SCENE I.—-A Street.
Enter KNOWELL, at the door of his house.
Know.
A goodly day toward, and a fresh morning.—Brainworm!
Enter Brainworm.
Call up your young master: bid him rise, sir.
Tell him, I have some business to employ him.
Brai. I will, sir, presently.
Know.
But hear you, sirrah,
If he be at his book, disturb him not.
Brai. Very good, sir.
Know.
How happy yet should I esteem myself,
Could I, by any practice, wean the boy
From one vain course of study he affects.
He is a scholar, if a man may trust
The liberal voice of fame in her report,
Of good account in both our Universities,
Either of which hath favoured him with graces:
But their indulgence must not spring in me
A fond opinion that he cannot err.
Myself was once a student, and indeed,
Fed with the self-same humour he is now,
Dreaming on nought but idle poetry,
That fruitless and unprofitable art,
Good unto none, but least to the professors;
Which then I thought the mistress of all knowledge:
But since, time and the truth have waked my judgment.
And reason taught me better to distinguish T
he vain from the useful learnings.
Enter Master STEPHEN.
Cousin Stephen, What news with you, that you are here so early?
Step. Nothing, but e'en come to see how you do, unclo.
Know. That's kindly done; you are welcome, coz.
Step.
Ay, I know that, sir; I would not have come else.
How does my cousin Edward, uncle?
Know.
O, well, coz; go in and see; I doubt he be scarce stirring yet.
Step. Uncle, afore I go in, can you tell me, an he have e'er a book
of the science of hawking and hunting; I would fain borrow it.
Know. Why, I hope you will not a hawking now, will you?
Step. No, wusse; but I'll practise against next year, uncle. I have
bought me a hawk, and a hood, and bells and all; I lack nothing
but a book to keep it by.
Know. Oh, most ridiculous!
Step. Nay, look you now, you are angry, uncle:—Why, you know an a
man have not skill in the hawking and hunting languages now-a-days,
I'll not give a rush for him: they are more studied than the Greek,
or the Latin. He is for no gallant's company without them; and by
gadslid I scorn it, I, so I do, to be a consort for every humdrum:
hang them, scroyles! there's nothing in them i' the world. What do
you talk on it? Because I dwell at Hogsden, I shall keep company
with none but the archers of Finsbury, or the citizens that come a
ducking to Islington ponds! A fine jest, i' faith! 'Slid, a
gentleman mun shew himself like a gentleman. Uncle, I pray you be
not angry; I know what I have to do, I trow. I am no novice.
Know.
You are a prodigal, absurd coxcomb, go to!
Nay, never look at me, 'tis I that speak;
Take't as you will, sir, I'll not flatter you.
Have you not yet found means enow to waste
That which your friends have left you, but you must
Go cast away your money on a buzzard,
And know not how to keep it, when you have done?
O, it is comely! this will make you a gentleman!
Well, cousin, well, I see you are e'en past hope
Of all reclaim:—-ay, so; now you are told on't,
You look another way.
Step. What would you ha' me do?
Know.
What would I have you do? I'll tell you, kinsman;
Learn to be wise, and practise how to thrive;
That would I have you do: and not to spend
Your coin on every bauble that you fancy,
Or every foolish brain that humours you.
I would not have you to invade each place,
Nor thrust yourself on all societies,
Till men's affections, or your own desert,
Should worthily invite you to your rank.
He that is so respectless in his courses,
Oft sells his reputation at cheap market.
Nor would I, you should melt away yourself
In flashing bravery, lest, while you affect
To make a blaze of gentry to the world,
A little puff of scorn extinguish it;
And you be left like an unsavoury snuff,
Whose property is only to offend.
I'd have you sober, and contain yourself,
Not that your sail be bigger than your boat;
But moderate your expenses now, at first,
As you may keep the same proportion still:
Nor stand so much on your gentility,
Which is an airy and mere borrow'd thing,
From dead men's dust and bones; and none of yours,
Except you make, or hold it.
Enter a Servant.
Who comes here?
Serv. Save you, gentlemen!
Step. Nay, we do not stand much on our gentility, friend; yet you
are welcome: and I assure you mine uncle here is a man of a
thousand a year, Middlesex land. He has but one son in all the
world, I am his next heir, at the common law, master Stephen, as
simple as I stand here, if my cousin die, as there's hope he will:
I have a pretty living O' mine own too, beside, hard by here.
Serv. In good time, sir.
Step. In good time, sir! why, and in very good time, sir! You do
not flout, friend, do you?
Servo Not I, sir.
Step. Not you, sir! you were best not, sir; an you should; here be
them can perceive it, and that quickly too; go to: and they can
give it again soundly too, an need be.
Servo Why, sir, let this satisfy you; good faith, I had no such
intent.
Step. Sir, an I thought you had, I would talk with you, and that
presently.
Serv. Good master Stephen, so you may, sir, at your pleasure.
Step. And so I would, sir, good my saucy companion! an you were out
O' mine uncle's ground, I can tell you; though I do not stand upon
my gentility neither, in't.
Know. Cousin, cousin, will this ne'er be left?
Step. Whoreson, basefellow! a mechanical serving-man! By this
cudgel, an 'twere not for shame, I would—
Know.
What would you do, you peremptory gull?
If you cannot be quiet, get you hence.
You see the honest man demeans himself
Modestly tow'rds you, giving no reply
To your unseason'd, quarrelling, rude fashion;
And still you huff it, with a kind of carriage
As void of wit, as of humanity.
Go, get you in; 'fore heaven, I am ashamed
Thou hast a kinsman's interest in me. [Exit Master Stephen.
Serv. I pray, sir, is this master Knowell's house?
Know. Yes, marry is it, sir.
Serv. I should inquire for a gentleman here, one master Edward
Knowell; do you know any such, sir, I pray you?
Know. I should forget myself else, sir.
Serv. Are you the gentleman? cry you mercy, sir: I was required by
a gentleman in the city, as I rode out at this end O' the town, to
deliver you this letter, sir.
Know. To me, sir! What do you mean? pray you remember your
court'sy. [Reads.] To his most selected friend, master Edward
Knowell. What might the gentleman's name be, sir, that sent it?
Nay, pray you be covered.
Serv. One master Wellbred, sir.
Know. Master Wellbred! a young gentleman, is he not?
Serv. The same, sir; master Kitely married his sister; the rich
merchant in the Old Jewry.
Know. You say very true.—-Brainworm! [Enter Brainworm.
Brai. Sir.
Know. Make this honest friend drink here: pray you, go in.
[Exeunt Brainworm and Servant.
This letter is directed to my son;
Yet I am Edward Knowell too, and may,
With the safe conscience of good manners, use
The fellow's error to my satisfaction.
Well, I will break it ope (old men are curious),
Be it but for the style's sake and the phrase;
To see if both do answer my son's praises,
Who is almost grown the idolater
Of this young Wellbred. What have we here?
What's this? [Reads]
Why, Ned, I beseech thee, hast thou forsworn all thy friends in the
Old Jewry? or dost thou think us all Jews that inhabit there? yet,
if thou dost, come over, and but see our frippery; change an old
shirt for a whole smock with us: do not conceive that antipathy
between us and Hogsden, as was between Jews and hogs-flesh. Leave
thy vigilant father alone, to number over his green apricots,
evening and morning, on the north-west wall: an I had been his son,
I had saved him the labour long since, if taking in all the young
wenches that pass by at the back-door, and codling every kernel of
the fruit for them, would have served, But, pr'ythee, come over to
me quickly this morning; I have such a present for thee!—our
Turkey company never sent the like to the Grand Signior.
One is a rhymer, sir, of your own batch, your own leaven;
but doth think himself poet-major of the town, willing to be shewn,
and worthy to be seen. The other—I will not venture his
description with you, till you come, because I would have you make
hither with an appetite. If the worst of 'em be not worth your
journey draw your bill of charges, as unconscionable as any
Guildhall verdict will give it you, and you shall be allowed your
viaticum. From the Windmill.
From the Bordello it might come as well,
The Spittle, or Pict-hatch. Is this the man
My son hath sung so, for the happiest wit,
The choicest brain, the times have sent us forth!
I know not what he may be in the arts,
Nor what in schools; but, surely, for his manners,
I judge him a profane and dissolute wretch;
Worse by possession of such great good gifts,
Being the master of so loose a spirit.
Why, what unhallowed ruffian would have writ
In such a scurrilous manner to a friend!
Why should he think I tell my apricots,
Or play the Hesperian dragon with my fruit,
To watch it? Well, my son, I had thought you
Had had more judgment to have made election
Of your companions, than t' have ta'en on trust
Such petulant, jeering gamesters, that can spare
No argument or subject from their jest.
But I perceive affection makes a fool
Of any man too much the father.—-Brainworm!
Enter BRAINWORM.
Brai. Sir.
Know. Is the fellow gone that brought this letter?
Brai. Yea, sir, a pretty while since.
Know. And where is your young master?
Brai. In his chamber, sir.
Know. He spake not with the fellow, did he?
Brai. No, sir, he saw him not.
Know. Take you this letter, and deliver it my son;
but with no notice that I have opened it, on your life.
Brai. O Lord, sir! that were a jest indeed. [Exit.
Know.
I am resolved I will not stop his journey,
Nor practise any violent means to stay
The unbridled course of youth in him; for that
Restrain'd, grows more impatient; and in kind
Like to the eager, but the generous greyhound,
Who ne'er so little from his game withheld,
Turns head, and leaps up at his holder's throat.
There is a way of winning more by love,
And urging of tho modesty, than fear:
Force works on servile natures, not the free.
He that's compell'd to goodness may be good,
But 'tis but for that fit; where others, drawn
By softness and example, get a habit.
Then, if they stray, but warn them, and the same
They should for virtue have done, they'll do for shame. [Exit.
SCENE II.-A Room in KNOWELL.'S House.
Enter E. KNOWELL, with a letter in his hand, followed by
BRAINWORM.
E. Know. Did he open it, say'st thou?
Brai. Yes, O' my word, sir, and read the contents.
E. Know. That scarce contents me. What countenance, prithee, made
he in the reading of it? was he angry, or pleased?
Brai. Nay, sir, I saw him not read it, nor open it, I assure your
worship.
E. Know. No! how know'st thou then that he did either?
Brai. Marry, sir, because he charged me, on my life, to tell nobody
that he open'd it; which, unless he had done, he would never fear
to have it revealed.
E. Know. That's true: well, I thank thee, Brainworm.
Enter STEPHEN.
Step. O, Brainworm, didst thou not see a fellow here in
what-sha-call-him doublet? he brought mine uncle a letter e'en now.
Brai. Yes, master Stephen; what of him?
Step. O, I have such a mind to beat him—where is he, canst thou
tell?
Brai. Faith, he is not of that mind: he is gone, master Stephen.
Step. Gone! which way? when went he? how long since?
Brai. He is rid hence; he took horse at the street-door.
Step. And I staid in the fields! Whoreson scanderbag rogue! O that
I had but a horse to fetch him back again!
Brai. Why, you may have my master's gelding, to save your longing,
sir.
Step. But I have no boots, that's the spite on't.
Brai. Why, a fine wisp of hay, roll'd hard, master Stephen.
Step. No, faith, it's no boot to follow him now: let him e'en go
and hang. Prithee, help to truss me a little: he does so vex me—
Brai. You'll be worse vexed when you are trussed, master Stephen.
Best keep unbraced, and walk yourself till you be cold; your choler
may founder you else.
Step. By my faith, and so I will, now thou tell'st me on't: how
dost thou like my leg, Brainworm?
Brai. A very good leg, master Stephen; but the woollen stocking
does not commend it so well.
Step. Foh! the stockings be good enough, now summer is coming on,
for the dust: I'll have a pair of silk against winter, that I go to
dwell in the town. I think my leg would shew in a silk hose—
Brai. Believe me, master Stephen, rarely well.
Step. In sadness, I think it would: I have a reasonable good leg.
Brai. You have an excellent good leg, master Stephen; but I can not
stay to praise it longer now, and I am very sorry for it.
[Exit.
Step. Another time will serve, Brainworm. Gramercy for this.
E. Know. Ha, ha, ha.
Step. 'Slid, I hope he laughs not at me; an he do—
E. Know. Here was a letter indeed, to be intercepted by a man's
father, and do him good with him! He cannot but think most
virtuously, both of me, and the sender, sure, that make the careful
costermonger of him in our familiar epistles. Well, if he read this
with patience I'll be gelt, and troll ballads for master John
Trundle yonder, the rest of my mortality. It is true, and likely,
my father may have as much patience as another man, for he takes
much physic; and oft taking physic makes a man very patient. But
would your packet, master Wellbred, had arrived at him in such a
minute of his patience! then we had known the end of it, which now
is doubtful, and threatens—[Sees Master Stephen.] What, my wise
cousin! nay, then I'll furnish our feast with one gull more toward
the mess. He writes to me of a brace, and here's one, that's three:
oh, for a fourth, Fortune, if ever thou' It use thine eyes, I
entreat thee—
Step. Oh, now I see who he laughed at: he laughed at somebody in
that letter. By this good light, an he had laughed at me—
E. Know. How now, cousin Stephen, melancholy?
Step. Yes, a little: I thought you had laughed at me, cousin.
E. Know. Why, what an I had, coz? what would you have done?
Step. By this light, I would have told mine uncle.
E. Know. Nay, if you would have told your uncle, I did laugh at
you, coz.
Step. Did you, indeed?
E. Know. Yes, indeed.
Step. Why then
E. Know. What then?
Step. I am satisfied; it is sufficient.
E. Know. Why, be so, gentle coz: and, I pray you, let me entreat a
courtesy of you. I am sent for this morning by a friend in the Old
Jewry, to come to him; it is but crossing over the fields to
Moorgate: Will you bear me company? I protest it is not to draw you
into bond or any plot against the state, coz.
Step. Sir, that's all one an it were; you shall command me twice so
far as Moorgate, to do you good in such a matter. Do you think I
would leave you? I protest—
E. Know. No, no, you shall not protest, coz.
Step. By my fackings, but I will, by your leave:—I'll protest more
to my friend, than I'll speak of at this time.
E. Know. You speak very well, coz.
Step. Nay, not so neither, you shall pardon me: but I speak to
serve my turn.
E. Know. Your turn, coz! do you know what you say? A gentleman
of your sorts, parts, carriage, and estimation, to talk of your
turn in this company, and to me alone, like a tankard-bearer
at a conduit! fie! A wight that, hitherto, his every step
hath left the stamp of a great foot behind him, as every word
the savour of a strong spirit, and he! this man! so graced, gilded,
or, to use a more fit metaphor, so tenfold by nature, as not ten
housewives' pewter, again a good time, shews more bright to the
world than he! and he! (as I said last, so I say again, and still
shall say it) this man! to conceal such real ornaments as these,
and shadow their glory, as a milliner's wife does her wrought
stomacher, with a smoaky lawn, or a black cyprus! O, coz! it cannot
be answered; go not about it: Drake's old ship at Deptford may
sooner circle the world again. Come, wrong not the quality of your
desert, with looking downward, coz; but hold up your head, so: and
let the idea of what you are be portrayed in your face, that men
may read in your physnomy, here within this place is to be seen the
true, rare, and accomplished monster, or miracle of nature, which
is all one. What think you of this, coz?
Step. Why, I do think of it: and I will be more proud, and
melancholy, and gentlemanlike, than I have been, I'll insure you.
E. Know. Why, that's resolute, master Stephen!—Now, if I can but
hold him up to his height, as it is happily begun, it will do well
for a suburb humour: we may hap have a match with the city, and
play him for forty pound.—Come, coz.
Step. I'll follow you.
E. Know. Follow me! you must go before.
Step. Nay, an I must, I will. Pray you shew me, good cousin.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.-The Lane before Cob's House.
Enter Master MATHEW:
Mat. I think this be the house: what ho!
Enter COB.
Cob. Who's there? O, master Mathew! give your worship good morrow.
Mat. What, Cob! how dost thou, good Cob? dost thou inhabit here,
Cob?
Cob. Ay, sir, I and my lineage have kept a poor house here, in Our
days.
Mat. Thy lineage, monsieur Cob! what lineage, what lineage?
Cob. Why, sir, an ancient lineage, and a princely. Mine ance'try
came from a king's belly, no worse man; and yet no man either, by
your worship's leave, I did lie in that, but herring, the king of
fish (from his belly I proceed), one of the monarchs of the world,
I assure you. The first red herring that was broiled in Adam and
Eve's kitchen, do I fetch my pedigree from, by the harrot's book.
His cob was my great, great, mighty great grandfather.
Mat. Why mighty, why mighty, I pray thee?
Cob. O, it was a mighty while ago, sir, and a mighty great cob.
Mat. How know'st thou that?
Cob. How know I! why, I smell his ghost ever and anon.
Mat. Smell a ghost! O unsavoury jest! and the ghost of a herring
cob?
Cob. Ay, sir: With favour of your worship's nose, master Mathew,
why not the ghost of a herring cob, as well as the ghost of Rasher
Bacon?
Mat. Roger Bacon, thou would'st say.
Cob. I say Rasher Bacon. They were both broiled on the coals; and a
man may smell broiled meat, I hope! you are a scholar, upsolve me
that now.
Mat. O raw ignorance!—Cob, canst thou shew me of a gentleman, one
captain Bobadill, where his lodging is?
Cob. O, my guest, sir, you mean.
Mat. Thy guest! alas, ha, ha, ha!
Cob. Why do you laugh, sir? do you not mean captain Bobadill?
Mat. Cob, pray thee advise thyself well; do not wrong the
gentleman, and thyself too. I dare be sworn, he scorns thy house;
he! he lodge in such a base obscure place as thy house! Tut, I know
his disposition so well, he would not lie in thy bed if thou'dst
give it him.
Cob. I will not give it him though, sir. Mass, I thought somewhat
was in it, we could not get him to bed all night: Well, sir, though
he lie not on my bed, he lies on my bench: an't please you to go
up, sir, you shall find him with two cushions under his head, and
his cloak wrapped about him, as though he had neither won nor lost,
and yet, I warrant, he ne'er cast better in his life, than he has
done to-night.
Mat. Why, was he drunk?
Cob. Drunk, sir! you hear not me say so: perhaps he swallowed a
tavern-token, or some such device, sir, I have nothing to do
withal. I deal with water and not with wine—Give me my tankard
there, ho!—God be wi' you, sir. It's six o'clock: I should have
carried two turns by this. What ho! my stopple! come.
Enter Tib with a water-tankard.
Mat. Lie in a water-bearer's house! a gentleman of his havings!
Well, I'll tell him my mind.
Cob. What, Tib; shew this gentleman up to the captain.[Exit Tib
with Master Mathew.] Oh, an my house were the Brazen-head now!
faith it would e'en speak Moe fools yet. You should have some now
would take this master Mathew to be a gentleman, at the least. His
father's an honest man, a worshipful fishmonger, and so forth; and
now does he creep and wriggle into acquaintance with all the brave
gallants about the town, such as my guest is (O, my guest is a fine
man!), and they flout him invincibly. He useth every day to a
merchant's house where I serve water, one master Kitely's, in the
Old Jewry; and here's the jest, he is in love with
my master's sister, Mrs. Bridget, and calls her mistress; and there
he will sit you a whole afternoon sometimes, reading of these same
abominable, vile (a pox on 'em! I cannot abide them), rascally
verses, poetrie, poetrie, and speaking of interludes; 'twill make a
man burst to hear him. And the wenches, they do so jeer, and ti-he
at him—Well, should they do so much to me, I'd forswear them all,
by the foot of Pharaoh! There's an oath! How many water-bearers
shall you hear swear such an oath? O, I have a guest—he teaches
me-he does swear the legiblest of any man christened: By St.
George! the foot of Pharaoh! the body of me! as I am a gentleman
and a soldier! such dainty oaths! and withal he does take this same
filthy roguish tobacco, the finest and cleanliest! it would do a
man good to see the fumes come forth at's tonnels.—Well, he owes
me forty shillings, my wife lent him out of her purse, by sixpence
at a time, besides his lodging: I would I had it! I shall have it,
he says, the next action. Helterskelter, hang sorrow, care'll kill
a cat, up-tails all, and a louse for the hangman.
[Exit.
SCENE IV.-A Room in COB'S House.
BOBADILL discoved lying on a bench.
Bob. Hostess, hostess!
Enter TIB.
Tib. What say you, sir?
Bob. A cup of thy small beer, sweet hostess.
Tib. Sir, there's a gentleman below would speak with you.
Bob. A gentleman! 'odso, I am not within.
Tib. My husband told him you were, sir.
Bob. What a plague-what meant he?
Mat. [below.] Captain Bobadill!
Bob. Who's there!-Take away the bason, good hostess;—Come up, sir.
Tib. He would desire you to come up, cleanly house, here!
Enter MATHEW.
Mat. Save you, sir; save you, captain!
Bob. Gentle master Mathew! Is it you, sir? down.
Mat. Thank you, good captain; you may see I am somewhat audacious.
Bob. Not so, sir. I was requested to supper last night by a sort of
gallants, where you were wished for, and drunk to, I assure you.
Mat. Vouchsafe me, by whom, good captain?
Bob. Marry, by young Wellbred, and others.—Why, hostess, stool
here for this gentleman.
Mat. No haste, sir, 'tis very well.
Bob. Body O' me! it was so late ere we parted last night, I can
scarce open my eyes yet; I was but new risen, as you came; how
passes the day abroad, sir? you can tell.
Mat. Faith, some half hour to seven; Now, trust me, you have an
exceeding fine lodging here, very neat, and private.
Bob. Ay, sir: sit down, I pray you. Master Mathew, in any case
possess no gentlemen of our acquaintance with notice of my lodging.
Mat. Who? I, sir; no.
Bob. Not that I need to care who know it, for the cabin is
convenient; but in regard I would not be too popular, and generally
visited, as some are.
Mat. True, captain, I conceive you.
Bob. For, do you see, sir, by the heart of valour in me, except it
be to some peculiar and choice spirits, to whom I am
extraordinarily engaged, as yourself, or so, I could not extend
thus far.
Mat. O Lord, sir! I resolve so.
Bob. I confess I love a cleanly and quiet privacy, above all the
tumult and roar of fortune. What new book have you there? What! Go
by, Hieronymo?
Mat. Ay: did you ever see it acted? Is't not well penned?
[While Master Mathew reads, Bobadill makes himself ready.
Bob. Well penned! I would fain see all the poets of these times pen
such another play as that was: they'll prate and swagger, and keep
a stir of art and devices, when, as I am a gentleman, read 'em,
they are the most shallow, pitiful, barren fellows, that live upon
the: face of the earth again.
Mat. Indeed here are a number of fine speeches in this book. O
eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears! there's a conceit!
fountains fraught with tears! O life, no life, but lively form of
death! another. O world, no world, but mass of public wrongs! a
third. Confused and fill'd with murder and misdeeds! a fourth. O,
the muses! Is't not excellent? Is't not simply the best that ever
you heard, captain? Ha! how do you like it?
Bob. 'Tis good.
Mat.
To thee, the purest object to my sense,
The most refined essence heaven covers,
Send I these lines, wherein I do commence
The happy state of turtle-billing lovers.
If they prove rough, unpolish'd, harsh, and rude,
Haste made the waste: thus mildly I conclude.
Bob. Nay, proceed, proceed. Where's this?
Mat. This, sir! a toy of mine own, in my non-age; the infancy of my
muses. But when will you come and see my study? good faith, I can
shew you some very good things I have done of late.—That boot
becomes your leg passing well, captain, methinks.
Bob. So, so; it's the fashion gentlemen now use.
Mat. Troth, captain, and now you speak of the fashion, master
Wellbred's elder brother and I are fallen out exceedingly: This
other day, I happened to enter into some discourse of a hanger,
which, I assure you, both for fashion and workmanship, was most
peremptory beautiful and gentlemanlike: yet he condemned, and cried
it down for the most pied and ridiculous that ever he saw.
Bob. Squire Downright, the half brother, was't not?
Mat. Ay, sir, he.
Bob. Hang him, rook! he! why he-has no more judgment than a malt
horse: By St. George, I wonder you'd lose a thought upon such an
animal; the most peremptory absurd clown of Christendom, this day,
he is holden. I protest to you, as I am a gentleman and a soldier,
I ne'er changed with his like. By his discourse, he should eat
nothing but hay; he was born for the manger, pannier, or
pack-saddle. He has not so much as a good phrase in his belly, but
all old iron and rusty proverbs: a good commodity for some smith to
make hob-nails of.
Mat. Ay, and he thinks to carry it away with his manhood still,
where he comes: he brags he will give me the bastinado, as I hear.
Bob. How! he the bastinado! how came he by that word, trow?
Mat. Nay, indeed, he said cudgel me; I termed it so, for my more
grace.
Bob. That may be: for I was sure it was none of his word; but when,
when said he so?
Mat. Faith, yesterday, they say; a young gallant, a friend of mine,
told me so.
Bob. By the foot of Pharaoh, an 'twere my case now, I should send
him a chartel presently. The bastinado! a most proper and
sufficient dependence, warranted by the great Caranza. Come hither,
you shall chartel him; I'll shew you a trick or two you shall kill
him with at pleasure; the first stoccata, if you will, by this air.
Mat. Indeed, you have absolute knowledge in the mystery, I have
heard, sir.
Bob. Of whom, of whom, have you heard it, I beseech you?
Mat. Troth, I have heard it spoken of divers, that you have very
rare, and un-in-one-breath-utterable skill, sir.
Bob. By heaven, no, not I; no skill in the earth; some small
rudiments in the science, as to know my time, distance, or so. I
have professed it more for noblemen and gentlemen's use, than mine
own practice, I assure you.—Hostess, accommodate us with another
bed-staff here quickly. Lend us another bed-staff—the woman does
not understand the words of action.—Look you, sir: exalt not your
point above this state, at any hand, and let your poniard maintain
your defence, thus:—give it the gentleman, and leave us. [Exit Tib.]
So, sir. Come on: O, twine your body more about, that you may
fall to a more sweet, comely, gentlemanlike guard; so! indifferent:
hollow your body more, sir, thus: now, stand fast O' your left leg,
note your distance, keep your due proportion of time—oh, you
disorder your point most i rregularly.
Mat. How is the bearing of it now, sir?
Bob. O, out of measure ill: a well-experienced hand would pass upon
you at pleasure.
Mat. How mean you, sir, pass upon me?
Bob. Why, thus, sir,—make a thrust at me—[Master Mathew pushes at
Bobadill] come in upon the answer, control your point, and make a
full career at the body: The best-practised gallants of the time
name it the passado; a most desperate thrust, believe it.
Mat. Well, come, sir.
Bob. Why, you do not manage your weapon with any facility or grace
to invite me. I have no spirit to play with you; your dearth of
judgment renders you tedious.
Mat. But one venue, sir.
Bob. Venue! fie; the most gross denomination as ever I heard: O,
the stoccata, while you live, sir; note that.—Come, put on your
cloke, and we'll go to some private place where you are acquainted;
some tavern, or so—and have a bit. I'll send for one of these
fencers, and he shall breathe you, by my direction; and then I will
teach you your trick: you shall kill him with it at the first, if
you please. Why, I will learn you, by the true judgment of the eye,
hand, and foot, to control any enemy's point in the world. Should
your adversary confront you with a pistol, 'twere nothing, by this
hand! you should, by the same rule, control his bullet, in a line,
except it were hail shot, and spread. What money have you about
you, master Mathew?
Mat. Faith, I have not past a two shilling or so.
Bob. 'Tis somewhat with the least; but come; we will have a bunch
of radish and salt to taste our wine, and a pipe of tobacco to
close the orifice of the stomach: and then we'll call upon young
Wellbred: perhaps we shall meet the Corydon his brother there, and
put him to the question.
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