University of Virginia Library

Act. I.

Valentine,
Erasmus.

Is this the entertainment you
promis'd me in the Jovial Merchants
house? Is this the great
interest you have in his huge hospitality?
when by half an hours
attendance and intreats, we cannot
obtain the sight of him.

Er.

I wonder at it; Sure some
strange disaster has suddenly befallen him. He was,
last night the merriest man alive, drank healthes;
told tales; sung Catches; Trowle the Bowle; Tosse the
Cannykin; and what not! and all for joy, that his
sonne, he said, was upon his returne, whom he has not
seen these dozen years, since he sent him a little Lad
into France, to be bred there.

Val.

I heard he did so; and that in lieu, by way of

Exchange, he brings up the daughter of the Parisien
that breeds his sonne.

Er.

Right.

Val.

But is that daughter so exquisite a creature,
as is this Merchant Matchills own whom you so much
extoll?

Er.

They are both so equally handsome, and vertuous,
that, be their dowries so, and their consents
alike, I'll take my choice of crosse and pile for either,
with such a friend as thou art.

Val.

Troth, and that's friendly spoken, Mus.

Er.

It is so Val. yet not with some policie do I wish
thee a fortune: for, insooth, young Gentleman,
though I like your person, and some of your qualities,
yet by reason of your wants, I finde you something
heavy on my purse-strings; and my selfe scarce able
to supply you. And, if we faile of good matches, I
must even turne you over shortly to the hopes you
boast of in your City-Mystresses and Tradesmens
wives—.

Val.

Peace, prythee hold thy peace.

Enter Cash.

Friend Cash! Is your Master, Mr. Matchill yet at
leisure to be seen?

Cast.

He much desires, sir, to be held excus'd. 'Tis
true that he invited you. His dinner's ready; and his
heart welcomes you. But he has met with an unhappy
newes to day.—

Val.

I feard some ill. What is the matter?

Cash.

His only sonne, whom he of late expected
home out of France, we hear, is dead.

Val.

His daughter will prove a bouncing match
then.

Cash.

That's the impression the heavy newes makes
in you, Gentlemen.

Er.

Come, let's go.

Cash.

Nay, Gentlemen, although my Masters sudden
sadnesse shuts him from you. His meat and wine
are ready. There are some good company in his Parlour
too, Pray stay.

Val.

Are his faire daughter, and the French-borne
Damsel there to be seen?

Cash.
Both. Pray be pleas'd to enter.

I hope his passionate fit e're you have din'd will be
past over. He is not wont to suffer long under the
hand of sorrow.

'Tis like that you shall see him ere you go.

Er.
In that faire hope we'll enter and fall to.

—Ex. Val. Er.
Cash.
'Tis like you shall fall short though of your aim
At my young Mystresse, who by this black newes,
Becomes my Masters heire, and so the white
That all the gallant suiters of the City
And Court will level their keen shafts at. Where
Are mine own hopes then, that stood as faire
In competition for her, love as any,
When the great noise of her inheritance,
Shall drown each Lovers tongue, that cannot say,
It is a Lords at least, I rather wish
The young man had not di'd.

Enter Strigood.
Stri.

Where's my Boykin? my Friskoe? my Delight?
my Cash? by what better name can I call
thee?

Cash.

O me! Master Strigood, what make you
here?

Stri.

I come to comfort my brother in his sorrow.

His sonne is dead, they say. Ha! Is't not
so?

Cash.

And he is almost dead with sorrow: Back
sir.

The sight of you, that are his sole vexation, will
make him mad.

Str.
That is my way to cure him.
Madnesse drowns grief in any man.— Probatum.


Cash.
Good Mr. Strigood depart.

Str.
Good Mr. Cash, and Mr. Matchils man.
I'll see your Master. What! deny his brother?
His nowne natural brother? By the surer side too
We tumbled in one Pannier; though we had
Two Rippiers, Sweet sir, I am the elder too
Strigood was in my mother before Matchill
Therefore, because I have spent an estate
And he has got one, must not I maintain
My self the better man?

Cash.
Yes: if you had the wherewithal.

Str.
Sir, you had been as good ha' held your tongue.
Lend me some money Cash.

Cash.
I have no money, sir, but what's my Masters.

Str.

Whose money, sir, was that you played last
night.

Among the Knights and Braveries at the ordinary?
Gold by the handfuls, Cash! Lend me two pieces.

Cash.
Speak lower, sir.

Str.
Lend me three pieces, Cash.
Before I speak too loud, whose money's that
You use to weare abroad at Feasts and Revels
In silver lace and satten; though you wait
At home in simple Serge, or broad-cloth, sir.

Cash.
Be not so loud, I pray.

Str.
Lend me five pieces.
I shall grow louder else. Who payes your Barber?
I mean not for your Prentice pig-hair'd cut
Your weare at home here; but your Periwigs;
Your locks and Lady-ware that dangle in 'em,
Like straws in the bush natural of a Bedlem?

Cash.
What mean you Mr. Strygood.

Stri.

I mean ten pieces now; I'll go no lesse. Do
not I know your haunts?—

Cash.
You may; you train'd one to 'em

Str.
Do not I know your out-leaps, and vagaries?
Your tiring houses, where you shift yourself,
Your privy lodgings, for your trunks and punks?
Your midnight walks and meetings? Come, the money.
And, heark thee, though thou undoest my brother by't.
I'll keep thy councel: thou shalt finde me vertuous.
I want, he gives me nothing, and thou canst not
Do him better service, then relieve his brother.

Cash.
I am in; and must to hide my old faults, do
—Aside.
Like an ill Painter, dawb'em o're with new.

Str.
Quickly. I shall grow loud again else Cash.

Cash.

Sir, I am in your hands, here are ten pieces.
I hope you will not think my Master for'm.

Str.

No, not for all he has that comes through thy
hands.

My nimble Cash; and from his I am sure,
Though I were starving, I should finger nothing.

Cash.
Will you go now?

Str.
I'll see him e're I go,
And dine, if there be meat i'th' house. What eaters
Are there within? I'll draw a knife among 'em.

Ex.
Cash.
This desperate are old Ruffian, would undo me,
But he hopes to waste his brother by me.
He has spent himself to beggery; and would fall so,
But that he has pernicious fire in's brain,
That raging spreads to ruine others with him.
I must beware of him.
Enter Lady Nestlecock, Ephraim.
Is she come too?

Then 'tis deereed, my Master must, from sorrow,
suffer in madnesse.

La.
Go home Ephraim.
And have a care you suffer not my boy
To Straggle forth 'mong his unhappy play-mates,
For fear of mischief.

Eph.
It shall be my care.

—Ex.
La.
What do you lock up my brother, ha?—

Cash.
H'has lock't himself up, Madam; and will suffer
None to come at him, till his sorrowful fit
Be somewhat over.

La.
Not's own Sister, ha?—

Cash.
Nor his half brother neither: yet he's here.

La.

Is he here, ha? That Strygood? Is he
here?

Hang him old reprobate. And beshrew thy heart,
For a young varlet, to call him our brother.
It is no marvel, if my brother Matchil
Lock up himself, and such a wickednesse
Be in his house, as is that Strygood, ha—
Let him take heed, he comes not in my Nayl-reach,
And call me Sister, or my Brother, brother,
Like a debaush'd old Villain, as he is.
O that my husband Nestlecock were alive,
But for three minutes, to send him to
Newgate, if he presume to call me Sister
But I command you in my husbands name,
Who was a Justice, when he liv'd, to thrust him
Out of your Masters doors, my brothers house.
Lest I be sick with the loath'd sight of him.
You will not disobey this, will you, ha?—
If not, why stir you not? ha.—

Cash.
I must remove
This fit of hers. There's but one way to do it;
And thats to talk of her white boy, she's fond on.

La.
Will you not send him packing, ha?—

Cash,
First, Madam.
(By your good Ladiships leave) how does your sonne
Sweet Master Nehemiah Nestlecock?

La.
I thank you courteous friend Intruth, last night,
One of my Coach-gueldings fell lame, and I,
By that constrain'd to come afoot,
Was forc'd to leave my boy at home; or else
He had come with me, to have been a comfort
To his sad Uncle: But I would not now
For twice my Gueldings price, my childe were here;
And that foule fiend i'th' house, whose very looks
Would fright him into sicknesse.

Cash.
O good Lady!

La.
I can't so soon forget the fright he took
At seeing the roguish Jugler once eat tow,
And blow it out of's mouth in fire and smoke,
He lay a fourtnight by't.

Cash.
That's two yeares since.
And he was then but young, he's now a man.

La.
Alack a childe; but going in's nineteenth year.
Where's my Neece Joyce?

Cash.
Within there Madam; so is Gabriella
The French young Gentlewoman to attend you.

La.
I'll stay with them till I may see my brother.

—Ex.
Cash.
I hope old Strygood, who now on the sudden
Hath slipt her memory, meets her by the eares first.
Enter Matchil, an open letter in his hands.
But the good minute's come, before I look't for't.
My Master now appears. He looks most sourely
Expressing more of anger then of grief.
I feare, old Strygood was so loud with me,
That he hath over-heard us, and I shall break
Before I am a Freeman.

Mat.
Sorrow be gone
And puleing grief away, whilest I take in
A nobler and more manly Passion;
Anger, that may instruct me to revenge.
My childe is lost by treacherous neglect
In that false Frenchman, to whose seeming care
I trusted the chief comfort of my life;
Matchil reades.
My boy. Nay, read again. 'Tis written, here,
He was grown man:

Cash.
His man, I think, he said.
Cash listens to Matchil, and speaks aside.
Does your man trouble you. I do not like that

Mat.
And here he writes that in his youthful spring
And heat of spirit, he began to grow
Intemperate and wilde—

Cash.
Wilde! Are you there?

Mat.
Which drew him on to riotous expence—

Cash.
And there again, to riotous expence!
'Tis I directly that he's troubled with.

Mat.
And sometimes into quarrels. What o' that?
In all this he was still mine own. Oboy—

Mat. kisses the paper.
Cash.
Some slave has writ some fearful information.
Against me, and he hugs and kisses it.

Mat.
And had his Guardian had a feeling care
(Hang his French friendship) over my dear childe,
As I had over his, these youthful follies
Might have been temper'd into manly vertues.

Cash.
I hear not that.

Mat.
But I fall back agen
From my revenge to grief. Away; I will not.
He reads again.
Here's the death-doing point. These slight disorders.
In my young forward sonne (I finde it here)
Were, by his churlish and perfidious Guardian,
Interpreted no lesse then Reprobation,
And, by his ignorant cruelty, so punish'd.
For, here he shuts his eare and door against him:
When suddenly the loose licentious world
Soothes on his youthful, injudicious courage
To imminent destruction; so being engag'd
In a rash quarrel, he in duel fell.
Th' Opponents sword was instrument; yet I inferre.
Lafoy, his Guardian was his murderer.
Farewel, my boy; and this is the last teare
Thou shalt wring from me. Something I'll do,
Shall shew a fathers love, and valour too.
I'm young enough to draw a sword in France, yet.
But first—Come hither, Sirrah.

Cash.
Now it comes.

Mrt.
I purpose streight to order my estate
Look that you forthwith perfect my Accompts;
And bring me all my books of debtor and creditor,
Receipts and payments, what you have in wares,
And what in cash, let me inform my self.

Cash.
'Tis as I fear'd.

Mat.
I'll set all right and streight,
All statutes, bonds, bills, and seal'd instruments
That do concern me, I have in my Closet
Or at my Councels, or my Scriveners.
I'll call in them my selfe. Why doest thou look so amaz'dly?
Would'st have me yield a reason? why, I'll tell thee
I mean to make a voyage; and, perhaps,
To settle and proportion out my estate
By Will, before I go. Do you as I command you.

Cash.
Whatever he pretends, I know his drift:
And, e're I'll be discover'd by my stay;
Being run out, I'll choose to run away.

—Ex.
Mat.

My daughter in the first place must be car'd
for.

I'll make her a good match. My next in blood then,
My Knave-half-brother, and my whole fool-Sister.
But the best is, her Ladiship has enough;
And all I have, in Strygoods hands, were nothing.
Therefore I'll purpose nothing to him. Oh.
Enter Joyce and Gabriella.
The Joy and Torment of my life, at once
Appear to me. I must divide them, thus.
He thrusts off Gabriella.
Hence hated issue of my mortal foe
VVhom I have foster'd with a Parents Piety
As carefully and dearly as mine own.
VVhile the inhumane cruelty of thy Sire
Has to untimely death expos'd my sonne.
Thank me I kill not thee; so leave my house.
There's French enough in town, that may befriend you.
To pack you o're to Paris; what's your own
Take w'ye, and go. VVhy cleave you to her so?
To Joyce.
Forsake her, cast her off. Are not my words
Of force, but I must use my hands to part ye?

Jo.

Deare, honour'd father, I beseech you hear
me.

In parting us you separate life from me,
And therein act a real crueltie
On me your only childe, sharper then that,
Which you can but pretend done by her father.

Mat.
Durst thou speak so?

Joy.
I cannot live from her.

Mat.

O monstrous. Pray, your reason. Why not
live?

Joy.

You know, Sir, from our Infancie we have
been,

Bred up together, by your tender care
As we had been twin-borne, and equally
Your own; and by a self-same education,
We have grown hitherto, in one affection,
We are both but one body, and one mind,
What Gabriella was, I was, what I, was she.
And, till this haplesse houre, you have enjoyn'd me,
Nay, charg'd me on your blessing, not to arrogate
More of your love unto my self, then her,

Mat.
That was, 'cause I presum'd her father lov'd,
Or should have lov'd my sonne, your brother.

Joy.
I never knew brother, or sister, I;
Nor my poor self, but in my Gabrella.
Then blame me not to love her, I beseech you
—Upon me knees.

Mat.
Th' art knee-deep in rebellion.
Unnatural Gipsie, since thou prov'st my torment
In being the same with her; and hast declar'd
Thy self no more my childe, then she, whom now
I do abhorre, avoid, with her, my sight.
Rise, and be gone, lest thou pull curses on thee
Shall sink thee into earth.

Gab.
O rather, Sir.
Let me, 'gainst whom your fury first was bent
Suffer alone the sharpnesse of your vengeance:
And let it not be said, 'cause you surmise,
My father lost your son, that, therefore, you
Have cast away your daughter. Hurl me, rather,
Into the ruthless waves to seek my way;
Or do but take her, hold her in the armes
Of your paternal love, and I'll take flight
To weane her to you.

Joy.
She cannot, may not leave me.

Mat.
Out of my doors then, with her.—

Enter Lady Nestlecock.
La.
What's the matter? ha—

Mat.

Such as you cannot mend, deare Lady
Sister.

What come you hither with your Ha—for? Ha—

La.

To comfort you, dear brother, if you'll heare
me.

Your sonne is dead, they say; and here I finde
Your daughter is rebellious 'gainst your will.

Mat.

You speak much comfort, do you not, think
you.

La.

But is it so Joyce? ha!—I thought you,
Joyce,

Would have rejoyc'd your father in obedience, Joyce;
And not afflict him with your stubbornnesse.

Mat.
O this impertinent woman!

La.
But my brother,
Let me advise you, rather then suffer her
To be an eye-sore to you, put her out,
Where she may learne more duty. If you please
I'll take her home, and shew her how it should be.

Mat.

Yes, as you have shewen your Nestlecock, your
sonne.

La.

I, there's a childe! Brother, you'l pardon
me,

If I aspire in hope, that he shallbe
Your heire, if Joyce miscarry in rebellion.

Mat.

And therefore you would breed her. How
the devil

Works in a covetous woman! Though a foole too.
Your sonne's an Asse; an Ideot; and your self
No better, that have bred him so. Do you tell me
Of your sweet sugar-chop't Nestle cockscombe?

La.
Ha—

Mat.
He's fit t' inherit nothing but a place
I'th' Spittle-house, Fools Colledge, yond, at Knights-bridge.

La.
And did I come to bring thee consolation?
Now let me tell thee, I rejoyce in thy
Just punishment, thy scourge of crosses. Thou,
That for these six years space until this day,
Hast kept continual feast and jollitie
For thy wives death, who was too good for thee.

Mat.
Right, for she was my Master, a perpetual
Vexation to me, while she was above-ground
Your Ladiship could not have spoke more comfort to me
Then the remembrance of that shook-off Shackle,
Which now, in my affliction makes me smile,
And were I on her grave, I could cut capers.

La.
A further punishment, I prophecie
Grows in the neck of thy leud insolence

Mat.
I could e'ne finde in heart to marry again,
In spight, now, of thy witchcraft, my son dead!
My daughter disobedient! and your childe
A very chilblaine. What have I to do
But marry again: all women are not devils,
I may yet get an heire unto my minde.

Enter Strigood.
Mat.
Art thou here too—

Stri.
Stay, you forget your brother, Mr. Matchil.
You have match'd ill once already; and take heed
You match not worse, your children, though untoward
And taking of the devillish Shrew, their mother,
Were likely of your own begetting; Yet
Your second wife may bring you a supply
Of heires, but who must get them, first is doubtful.

Mat.
Thy impudence amazes me.

Str.
Ha, ha.

La.
I'm sick at sight of the leud Reprobate.

Stri.
Dee cast about for heirs; and have besides
Your daughter here, a brother and a sister?

La.
Call not thy self our brother. He appears
Unkinde to me, but thou insufferable,
I loath to look upon thee.

Stri.
He has spoke
Against her Aunt, her Moon-calf sonne. I'll make her love me best, and presently.
Brother, I say.

Mat.
I cannot look upon thee.
Provoke me not to speech, I charge thee.

Str.

Give me leave to speak; Hold you your
peace;

Hear but my brotherly advice; and when
Give your consent in silence.

(Mat.)
hum hum, &c.

La.
Hear him not.

(Mat.)
Nor you neither,
hum—hum—hum.

La.
I am not angry with you now; and therefore
I charge you, hear him not.

(Mat.)
hum hum—

Stri.

My advice is thus, that for your daughters
good.

For mine own good, and for your Sisters good.
And for her sonne, your Nephew's good.

La.
How's that? ha!

Stri.
And chiefly for your own good, and the credit
A wise man would desire to hold i'th' world,
Think not of marrying, nor of buying hornes
At the whole value of your whole estate,
But match your daughter while you have the meanes
In your own hands; give her a good round portion,
Here are deserving Gentlemen i'th' house.
Next, think of me your brother, that has spent
In down-right fellowship (heaven knows what
All fraudulent purposes to make any man
A miser or a gainer by't) a faire estate.
And now do want a brotherly supply.
A hundred a year or so: but above all
Fasten your land unto your Sisters sonne.
That hopeful Gentleman, sweet Nehemiah.

(Mat.)
hum.

La.
Now brother you may hear him.

Stri.

What though it straggle from the name of
Matchil.

Remember yet he is your mothers Grandchilde.

La.
Why dee not hear him, brother?—

(Mat.)
hum.

Stri.
As I hope
To be a landed man my self,
Had I a thousand yearly, I would leav't him.

La.
Trulie, I thank you. Now I'll call you brother.
Y'are a good natur'd Gentleman if you had it.
Come home, and see my sonne.—VVill you not hear him? ha

Mat.
I need not, nor your selfe. I see you gape
Like monsters that would swallow me alive.
I know your mindes; and I will do mine own.
And, thus it is. Stay, let me stay a little.

La.
Look you how wilde he looks.

Stri.
He's falling mad.
Stark staring mad,

La.
I would he had a wife then,
For nothing else can tame him.

Mat.
So it shall be.
First, I'll be Master of mine own estate.
Next—

Stri.
Take a wife to master that, and you.

Mat.
Next, you Madamoiselle, (on whom with patience
I cannot look) forsake my house, and suddenly;
Linger not for a man to wait upon you,
But let your black bag guard you, 'tis a fashion
Begun amongst us here by your own Nation.
And if I longer must call you my daughter,
Forsake you her.

Joy.
VVhat mine own heart? dear Sir.

Mat.
At your own choice. I can force her departure,
Though not perswade your stay, determine quickly
Either to leave her, and enjoy a father,
Or never more expect a fathers blessing.

Gab.

Dear, mine own heart, leave me, obey your
father.

Joy.
It must be to my death then.

[Weepes
Mat.
I'll be sudden.
Therefore be you as brief in your resolve.

La.
Alas, poor hearts. Just so loth
To part was I and my sonne Nehemiah
To day when I came forth.

Stri.
Neece Joyce, let me
Advise you.—

Mat.
Pray, Sir, none of your advices.
Let her advise her self, whilest I impart
To you my next intention; which is thus.
To end your strife for shares in mine estate
I'll venter on a wife: indeed I'll marry

La.
Will you so? ha!

Mat.
Yes indeed La,—

Stri.
If then
You'l estate nothing on me for my life
Give me a fee to help you to a wife,
I can, a good one.

Mat.
I'll none, Sir, of your good ones.
Besides, Sir, I'm provided.

La.
You are not, are you? ha

Mat.
Let it suffice, I say't, so quit my house.

Stri.
Shall I expect then nothing?

Mat.
Pray sir, do.
'Tis all I can afford you. You have wit,
Yes, you can daunce, tread money out of rushes,
Slight and activity to live upon.
A nimble braine, quick hands and airie heels
To get a living.

Stri.
Hah.

Mat.
Pray fall to practice.

Stri.
I may, sir, to your cost, if you put off
Your daughter with her Sweet-heart, her Mon Coeur
There, as she calls her. Dear, my Lady Sister;
You see how churlishly this Merchant uses us.
He has forgot, sure, he was borne a Gentleman.
Will you be pleas'd, I speak to you in your eare.

La.
Any way, brother Strigood, Hang him, Nabal,
To warn me out o's house; and not alone,
To turne a stranger from within his gates,
But offer to cast out his childe too, ha!

Stri.
'Tis about that I'd speak, pray Madam heark you.

Enter Erasmus, Valentine.
Er.
Noble Mr. Matchil, though we ate your meat
Before we saw you, you will give us leave
To take our leaves, and thank you ere we part.

Mat.
O Gentlemen.

Val.
W' have heard your cause of sorrow.

Mat.
But I have over-past it. Heark ye Gentlemen

Eras.
You'l give us leave first to salute the Ladies.

Mat.
Nay, if you love me, heare me first.

Er., Val.
Your will, Sir.

Talk aside.
La.
Neece, you shall no way disobey your father
In being rul'd by me.

Stri.
So, so, it takes.

La.
You and your second selfe shall home with me
Until his furious humour be blown over.
To which the first meanes is to shun his sight,
And then let me alone to make your peace.

Joy., Gab.
We thank your Ladiship.

La.
So let us slip.
Home to my house together.

La.
Hist brother, lead the way.

Stri.
As glad as ever Fox was of his prey

Exit. om. Ret. Mat. Er. Val.
Mat.

'Tis even so, Gentlemen, sorrow
findes no lodging.

In my light heart sometimes she knocks at door,
And takes a drink, but here she must not sit by't.

Val.
Y' are happy Sir.

Er.
Yet I have heard you say
You never tasted joy for divers yeares
Till your wife died: since when, a King of mirth,
And now to marry agen is such a thing.

Mat.
Yes sir, 'tis such a thing that I will marry
That I foreknow can never disobey me
And I'll defie the devil to dishonest her.

Er.
Is she so ougly?

Val.
No, he means so vertuous.

Mat.

Well-said, sir, you shall drink before me. Rachel,
Mawdlin.

'Protest you shall though't be in my own house.

Er.
Now he resumes his humour.

Mat.
Ratchel I say,
Bring me a kan o' sack.

Er.
But how can you
Presume before the dangerous marriage-trial
That she whom y'have chosen will be obedient.

Val.

D' ye think he has not tried her? There's a
question!

Mat.
Well-said agen. I was about to say so.
Rachel, some sack, I say. Yes, I have tried her, sir,
Tri'd her, and tri'd her again; all over and over
These five yeares day and night; and still obedient.

Er.
Then you are sure to her.

Mat.
No, I never us'd
A marriage-question, nor a woing word,
But do all by command, she is so obedient.

Val.
And yet she's chaste and vertuous withal.

Mat.
Well-said again, sir, so I was a saying.

Er.
But we have talk't away the Gentlewomen.

Mat.

No matter, let 'hem go. Would they were
far enough. Ent. Rach.

Enter Rachel, silver Kan and Napkin.
Come, the sack, the sack.—Who taught you that courtesie maid.
Pray try a better to the Gentleman.
Protest you shall begin.

Val.
In your own house, sir?

Mat.

I'll rather g' ye my house, then break my
word in't.

Val.
Y' are Lord here, and may command me, sir.
And so my service to you.

Mat.
I'll do you reason, sir.—
—Val. drink.
Be ready with your Napkin, and a lower douke maid.
I'll hang dead weight at your buttocks else. So.
Is not this obedience, Gentlemen, Mr. Erasmus?
Mus, I will call thee Mus, I love to be
Familiar, where I love; and Godamercy
For your friend here; you both shall see my daughter.
But my French Damosel and Tare parted
I hope by this time. So here's to you Mus.

Er.
To me, to me, to me.

[M. drinks.
Mat.
Ha boy, art there? dispatch
[Er. drinks
Your court'sie quickly, and go cal my daughter.

Rach.
She is gone forth, forsooth.

Mat.
Forth, ha? when? whither?
La ye, she thinks I'm angry, and the finger
Is in the eye already. Is not this
Feare and obedience, Gentlemen? who went with her.

Rach.

She went with my Lady Nestlecock, to bring
Gabriella on her way they said.

Mat.
I would
They were all in France together.

Er.
What, your daughter?

Mat.

She comes again, I doubt not. Dry your
eyes.

And drink that sack, without a court'sie, drink it.
You do not know my meaning, Gentlemen.
Stay: now gi' me't agen.—Now go and dry
Your face within—without a court'sie? ha!
—Ex. Rach.
Now is not this obedience, Gentlemen?

Val.
But this is not the rare obedient peece
That you will marry?

Mat.
You do not hear me say so.
But I presume, as much obedience
In her I have made choice of.

Er.
Marrie a maid.
And we will be her Hench-boyes, if you please.

Mat.

No, I'll have no such blades 'bout my wives
hanches.

But come, to end this tedious Scene, in which
I ha' past the Purgatorie of my Passions
Of sorrow, anger, feare, and hope at last.
I am refin'd, sublim'd, exalted, fixt
In my true Sphere of mirth; where love's my object.
And bloodie thought of black revenge cast by.

Val.

Could your faire breast harbour a bloody
thought?

Mat.
For some few minutes, in which extasie
I meant t' ha' gone, as other Gallants do.
To fight in France, forsooth, and charg'd my man
To draw up his Accompts, call in my moneys,
Thought to have made my Will—.

Er.
I saw your Cashier
Go forth e'ne now with a strong lusty Porter
Loaden with money: I will not say my teeth
Water'd at it.

Val.
But 'twas enough to make
A very true mans fingers itch.

Mat.
I cannot
Think he is run away; but yet I like not
His carrying forth, when I say, fetch in money.
But this is from my purpose. Love ye mirth?
Let's in, and drink, and talk. That gives it birth.