SCENE I.-The Old Jewry. A Room in the Windmill Tavern.
Enter Master MATHEW, WELLBRED, and BOBADILL.
Mat. Yes, faith, sir, we were at your lodging to seek you too.
Wel; Oh, I came not there to-night.
Bob. Your brother delivered us as much.
Wel. Who, my brother Downright?
Bob. He. Mr. Wellbred, I know not in what kind you hold me; but let
me say to you this: as sure as honour, I esteem it So much out of
the sunshine of reputation, to throw the least beam of regard upon
such a—
Wel. Sir, I must hear no ill words of my brother.
Bob. I protest to you, as I have a thing to be saved about me, I
never saw any gentlemanlike part—
Wel. Good captain, faces about to some other discourse.
Bob. With your leave, sir, an there were no more men living upon
th' face of the earth, I should not fancy him, by St. George!
Mat. Troth, nor I; he is of a rustical cut, I know not how: he doth
not carry himself like a gentleman of fashion.
Wel. Oh, master Mathew, that's a grace peculiar but to a few, quos
aequus amavit Jupiter.
Mat. I understand you, sir.
Wel. No question, you do,—or do you not, sir.
Enter E. KNOWELL and Master STEPHEN.
Ned Knowell! by my soul, welcome: how dost thou, sweet spirit, my
genius? 'Slid, I shall love Apollo and the mad Thespian girls the
better, while I live, for this, my dear Fury; now, I see there's
some love in thee. Sirrah, these be the two I writ to thee of: nay,
what a drowsy humour is this now! why dost thou not speak?
E. Know. Oh, you are a fine gallant; you sent me a rare letter.
Wel. Why, was't not rare?
E. Know. Yes, I'll be sworn, I was ne'er guilty of reading the
like; match it in all Pliny, or Symmachus's epistles, and I'll have
my judgment burn'd in the ear for a rogue: make much of thy vein,
for it is inimitable. But I marle what camel it was, that had the
carriage of it; for, doubtless, he was no ordinary beast that
brought it.
Wel. Why?
E. Know. Why, say'st thou! why, dost thou think that any reasonable
creature, especially in the morning, the sober time of the day too,
could have mistaken my father for me?
Wel. 'Slid, you jest, I hope.
E. Know. Indeed, the best use we can turn it to, is to make a jest
on't; now: but I'll assure you, my father had the full view of your
flourishing style some hour before I saw it.
Wel. What a dull slave was this! but, sirrah, what said he to it,
i'faith?
E. Know. Nay, I know not what he said; but I have a shrewd guess
what he thought.
Wel. What, what?
E. Know. Marry, that thou art some strange, dissolute young fellow,
and I—a grain or two better, for keeping thee company.
Wel. Tut! that thought is like the moon in her last quarter, 'twill
change shortly: but, sirrah, I pray thee be acquainted with my two
hang-by's here; thou wilt take exceeding pleasure in them if thou
hear'st 'em once go; my wind-instruments; I'll wind them up—But
what strange piece of silence is this, the sign of the Dumb Man?
E. Know. Oh, sir, a kinsman of mine, one that may make your music
the fuller, an he please; he has his humour, sir.
Wel. Oh, what is't, what is't?
E. Know. Nay, I'll neither do your judgment nor his folly that
wrong, as to prepare your apprehension: I'll leave him to the mercy
of your search; if you can take him, so!
Wel. Well, captain Bobadill, master Mathew, pray you know this
gentleman here; he is a friend of mine, and one that will deserve
your affection. I know not your name, sir, [to Stephen.] but I
shall be glad of any occasion to render me more familiar to you.
Step. My name is master Stephen, sir; I am this gentleman's own
cousin, sir; his father is mine uncle, sir: I am somewhat
melancholy, but you shall command me, sir, in whatsoever is
incident to a gentleman.
Bob. Sir, I must tell you this, I am no general man; but for master
Wellbred's sake, (you may embrace it at what height of favour you
please,) I do communicate with you, and conceive you to be a
gentleman of some parts; I love few words.
E. Know. And I fewer, sir; I have scarce enough to thank you.
Mat. But are you, indeed, sir, so given to it?
Step. Ay, truly, sir, I am mightily given to melancholy.
Mat. Oh, it's your only fine humour, sir: your true melancholy
breeds your perfect fine wit, sir. I am melancholy myself, diver
times, sir, and then do I no more but take pen and paper,
presently, and overflow you half a score, or a dozen of sonnets at
a sitting.
E. Know. Sure he utters them then by the gross. [Aside.
Step. Truly, sir, and I love such things out of measure.
E. Know. I'faith, better than in measure, I'll undertake.
Mat. Why, I pray you, sir, make use of my study, it's at your
service.
Step. I thank you, sir, I shall be bold I warrant you; have you a
stool there to be melancholy upon?
Mat. That I have, sir, and some papers there of mine own doing, at
idle hours, that you'll say there's some sparks of wit in 'em, when
you see them,
Wel. Would the sparks would kindle once, and become a fire amongst
them! I might see self-love burnt for her heresy. [Aside.
Step. Cousin, is it well? am I melancholy enough?
E. Know, Oh ay, excellent.
Wel. Captain Bobadill, why muse you so?
E. Know. He is melancholy too.
Bob. Faith, sir, I was thinking of a most honourable piece of
service, was performed to-morrow, being St. Mark's day, shall be
some ten years now.
E. Know. In what place, captain?
Bob. Why, at the beleaguering of Strigonium, where, in less than
two hours, seven hundred resolute gentlemen, as any were in Europe,
lost their lives upon the breach. I'll tell you, gentlemen, it was
the first, but the best leaguer that ever I beheld with these eyes,
except the taking in of—what do you call it?—last year, by the
Genoways; but that, of all other, was the most fatal and dangerous
exploit that ever I was ranged in, since I first bore arms before
the face of the enemy, as I am a gentleman and a soldier!
Step. So! I had as lief as an angel I could swear as well as that
gentleman.
E. Know. Then, you were a servitor at both, it seems; at
Strigonium, and what do you call't?
Bob. O lord, sir! By St. George, I was the first man that entered
the breach; and had I not effected it with resolution, I had been
slain if I had had a million of lives.
E. Know. 'Twas pity you had not ten; a cat's and your own, i'faith.
But, was it possible?
Mat. Pray you mark this discourse, sir.
Step. So I do.
Bob. I assure' you, upon my reputation, 'tis true, and you shall
confess.
E. Know. You must bring me to the rack, first. [Aside.
Bob. Observe me judicially, sweet sir; they had planted me three
demi-culverins just in the mouth of the breach; now, sir, as we
were to give on, their master-gunner (a man of no mean skill and
mark, you must think,) confronts me with his linstock, ready to
give fire; I, spying his intendment, discharged my petronel in his
bosom, and with these single arms, my poor rapier, ran violently
upon the Moors that guarded the ordnance, and put them pell-mell,
to the sword.
Wel. To the sword! To the rapier, captain.
E. Know. Oh, it was a good figure observed, sir: but did you all
this, captain, without hurting your blade?
Bob. Without any impeach O' the earth: you shall perceive, sir.
[Shews his rapier.] It is the most fortunate weapon that ever rid
on poor gentleman's thigh. Shall I tell you, sir? You talk of
Morglay, Excalibur, Durindana, or so; tut! I lend no credit to that
is fabled of 'em: I know the virtue of mine own, and therefore I
dare the boldlier maintain it.
Step. I marle whether it be a Toledo or no.
Bob. A most perfect Toledo, I assure you, sir. Step. I have a
countryman of his here.
Mat. Pray you, let's see, sir; yes, faith, it is.
Bob. This a Toledo! Pish!
Step. Why do you pish, captain?
Bob. A Fleming, by heaven! I'll buy them for a guilder a-piece. An
I would have a thousand of them.
E. Know. How say you, cousin? I told you thus much.
Wel. Where bought you it, master Stephen?
Step. Of a scurvy rogue soldier: a hundred of lice go with him! He
swore it was a Toledo.
Bob. A poor provant rapier, no better.
Mat. Mass, I think it be indeed, now I look on't better.
E. Know. Nay, the longer you look on't, the worse. Put it up, put
it up.
Step. Well, I will put it up; but by—I have forgot the captain's
oath, I thought to have sword! by it,—an e'er I meet him—
Wel. O, it is past help now, sir; you must have patience.
Step. Whoreson, coney-hatching rascal! I could eat the very hilts
for anger.
E. Know. A sign of good digestion; you have an ostrich stomach,
Cousin.
Step. A stomach! would I had him here, you should see an I had a
stomach.
Wel. It's better as it is.—Come, gentlemen, shall we go?
Enter BRAINWORM, disguised as before.
E. Know. A miracle, cousin; look here, look here!
Step. Oh—'Od's lid. By your leave, do you know me, sir?
Brai. Ay, sir, I know you by sight.
Step. You sold me a rapier, did you not?
Brai. Yes, marry did I, sir.
Step. You said it was a Toledo, ha?
Brai. True, I did so.
Step. But it is none.
Brai. No, sir, I confess it; it is none.
Step. Do you confess it? Gentlemen, bear witness, he has confest
it:—'Od's will, an you had not confest it.===
E. Know. Oh, cousin, forbear, forbear! Step. Nay, I have done,
cousin.
Wel. Why, you have done like a gentleman; he has confest it, what
would you more?
Step. Yet, by his leave, he is a rascal, under his favour, do you
see.
E. Know. Ay, by his leave, he is, and under favour: a pretty piece
of civility! Sirrah, how dost thou like him?
Wel. Oh, it's a most precious fool, make much on him: I can compare
him to nothing more happily than a drum; for every one may play
upon him.
E. Know. No, no, a child's whistle were far the fitter.
Brai. Shall I intreat a word with you?
E. Know. With me, sir? you have not another Toledo to sell, have
you?
Brai. You are conceited, sir: Your name is Master Knowell, as I
take it?
E. Know. You are in the right; you mean not to proceed in the
catechism, do you?
Brai. No, sir; I am none of that coat.
E. Know. Of as bare a coat, though: well, say, sir.
Brai. [taking E. Know. aside.] Faith, sir, I am but servant to the
drum extraordinary, and indeed, this smoky varnish being washed
off, and three or four patches removed, I appear your worship's in
reversion, after the decease of your good father, Brainworm.
E. Know. Brainworm'! 'Slight, what breath of a conjurer hath blown
thee hither in this shape?
Brai. The breath of your letter, sir, this morning; the same that
blew you to the Windmill, and your father after you.
E. Know. My father!
Brai. Nay, never start, 'tis true; he has followed you over the
fields by the foot, as you would do a hare in the snow.
E. Know. Sirrah Wellbred, what shall we do, sirrah? my father is
come over after me.
Wel. Thy father! Where is he?
Brai. At justice Clement's house, in Coleman-street, where he but
stays my return; and then—
Wel. Who's this? Brainworm!
Brai. The same, sir.
Wel. Why how, in the name of wit, com'st thou transmuted thus?
Brai. Faith, a device, a device; nay, for the love of reason,
gentlemen, and avoiding the danger, stand not here; withdraw, and
I'll tell you all.
Wel. But art thou sure he will stay thy return?
Brai. Do I live, sir? what a question is that!
Wel. We'll prorogue his expectation, then, a little: Brainworm,
thou shalt go with us.—Come on, gentlemen.==-Nay, I pray thee,
sweet Ned, droop not; 'heart, an our wits be so wretchedly dull,
that one old plodding brain can outstrip us all, would we were e'en
prest to make porters of, and serve out the remnant of our days in
Thames-street, or at Custom-house key, in a civil war against the
carmen!
Brai. Amen, amen, amen, say I. [Exeunt.
SCENE II—-The Old Jewry. KITELY'S Warehouse.
Enter KITELY and CASH.
Kit. What says he, Thomas? did you speak with him?
Cash. He will expect you, sir, within this half hour.
Kit. Has he the money ready, can you tell?
Cash. Yes, sir, the money was brought in last night.
Kit.
O, that is well; fetch me my cloak, my cloak!—- [Exit Cash.
Stay, let me see, an hour to go and come;
Ay, that will be the least; and then 'twill be
An hour before I can dispatch with him,
Or very near; well, I will say two hours.
Two hours! ha! things never dreamt of yet,
May be contrived, ay, and effected too,
In two hours' absence; well, I will not go.
Two hours! No, fleering Opportunity,
I will not give your subtilty that scope.
Who will not judge him worthy to be robb'd,
That sets his doors wide open to a thief,
And shews the felon where his treasure lies?
Again, what earthly spirit but will attempt
To taste the fruit of beauty's golden tree,
When leaden sleep seals up the dragon's eyes?
I will not go. Business, go by for once.
No, beauty, no; you are of too good caract,
To be left so, without a guard, or open,
Your lustre, too, 'll inflame at any distance,
Draw courtship to you, as a jet doth straws;
Put motion in a stone, strike fire from ice,
Nay, make a porter leap you with his burden.
You must be then kept up, close, and well watch'd,
For, give you opportunity, no quick-sand
Devours or swallows swifter! He that lends
His wife, if she be fair, or time or place,
Compels her to be false. I will not go!
The dangers are too many;—-and then the dressing
Is a most main attractive! Our great heads
Within this city never were in safety
Since our wives wore these little caps: I'll change 'em;
I'll change 'em straight in mine: mine shall no more
Wear three-piled acorns, to make my horns ake.
Nor will I go; I am resolved for that.
Re-enter CASH with a cloak.
Carry in my cloak again. Yet stay. Yet do, too:
I will defer going, on all occasions.
Cash.
Sir, Snare, your scrivener, will be there with the bonds.
Kit.
That's true: fool on me! I had clean forgot it;
I must go. What's a clock?
Cash. Exchange-time, sir.
Kit.
'Heart, then will Wellbred presently be here too,
With one or other of his loose consorts.
I am a knave, if I know what to say,
What course to take, or which way to resolve.
My brain, methinks, is like an hour-glass,
Wherein my imaginations run like sands,
Filling up time; but then are turn'd and turn'd:
So that I know not what to stay upon,
And less, to put in act.—-It shall be so.
Nay, I dare build upon his secrecy,
He knows not to deceive me.—-Thomas!
Cash. Sir.
Kit.
Yet now I have bethought me too, I will not.—-
Thomas, is Cob within?
Cash. I think he be, sir.
Kit.
But he'll prate too, there is no speech of him.
No, there were no man on the earth to Thomas,
If I durst trust him; there is all the doubt.
But should he have a clink in him, I were gone.
Lost in my fame for ever, talk for th' Exchange!
The manner he hath stood with, till this present,
Doth promise no such change: what should I fear then?
Well, come what will, I'll tempt my fortune once.
Thomas—-you may deceive me, but, I hope—-
Your love to me is more—-
Cash. Sir, if a servant's
Duty, with faith, may be call'd love, you are
More than in hope, you are possess'd of it.
Kit.
I thank you heartily, Thomas: give me your hand:
With all my heart, good Thomas. I have, Thomas,
A secret to impart unto you—-but,
When once you have it, I must seal your lips up;
So far I tell you, Thomas.
Cash. Sir, for that—-
Kit.
Nay, hear me out. Think I esteem you, Thomas,
When I will let you in thus to my private.
It is a thing sits nearer to my crest,
Than thou art 'ware of, Thomas; if thou should'st
Reveal it, but—-
Cash. How, I reveal it?
Kit. Nay,
I do not think thou would'st; but if thou should'st,
'Twere a great weakness.
Cash. A great treachery:
Give it no other name.
Kit. Thou wilt not do't, then?
Cash.
Sir, if I do, mankind disclaim me ever!
Kit.
He will not swear, he has some reservation,
Some conceal'd purpose, and close meaning sure;
Else, being urg'd so much, how should he choose
But lend an oath to all this protestation?
He's no precisian, that I'm certain of,
Nor rigid Roman Catholic: he'll play
At fayles, and tick-tack; I have heard him swear.
What should I think of it? urge him again,
And by some other way! I will do so.
Well, Thomas, thou hast sworn not to disclose:—-
Yes, you did swear?
Cash.
Not yet, sir, but I will,
Please you—-
Kit.
No, Thomas, I dare take thy word,
But, if thou wilt swear, do as thou think'st; good;
I am resolv'd without It; at thy pleasure.
Cash.
By my soul's safety then, sir, I protest,
My tongue shall ne'er take knowledge of a word
Deliver'd me in nature of your trust.
Kit.
It is too much; these ceremonies need not:
I know thy faith to be as firm as rock.
Thomas, come hither, near; we cannot be
Too private in this business. So it is,—-
Now he has sworn, I dare the safelier venture. [Aside.
I have of late, by divers observations—-
But whether his oath can bind him, yea, or no,
Being not taken lawfully? ha! say you?
I will ask council ere I do proceed:—— [Aside.
Thomas, it will be now too long to stay,
I'll spy some fitter time soon, or to-morrow.
Cash. Sir, at your pleasure.
Kit. I will think:-and, Thomas,
I pray you search the books 'gainst my return,
For the receipts 'twixt me and Traps.
Cash. I will, sir.
Kit.
And hear you, if your mistress's brother, Wellbred,
Chance to bring hither any gentleman,
Ere I come back, let one straight bring me word.
Cash. Very well, sir.
Kit.
To the Exchange, do you hear?
Or here in Coleman-street, to justice Clement's.
Forget it not, nor be not out of the way.
Cash. I will not, sir.
Kit. I pray you have a care on't.
Or, whether he come or no, if any other,
Stranger, or else; fail not to send me word.
Cash. I shall not, sir.
Kit. Be it your special business
Now to remember it.
Cash. Sir, I warrant you.
Kit.
But, Thomas, this is not the secret, Thomas,
I told you of.
Cash. No, sir; I do suppose it.
Kit. Believe me, it is not.
Cash. Sir, I do believe you.
Kit.
By heaven it is not, that's enough: but, Thomas,
I would not you should utter it, do you see,
To any creature living; yet I care not.
Well, I must hence. Thomas, conceive thus much;
It was a trial of you, when I meant
So deep a secret to you, I mean not this,
But that I have to tell you; this is nothing, this.
But, Thomas, keep this from my wife, I charge you,
Lock'd up in silence, midnight, buried here.—-
No greater hell than to be slave to fear. [Exit.
Cash.
Lock'd up in silence, midnight, buried here!
Whence should this flood of passion, trow, take head? ha!
Best dream no longer of this running humour,
For fear I sink; the violence of the stream
Already hath transported me so far,
That I can feel no ground at all: but soft—-
Oh, 'tis our water-bearer: somewhat has crost him now.
Enter COB, hastily.
Cob. Fasting-days! what tell you me of fasting days? 'Slid, would
they were all on a light fire for me! they say the whole world
shall be consumed with fire one day, but would I had these
Ember-weeks and villanous Fridays burnt in the mean time, and
then—
Cash. Why, how now, Cob? what moves thee to this choler, ha?
Cob. Collar, master Thomas! I scorn your collar, I, sir; I am none
O' your cart-horse, though I carry and draw water. An you offer to
ride me with your collar or halter either, I may hap shew you a
jade's trick, sir.
Cash. O, you'll slip your head out of the collar? why, goodman Cob,
you mistake me.
Cob. Nay, I have my rheum, and I can be angry as well as another,
sir.
Cash. Thy rheum, Cob! thy humour, thy humour—thou misstak'st.
Cob. Humour! mack, I think it be so indeed; what is that humour?
some rare thing, I warrant.
Cash. Marry I'll tell thee, Cob: it is a gentlemanlike monster,
bred in the special gallantry of our time, by affectation; and fed
by folly.
Cob. How! must it be fed?
Cash. Oh ay, humour is nothing if it be not fed: didst thou never
hear that? it's a common phrase, feed my humour.
Cob. I'll none on it: humour, avaunt! I know you not, be gone! let
who will make hungry meals for your monstership, it shall not be I.
Feed you, quoth he! 'slid, I have much ado to feed myself;
especially on these lean rascally days too; an't had been any other
day but a fasting-day—a plague on them all for me! By this light,
one might have done the commonwealth good service, and have drown'd
them all in the flood, two or three hundred thousand years ago. O,
I do stomach them hugely. I have a maw now, and 'twere for sir
Bevis his horse, against them.
Cash. I pray thee, good Cob, what makes thee so out of love with
fasting days?
Cob. Marry, that which will make any man out of love with 'em, I
think; their bad conditions, an you will needs know. First they are
of a Flemish breed, I am sure on't, for they raven up more butter
than all the days of the week beside; next, they stink of fish and
leek-porridge miserably; thirdly, they'll keep a man devoutly
hungry all day, and at night send him supperless to bed.
Cash. Indeed, these are faults, Cob.
Cob. Nay, an this were all, 'twere something; but they are the only
known enemies to my generation. A fasting-day no sooner comes, but
my lineage goes to wrack; poor cobs! they smoak for it, they are
made martyrs O' the gridiron, they melt in passion: and your maids
to know this, and yet would have me turn Hannibal, and eat my own
flesh and blood. My princely coz, [pulls out a red herring] fear
nothing; I have not the heart to devour you, an I might be made as
rich as king Cophetua. O that I had room for my tears, I could weep
salt-water enough now to preserve the lives of ten thousand
thousand of my kin! But I may curse none but these filthy
almanacks; for an't were not for them, these days of persecution
would never be known. I'll be hang'd an some fish-monger's son do
not make of 'em, and puts in more fasting-days than he should do,
because he would utter his father's dried stock—fish and stinking
conger.
Cash. 'Slight peace! thou'lt be beaten like a stock-fish else:
here's master Mathew.
Enter WELLIBRED, E. KNOWELL, BRAINWORM,
MATHEW, BOBADILL, and STEPHEN.
Now must I look out for a messenger to my master.
[Exit with Cob.
Wel, Beshrew me, but it was an absolute good jest, and exceedingly
well carried!
E. Know. Ay, and our ignorance maintain'd it as well, did it not?
Wel. Yes, faith; but was it possible thou shouldst not know him? I
forgive master Stephen, for he is stupidity itself.
E. Know. 'Fore God, not I, an I might have been join'd patten with
one of the seven wise masters for knowing him. He had so writhen
himself into the habit of one of your poor infantry, your decayed;
ruinous, worm-eaten gentlemen of the round; such as have vowed to
sit on the skirts of the city, let your provost and his half-dozen
of halberdiers do what they can; and have translated begging out of
the old hackney-pace to a fine easy amble, and made it run as
smooth off the tongue as a shove-groat shilling. Into the likeness
of one of these reformados had he moulded himself so perfectly,
observing every trick of their action, as, varying the accent,
swearing with an emphasis, indeed, all with so special and
exquisite a grace, that, hadst thou seen him, thou wouldst have
sworn he might have been sergeant-major, if not lieutenant-colonel
to the regiment.
Wel. Why, Brainworm, who would have thought thou hadst been such an
artificer?
E. Know. An artificer! an architect. Except a man had studied
begging all his life time, and been a weaver of language from his
infancy for the cloathing of it, I never saw his rival.
Wel. Where got'st thou this coat, I marle?
Brai. Of a Hounsditch man, sir, one of the devil's near kinsmen, a
broker.
Wel. That cannot be, if the proverb hold; for 'A crafty knave needs
no broker.'
Brai. True, sir; but I did need a broker, ergo—
Wel. Well put off:—no crafty knave, you'll say.
E. Know. Tut, he has more of these shifts.
Brai. And yet, where I have one the broker has ten, sir.
Reenter CASH
Cash. Francis! Martin! ne'er a one to be found now? what a spite's
this!
Wel. How now, Thomas? Is my brother Kitely within?
Cash. No, sir, my master went forth e'en now; but master Downright
is within.—Cob! what, Cob! Is he gone too?
Wel. Whither went your master, Thomas, canst thou tell?
Cash. I know not: to justice Clement's, I think, sir—Cob!
[Exit
E. Know. Justice Clement! what's he? Wel.
Why, dost thou not know him? He is a city-magistrate, a justice
here, an excellent good lawyer, and a great scholar; but the only
mad, merry old fellow in Europe. I shewed him you the other day.
E. Know. Oh, is that he? I remember him now. Good faith, and he is
a very strange presence methinks; it shews as if he stood out of
the rank from other men: I have heard many of his jests in the
University. They say he will commit a man for taking the wall of
his horse.
Wel. Ay, or wearing his cloak on one shoulder, or serving of God;
any thing, indeed, if it come in the way of his humour.
Re-enter CASH.
Cash. Gasper! Martin! Cob! 'Heart, where should they be trow?
Bob. Master Kitely's man, pray thee vouchsafe us the lighting of
this match.
[Exit.
Cash. Fire on your match! no time but now to vouchsafe?—Francis!
Cob!
Bob. Body O' me! here's the remainder of seven pound since
yesterday was seven-night. 'Tis your right Trinidado: did you never
take any master Stephen?
Step. No, truly, sir; but I'll learn to take it now, since you
commend it so.
Bob. Sir, believe me, upon my relation for what I tell you, the
world shall not reprove. I have been in the Indies, where this herb
grows, where neither myself, nor a dozen gentlemen more of my
knowledge, have received the taste of any other nutriment in the
world, for the space of one and twenty weeks, but the fume of this
simple only: therefore, it cannot be, but 'tis most divine.
Further, take it in the nature, in the true kind; so, it makes an
antidote, that, had you taken the most deadly poisonous plant in
all Italy, it should expel it, and clarify you, with as much ease
as I speak. And for your green wound,—your Balsamum and your St.
John's wort, are all mere gulleries and trash to it, especially
your Trinidado: your Nicotian is good too. I could say what I know
of the virtue of it, for the expulsion of rheums, raw humours,
crudities, obstructions, with a thousand of this kind; but I
profess myself no quack-salver. Only thus much; by Hercules, I do
hold it, and will affirm it before any prince in Europe, to be the
most sovereign and precious weed that ever the earth tendered to
the use of man.
E. Know. This speech would have done decently in a tobacco-trader's
mouth.
Re-enter CASH with COB.
Cash. At justice Clement's he is, in the middle of Coleman-street.
Cob. Oh, oh!
Bob. Where's the match I gave thee, master Kitely's man?
Cash. Would his match and he, and pipe and all, were at Sancto
Domingo! I had forgot it.
[Exit.
Cob. 'Od's me, I marle what pleasure or felicity they have in
taking this roguish tobacco. It's good for nothing but to choke a
man, and fill him full of smoke and embers: there were four died
out of one house last week with taking of it, and two more the bell
went for yesternight; one of them, they say, will never scape it;
he voided a bushel of soot yesterday, upward and downward. By the
stocks, an there were no wiser men than I, I'd have it present
whipping, man or woman, that should but deal with a tobacco pipe:
why, it will stifle them all in the end, as many as use it; it's
little better than ratsbane or rosaker.
[Bobadill beats him.
All. Oh, good captain, hold, hold!
Bob. You base cullion, you!
Re-enter CASH.
Cash. Sir, here's your match. Come, thou must needs be talking too,
thou'rt well enough served.
Cob. Nay, he will not meddle with his match, I warrant you: well,
it shall be a dear beating, an I live.
Bob. Do you prate, do you murmur?
E. Know. Nay, good captain, will you regard the humour of a fool?
Away, knave.
Wel. Thomas, get him away. [Exit Cash with Cob.
Bob. A whoreson filthy slave, a dung-worm, an excrement! Body O'
Caesar, but that I scorn to let forth so mean a spirit, I'd have
stabb'd him to the earth.
Wel. Marry, the law forbid, sir!
Bob. By Pharaoh's foot, I would have done it.
Step. Oh, he swears most admirably! By Pharaoh's foot! Body O'
Caesar!—I shall never do it, sure. Upon mine honour, and by St.
George!—No, I have not the right grace.
Mat. Master Stephen, will you any? By this air, the most divine
tobacco that ever I drunk.
[Practises at the post.
As I am a gentleman! By— [Exeunt Bob. and Mat.
Step. None, I thank you, sir. O, this gentleman does it rarely,
too: but nothing like the other. By this air!
Brai. [pointing to Master Stephen.] Master, glance, glance! master
Wellbred!
Step. As I have somewhat to be saved, I protest—
Wel. You are a fool; it needs no affidavit.
E. Know. Cousin, will you any tobacco?
Step. I, sir! Upon my reputation—
E. Know. How now, cousin!
Step. I protest, as I am a gentleman, but no soldier, indeed—
Wel. No, master Stephen! As I remember, your name is entered in the
artillery-garden.
Step. Ay, sir, that's true. Cousin, may I swear, as I am a soldier,
by that?
E. Know. O yes, that you may; it is all you have for your money.
Step. Then, as I am a gentleman, and a soldier, it is "divine
tobacco!"
Wel. But soft, where's master Mathew! Gone?
Brai. No, sir; they went in here.
Wel. O let's follow them: master Mathew is gone to salute his
mistress in verse; we shall have the happiness to hear some of his
poetry now; he never comes unfinished.—Brainworm!
Step. Brainworm! Where? Is this Brainworm?
E. Know. Ay, cousin; no words of it, upon your gentility.
Step. Not I, body of me! By this air! St. George! and the foot of
Pharaoh!
Wel. Rare! Your cousin's discourse is simply drawn out with oaths.
E. Know. 'Tis larded with them; a kind of French dressing, if you
love it.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III-Coleman-Street. A Room in Justice CLEMENT'S House.
Enter KITELY and COB.
Kit. Ha! how many are there, say'st thou?
Cob. Marry, sir, your brother, master Wellbred—
Kit. Tut, beside him: what strangers are there, man?
Cob. Strangers? let me see, one, two; mass; I know not well,—
there are so many.
Kit. How! so many?
Cob. Ay, there's some five or six of them at the most.
Kit.
A swarm, a swarm!
Spite of the devil...how they sting my head
With forked stings, thus wide and large!
But, Cob, How long hast thou been coming hither, Cob?
Cob. A little while, sir.
Kit. Didst thou come running?
Cob. No, sir.
Kit.
Nay, then I am familiar with thy haste.
Bane to my fortunes! what meant I to marry?
I, that before was rank'd in such content,
My mind at rest too, in so soft a peace,
Being free master of mine own free thoughts,
And now become a slave? What! never sigh;
Be of good cheer, man; for thou art a cuckold:
'Tis done, 'tis done! Nay, when such flowing-store,
Plenty itself, falls into my wife's lap,
The cornucopiae will be mine, I know.—But, Cob,
What entertainment had they? I am sure
My sister and my wife would bid them welcome: ha?
Cob. Like enough, sir; yet I heard not a word of it.
Kit.
No;
Their lips were seal'd with kisses, and the voice,
Drown'd in a flood of joy at their arrival,
Had lost her motion, state and faculty.—
Cob,
Which of them was it that first kiss'd my wife,
My sister, I should say?—My wife, alas!
I fear not her: ha! who was it say'st thou?
Cob. By my troth, sir, will you have the truth of it?
Kit. Oh, ay, good Cob, I pray thee heartily.
Cob. Then I am a vagabond, and fitter for Bridewell than your
worship's company, if I saw any body to be kiss'd, unless they
would have kiss'd the post in the middle of the warehouse; for
there I left them all at their tobacco, with a pox!
Kit. How! were they not gone in then ere thou cam'st?
Cob. O no, sir.
Kit. Spite of the devil! what do I stay here then? Cob, follow me.
[Exit.
Cob. Nay, soft and fair; I have eggs on the spit; I cannot go yet,
sir. Now am I, for some five and fifty reasons, hammering,
hammering revenge: oh for three or four gallons of vinegar, to
sharpen my wits! Revenge, vinegar revenge, vinegar and mustard
revenge! Nay, an he had not lien in my house, 'twould never have
grieved me; but being my guest, one that, I'll be sworn, my wife
has lent him her smock off her back, while his own shirt has been
at washing; pawned her neck-kerchers for clean bands for him; sold
almost all my platters, to buy him tobacco; and he to turn monster
of ingratitude, and strike his lawful host! Well, I hope to raise
up an host of fury for't: here comes justice Clement.
Enter Justice CLEMENT, KNOWELL, and FORMAL.
Clem. What's master Kitely gone, Roger?
Form. Ay, sir.
Clem. 'Heart O' me! what made him leave us so abruptly?—How now,
sirrah! what make you here? what would you have, ha?
Cob. An't please your worship, I am a poor neighbour of your
worship's—
Clem. A poor neighbour of mine! Why, speak, poor neighbour.
Cob. I dwell, sir, at the sign of the Water-tankard, hard by the
Green Lattice: I have paid scot and lot there any time this
eighteen years.
Clem. To the Green Lattice?
Cob. No, sir, to the parish: Marry, I have seldom scaped scot-free
at the Lattice.
Clem. O, well; what business has my poor neighbour with me?
Cob. An't like your worship, I am come to crave the peace of your
worship.
Clem. Of me, knave! Peace of me, knave! Did I ever hurt thee, or
threaten thee, or wrong thee, ha?
Cob. No, sir; but your worship's warrant for one that has wrong'd
me, sir: his arms are at too much liberty, I would fain have them
bound to a treaty of peace, an my credit could compass it with your
worship.
Clem. Thou goest far enough about for't, I am sure.
Kno. Why, dost thou go in danger of thy life for him, friend?
Cob. No, sir; but I go in danger of my death every hour, by his
means; an I die within a twelve-month and a day, I may swear by the
law of the land that he killed me.
Clem. How, how, knave, swear he killed thee, and by the law? What
pretence, what colour hast thou for that?
Cob. Marry, an't please your worship, both black and blue; colour
enough, I warrant you. I have it here to shew your worship.
Clem. What is he that gave you this, sirrah?
Cob. A gentleman and a soldier, he says, he is, of the city here.
Clem. A soldier of the city! What call you him?
Cob. Captain Bobadill.
Clem. Bobadill! and why did he bob and beat you, sirrah? How began
the quarrel betwixt you, ha? speak truly, knave, I advise you.
Cob. Marry, indeed, an't please your worship, only because I spake
against their vagrant tobacco, as I came by them when they were
taking on't; for nothing else.
Clem. Ha! you speak against tobacco? Formal, his name.
Form. What's your name, sirrah?
Cob. Oliver, sir, Oliver Cob, sir.
Clem. Tell Oliver Cob he shall go to the jail, Formal.
Form. Oliver Cob, my master, justice Clement, says you shall go to
the jail.
Cob. O, I beseech your worship, for God's sake, dear master
justice!
Clem. 'Sprecious! an such drunkards and tankards as you are, come
to dispute of tobacco once, I have done: away with him!
Cob, O, good master justice! Sweet old gentleman! [To Knowell.
Know. "Sweet Oliver," would I could do thee any good!—justice
Clement, let me intreat you, sir.
Clem. What! a thread-bare rascal, a beggar, a slave that never
drunk out of better than piss-pot metal in his life! and he to
deprave and abuse the virtue of an herb so generally received in
the courts of princes, the chambers of nobles, the bowers of sweet
ladies, the cabins of soldiers!—Roger, away with him! 'Od's
precious—I say, go to.
Cob. Dear master justice, let me be beaten again, I have deserved
it: but not the prison, I beseech you.
Know. Alas, poor Oliver!
Clem. Roger, make him a warrant:—he shall not go, but I fear the
knave.
Form. Do not stink, sweet Oliver, you shall not go; my master will
give you a warrant.
Cob. O, the Lord maintain his worship, his worthy worship!
Clem. Away, dispatch him. [Exeunt Formal and Cob;] How now, master
Knowell, in dumps, in dumps! Come, this becomes not.
Know. Sir, would I could not feel my cares.
Clem. Your cares are nothing: they are like my cap, soon put on,
and as soon put off. What! your son is old enough to govern
himself: let him run his course, it's the only way to make him a
staid man. If he were an unthrift, a ruffian, a drunkard, or a
licentious liver, then you had reason; you had reason to take care:
but, being none of these, mirth's my witness, an I had twice so
many cares as you have, I'd drown them all in a cup of sack. Come,
come, let's try it: I muse your parcel of a soldier returns not all
this while.
[Exeunt.
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