SCENE I.-The Old Jewry. A Hall in KITELY'S House.
Enter KITELY, CASH, and DOWNRIGHT.
Kit.
Thomas, come hither.
There lies a note within upon my desk;
Here take my key: it is no matter neither.—-
Where is the boy?
Cash. Within, sir, in the warehouse.
Kit.
Let him tell over straight that Spanish gold,
And weigh it, with the pieces of eight. Do you
See the delivery of those silver stuffs
To Master Lucar: tell him, if he will,
He shall have the grograns, at the rate I told him,
And I. will meet him on the Exchange anon.
Cash. Good, sir. [Exit.
Kit. Do you see that fellow, brother Downright?
Dow. Ay, what of him?
Kit. He is a jewel, brother.
I took him of a child up at my door,
And christen'd him, gave him mine own name, Thomas:
Since bred him at the Hospital; where proving
A toward imp, I call'd him home, and taught him
So much, as I have made him my cashier,
And giv'n him, who had none, a surname, Cash:
And find him in his place so full of faith,
That I durst trust my life into his hands.
Dow.
So would not I in any bastard's, brother,
As it is like he is, although I knew
Myself his father. But you said you had somewhat
To tell me, gentle brother: what is't, what is't?
Kit.
Faith, I am very loath to utter it,
As fearing it may hurt your patience:
But that I know your judgment is of strength,
Against the nearness of affection—-
Dow.
What need this circumstance? pray you, be direct.
Kit.
I will not say how much I do ascribe
Unto your friendship, nor in what regard
I hold your love; but let my past behaviour,
And usage of your sister, [both] confirm
How well I have been affected to your—-
Dow.
You are too tedious; come to the matter, the matter.
Kit.
Then, without further ceremony, thus.
My brother Wellbred, sir, I know not how,
Of late is much declined in what he was,
And greatly alter'd in his disposition.
When he came first to lodge here in my house,
Ne'er trust me if I were not proud of him:
Methought he bare himself in such a fashion,
So full of man, and sweetness in his carriage,
And what was chief, it shew'd not borrow'd in him,
But all he did became him as his own,
And seem'd as perfect, proper, and possest,
As breath with life, or colour with the blood.
But now, his course is so irregular,
So loose, affected, and deprived of grace,
And he himself withal so far fallen off
From that first place, as scarce no note remains,
To tell men's judgments where he lately stood.
He's grown a stranger to all due respect,
Forgetful of his friends; and not content
To stale himself in all societies,
He makes my house here common as a mart,
A theatre, a public receptacle
For giddy humour, and deceased riot;
And here, as in a tavern or a stews,
He and his wild associates spend their hours,
In repetition of lascivious jests,
Swear, leap, drink, dance, and revel night by night,
Control my servants; and, indeed, what not?
Dow. 'Sdeins, I know not what I should say to him, in the whole
world! He values me at a crack'd three-farthings, for aught I see.
It will never out of the flesh that's bred in the bone. I have
told him enough, one would think, if that would serve; but counsel
to him is as good as a shoulder of mutton to a sick horse. Well!
he knows what to trust to, for George: let him spend, and spend,
and domineer, till his heart ake; an he think to be relieved by
me, when he is got into one O' your city pounds, the counters, he
has the wrong sow by the ear, i'faith; and claps his dish at the
wrong man's door: I'll lay my hand on my halfpenny, ere I part
with it to fetch him out, I'll assure him.'
Kit. Nay, good brother, let it not trouble you thus.
Dow. 'Sdeath! he mads me; I could eat my very spur leathers for
anger! But, why are you so tame? why do you not speak to him, and
tell him how he disquiets your house?
Kit.
O, there are divers reasons to dissuade me.
But, would yourself vouchsafe to travail in it
(Though but with plain and easy circumstance),
It would both come much better to his sense,
And savour less of stomach, or of passion.
You are his elder brother, and that title
Both gives and warrants your authority,
Which, by your presence seconded, must breed
A kind of duty in him, and regard:
Whereas, if I should intimate the least,
It would but add contempt to his neglect,
Heap worse on ill, make up a pile of hatred,
That in the rearing would come tottering down,
And in the ruin bury all our love.
Nay, more than this, brother; if I should speak,
He would be ready, from his heat of humour,
And overflowing of the vapour in him,
To blow the ears of his familiars
With the false breath of telling what disgraces,
And low disparagement's, I had put upon him.
Whilst they, sir, to relieve him in the fable,
Make their loose comments upon every word,
Gesture, or look, I use; mock me all over,
From my flat cap unto my shining shoes;
And, out of their impetuous rioting phant'sies,
Beget some slander that shall dwell with me.
And what would that be, think you? marry, this:
They would give out, because my wife is fair,
Myself but lately married; and my sister '.
Here sojourning a virgin in my house,
That I were jealous I—-nay, as sure as death,
That they would say: and, how that I had quarrell'd,
My brother purposely, thereby to find
An apt pretext to banish them my house.
Dow. Mass, perhaps so; they're like enough to do it.
Kit.
Brother, they would, believe it; so should I,
Like one of these penurious quack-salvers,
But set the bills up to mine own disgrace,
And try experiments upon myself;
Lend scorn and envy opportunity
To stab my reputation and good name—
Enter Master MATHEW struggling with BOBADILL.
Mat. I will speak to him.
Bob. Speak to him! away! By the foot of Pharaoh, you shall not! you
shall not do him that grace.—The time of day to you, gentleman O'
the house. Is master Wellbred stirring?
Dow. How then? what should he do?
Bob. Gentleman of the house, it is to you: is he within, sir?
Kit. He came not to his lodging to-night, sir, I assure you.
Dow. Why, do you hear? you!
Bob.
The gentleman citizen hath satisfied me;
I'll talk to no scavenger. [Exeunt Bob. and Mat.
Dow. How! scavenger! stay, sir, stay!
Kit. Nay, brother Downright.
Dow. 'Heart! stand you away, an you love me.
Kit. You shall not follow him now, I pray you, brother, good faith
you shall not; I will overrule you.
Dow. Ha! scavenger! well, go to, I say little: but, by this good
day (God forgive me I should swear), if I put it up so, say I am
the rankest cow that ever pist. 'Sdeins, an I swallow this, I'll
ne'er draw my sword in the sight of Fleet-street again while I
live; I'll sit in a barn with madge-howlet, and catch mice first.
Scavenger! heart!—and I'll go near to fill that huge tumbrel-slop
of yours with somewhat, an I have good luck: your Garagantua breech
cannot carry it away so.
Kit. Oh, do not fret yourself thus: never think on't.
Dow. These are my brother's consorts, these! these are his
camerades, his walking mates! he's a gallant, cavaliero too,
right hangman cut! Let me not live, an I could not find in my heart
to swinge the whole gang of 'em, one after another, and begin with
him first. I am grieved it should be said he is my brother, and
take these courses: Well, as he brews, so shall he drink, for
George, again. Yet he shall hear on't, and that tightly too, an I
live, i'faith.
Kit.
But, brother, let your reprehension, then,
Run in an easy current, not o'er high
Carried with rashness, or devouring choler;
But rather use the soft persuading way,
Whose powers will work more gently, and compose
The imperfect thoughts you labour to reclaim;
More winning, than enforcing the consent.
Dow. Ay, ay, let me alone for that, I warrant you.
Kit.
How now! [Bell rings.] Oh, the bell rings to breakfast.
Brother, I pray you go in, and bear my wife company till I come;
I'll but give order for some despatch of business to my servants.
[Exit Downright. Enter COB, with his tankard.
Kit.
What, Cob! our maids will have you by the back, i'faith, for
coming so late this morning.
Cob.
Perhaps so, sir; take heed somebody have not them by the belly,
for walking so late in the evening. [Exit.
Kit.
Well; yet my troubled spirit's somewhat eased,
Though not reposed in that security
As I could wish: but I must be content,
Howe'er I set a face on't to the world.
Would I had lost this finger at a venture,
So Wellbred had ne'er lodged within my house.
Why't cannot be, where there is such resort
Of wanton gallants, and young revellers,
That any woman should be honest long.
Is't like, that factious beauty will preserve
The public weal of chastity unshaken,
When such strong motives muster, and make head
Against her single peace? No, no: beware.
When mutual appetite doth meet to treat,
And spirits of one kind and quality
Come once to parley in the pride of blood,
It is no slow conspiracy that follows.
Well, to be plain, if I but thought the time
Had answer'd their affections, all the world
Should not persuade me but I were a cuckold.
Marry, I hope they have not got that start;
For opportunity hath balk'd them yet,
And shall do still, while I have eyes and ears
To attend the impositions of my heart.
My presence shall be as an iron bar,
'Twixt the conspiring motions of desire:
Yea, every look or glance mine eye ejects
Shall check occasion, as one doth his slave,
When he forgets the limits of prescription.
Enter Dame KITELY and BRIDGET.
Dame K. Sister Bridget, pray you fetch down the rose-water,
above in the closet.—-
[Exit Bridget.
Sweet-heart, will you come in to breakfast?
Kit. An she have overheard me now!—-
Dame K. I pray thee, good muss, we stay for you.
Kit. By heaven, I would not for a thousand angels.
Dame K. What ail you, sweet-heart? are you not well? speak, good
muss.
Kit. Troth my head akes extremely on a sudden.
Dame K. [putting her hand to his forehead.] O, the Lord!
Kit. How now! What?
Dame K. Alas, how it burns! Muss, keep you warm; good truth it is
this new disease. There's a number are troubled withal. For love's
sake, sweetheart, come in, out of the air.
Kit.
How simple, and how subtle are her answers!
A new disease, and many troubled with it?
Why true; she heard me, all the world to nothing.
Dame K. I pray thee, good sweet-heart, come in; the air will do you
harm, in troth.
Kit. The air! she has me in the wind.—Sweet-heart, I'll come to
you presently; 'twill away, I hope.
Dame K. Pray Heaven it do. [Exit.
Kit.
A new disease! I. know not, new or old,
But it may well be call'd poor mortals' plague;
For, like a pestilence, it doth infect
The houses of the brain. First it begins
Solely to work upon the phantasy,
Filling her seat with such pestiferous air,
As soon corrupts the judgment; and from thence,
Sends like contagion to the memory:
Still each to other giving the infection.
Which as a subtle vapour spreads itself
Confusedly through every sensive part,
Till not a thought or motion in the mind
Be free from the black poison of suspect.
Ah! but what misery is it to know this?
Or, knowing it, to want the mind's erection
In such extremes? Well, I will once more strive,
In spite of this black cloud, myself to be,
And shake the fever off that thus shakes me. [Exit.
SCENE II.—-Moorfields.
Enter BRAINWORM disguised like a maimed Soldier.
Brai. 'Slid, I cannot choose but laugh to see myself translated
thus, from a poor creature to a creator; for now must I create an
intolerable sort of lies, or my present profession loses the grace:
and yet the lie, to a man of my coat, is as ominous a fruit as the
fico. O, sir, it holds for good polity ever, to have that outwardly
in vilest estimation, that inwardly is most dear to us: so much for
my borrowed shape. Well, the troth is, my old master intends to
follow my young master, dry-foot, over Moorfields to London, this
morning; now, I knowing of this hunting-match, or rather conspiracy,
and to insinuate with my young master (for so must we that are blue
waiters, and men of hope and service do, or perhaps we may wear
motley at the year's end, and who wears motley, you know), have got
me afore in this disguise, determining here to lie in ambuscado,
and intercept him in the mid-way. If I can but get his cloke, his
purse, and his hat, nay, any thing to cut him off, that is, to stay
his journey, Veni, vidi, vici, I may say with captain Caesar, I am
made for ever, i'faith. Well, now I must practise to get the true
garb of one of these lance-knights, my arm here, and my—Odso! my
young master, and his cousin, master Stephen, as I am true
counterfeit man of war, and no soldier!
Enter E. KNOWELL and STEPHEN.
E. Know. So, sir! and how then, coz?
Step. 'Sfoot! I have lost my purse, I think.
E. Know. How! lost your purse? where? when had you it?
Step. I cannot tell; stay.
Brai. 'Slid, I am afraid they will know me: would I could get by
them!
E. Know. What, have you it?
Step. No; I think I was bewitched, I— [Cries.
E. Know. Nay, do not weep the loss: hang it, let it go.
Step. Oh, it's here: No, an it had been lost, I had not cared, but
for a jet ring mistress Mary sent me.
E. Know. A jet ring! O the poesie, the poesie?
Step. Fine, i'faith.
Though Fancy sleep,
My love is deep.
Meaning, that though I did not fancy her, yet she loved me dearly.
E. Know. Most excellent!
Step. And then I sent her another, and my poesie was,
The deeper the sweeter,
I'll be judg'd by St. Peter.
E. Know. How, by St. Peter? I do not conceive that.
Step. Marry, St. Peter, to make up the metre.
E. Know. Well, there the saint was your good patron, he help'd you
at your need; thank him, thank him.
Brai. I cannot take leave on 'em so; I will venture, come what
will. [Comes forward.] Gentlemen, please you change a few crowns
for a very excellent blade here? I am a poor gentleman, a soldier,
one that, in the better state of my fortunes, scorned so mean a
refuge; but now it is the humour of necessity to have it so. You
seem to be gentlemen well affected to martial men, else I should
rather die with silence, than live with shame: however, vouchsafe
to remember it is my want speaks, not myself; this condition agrees
not with my spirit—
E. Know. Where hast thou served?
Brai. May it please you, sir, in all the late wars of Bohemia,
Hungary, Dalmatia, Poland, where not, sir? I have been a poor
servitor by sea and land any time this fourteen years, and followed
the fortunes of the best commanders in Christendom. I was twice,
shot at the taking of Aleppo, once at the relief of Vienna; I have
been at Marseilles, Naples, and the Adriatic gulf, a
gentleman-slave in the gallies, thrice; where I was most
dangerously shot in the head, through both the thighs; and yet,
being thus maimed, I am void of maintenance, nothing left me but my
scars, the noted marks of my resolution.
Step. How will you sell this rapier, friend?
Brai. Generous sir, I refer it to your own judgment; you are a
gentleman, give me what you please.
Step. True, I am a gentleman, I know that, friend; but what though!
I pray you say, what would you ask?
Brai. I assure you, the blade may become the side or thigh of the
best prince in Europe.
E. Know. Ay, with a velvet scabbard, I think.
Step. Nay, an't be mine, it shall have a velvet scapbard, coz,
that's flat; I'd not wear it, as it is, an you would give me an
angel,
Brai. At your worship's pleasure, sir; nay, 'tis a most pure
Toledo.
Step. I had rather it were a Spaniard. But tell me, what shall I
give you for it? An it had a silver hilt
E. Know. Come, come, you shall not buy it: hold, there's a
shilling, fellow; take thy rapier.
Step. Why, but I will buy it now, because you say so; and there's
another shilling, fellow; I scorn to be out-bidden. What, shall I
walk with a cudgel, like Higginbottom, and may have a rapier for
money.
E. Know. You may buy one in the city.
Step. Tut! I'll buy this i' the field, so I will: I have a mind
to't, because 'tis a field rapier. Tell me your lowest price.
E. Know. You shall not buy it, I. say.
Step. By this money, but I will, though I give more than 'tis
worth.
E. Know. Come away, you are a fool.
Step. Friend, I am a fool, that's granted; but I'll have it, for
that word's sake. Follow me for your money.
Brai. At your service, sir.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.—-Another Part of Moorfields.
Enter KNOWELL.
Know.
I cannot lose the thought yet of this letter,
Sent to my son; nor leave t' admire the change
Of manners, and the breeding of our youth
Within the kingdom, since myself was one—-
When I was young, he lived not in the stews
Durst have conceived a scorn, and utter'd it,
On a gray head; age was authority
Against a buffoon, and a man had then
A certain reverence paid unto his years,
That had none due unto his life: so much
The sanctity of some prevail'd for others.
But now we all are fallen; youth, from their fear,
And age, from that which bred it, good example.
Nay, would ourselves were not the first, even parents,
That did destroy the hopes in our own children;
Or they not learn'd our vices in their cradles,
And suck'd in our ill customs with their milk;
Ere all their teeth be born, or they can speak,
We make their palates cunning; the first words
We form their tongues with, are licentious jests:
Can it call whore? cry bastard? O, then, kiss it!
A witty child! can't swear? the father's darling!
Give it two plums. Nay, rather than't shall learn
No bawdy song, the mother herself will teach it!—-
But this is in the infancy, the days
Of the long coat; when it puts on the breeches,
It will put off all this: Ay, it is like,
When it is gone into the bone already!
No, no; this dye goes deeper than the coat,
Or shirt, or skin; it stains into the liver,
And heart, in some; and, rather than it should not,
Note what we fathers do! look how we live!
What mistresses we keep! at what expense,
In our sons' eyes! where they may handle our gifts,
Hear our lascivious courtships, see our dalliance,
Taste of the same provoking meats with us,
To ruin of our states! Nay, when our own
Portion is fled, to prey on the remainder,
We call them into fellowship of vice;
Bait 'em with the young chamber-maid, to seal,
And teach 'em all bad ways to buy affliction.
This is one path: but there are millions more,
In which we spoil our own, with leading them.
Well, I thank heaven, I never yet was he
That travell'd with my son, before sixteen,
To shew him the Venetian courtezans;
Nor read the grammar of cheating I had made,
To my sharp boy, at twelve; repeating still
The rule, Get money; still, get money, boy;
No matter by what means; money will do
More, boy, than my lord's letter. Neither have I
Drest snails or mushrooms curiously before him,
Perfumed my sauces, and taught him how to make them;
Preceding still, with my gray gluttony,
At all the ord'naries, and only fear'd
His palate should degenerate, not his manners.
These are the trade of fathers now; however,
My son, I hope, hath met within my threshold
None of these household precedents, which are strong,
And swift, to rape youth to their precipice.
But let the house at home be ne'er so clean
Swept, or kept sweet from filth, nay dust and cobwebs,
If he will live abroad with his companions,
In dung and leystals, it is worth a fear;
Nor is the danger of conversing less
Than all that I have mention'd of example.
Enter BRAIN WORM, disguised as before.
Brai. My master! nay, faith, have at you; I am flesh'd now, I have
sped so well. [Aside.] Worshipful sir, I beseech you, respect the
estate of a poor soldier; lam ashamed of this base course of
life,—God's my comfort—but extremity provokes me to't: what
remedy?
Know. I have not for you, now.
Brai. By the faith I bear unto truth, gentleman, it is no ordinary
custom in me, but only to preserve manhood. I protest to you, a man
I have been: a man I may be, by your sweet bounty.
Know. Pray thee, good friend, be satisfied.
Brai. Good sir, by that hand, you may do the part of a kind
gentleman, in lending a poor soldier the price of two cans of beer,
a matter of small value: the king of heaven shall pay you, and I
shall rest thankful: Sweet worship—
Know. Nay, an you be so importunate
Brai. Oh, tender sir! need will have its course: I was not made to
this vile use. Well, the edge of the enemy could not have abated me
so much: it's hard when a man hath served in his prince's cause,
and be thus. [Weeps.] Honourable worship, let me derive a small
piece of silver from you, it shall not be given in the course of
time. By this good ground, I was fain to pawn my rapier last night
for a poor supper; I had suck'd the hilts long before, am a pagan
else: Sweet honour—
Know.
Believe me, I am taken with some wonder,
To think a fellow of thy outward presence,
Should, in the frame and fashion of his mind,
Be so degenerate, and sordid-base.
Art thou a man? and sham'st thou not to beg,
To practise such a servile kind of life?
Why, were thy education ne'er so mean,
Having thy limbs, a thousand fairer courses
Offer themselves to thy election.
Either the wars might still supply thy wants,
Or service of some virtuous gentleman,
Or honest labour; nay, what can I name,
But would become thee better than to beg:
But men of thy condition feed on sloth,
As cloth the beetle on the dung she breeds in;
Nor caring how the metal of your minds
Is eaten with the rust of idleness.
Now, afore me, whate'er he be, that should
Relieve a person of thy quality,
While thou insist'st in this loose desperate course,
I would esteem the sin not thine, but his.
Brai. Faith, sir, I would gladly find some other course, if so—-
Know.
Ay,
You'd gladly find it, but you will not seek it.
Brai. Alas, sir, where should a man seek? in the wars; there's no
ascent by desert in these days; but—and for service, would it
were as soon purchased, as wished for! the air's my comfort.—-
[Sighs.]—-l know what I would say.
Know. What's thy name?
Brai. Please you, Fitz-Sword, sir.
Know. Fitz-Sword!
Say that a man should entertain thee now,
Wouldst thou be honest, humble, just, and true?
Brai. Sir, by the place and honour of a soldier—-
Know. Nay, nay, I like not these affected oaths; speak plainly,
man, what think'st thou of my words?
Brai. Nothing, sir, but wish my fortunes were as happy as my
service should be honest.
Know.
Well, follow me; I'll prove thee, if thy deeds
Will carry a proportion to thy words. [Exit.
Brai. Yes, sir, straight; I'll but garter my hose. Oh that my belly
were hoop'd now, for I am ready to burst with laughing! never was
bottle or bagpipe fuller. 'Slid, was there ever seen a fox in years
to betray himself thus! now shall I be possest of all his counsels;
and, by that conduit, my young master. Well, he is resolved to
prove my honesty; faith, and I'm resolved to prove his patience:
Oh, I shall abuse him intolerably. This small piece of service will
bring him clean out of love with the soldier for ever. He will
never come within the sign of it, the sight of a cassock, or a
musket-rest again. He will hate the musters at Mile-end for it, to
his dying day. It's no matter, let the world think me a bad
counterfeit, if I cannot give him the slip at an instant: why, this
is better than to have staid his journey: well, I'll follow him.
Oh, how I long to be employed!
[Exit.
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