 | The Honest Lavvyer |  |
Act. Prim.
Enter Vaster weapon'd.As the shee-Gossipe arb that giue it vs.
Why doth it not deriue, and spread it selfe,
To all the generations we produce?
Why should not euery child of mine be call'd
Cuckold, as well as Uaster? Woman, woman!
Thou sad vndoer of the fairest building,
That euer earth bragg'd to be pauement to.
Man, Man; the pride of heauens creation,
Abstract of Nature, that in his small volume
Containes the whole worlds Text, and heauens impression:
His Makers Image, Angels mate, Earths great wonder;
Made to guide all, by woman is brought vnder.
Is forced out of tune by womans hand.
A woman hath deform'd me. See, I looke
Like any beast has hornes: an Asse may boast
Himselfe a horne-lesse Gentleman before me.
Yet let not clouds of passion choke my reason.
Why? what's a Cuckold? let's see: define him:
It is a man, whose wife playes the whore. Zlid, what's that to
him? It is all one, as if a proper Gentleman should ride on a halting
Iade; or a good Musician play on a broken fiddle. Oh but
t'will be sayd: Woman could not be so light a shippe, if her husband
could well ballast her. It is his insufficiencie. A poxe it is.
some crinkle-hamm'd tilting Courtier. Well then,
Should this transforme man to a horned deuill,
No: 'twas Acteons lusts, and not his wife,
That so bestagg'd him. Hence sprouts al my shame.
Fuller of truth then age, this rule hath beene:
“Nothing deformes a man, but his owne sinne.
Enter Robert Vaster.
Rob.
Sir, my mother prayes—
Uast.
No more of her. Her prayers
Are puttrid sacrifices: like foule ayres,
Too thicke to mount vp to yon glorious feeling.
“When blacke hands are rear'd vp, heauen has no feeling.
Rob.
She is your wife, my mother, Sir.
Vast.
What then Sir?
Rob.
Nothing, but that you wrong her, ô my conscience.
Vast.
Oh tis a braue Puritan-world, when boyes talke of conscience!
Conscience must lye at the stake, when they play but at
blow-point. Sirrah, as you loue your Conscience, hate a wife. Zlid,
if I thought thou wouldst marry, I would vnblesse thee, as I haue
disinherited thee already: Get bastards, as I would ha' got thee. A
woman may serue to lye withal: none good enough to marry.
Rob.
Oh were you not my father, I would let
This passion out of your impostum'd heart—
Why should not I forget, that your bloud moues
In any veines of mine; when you forgoe
The reason of a father, husband, man?
And sticke degeneration on your name?
If I sayle ill, know your example steer'd
My voyage and my vessell. Fathers are more
Then priuate men: their liues are the set copies.
Their children write by; and should there giue
Their imitation patternes how to liue.
Hell's a sad place, they say:—Oh, Ile dare neuer
To follow my owne father leading thither.
Exit Rob.
Vast.
Sirra, call your mother. This boy's a Puritan.
Am highly pleasd to see it in my blood.
From whom deriues this sprigge such fruitfull iuyce,
The father being bad, the mother worse.
Sure, he did sucke this goodnesse from his Nurse.
Poore boy, my riot has vndone thee: poore
Thou'rt made by me, I by a wife turnd whore.
My state is morgag'd to the vsurous hand
Of Gripe: my goods are wasted: all my hopes life
Breathes thus: hauing sold all, Ile sell my wife.
Enter Vaster's wife and Robin.
Y'are welcome, Loosenesse.
Rob.
Loosenesse Sir? Oh hell!
She is my mother; pray you, vse her well.
Uast.
Be gone.
Rob.
I cannot Sir.
Wife.
Good sonne, a way.
A father giues command.
Rob.
I must obay.
Exit Rob.
Uast.
Make much of you? I will, I will. Neuer man made
more of his wife, when he sold her to her smocke. Ile sell thy flesh
too Gypsey.
Wife.
Deare husband, I am yet cleare; Oh do not you
Force me to sinne, Ile be for euer true.
Uast.
True? true to the brothell, to the spittle, to the graue.
Thou art deaths agent: a whore is one of his Beadles.
Wife.
Heauen pardon your blacke slanders.
Uast.
Come, I'm poore.
Wife.
Who made you?
Vast.
Thou, my content, turn'd whore.
Wife.
Ile worke, or beg for you.
Vast.
No, thou hast wrought
Too much already. Here, here's thy worke.
points to her.
Wilt thou doe one thing?
Wife.
Any thing.
Uast.
Then sweare.
And keepe thy oath. Ile trauell to the warres,
And turne thee vp, as some Captaines wont; and trie,
If thou canst liue by thy old trade, or die.
Wife.
Will you forsake me then?
Vast.
Yes, and am iust.
Since thou forsook'st me, and thine innocence,
Whiles thou wast good, to thee I had free desire.
Now thou art prou'd a whore, receaue thy hire.
Wife.
Take place, thou tyrant will. Thicke woes here houer.
My state is lower then fate can recouer.
My obedience waits your pleasure.
Uast.
Hoh, within there.
Enter Mistresse Marre-maide, Bawde.
Aunt Marre-maid, I haue brought you the girle
I promisd. Is the mony ready?
Marm.
By that little honesty I haue to sweare by; a handsome
wench. I must pay fiftie pound for her: but if shee were as yong, as
faire, I would get fiue hundred pound by her within this moneth.
Uast.
Aunt, pray'vse her well: she's my owne sister.
Be petulāt you whore, sprightly frollick—as a Dutch Tanikin.—or
—This woman is a Bawd, a very Bawd; you like her the better for
that. Come, skippe about, quicke siluer: Dance like a Curtesan, or
Ile fiddle ye. You ha' more trickes in priuate, then a Fencer can
teach a Lord, or the diuell a Fencer. Life, doe you pule? I must haue
fiftie pound for you: Doe y'heare? Let your heeles caper, and your
tongue grow wanted, or by those horns Ile gore you. Aunt, shee's
somewhat sicke of that rare disease, cald Modesty. But in priuate
she's more insatiate then a Puritan.
Marm.
How old are you, faire sister?
Vast.
Not sixteene.
Wife.
About some sixe and fortie.
Uast.
Oh you Witch—Aunt, she lies eight and twentie, at least
Harke ye sister,—
Please this old Hagge, make her beleeue y'are right,
And answerable to her Stygian spels:
Or I will beare thee to an Armie, and there
Ha'thy sod flesh sold, lent, and prostituted,
And my selfe Cuckolded fortie times a day.
Leaue this forc'd sobernesse—Aunt, will you heare her speake?
Wife.
I can skippe lighter then the wanton Doe,
And ierke it through the Dale,
I cannot hold, neither my tongue, nor heeles,
(Nor nailes from scratching out a Leachers eyes)
But little water in me, farre lesse earth, some aire,
To keepe me humid, mutable, and tender,
And apt for conuolution: but their mixture
Is scarce discernible, th'are so dispers'd.
For my predominant qualitie is all fire,
Pure, radiant, subtle fire.
Vast.
I haue oft seene a couple of light heeles
Carry a sober head: a womans tongue
Reade lectures of ciuilitie; her face
A printed booke, each dimple a sweet line,
That doth to good the Readers eye incline,
Neuer till now a body forc'd to doe,
What the poore mind loaths to consent vnto.
She danceth weeping, laughes and sighes in paine.
So I haue seene (me thinkes) Sun-shine in raine.
Marm.
Enough, I long to imploy her. Cousin, heres the mony.
She's mine. Whats your name?
Vast.
Florence.
Marm.
Florence. I like the name well.
Its a good lucky name to make a whore on. You'l stay with me,
Florence.
Wife.
Till you are weary of me. Ile but take leaue of my brother,
and follow you.
Exit Marmaid.
Uast.
What with me?
Wife.
Am I not worthy of one kisse?
Uast.
There—now be gone.
Wife.
Be gone? Death could not speake a word more fatall.
Yet one more—so now farewell—
Vniust—vnkind—my woe-diuining heart.
By this we first embrac'd, by this we part.
Exit Wife.
Vast.
I am a villaine, but she makes me weepe.
Why doe I thinke she's false? I neuer saw't.
Tut, all bels ring that tune. It is too true.
I told her that this fiftie pound should carry me to the warres;
But I haue a battle to fight ere I goe.
Old Gripe that has the morgage of my lands,
Lies sicke of the Goute, and seldome stirres abroad.
Some of that race Ile kill, or leaue my owne life
In pawne I would haue done't. I ha'chalenged
The Honest Lawyer. He comes.
Enter Beniamin Gripe.
Y'are the sonne of a villaine.
Ben.
If I were, I could not helpe it.
Vast.
Thy selfe's a villaine.
Ben.
Its a ranke lie.
Vast.
Lie? Thou exasperatst
One mad already, that would haue hazard heauen
To make this earth drunke with thy bloud.
Ben.
Its deare, so bought. Twil not redeeme your soule.
Say, with deepe sluces, all these liuely springs,
That runne through the soft channels of my veines,
Should be exhaust by thee, or thine by me,
And burning malice should be quencht in bloud:
He that speeds best, wins what he should abhorre,
And glories to be curst a conqueror.
Vast.
Let Sophisters alone with these distinctions.
Our moderators are our swords: the question,
That cals vs forth, as warlike disputants
Beyond decision of the gowne-furr'd peace.
Draw then thy argument, and let's talke indeed.
We cannot reason soundly, till we bleed.
Ben.
Let's thinke the tearmes, on which we venture bloud,
Th'ffects are waighty, let the cause be good.
Vast.
Thy father hath vndone me, and mine issue.
The law affords no succour: what remaines,
But onely to let him bleed through thy vaines?
Ben.
How haue I wrongd thee?
Vast.
Aske no more. The State
Of our strife is, thou art his Sonne, I hate.
Ben.
No helpe? let fury arbitrate the rest.
This passion must but center in one brest.
Yet let's embrace, and pardon; and euen loue
In hate. O suffer not the dying blood
To preiudice the sad suruiuours good.
They fight.
Enter Curfew the Abbot.
Curf.
What vnexpected clangor frights the peace
What sonnes of mischiefe in their fury tread
These vnfrequented pathes?—stay—hold.
My sonnes, heare age but speake; wisedome is old.
Vast.
Peace, Dotard.
Curf.
On my knees, which doubling age
Hath scarce left able to support my corps:
By the remaining teares of fortie yeares
Spent in this penitentiall order: the last drops,
The drying hand of age hath left to dew
This witherd garden: I implore—beseech.
Uast.
Father, you speake to rocks, or the surd waues.
Curf.
Then on this innocent bosome turn your swords,
And ease a weake soule of her tedious portage,
Some houre before her time. O do not flie me.
Let the few drops of my slow-pacing blood,
That stands in my cold channels, expiate yours.
Oh let a falling trunke redeeme two plants.
fight still.
No remedie? let me exclaime for helpe.
(The diuell part you:) if I should now ha'paid for
my charitie-well: twas this Church-coate that sau'd me.
Exit crying helpe.
Vast.
Oh thou hast slaine me: hold thy conquering hand.
Heauens, you are too iust pay-masters. Thy sword,
With a fate-sign'd direction, hath cut short
My hoped fortunes in a longer breath.
But I forgiue thee. Flie—stay.
I haue two Orphans in this houre depriu'd
Of a bad Parent. For their mother—nothing.
She has a trade to liue on. O let my dying breath
Beg this one mercie at thy bloud-staind hands:
Releeue them with now thine, once their owne lands.
Ben.
Forgiue my deed, and by that mercie, I
Depend on for my sinnes; my mercy shall
Raise vp the children for the fathers fall. Farewell.
Vast.
He's gone. Now vp againe. My wounds
Exit Ben.
Are slight, yet through their windows, heare I breath
Out all my malice. Noble youth, I loue thee.
Now for some strange disguise, till time I find,
To pleasure him that was to me thus kind.
Exit.
Enter Valentine.
Valen.
Well, I see there's no liuing in London. The foure winds
haue conspirde to blow all the villany of the world thither. When
I returnd from my short trauell, I inquir'd, for the knot of my old
companions. But like an old Ladie, that has much vsd painting,
how suddenly are they broken! I heard of three or foure in Bedlam.
Fiue or sixe in Bridewell. Halfe a score ith'Counter.
a whole dozen at Tyburne. But Oh, numbers, numbers, vnder
the hands of Barber-Surgions. Some turnd Squires to a Brothell.
Others walke New-gate lane. Some cheating in Ordinaries.
Others prigging in crowds. And the rest, either swomme ouer
sea, or drownd vpon a hill. Well, I do not like these proceedings;
there bee so many rubbes. I could now begge in Dutch,
but its no speeding language. Now my villanie failes on the sea,
Ile trie what cheates the land has to worke on. I learn'd some
scuruie medicins of our Surgion of the ship: & had no sooner set vp
my bils in Bedford here; but a Goutie cure comes halting to mee.
Fifty pounds I must haue to heale him. Fiue and twentie I haue in
pawne: for the rest, Ile leaue it with the next Quacksaluer, that
with more skill shall doe him as little good.
Enter Gripe halting, Nice and Thirsty.
Grip.
Cousin Nice, and my man Thirsty.
Thirst.
Shall I fetch you some drinke, Sir?
Grip.
No. Thy mind runs all oth' pot.
Thirst.
So't had need, for you keepe mee Thirsty, spight o'my
teeth.
Gripe.
Goe you two to the vnder-Sheriffe; and bid him by vertue
of this morgage, giue you possession of Vasters lands. The beggerly
slaue has broken with me, and Ile take the forfeit. Go quicke,
quicke. I will not lose an houre.
Nic.
Ile but goe to the Church for a little holy-water—
Grip.
Be drownd in holy-water.
Nic.
No, but a little sprinkled Sir. We shall haue the better successe
in our businesse.
I pree thee good Nice, dispatch, dispatch.
Thir.
I, come, come master Nice. There's good licour ith'house.
You may sprinkle your throte with that. Its better then holy-water.
Nic.
One thing Sir. I do not like going to day. Sure tis not a
luckie time. For the first Crow I heard this morning, cryed twice.
This Euen, Sir, is no good number.
Grip.
Poxe o'Crowes and numbers. If thou hadst giuen her a
peece of carrion, she would ha' cryed againe. Away.
Nic.
I go, Sir—stay, what if there be a Rauen about the ground?
Shall we then take possession? Oh tis an vnluckie bird.
Grip.
Why, let her croke the downfall of his house.
Whats that to me? prethee good Nice make haste.
Nic.
Nay, too much haste will make one stumble: and thats
no good signe.
Grip.
Now, Valentine, Hast all things ready? how now—againe?
Nic.
A toy comes in my head.
Valen.
Poxe o'that head: more toyes yet?
Ni.
How if a Catte sits on the Buttry hatch? Thou we 'st proceed
no further. My Grandam told me that a Cat sitting on the
hatch, was an ill signe.
Grip.
Mew. Beate her off, dash out her braines. Good Nice be
not so curious.
Ni.
Oh Sir, it's good doubting the worst.
Grip.
Are all things ready, Valentine? this foole troubles mee
worse then the gowte.
Ual.
Sir, the remedie is verie painfull. I could giue a tedious
course of physicke, worse then any sicknesse. Keepe you fasting
sixteene dayes together, saue the dyet I giue you. Binde you to the
post of patience euery day tenne houres; and haue one still poure
scaulding water on you: purge your very heart out: send your
eyes out of their holes, to see how your feete doe: make your
guttes barke worse, then an hundred dogges at a beare-bayting.
But my medicine is sharpe and short, but passing sure. Sir, there
be foure kindes of gowte.
Gripe.
No more of kinds. There's no gowte kind to any man,
I thinke, but to Physicians. Your remedy short-short.
Sir, nothing: specially of no cost. Do y'see this ten-penny
naile?
Gripe.
Yes: What of that?
Val.
This naile I must driue through your great toe.
Grip.
What? through the bone?
Val.
Yes, bone & flesh too.
Grip.
Oh—oh—giue me my money. This medicine's worse then
any gowte. Oh good Valentine, your tent's too long—too long.
Val.
Then sit and rot: be rack'd still, Ile be gone.
Grip.
Nay, good Valentine: would not a sixe-penny naile serue?
Val.
You'l be Physician, will you? If you'l sit downe and be
cur'd, so: if not, farewell.
Grip.
Nay, good Valentine:—euen do thy will.
Val.
Endure it manfully. It's but a brunt—so.
(nailes him.
You shall sit but a quarter of an houre, till I ha' been at the Apothecaries,
and then Ile loose you. Now farewell, gowty foole,
Pray heauens, this kill him not. Well, let him sit.
(he takes away his purse with his keis
And this shal go with me. I pray Sr take your case.
This plot has tooke; try if some new may hit.
Exit Val.
Grip.
Come—come—Valentine. Oh—neuer was man so farre in my
bonds, as I am in this Physicians. H'has nayl'd me to him. That
euery whore in London, were but i'my case now.
Enter Nice panting. Thirsty.
Oh he's come. How now? are you return'd? where's my morgage?
out Villaines, where's my morgage? Oh my toe—oh my
morgage. I'm vndone.
Thirst.
Me thinkes you are too fast, Sir.
Ni.
Plague o' you and your morgage. Oh my heart—it beats
so, that it has broke my buttons. I would not bee so frighted againe
to be made your heire. puffe.
Grip.
What's the newes Thirsty? what, what, good Thirsty?
Thir.
Let me vndoe you Master.
Grip.
No, not till I heare of my morgage. What's the matter?
oh—
Ni.
The matter? I would not ha' such another crosse, for all
the crosses i' your purse.
Grip.
What? oh—what? Is my morgage safe? Hath the vnder-Sheriffe
done a miracle, and playd the honest man? what good
Thirsty?
Nothing Sir, but a Hare cross'd him the way; and hee,
poore timorous soule, durst goe no further for feare of sprights.
Grip.
Oh rogues, pernicious villains, you conspire to couzen
me: get out the naile, Thirsty. Hares, and Rauens, and Diuels.
Enter Beniamin.
Ben.
Who has abus'd you thus Sir? could you be so credulous, to
thinke this a receyte good for the Gout? Sir, giue me leaue to helpe
you.
Grip.
Do, good Ben. but not in this, Ben. not in this. Oh my morgage
man, my morgage—run. I shall lose a dayes fruits of my morgage.
Ben.
Come Sir, respect your health aboue your gaine.
I would not for your wealth haue halfe your paine.
looseth him.
Go in Sir, get some broth, looke to your wound.
Your morgage leaue to me, Ile keepe that sound.
Grip.
Take my cousin Nice with you. Come Thirsty, helpe Thirsty.
Exit.
Ben.
Now for some cleanly tricke to shift my hands
Of this same shallow superstitious foole.
Now couzen, I'am sure you are not without an Erra Pater i'your
pocket. They say this is like to be a very strange yeare.
Nice.
Most strange, and full of preposterous, prodigious, turbulent,
dismall, fatall, amazing, terrifying—
Ben.
Blesse vs. What?
Nic.
Wonders. The effects whereof wil appeare in risings, partly
biformed, and partly circular, on mens forheads, and womens
mountaines.
Ben.
Is there no sad mortality to ensue?
Ni.
Yes, my Almanacke speakes of a most fearefull pestilence,
especially to happen amongst Taylors and Gold-end-men.
Ther's a statute-lace shall vndoe them ifayth. A Taylours Bill shal
be no more so deadly as the plagues.
Ben.
Sirrah Nice, I had a dreame to night.
Nic.
Passion o'my heart! a dreame? what? I do not like these
dreames.
Ben.
Ile tell thee what. Me thought, my troubled fancie
Led me into a Garden proudly deckt
With Natures glory, and the sweetest flowers,
Tempted my sleepy spirits to soft repose.
There came, me thought, a friend (dead now long since)
And shooke me by the hand, and question'd me
Of many sad euents, whose conference
So vex'd me that I woke. Why stand'st amaz'd?
Thou wilt not leaue me Coz.
Nic.
Yes, and you were ten Cousins. Dreame of a garden, and
greene rushes, and a dead friends salutation? Cousin, make your
will, be rul'd and make your will: you cannot liue.
Ben.
Wilt thou be a foole of fate? who can
Preuent the destinie decreed for man? Ile on.
Nic.
So will not I. Good Coz, I leaue you to your destinie.
The next newes I heare, the Lawyer's a dead man. Dreames
quoth a! and he will not beleeue a dreame, he's an Infidell. One
night I dream't that I found gold at a play. Next day I came thither,
flatter'd with these hopes. Zlid, before the Prologue had
done, I had lost my purse.
I would not dreame of heauen, left I find hell.
Exit.
Ben.
This charme has cast him off, now to my morgage.
Oh Vaster, thou art dead; thy haplesse issue,
Expos'd to the bleake ayre of these cold times.
I haue no meanes to expiate the wrongs,
My cruell Father, and my selfe more bloudy,
Haue done thee, but by charitie to thine,
All the poore pieces that remaine of thee.
So with the plaisters of our broken good,
We hide the wounds, first hauing shed the bloud.
Within there Hoh.
Enter Robert, and Anne Vaster.
Rob.
Thou com'st vpon thy death, infectious issue of the worlds
plague; if thy bloud stained foote enter these dores. Our parents
are from home. Till their returne, Ile keepe possession. Or lose
it with my life.
Ben.
Incensed Youth.
Thou fight'st 'gainst power with a sword of straw:
As good cope with the diuell, as with the Law.
Anne.
Me thinks, Sir, there should dwell some pittie in your looke.
Of two most wretched Orphans; doubly lost,
First in their Parents miseries: but, oh! most
In their vntimely deaths; for we doubt sore,
We neuer shall behold their faces more.
Ben.
My griefe requites you both.
No matter, had it so pleas'd the high powers,
If that my Father had excused yours.
Ann.
Good Sir, forget your strength; and do not triumph ouer
the prostrate fortunes of two wretches,
Behold a Mayden begging on her knee—
Ben.
Rise: that's heauens due. These armes now thee intwine,
That wish for euer, to be called thine:
A strange new influence runs through my affections,
Into my panting heart; and there inthron'd,
Commands my lower faculties to loue
This poore distressed Virgin. I am flam'd
With pittie and affection; whether more!
Yet let my senses some coole reason gather:
What, loue the daughter, and haue slaine the father?
(I must: heauen knowes I must). See, my lov'd friends:
My comming to you is for other ends.
My Father sent me to inuade your lands.
A while stand free redeemed with my hands.
There's money to relieue you: that done, you shall haue more.
Despaire not: heauen will not forsake the poore.
Rob.
Right noble sonne, of so profest a foe,
Heauen be as kinde to you, as you t'our woe.
Ben.
I burst, if I containe my passion. Fairest Virgin,
If thou dar'st credite me, I loue thee.
Rob.
Hold. Here take your kindnes back: Though we are poore,
My sister was not bred to be a whore.
Forbeare to touch her.
Ben.
Fond Youth, thy rage is vaine.
Th'art young: thy errour doth thy vertue staine.
I loue her as a wife.
Anne.
Oh doe not mock me.
Will looke vpon a Mayd, so poore, forlorne?
Ben.
Alas! that pouerty should vertue smother.
Not in my brest. No, Ile still honest be:
Vertue in rags are gold's all one to me.
Censure me both, as you shall finde me true,
Ile be your father, and your brother too.
Enter old Gripe brought in a chaire, by Nice and Thirsty.
Grip.
So, let me downe, till I haue seene my new morgage.
How now son Beniamin, ha' you taken possession?
Ben.
Of that you cannot dispossesse me, Sir.
Grip.
No knaue? what wilt thou take my lands before I'm dead?
You are a braue son indeed. But this is the world. If the father be
poore, the sonne would be ridde of him, to saue charges. If rich, he
must haue his lands ere his bones be cold.
Thir.
They may be cold, for they ha'been rotten these dozen
yeeres.
Nic.
I am very hungry.
Thir.
I am very thirsty.
Ni.
But dare not eate, because I was dream'd to night of choking.
Ann.
Now brother w'are, vndone.
The damned father will peruert the son.
Rob.
Gowt, dropsie, lamenesse, rotten legges can hasten
T'vndoe the poore. Vsurers that sit
Bound to their chaires with charms, & cannot moue
But by their porters, can to ill bestirre them.
He needs make haste, that is at hell before them.
Grip.
Ha? for 3. Moneths?
Ben.
Indeed Sir, by that power you put me in,
In charity to their miserable state,
Orphan'd of Parents, and of meanes to liue,
I gaue them 3. moneths profite of the lands.
Grip.
Out Villaine, Charitie's a begger, as thou wut be. 3. moneths!
three weekes, 3. dayes, 3. houres had been more charity,
then euer I shew'd, or will shew to such beggers. Come Nice,
Thirsty, list me: Ile take possession my selfe.
Ben.
I hope Sir, you'l not nullifie my deed.
Exit Thirst.
Deed mee no deedes: Ile nullifie thee from being mine
heire. Come, helpe me I say.
Nic.
Indeed Sir, I dare not lift you against the poore.
Grip.
Where's my man Thirsty?
Nic.
He's gone in to drinke Sir.
Grip.
Oh he's a good knaue: he has got possession ot'h house.
Thir.
Of nothing master but the Buttry, I.
Grip.
As lame as I am, Ile in my selfe.
Rob.
Sit still you lethargie: y'had better drop—
Ben.
Containe your selfe, young friend. He is my father,
Let not the warme nest of my loue to you,
Hatch vp encouragement to my fathers wrongs.
Rob.
You are my sterne Sir, at your pleasure guide
This tempest-beaten vessell.
Ben.
Good Sir confirme
This worke of pietie, which I presum'd,
On faith of your good nature to affoord.
Grip.
Sirrah, your good nature will bring you to th'Almeshouse.
Thou shalt not inherit a doyt of mine. And for you two
Kitlins, Ile make you mew ith Iayle, and there be any law in England.
So this chasing fit hath got me the vse of my legges againe.
Oh excellent Surgion; would thou wert here againe, for the other
25. pounds.
Ben.
Strange! that same Quack-saluer has done him good, against
his will. How fare you Sir?
Grip.
The worse for thee Bastard. Th'hast too much charitie in
thee to be the sonne of old Gripe.
Ann.
Deare brother, yeeld possession: wee'l begge rather,
Then this our worthy friend should lose his father.
Rob.
Sir, be not so incens'd: resume your sonne
Into your former loue, and I resigne
All right, that his free promise hath made mine.
Grip.
Come then, Nice, Thirsty. Oh braue Surgion, I can goe.
Oh braue morgage I can enter.
Exit.
Nic.
M. Beniamin, a sober word in priuate. If this wench want
harbour, I care not if I giue her a nights lodging.
Ben.
I haue inuited her with her brother to supper this night.
Will you—
Oh it's Fry-day, and I know you haue flesh.
Ben.
Thou wouldst take her any night. Is she not flesh?
Nic.
Sweet Cousin, I would not eate her. If you please to commend
me to her: let me see, for what—I leaue that to you.
Exit.
Ben.
Goe in, let me alone. This petulant foole
Shall be my scaffold to erect my plots.
Come, friends, vnlode your sorrowes on my heart.
Griefes weight is eas'd; when each one beares his part.
| The Honest Lavvyer | |