University of Virginia Library

Scæn. 2

Enter Lord Skales, Treatwell, Roger, and Geffrey.
Lo.
My Rivall so dejected?

Gef.
'Tis most true, you never saw a man so strang debauch't;
He hath not onely run out all his fortune,
But even his sences; I had once my Lord,
Some small dependance on him, but his riot
Hath almost ruin'd me.

Lo.
And what's thy Suite?

Gef.
Your Lordships Cloth and countenance.

Lo.
Thou shalt have't
See, Master Treatwell, that his name b'inrold
Among my other Servants; let my Steward
Receiye such notice from you.

Tre.
Sir, I shall.

Rog.
Preferr'd already? may I live to see thee
Advanc'd some few steps higher, to the Gallowes.

Lo.
What fellow's that?

Gef.
One of my fellowes once.

Lo.
And will he serve?

Rog.
Yes, one that he did never, nor I thinke ne're will,
Yet a Lord too.

Lo.
Wil't thou depend on me?

Rog.
I thanke you, no; were there no other Masters
On the Earth, I am no man for you.

Lo.
Thy reason friend?

Rog.
Because the last I had, I lost by you, a Man, that
Save his Title, better'd you, or any of your blood.

Gef.
Brave my Lord?

Rog.
Long you to have your Teeth pickt? Ile find time
To talke with you hereafter.

Tre.
A bold fellow; give him scope, my Lord.

Rog.
He was a Gentleman descended well,
As ancient as your selfe, as well endow'd
With all the gifts of Nature; better tuter'd,
For he could write true Scholler, which few Lords
In these dayes practise; not ambitious,
Nor yet base thoughted, for he kept the meane,
And aimed but at his equall; you in this
Come short of; for you, lesse noble breasted,
Have stoop'd to your inferiour.

Lo.
Suffer this?

Tre.
Nay good my Lord have patience; heare him speake.

Rog.
Thinke you, you could have better'd him in valour?
He was too full of fire, witnesse his spirit,
Most worthy of a Roman Character;
That being oppress'd, and onely crost in her,
He lost himselfe in all things; and shall I
Serve him, by whom a graft of his faire hope
Is by his Whale-like Title swallow'd up?
And feede at his Boord that hath famish'd him
That was my Master? let such Sycophants doe't,
That to their Lords affections suite their service,
Not to their fames and honours: that can fawne,
Lye, cogge, and flatter, Pimpe, and Pandarise,
And so farewell, good fellow.

Lo.
Is he such?

Rog.
I speake sir of my fellow, he's now none
For he attends your Lordship.

Tre.
This fellowes bluntnesse
Doth somewhat better than at first,
Whom wilt thou follow now?

Rog.
Him, to his Grave, or to his better fortunes;
Blesse your Lordship.

Exit.
Tre.
I doe not thinke but under that rough brow
Is lodg'd an honest heart; they are best servants
Whom want, penurious neede, and poverty
Cannot fright from their Masters.

Ent. Chan. and his Wife.
Lo.
Oh Master Changeable, how is't with your Daughter?

Chan.
Nought, nought.

Wi.
Peace you, all will be well, I hope; yet peevish, but
It will bring plyantnes: 'tis comming on a pace.

Ch.
You heare that newes of M. Slightals frenzy, and his undoing?

Wi.
And yet your wisedome would have match'd your
Daughter unto that spend-thrift Begger.

Lo.
This his servant, since entertain'd by me hath told me al.

Gef.
And nothing more than truth.

Chan.
Vse you your humours,
And jest at his distresse; but when I thinke
What he hath bin of late, what come to now,
I cannot chuse but sorrow; and the more
When I Record the ground of his distresse;
But my soule's cleare of all.

Enter Anne.
An.
You are a Noble Theife.

Lord.
Ha?

An.
You are a gentle foole.

Chan.
How?

An.
I am as cold as Ice, and you a scold,

Wi.
Minion. how?

An.
You are a Trencher friend.

Tre.
That meant by mee?

An.
And thou a slave and Pander.

Gef.
Speake it not, Ile not beleeve it Mistris.

An.
This Ile prove.

Chan.
Why Daughter, daughter?

Wi.
Sure the Girle's growne franticke.

An.
Faith mother a mad wench, I thanke my starres.

Wi.
Star me no starrs.

An.
Why mother, can you scold?

Chan.
Yes for a need.

Lo.
But Mistris Changeable, why did you call me these?

An.
Stand but in row, and as I am a woman
Ile make all this good; you here, you there,
And every one in order: First, in particuler,
And next in generall I will goe over you.

Lo.
I pray you doe.

An.
A noble Thiefe, that was your Character,
Some by the high way robbe; some are Sea Theeves,
We commonly call 'em Pirats; some breake houses,
And others snap at stals, some cunningly
Dive into Pockets, whistlers, others lifts;
Some are Poeticall Theeves, and steale by wit,
One from another plots, and projects, cheates,
And decoyes; but all these under Theeves,
And steale but petty trash: but you more great,
Under pretext of your Nobility,
And countenance in Court, have from a Husband
Stolne a contracted and a married Wife;
For Contract upon Earth, in Heaven is marriage;
And celebrate by Angels.

Chan.
But why foole?

An.
A gentle foole, such are your patient Husbands,
That yeeld their wives the Breeches.

Wi.
Is he such? how now bold huswife, baggage, peevish
Thing, rude, disobedient, apish, and perverse,
Irregular, hare brain'd, harsh and obstinate?

An.
You see, she need not put me to my proofe,
Her tongue will do't it selfe.

Tre.
But Trencher friend?

An.
I pray your name?

Tre.
Treatwell.

An.
Take but the two first letters from your name,
I tak't, 'tis Eate-well.

Gef.
But all this Mistris, makes not me a Pander.

An.
No, but when thou first was't base Baud to the riots
Of thy first Master, thou mad'st thy selfe such.
But now in generall let me see;
The Prince is not without his flatterer,
The Noble man his Secretary,
The Lawyer his Attourney,
The Justice his Clarke,
The Physitoan his Apothecary,
The Usurer his Scrivener,
The Extortioner his Broker,
Nor the Lady cannot be without her Gentleman Usher;
Your Citizens Wife her Iourney-man,
Your Country Wench her Sweet-heart,
Your Tobacco woman her Pipe-maker,
And every Whore her Pander.
Farewell Geffry; God be with you Gentle-folkes.

Exit.
Chan.
Oh wife, wife, wife.

Lo.
Nay good sir spare your teares,
She hath hit us all alike; this her ingeniousnesse
Adds to her beauty, not detracts at all;
I love her nere the worse, nor any here
Whom her discourse hath touch't: 'tis witty frenzy,
And no malicious cancor; so I take it:
Nay grieve not you good woman, whom e're long
I hope to Title Mother; doubt it not, all shall be well.

Tre.
But eate well.

Lo.
Let not that sticke in thy stomacke, never could'st thou
Light on a more faire and sweet Godmother,
To give thee a name; Ile have all friends, let's in,
And comfort the sad Gentleman, and after to supper.

Gef.
Where I'le try how neere of Kin I am to this
Gentleman, and shew my selfe an Eate-well.

Exeunt.