let 'em alone Frank, I'le make, 'em their own
justice, and a jerker.
Fran.
Such base discourteous Dog-whelps.
Val.
I shall dog 'em, and double dog 'em, ere I have done.
Fran.
Will you go with me, for I would fain find out
this piece of bountie, it was the Widows man, that I am certain
of.
Val.
To what end would you go?
Fran.
To give thanks.
Val.
Hang giving thanks, hast not thou parts deserve it? it
includes a further will to be beholding, beggers can do no
more at door, if you will go, there lies your way.
Fran.
I hope you will go.
Val.
No not in ceremony, and to a woman, with mine
own Father, were he living Frank; I would toth' Court
with Bears first, if it be that wench, I think it is, for t'other's
wiser, I would not be so lookt upon, and laught at, so made
a ladder for her wit, to climb upon, for 'tis the tartest tit in
Christendom, I know her well Frank, and have buckled
with her, so lickt, and stroaked, slear'd upon, and flouted,
and shown to Chambermaids, like a strange beast, she had
purchased with her penny.
Fran.
You are a strange man, but do you think it was a
woman?
Val.
There's no doubt on't, who can be there to do it else?
besides the manner of the circumstances.
Fran.
Then such courtesies, who ever does 'em sir, saving
your own wisdom, must be more lookt into, and better answered,
than with deserving slights, or what we ought to have
conferred upon us, men may starve else, means are not gotten
now with crying out I am a gallant fellow, a good Souldier,
a man of learning, or fit to be employed, immediate
blessings cease like miracles, and we must grow by second
means, I pray go with me, even as you love me Sir.
Val.
I will come to thee, but, Frank, I will not stay to hear
your fopperies, dispatch those e're I come.
Fran.
You will not fail me.
Val.
Some two hours hence expect me.
Fran.
I thank you, and will look for you.
[Exeunt.
Enter Widow, Shorthose, and Roger.
Wid.
Who let in these puppies? you blind rascals, you
drunken Knaves several.
Short.
Yes forsooth, I'le let 'em presently,—
Gentlemen.
Wid.
Sprecious, you blown Pudding, bawling Rogue.
Short.
I bawl as loud as I can, would you have me fetch
'em upon my back.
Wid.
Get 'em out rascal, out with 'em, out, I sweat to
have 'em near me.
Short.
I should sweat more to carry 'em out.
Roger.
They are Gentlemen Madam.
Short.
Shall we get 'em into th'butterie, and make 'em
drunk?
Wid.
Do any thing, so I be eased.
Enter Isabel, Fount. Bella, Hare.
Isab.
Now to her Sir, fear nothing.
Rog.
Slip aside boy, I know she loves 'em, howsoever she
carries it, and has invited 'em, my young Mistress told me so.
Short.
Away to tables then.
[Exeunt.
Isab.
I shall burst with the sport on't.
Fount.
You are too curious Madam, too full of preparation,
we expect it not.
Bella.
Me thinks the house is handsom, every place decent,
what need you be vext?
Hare.
We are no strangers.
Fount.
What though we come e're you expected us, do
not we know your entertainments Madam are free, and full
at all times?
Wid.
You are merry, Gentlemen.
Bel.
We come to be merry Madam, and very merry, men
love to laugh heartily, and now and then Lady a little of
our old plea.
Wid.
I am busie, and very busie too, will none deliver me.
Hare.
There is a time for all, you may be busie, but when
your friends come, you have as much power Madam.
Wid.
This is a tedious torment.
Foun.
How hansomly this little piece of anger shews upon
her! well Madam well, you know not how to grace your self.
Bel.
Nay every thing she does breeds a new sweetness.
Wid.
I must go up, I must go up, I have a business waits
upon me, some wine for the Gentlemen.
Hare.
Nay, we'l go with you, we never saw your chambers
yet.
Isab.
Hold there boyes.
Wid.
Say I go to my prayers?
Foun.
We'l pray with you, and help your meditations.
Wid.
This is boysterous, or say I go to sleep, will you go
to sleep with me?
Bel.
So suddenly before meat will be dangerous, we know
your dinner's ready Lady, you will not sleep.
Wid.
Give me my Coach, I will take the air.
Hare.
We'l wait on you, and then your meat after a
quickned stomach.
Wid.
Let it alone, and call my Steward to me, and bid him
bring his reckonings into the Orchard, these unmannerly
rude puppies—
Foun.
We'l walk after you and view the pleasure of the
place.
Isab.
Let her not rest, for if you give her breath, she'l
scorn and slout you, seem how she will, this is the way to win
her, be bold and prosper.
Bel.
Nay if we do not tire her.—
[Exeunt.
Isab.
I'le teach you to worm me, good Lady sister, and
peep into my privacies to suspect me, I'le torture you, with
that you hate, most daintily, and when I have done that,
laugh at that you love most.
Enter Luce.
Luce.
What have you done, she chases and fumes outragiously,
and still they persecute her.
Isab.
Long may they do so, I'le teach her to declaim against
my pities, why is she not gone out o'th' town, but gives
occasion for men to run mad after her?
Luc.
I shall be hanged.
Isab.
This in me had been high treason, three at a time,
and private in her Orchard! I hope she'l cast her reckonings
right now.
Enter Widow.
Wid.
Well, I shall find who brought 'em.
Isab.
Ha, ha, ha.
Wid.
Why do you laugh sister? I fear me 'tis your trick,
'twas neatly done of you, and well becomes your pleasure.
Isab.
What have you done with 'em?
Wid.
Lockt 'em i'th' Orchard, there I'le make 'em dance
and caper too, before they get their liberty, unmannerly
rude puppies.
They are somewhat saucy, but yet I'le let 'em out, and
once more found 'em, why were they not beaten out?
Wid.
I was about it, but because they came as suiters.
Isab.
Why did you not answer 'em?
Wid.
They are so impudent they will receive none: More
yet! how came these in?
Enter Francisco and Lance.
Lan.
At the door, Madam.
Isab.
It is that face.
Luce.
This is the Gentleman.
Wid.
She sent the money to?
Luce.
The same.
Isab.
I'le leave you, they have some business.
Wid.
Nay, you shall stay, Sister, they are strangers both
to me; how her face alters!
Isab.
I am sorry he comes now.
Wid.
I am glad he is here now though. Who would you
speak with, Gentlemen?
Lan.
You Lady, or your fair Sister there, here's a Gentleman
that has received a benefit.
Wid.
From whom, Sir?
Lan.
From one of you, as he supposes, Madam, your
man delivered it.
Wid.
I pray go forward.
Lan.
And of so great a goodness, that he dares not, without
the tender of his thanks and service, pass by the house.
Wid.
Which is the Gentleman?
Lan.
This, Madam.
Wid.
What's your name, Sir?
Fran.
They that know me call me Francisco, Lady, one
not so proud to scorn so timely a benefit, nor so wretched
to hide a gratitude.
Wid.
It is well bestowed then.
Fran.
Your fair self, or your Sister as it seems, for what
desert I dare not know, unless a handsome subject for your
charities, or aptness in your noble will to do it, have showred
upon my wants a timely bounty, which makes me rich
in thanks, my best inheritance.
Wid.
I am sorry 'twas not mine, this is the Gentlewoman,
fie, do not blush, go roundly to the matter, the man is a
pretty man.
Isab.
You have three fine ones.
Fran.
Then to you, dear Lady?
Isab.
I pray no more, Sir, if I may perswade you, your
only aptness to do this is recompence, and more than I
expected.
Fran.
But good Lady.
Isab.
And for me further to be acquainted with it besides
the imputation of vain glory, were greedy thankings of my
self, I did it not to be more affected to; I did it, and if it
happened where I thought it fitted, I have my end; more
to enquire is curious in either of us, more than that suspicious.
Fran.
But gentle Lady, 'twill be necessary.
Isab.
About the right way nothing, do not fright it, being
to pious use and tender sighted, with the blown face of
Complements, it blasts it; had you not come at all, but
thought thanks, it had been too much, 'twas not to see
your person.
Wid.
A brave dissembling Rogue, and how she carries it!
Isa.
Though I believe few handsomer; or hear you,
though I affect a good tongue well; or try you, though
my years desire a friend, that I relieved you.
Wid.
A plaguie cunning quean.
Isab.
For so I carried it, my end's too glorious in mine
eyes, and bettered the goodness I propounded with opinion.
Wid.
Fear her not, Sir.
Isa.
You cannot catch me, Sister.
Fran.
Will you both teach, and tie my tongue up Lady?
Isa.
Let it suffice you have it, it was never mine, whilest
good men wanted it.
Fran.
This is a Saint sure.
Isa.
And if you be not such a one, restore it.
Fran.
To commend my self, were more officious than
you think my thanks are, to doubt I may be worth your gift
a treason, both to mine own good and understanding, I
know my mind clear, and though modesty tells me, he that
intreats intrudes; yet I must think something, and of some
season, met with your better taste, this had not been else.
Wid.
What ward for that, wench?
Isa.
Alas, it never touched me.
Fran.
Well, gentle Lady, yours is the first money I ever
took upon a forced ill manners.
Isa.
The last of me, if ever you use other.
Fran.
How may I do, and your way to be thought a
grateful taker?
Isa.
Spend it, and say nothing, your modesty may deserve
more.
Wid.
O Sister will you bar thankfulness?
Isa.
Dogs dance for meat, would ye have men do worse?
for they can speak, cry out like Wood-mongers, good
deeds by the hundreds, I did it that my best friend should
not know it, wine and vain glory does as much as I else, if
you will force my merit, against my meaning, use it in well
bestowing it, in shewing it came to be a benefit, and was
so; and not examining a Woman did it, or to what end,
in not believing sometimes your self, when drink and stirring
conversation may ripen strange perswasions.
Fran.
Gentle Lady, I were a base receiver of a courtesie
and you a worse disposer, were my nature unfurnished of
these fore-sights. Ladies honours were ever in my thoughts,
unspotted Crimes, their good deeds holy Temples, where
the incense burns not; to common eyes your fears are vertuous,
and so I shall preserve 'em.
Isa.
Keep but this way, and from this place to tell me so,
you have paid me; and so I wish you see all fortune.
[Exit.
Wid.
Fear not, the Woman will be thanked, I do not
doubt it. Are you so crafty, carry it so precisely? this is to
wake my fears, or to abuse me, I shall look narrowly: despair
not Gentlemen, there is an hour to catch a Woman
in, if you be wise, so, I must leave you too; Now will I go
laugh at my Suitors.
[Exit.
Lan.
Sir, what courage?
Fran.
This Woman is a founder, and cites Statutes to
all her benefits.
Lan.
I never knew yet, so few years and so cunning, yet
believe me she has an itch, but how to make her confess it,
for it is a crafty Tit, and plays about you, will not bite
home, she would fain, but she dares not; carry your self
but so discreetly, Sir, that want or wantonness seem not to
search you, and you shall see her open.
Fran.
I do love her, and were I rich, would give two
thousand pound to wed her wit but one hour, oh 'tis a Dragon,
and such a spritely way of pleasure, ha Lance.
Lan.
Your ha Lance broken once, you would cry, ho,
ho, Lance.
Fran.
Some leaden landed Rogue will have this wench
now, when all's done, some such youth will carry her, and
wear her, greasie out like stuff, some Dunce that knows no
more but Markets, and admires nothing but a long charge
at Sizes: O the fortunes!
Enter Isabel and Luce.
Lan.
Comfort your self.
Luce.
They are here yet, and alone too, boldly upon 't
nay, Mistress, I still told you, how 'twould find your trust,
this 'tis to venture your charity upon a boy.
Lan.
Now, what's the matter? stand fast, and like your
self.
Isa.
Prethee no more Wench.
Luce.
What was his want to you?
Isa.
'Tis true.
Luce.
Or misery, or say he had been i'th' Cage, was there
no mercy to look abroad but yours?
Isa.
I am paid for fooling.
Lu.
Must every slight companion that can purchase a shew
of poverty and beggerly planet fall under your compassion
Here's a new matter.
Luce.
Nay, you are served but too well, here he staies
yet, yet as I live.
Fran.
How her face alters on me!
Luce.
Out of a confidence I hope.
Isab.
I am glad on't.
Fran.
How do you gentle Lady?
Isab.
Much ashamed Sir, (but first stand further off me,
y'are infectious) to find such vanitie, nay almost impudence,
where I believ'd a worth: is this your thanks, the gratitude
you were so mad to make me, your trim counsel Gentlemen?
Luc.
What, Lady?
Isab.
Take your device again, it will not serve Sir, the
woman will not bite, you are finely cozened, drop it no
more for shame.
Luce.
Do you think you are here Sir amongst your wast
coateers, your base wenches that scratch at such occasions?
you are deluded: This is a Gentlewoman of a noble house,
born to a better same than you can build her, and eyes above
your pitch.
Fran.
I do acknowledge—
Isab.
Then I beseech you Sir what could 'see, (speak boldly,
and speak truly, shame the Devil,) in my behaviour of such
easiness that you durst venture to do this?
Fran.
You amaze me, this Ring is none of mine, nor did
I drop it.
Luce.
I saw you drop it, Sir.
Isab.
I took it up too, still looking when your modesty
should miss it, why, what a childish part was this?
Fran.
I vow.
Isab.
Vow me no vowes, he that dares do this, has bred
himself to boldness, to forswear too; there take your gew-gaw,
you are too much pampered, and I repent my part,
as you grow older grow wiser if you can, and so farewel Sir.
[Exeunt Isabella, and Luce.
Lan.
Grow wiser if you can? she has put it to you, 'tis a
rich Ring, did you drop it?
Fran.
Never, ne're saw it afore, Lance.
Lan.
Thereby hangs a tail then: what slight she makes
to catch her self! look up Sir, you cannot lose her if you
would, how daintily she flies upon the Lure, and cunningly
she makes her stops! whistle and she'l come to you.
Fran.
I would I were so happy.
Lan.
Maids are Clocks, the greatest Wheel they show,
goes slowest to us, and make's hang on tedious hopes; the
lesser, which are concealed, being often oyl'd with wishes,
flee like desires, and never leave that motion, till the
tongue strikes; she is flesh, blood and marrow, young as
her purpose, and soft as pity; no Monument to worship,
but a mould to make men in, a neat one, and I know how
e're she appears now, which is near enough, you are stark
blind if you hit not soon at night; she would venture forty
pounds more but to feel a Flea in your shape bite her a drop
no more Rings forsooth, this was the prettiest thing to
know her heart by.
Fran.
Thou putst me in much comfort.
Lan.
Put your self in good comfort, if she do not point
you out the way, drop no more Rings, she'l drop her self
into you.
Fran.
I wonder my Brother comes not.
Lan.
Let him alone, and feed your self on your own fortunes;
come be frolick, and let's be monstrous wise and
full of counsel, drop no more Rings.
[Exeunt.
Enter Widow, Fountain, Bellamore, Harebrain.
Wid.
If you will needs be foolish you must be used so:
who sent for you? who entertained you Gentlemen? who
bid you welcom hither? you came crowding, and impudently
bold; press on my patience, as if I kept a house for
all Companions, and of all sorts: will have your wills, will
vex me and force my liking from you I ne're ow'd
you?
Fount.
For all this we will dine with you.
Bel.
And for all this will have a better answer from you.
Wid.
You shall never, neither have an answer nor dinner,
unless you use me with a more staid respect, and stay your
time too.
Enter Isabella, Shorthose, Roger, Humphrey, Ralph, with dishes of meat.
Isab.
Forward with the meat now.
Rog.
Come Gentlemen, march fairly.
Short.
Roger, you are a weak Serving man, your white
broath runs from you; fie, how I sweat under this Pile of
Beef; an Elephant can do more! Oh for such a back now,
and in these times, what might a man arrive at! Goose, grase
you up, and Woodcock march behinde thee, I am almost
foundred.
Wid.
Who bid you bring the meat yet? away you knaves,
I will not dine these two hours: how am I vext and chased!
go carry it back and tell the Cook, he's an arrant Rascal,
to send before I called.
Short.
Face about Gentlemen, beat a mournfull march
then, and give some supporters, or else I perish—
[Exeunt Servants.
Isab.
It does me much good to see her chase thus.
Hare.
We can stay Madam, and will stay and dwell here,
'tis good Air.
Fount.
I know you have beds enough, and meat you
never want.
Wid.
You want a little.
Bel.
We dare to pretend no. Since you are churlish, we'l
give you Physick, you must purge this anger, it burns you
and decays you.
Wid.
If I had you out once, I would be at the charge of a
portcullis for you.
Enter Valentine.
Val.
Good morows noble lady.
Wid.
Good morrow Sir. How sweetly now he looks, and
how full manly! what slaves were these to use him so!
Val.
I come to look a young man I call Brother.
Wid.
Such a one was here Sir, as I remember your own
Brother, but gone almost an hour agoe.
Val.
Good ee'n then.
Wid.
You must not so soon Sir, here be some Gentlemen,
it may be you are acquainted with 'em.
Hare.
Will nothing make him miserable?
Fount.
How glorious!
Bel.
It is the very he, does it rain fortunes, or has he a
familiar?
Hare.
How doggedly he looks too?
Fount.
I am beyond my faith, pray let's be going.
Val.
Where are these Gentlemen?
Wid.
Here.
Val.
Yes I know 'em, and will be more familiar.
Bel.
Morrow Madam.
Wid.
Nay fray and dine.
Val.
You shall stay till I talk with you, and not dine
neither, but fastingly my fury, you think you have undone
me, think so still, and swallow that belief, till you be company
for Court-hand Clarks, and starved Atturnies, till you
break in at playes like Prentices for three a groat, and crack
Nuts with the Scholars in peny Rooms again, and fight for
Apples, till you return to what I found you, people betrai'd
into the hands of Fencers, Challengers, Tooth drawers
Bills, and tedious Proclamations in Meal-markets, with
throngings to see Cutpurses: stir not, but hear, and mark,
I'le cut your throats else, till Water works, and rumours of
New Rivers rid you again and run you into questions who
built Thames, till you run mad for Lotteries, and stand
there with your Tables to glean the golden Sentences, and
cite, 'em secrely to Servingmen for sound Essayes, till Taverns
allow you but a Towel room to Tipple Wine in, that,
the Bell hath gone for twice, and Glasses that look like
broken promises, tied up with wicker protestations, English
Tobacco with half Pipes, nor in half a year once burnt,
Corals to bring the mark again, tell these hour Rascals so,
this most fatal hour will come again, think I sit down the
looser.
Wid.
Will you stay Gentlemen, a piece of Beef and a cold
Capon, that's all, you know you are welcom.
Hum.
That was cast to abuse us.
Bel.
Steal off, the Devil is in his anger.
Wid.
Nay I am sure you will not leave me so discourteously,
now I have provided for you.
Val.
What do you here? why do ye vex a woman of her
goodness, her state and worth? can you bring a fair certificate
that you deserve to be her footmen? husbands, you
puppies? husbands for Whores and Bawds, away you wind
suckers; do not look big, nor prate, nor stay, nor grumble,
and when you are gone, seem to laugh at my fury, and slight
this Lady, I shall hear, and know this: and though I am
not bound to fight for women, as far they are good I dare
preserve 'em: be not too bold, for if you be, I'le swinge
you monstrously without all pity, your honours now goe,
avoid me mainly.
[Exeunt.
Wid.
Well Sir, you have delivered me, I thank you, and
with your nobleness prevented danger, their tongues might
utter, we'll all go and eat Sir.
Val.
No, no, I dare not trust my self with women, go to
your meat, eat little, take less ease, and tie your body to a
daily labour, you may live honestly, and so I thank you.
[Exit.
Wid.
Well go thy ways, thou art a noble fellow, and some
means I must work to have thee know it.
[Exit.
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