University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—Hall of Foster's House.
Foster and Brown discovered sitting at a table, C. and Richard at a desk near R. S. E. examining account books.
Fos.
Yon air hath a sweet breath!

Brown.
We've cause to think so.

Fos.
Aye, in good sooth we have!—This halcyon breeze
Doth play the wanton with our swelling sails,
And sends our well fraught vessels, dancing home!

Brown.
[To Rich.]
Are our accounts made even?

Rich.
To a penny.

Fos.
As even be our friendship! May our love
Increase, as doth our merchandise!

Brown.
Amen,
With all my heart—that golden traffic, love,
Is scantier far than gold—One mine of that,
More worth than twenty laden argosies.
But, Master Foster, now I must be bold,
To touch on somewhat that concerns you much.

[Both rise.
Fos.
(L. C.)
I guess your subject—my unthrifty brother.

Brown.
(R. C.)
Nay, nay, leave out the adjective, unthrifty.
Your brother, sir, 'tis he that I would speak of.

Fos.
Unthrifty is his proper epithet.
Knew you but what my love hath done for him
So oft, so chargeable, you would not urge—

[Meet at C.
Brown.
Nay, sir, you must not stay at quantity
Until he change his race—remember, sir,
He is your brother—aye—your younger brother—
In prison now at Ludgate—think, good sir.—

Fos.
There let him howl—'tis the best stay he hath,
For nothing but a prison can contain him.
So boundless is his riot. Twice I've rais'd
His broken fortunes to a fair estate,
But with as fruitless charity as though
I'd thrown my substance back into the sea.
You must have heard what shoals and quicksands he
Finds out; as dice, and cards, and pigeon-holes.

Brown.
All this may be, sir, yet examples daily
Show us that prodigals return at last.
And loudest roarers (as our city phrase is)
Speak calm and smooth in time. You must hope still;
Had I a brother like him, I should think
That heav'n had made him as an instrument
For my best charity to work upon!

Fos.
A waste-good and a spendthrift—

Brown.
Oh, no more.

[Goes to L.
Fos.
[To Rich.]
Sirrah, when saw you my son Robert? Speak.

Rich.
[Comes from the desk.]
This morning, sir—He said he would go visit
His uncle—

Fos.
Aye, his uncle, there sir,—there,
I pay for all these visits— [Goes to C.]
—I am sure
That boy makes prize of all his fingers light on,
To give his thriftless uncle.

[Brown crosses toward R.
Brown.
(R. C.)
By my troth,
[Foster crosses toward L.
I cannot blame him—

Fos.
[To Rich. L.]
Knave, 'tis partly your fault—
You see't and suffer it—How say you, sirrah?

Rich.
(L.)
Sir, mine's a servant's duty, his a son's:
Nor know I better how to prove my love
Unto yourself, than by thus loving him.

Fos.
Wink at his thefts?—

Rich.
I dare not call him so;
He is my second master, and methinks
'Tis far above my limits, or to check,
Or to complain of him.

Brown.
Gramercy, Dick,
Thou, mak'st a good construction, [To Foster]
and your son
Acts but a natural part tow'rds his poor uncle.

Fos.
'Tis well in neither, sir, [Rich. returns to the desk]
note the condition
Of my estate—you know I'm lately married
To a rich widow, from whose substance mine
Doth chiefly rise. She has observed this in
Her son-in-law, and oft complains of it.
And what foul broils such civil discords bring,
Few married men but wot of—nay, sir, would
You see a present proof of it—she comes.

Enter Mrs. Foster, L.
Mrs F.
(L.)
Shall I not live to breathe a quiet hour?—
I would I were a beggar with content
Rather than thus be thwarted of mine own!

Fos.
(L. C.)
Why, what's the matter, wife?

Mrs F.
You wife, indeed,
[Brown walks about, R musing.
Though you regard not of my just complaints
Neither in love to me, nor keeping me,
From other's injuries, both which you're tied to
By all the rightful laws, divine and human—
But I'll complain, sir, where I will be heard!—

Fos.
Faith, thou'lt be heard too far.

Mrs. F.
Aye, jeer me, do—
Some awkward star threw out its luckless fire
At my conception, and 'twill never quench
While I have heat in me—Would I were cold!—
My death would be a jubilee to some!

Fos.
Why, wife, how would'st thou I should minister
To ills I know not—prithee what's the cause?

Mrs. F.
Cause!—Grant me patience! Cause!— [Crosses to Brown.]
Sir, [To Brown]
I threw down
My fortunes at his feet—he did not marry me,
For love's sake, nor for pity—but for love
Of that I had. And now, sir, he neglects me,
And lets a prodigal lay waste the blessings
Which I had treasured up for the best uses.

Fos.
Meaning my son.

Mrs. F.
Aye, he's the conduit-pipe
That throws it forth into the common sewer.

Fos.
Meaning my brother.

Mrs. F.
Shame upon such kindred,
[Returns to the L.
I'd make the one a stranger, and the other
A servant—he deserves no better office.

Fos.
Why, woman, did I ever cherish him?
Have I not threaten'd him a score of times
With disinheritance for this disorder?

Mrs. F.
Why not perform it?—

Fos.
There is now no need—
Stephen's in Ludgate—

Mrs. F.
No—he's in this house—
Here, sir, within, approving to my face
The charitable deeds of his kind nephew,
Who, with his pilfering, purloin'd from me,
Hath set him loose. Oh, if this may be suffer'd,
I'll have no eyes to see!

Brown.
(R. C.)
Be patient, madam—

Fos.
Prithee content thyself, good wife, I'll find
A present remedy [To Rich.]
go—call them here.
[Exit Rich. L.
This worthy gentleman shall know the cause
And censure for us both with equity.

[Foster and Mrs. Foster retire up on L. and return.
Brown.
(C.)
Nay, good sir, let not me be thus employ'd,
For I shall, certes, favour one for pity,
The other for your love's sake.

Enter Robert and Stephen Foster.
Fos.
[C. to Rob.]
Now, sir, now—
Are all my words with you so light esteem'd
That they can take no hold upon your duty?

Rob.
(L. C.)
Misconstrue not my deeds, sir, I beseech you—

Mrs. F.
Nay, he'll approve 'em good, I warrant you!

Fos.
[To Steph.]
And you, sir—

Steph.
(L. C.)
Well, sir—

Fos.
I thought you in Ludgate—

Steph.
Then you thought wrong, sir, you see where I am.

Fos.
How came you out of prison? tell me that.

Steph.
As I went into prison—through the gate.

Fos.
[To Robert.]
This was your work, to let this ban-dog loose.

Rob.
Sir, 'twas my duty to let loose my uncle.

Fos.
Your duty doth belong to me, not him.

Rob.
You cannot make a separation, sir,
Betwixt the duty that belongs to you,
And love unto mine uncle. You as well
May bid me love my Maker, and neglect
The creature which himself hath bid me love.
If man to man join not a love on earth,
They love not heav'n, nor Him who dwells above it!—
My uncle!—Why, sir, he is half yourself.

Brown.
Believe me, sir, he well hath answer'd you.

Fos.
He hath not, Master Brown. But, to make void
His false construction, I do here disclaim
All brotherhood with that vile spendthrift, there.
Be thou [To Robert]
engaged for any debts of his,
In prison rot with him. My goods shall not
Purchase such fruitless recompence.

Steph.
Then thou'rt
A scurvy father and a filthy brother.

[Brown goes back and stands at the table.
Mrs. F.
(R. C.)
Your tongue, sir, cannot hurt his reputation.

Steph.
But yours can, Xantippe: for all the city
Talks of the wicked scold he 'as ta'en to wife.

Fos.
[To Robert]
If e'er I know thou keep'st him company
I'll take my blessing from thee while I live,
And that which after me should bless thy state.

Steph.
And I'll proclaim thy baseness to the world;
Ballads I'll make and set to tavern music,
To sing thy churlish cruelty.

Fos.
Tut-tut.

Steph.
Each holy-day I'll come unto thy house,
And spit upon thy threshold.

Fos.
You must first
Be out of prison, sir,—

Steph.
If I do live
To see thee Sheriff, I will kick thy sergeants—
Nay, it may chance—thyself—

Rob.
Prithee, good uncle—

Steph.
Why, boy, I'll beg for thee—I will, by heav'n!
I'll break this leg, and bind it up again,
To pull out pity from a stony breast,
Rather than thou shalt want.

[Mrs. Foster paces about angrily on R.
Fos.
Aye, do, sir,—do—
And let him sear his arm and scarf it up,
Then beg beneath a hedge and share your bounty.
But come not near my house. Nor thou, boy, in
His company—dost mark me, boy? thoud'st best.
We've stocks and gaol for him—for thee there's worse—
The loss of all that's mine save, my dear curse!

[Exeunt Foster, Mrs. F. and Brown, R.
Steph.
[Crossing and calling.]
Thou churl! thou dog! thou rascally old miser!

Rob.
(C.)
Nay, nay, good uncle, throw not out foul language.
This is but heat, sir, and I doubt not but
To cool this rage with my obedience.
But, uncle, you must not heap on such fuel.

Steph.
(C.)
Coz, I grieve for thee, that thou hazard'st thus
Thy father's curse, for love unto thine uncle.

Rob.
Let pity then for me, turn to yourself:
Bethink you, sir, of some good course that might
Befit your state, and let me guide it for you.

Steph.

Ha! a course! s'foot! I have it. Coz, canst
lend me forty shillings? Could I but repair this old decay'd
tenement of mine with some new plaster, for alas!
what can a man do in such a case as this?

[Looking down at his dress.
Rob.

But your course, uncle?

Steph.

Tush! leave that to me, because thou shalt wonder
at it: if you should see me in a scarlet gown, within
the compass of a gold chain, then I hope you'll say that I
do keep myself in good compass: then, sir, if the cap of
maintenance do march before me, and not a hood be suffered
to be worn in my presence, prithee do not upbraid
me with my former poverty; I cannot tell—State and
wealth may make a man forget himself—but I beseech
you do not upbraid me. Coz, there are things in my brain
that you dream not of—Dare you try me, Coz?

Rob.
Why forty shillings, uncle, shall not mar
Your fortunes.

[Goes back to the table and takes out his purse.
Steph.
[Remains in front.]

Gramercy, Coz! [Aside.]

Now if the dice would but run right, these forty shillings
might set me up again, and no more trouble. What
shall I do? If I lay them out in clothes and after pawn
them—why there's no broker in London would give me
half the worth o't. No, no—while tis in ready cash,
that's the surest way—Seven's the main! a plague take
the bones, an' they will not favor a man sometimes.

Rob.

Look you, uncle, there are forty shillings.

[Gives them to him.
Steph.

As many good angels guard thee as thou hast
given me bad ones to seduce me, for these deputy devils
damn worse than the old ones. Now, coz, pray listen
—listen after my transformation: I will henceforth be an
apostate to prodigality; I will eat cheese and onions and
buy lordships; and will not that be strange?

Rob.
I am glad you are merry, sir, but this is fixt
Between an uncle and a nephew's love;
Though my estate be poor, revenues scant,
Whilst I have any left, you shall not want.

Steph.
By this hand, Coz, I'll make thee an alderman ere I die—
Do but follow my steps, Coz—Do but follow my steps.

[Exeunt Stephen and Robert, L.

SCENE II.

—A rich Apartment at the Widow Welsted's.
Enter Widow and Clown, R.
Widow.
(C.)

Sirrah, will the churchman come I sent
you for?

Clown.

Yes, mistress, he will come: but pray resolve
me one thing for my long service; what business have
you with the churchman? Is it to make your will or to
get you a new husband?

Widow.

Suppose to make my will, how then?

Clown.

Then I would desire you to remember me,
mistress—I have served you faithfully—make a good will
if you mean to die, that it may not be said “Though
most women be long lived, yet they all die with an ill
will.”

Widow.

How if it be for marriage?

Clown.

Then I would desire you to remember yourself,
mistress. Take heed how you give away the sword, to
defend yourself with the scabbard. This is the instruction
of a friend; I would be loth to see you cast down
and not well taken up.

Widow.

Well, sir, well, let not this trouble you;—see
he's come: will you be gone?

Enter Churchman, L.
Clown.

I will first give him a caveat to use you as
kindly as he can. [To Churchman,—crosses to meet

him.]
Save you, reverend sir.

Church.

And you, fool.

[Widow walks up the stage.
Clown.
(L. C.)

Sir, if you find my mistress have a mind
to a fresh husband or so, use her as well as you can; let
her enter into as easy bands as may be.

Church.

Fool, this is none of my traffic—I sell no husbands.

Clown.

There you are wrong, sir, for you take money
for them—what woman can have a husband if she pay

not you for him? [She comes down on R.]
and often the
ware proves naught too, not worth the impost.

Church.
[To Widow]

Your man is merry, madam.

Widow.
(R. C.)

He's saucy, sir,—sirrah, you'll begone!

Clown.

Nay, at the second hand you'll have a fee too;
you sell in the church, and they bring 'em again to your
churchyard. There's more tollage! methinks if a man
die whether you will or no, he should be buried whether
you will or no.

Wid.
(C.)

Begone, I say, sirrah.

Clown.

Mistress, make him your friend: for he knows
what rate good husbands are at.—Nay, I am gone, mistress.

[Exit Clown, L.
Church.
(C.)
You sent for me, madam.

Wid.
I did, sir: to this end:
I have some scruples, Doctor, in my conscience;
Some doubtful problems which I cannot answer,
Nor reconcile; I'd have you make them plain.

Church.
This is my duty: pray you speak your mind.

Wid.
And as I speak I must remember Heav'n
That gave those blessings which I must relate.
Sir, you behold in me, a wond'rous woman—
You only wonder at the epithet;
I can approve it good: guess at mine age.

Church.
At the half way between twenty and thirty.

Wid.
Not much amiss; yet nearest to the last.
How think you then, sir, is not this a wonder?
That a woman lives full eight and twenty years
Maid to a wife, and wife unto a widow,
Now widow'd and mine own, yet all this while
From the extremest verge of my remembrance,
Even from my weaning hour unto this minute.
Did never taste what was calamity?
I know not yet what grief is, yet have sought
An hundred ways for its acquaintance.
Prosperity hath watch'd so closely o'er me,
That even those things I have meant a cross
Have that way turn'd a blessing—I'st not strange?

Church.
Unparallel'd; this gift is singular,
Belonging but to you—You are the moon,
For there's but one. All women else are stars,
For there are none of like condition.
But soft, I pray you, let me question you;
You lost a husband, grieved you not for that?

Wid.
O, sir, your pardon. Death's the heritage
Of all mankind: the grief from which
No mortal is exempt—Be not so literal
In your constructions—Though even from death,
I have known less affliction than pertains
Unto the common lot. My parents died
Ere I could know their loss: and for my husband,
Although I mourn'd him much, in grief's despite
I joy'd withal that I had found a grief.
And this is all the sorrow I have known.

Church.
No trip of fate?—Sure it is wonderful!

Wid.
Aye, sir, 'tis wonderful:—but is it well?
Sure I have heard you say the child of heav'n
Shall suffer many tribulations; nay,
E'en kings and princes share them with their subjects:
Then I that know not any chastisement,
May I not doubt my part in heaven's dear love?

Church.
'Tis a good doubt—but make it not extreme;
'Tis some affliction, that your are afflicted
For e'en affliction's want. Cherish thou that.
Your blessings, lady, are free gifts from heaven,
Health, wealth, and peace; nor can they turn to curses,
But by abuse.

Re-enter Clown, L.
Clown.

Mistress, there's one without would speak with
you, that vexeth as fast against crosses as you do against
good luck.

Wid.
I know her, sure, then, 'tis my gossip, Foster.
Request her in. Say, here's good company.

Clown.
Marry, I'll say so for my own credit's sake.

[Exit Clown, L.
Wid.
Now you shall see a perfect contrary.
Would I could change hearts with her for a time!
'Twould make me better relish happiness.

Enter Mrs. Foster, L.
Mrs. F.
(L.)
O, friend and gossip, where are you?—I am
O'erladen with my griefs. Sure never woman
Had a more sinister fate! All ominous stars
Were in conjunction at my hapless birth,
And still attend me!

Wid.
What's the matter, gossip.

Church.
[Aside, R.]
This is a perfect contrary indeed!

Mrs. E.
Unless seven witches had set spells about me,
I could not be so cross'd; never at quiet,
No happy hour, not a minute's content.

Wid.
That cannot be, friend—You've a most kind husband.

Church.
A man of fair condition, well reputed.

Mrs. F.
(L. C.)
Alack it matters not. He hath a son
That makes my state his prodigality.
Aye, and a brother, one o' the city scandals,
One is the hand, the other is the maw;
And between both my goods are swallow'd up.
Believe me, what I brought unto mine husband
Is now consumed to half!

Wid.
Canst thou devise
To lay a part of these same griefs on me?
I'll bear them willingly.

Mrs. F.
O! would I could! that I might rest the while!
But you are wise to heed at other's harms;
You'll keep you happy in your widowhood.

Wid.
I'faith, not I, were I but sure that marriage
Would ruffle this smooth stream of happiness
With a brisk storm or two.

Mrs. F.
I warrant you—
Try, gossip, try, you shall not need to wish:
You'll sing another song, and bear a part
In my grief's descant. You have a light heart now.

Widow.
And so should you have were you ruled by me.
It is spleen that weighs it down. Come, friends,
We'll dine together; after walk abroad
Unto my suburb garden; where, if thou
[To Mrs. F.
Wilt hear, I'll read my heart to thee, and school thee
How to put by the thrust of care with patience.

[Takes her hand, and leads off, R.