SCENE I. Waltham: The house of Banks.
[Enter Banks, Sir John and Smug.]
BANKS. Take me with you, good Sir John! A plague on thee, Smug, and thou touchest liquor, thou art founderd straight. What, are your brains always water-mills? must they ever run round?
SMUG. Banks, your ale is a Philistine fox; z'hart, there's fire i'th tail on't; you are a rogue to charge us with Mugs i'th rereward. A plague of this wind; O, it tickles our catastrophe.
SIR JOHN. Neighbour Banks of Waltham, and Goodman Smug, the honest Smith of Edmonton, as I dwell betwixt you both at Enfield, I know the taste of both your ale houses, they are good both, smart both. Hem, Grass and hay! we are all mortal; let's live till we die, and be merry; and there's an end.
BANKS. Well said, Sir John, you are of the same humor still; and doth the water run the same way still, boy?
SMUG. Vulcan was a rogue to him; Sir John, lock, lock, lock fast, Sir John; so, sir John. I'll one of these years, when it shall please the Goddesses and the destinies, be drunk in your company; that's all now, and God send us health: shall I swear I love you?
SIR JOHN. No oaths, no oaths, good neighbour Smug! We'll wet our lips together and hug; Carrouse in private, and elevate the hart, and the liver and the lights,—and the lights, mark you me, within us; for hem, Grass and hay! we are all mortall, let's live till we die, and be Merry, and there's an end.
BANKS. But to our former motion about stealing some venison; whither go we?
SIR JOHN. Into the forest, neighbour Banks, into Brian's walk, the mad keeper.
SMUG.
Z'blood! I'll tickle your keeper.
BANKS.
Yfaith, thou art always drunk when we have need of thee.
SMUG. Need of me? z'hart, you shall have need of me always while there's iron in an Anvil.
BANKS. Master Parson, may the Smith go, think you, being in this taking?
SMUG.
Go? I'll go in spite of all the belles in Waltham.
SIR JOHN. The question is, good neighbour Banks—let me see: the Moon shines to night,—there's not a narrow bridge betwixt this and the forest,—his brain will be settled ere night; he may go, he may go, neighbour Banks. Now we want none but the company of mine host Blague at the George at Waltham; if he were here, our Consort were full. Look where comes my good host, the Duke of Norfolk's man! and how? and how? a hem, grass and hay! we are not yet mortall; let's live till we die, and be merry; and there's an end.
[Enter Host.]
HOST. Ha, my Castilian dialogues! and art thou in breath still, boy? Miller, doth the match hold? Smith, I see by thy eyes thou hast been reading little Geneva print: but wend we merrily to the forest, to steal some of the king's Deer. I'll meet you at the time appointed: away, I have Knights and Colonels at my house, and must tend the Hungarions. If we be scard in the forest, we'll meet in the Church-porch at Enfield; ist Correspondent?
BANKS.
Tis well; but how, if any of us should be taken?
SMITH.
He shall have ransom, by the Lord.
HOST. Tush, the knave keepers are my bosonians and my pensioners. Nine a clock! be valiant, my little Gogmagogs; I'll fence with all the Justices in Hartford shire. I'll have a Buck till I die; I'll slay a Doe while I live; hold your bow straight and steady. I serve the good duke of Norfolk.
SMUG.
O rare! who, ho, ho, boy!
SIR JOHN. Peace, neighbor Smug. You see this is a Boor, a Boor of the country, an illiterate Boor, and yet the Citizen of good fellows: come, let's provide; a hem, Grass and hay! we are not yet all mortall; we'll live till we die, and be merry, and there's an end. Come, Smug1
SMUG.
Good night, Waltham—who, ho, ho, boy!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. The George Inn.
[Enter the Knights and Gentlemen from breakfast again.]
OLD MOUNTCHESNEY.
Nor I for thee, Clare, not of this.
What? hast thou fed me all this while with shalles.
And com'st to tell me now, thou lik'st it not?
CLARE.
I do not hold thy offer competent;
Nor do I like th' assurance of thy Land,
The title is so brangled with thy debts.
OLD MOUNTCHESNEY.
Too good for thee; and, knight, thou knowst it well,
I fawnd not on thee for thy goods, not I;
Twas thine own motion; that thy wife doth know.
LADY.
Husband, it was so; he lies not in that.
CLARE.
Hold thy chat, queane.
OLD MOUNTCHESNEY.
To which I hearkned willingly, and the rather,
Because I was persuaded it proceeded
From love thou bor'st to me and to my boy;
And gav'st him free access unto thy house,
Here he hath not behaved him to thy child,
But as befits a gentleman to do:
Nor is my poor distressed state so low,
That I'll shut up my doors, I warrant thee.
CLARE.
Let it suffice, Mountchensey, I mislike it;
Nor think thy son a match fit for my child.
MOUNTCHENSEY.
I tell thee, Clare, his blood is good and clear
As the best drop that panteth in thy veins:
But for this maid, thy fair and vertuous child,
She is no more disparaged by thy baseness
Then the most orient and the pretious jewell,
Which still retains his lustre and his beauty,
Although a slave were owner of the same.
CLARE.
She is the last is left me to bestow,
And her I mean to dedicate to God.
MOUNTCHENSEY.
You do, sir?
CLARE.
Sir, sir, I do, she is mine own.
MOUNTCHENSEY.
And pity she is so!
Damnation dog thee and thy wretched pelf!
[Aside.]
CLARE.
Not thou, Mountchensey, shalt bestow my child.
MOUNTCHENSEY.
Neither shouldst thou bestow her where thou mean'st.
CLARE.
What wilt thou do?
MOUNTCHENSEY.
No matter, let that be;
I will do that, perhaps, shall anger thee:
Thou hast wrongd my love, and, by God's blessed Angell,
Thou shalt well know it.
CLARE.
Tut, brave not me.
MOUNTCHENSEY.
Brave thee, base Churle! were't not for man-hood sake—
I say no more, but that there be some by
Whose blood is hotter then ours is,
Which being stird might make us both repent
This foolish meeting. But, Harry Clare,
Although thy father have abused my friendship,
Yet I love thee, I do, my noble boy,
I do, yfaith.
LADY.
Aye, do, do!
Fill the world with talk of us, man, man;
I never lookt for better at your hands.
FABELL.
I hop'd your great experience and your years
Would have proved patience rather to your soul,
Then with this frantique and untamed passion
To whet their skeens; and, but for that
I hope their friendships are too well confirmd,
And their minds temperd with more kindly heat,
Then for their froward parents soars
That they should break forth into publique brawles—
How ere the rough hand of th' untoward world
Hath moulded your proceedings in this matter,
Yet I am sure the first intent was love:
Then since the first spring was so sweet and warm,
Let it die gently; ne'er kill it with a scorn.
RAY.
O thou base world, how leprous is that soul
That is once lim'd in that polluted mud!
Oh, sir Arthur, you have startled his free active spirits
With a too sharp spur for his mind to bear.
Have patience, sir: the remedy to woe
Is to leave what of force we must forgo.
MILLISCENT.
And I must take a twelve months approbation,
That in mean time this sole and private life
At the years end may fashion me a wife:
But, sweet Mounchensey, ere this year be done,
Thou'st be a frier, if that I be a Nun.
And, father, ere young Jerningham's I'll be,
I will turn mad to spite both him and thee.
CLARE.
Wife, come, to horse, and huswife, make you ready;
For, if I live, I swear by this good light,
I'll see you lodged in Chesson house to night.
[Exeunt.]
MOUNTCHESNEY.
Raymond, away! Thou seest how matters fall.
Churle, hell consume thee, and thy pelf, and all!
FABELL.
Now, Master Clare, you see how matters fadge;
Your Milliscent must needs be made a Nune.
Well, sir, we are the men must ply this match:
Hold you your peace, and be a looker on,
And send her unto Chesson—where he will,
I'll send me fellows of a handful hie
Into the Cloysters where the Nuns frequent,
Shall make them skip like Does about the Dale,
And with the Lady prioress of the house
To play at leap-frog, naked in their smocks,
Until the merry wenches at their mass
Cry teehee weehee;
And tickling these mad lasses in their flanks,
They'll sprawl, and squeak, and pinch their fellow Nuns.
Be lively, boys, before the wench we lose,
I'll make the Abbas wear the Cannons hose.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. The same.
[Enter Harry Clare, Frank Jerningham, Peter Fabell, and
Milliscent.]
HARRY CLARE.
Spight now hath done her worst; sister, be patient.
JERNINGHAM.
Forewarned poor Raymonds company! O heaven!
When the composure of weak frailty meet
Upon this mart of durt, O, then weak love
Must in her own unhappiness be silent,
And winck on all deformities.
MILLISCENT.
Tis well:
Where's Raymond, brother? where's my dear Mounchensey?
Would we might weep together and then part;
Our sighing parle would much ease my heart.
FABELL.
Sweet beauty, fold your sorrows in the thought
Of future reconcilement: let your tears
Shew you a woman; but be no farther spent
Then from the eyes; for, sweet, experience says
That love is firm that's flattered with delays.
MILLISCENT.
Alas, sir, think you I shall ere be his?
FABELL.
As sure as parting smiles on future bliss.
Yond comes my friend: see, he hath doted
So long upon your beauty, that your want
Will with a pale retirement waste his blood;
For in true love Musicke doth sweetly dwell:
Severed, these less worlds bear within them hell.
[Enter Mounchensey.]
MOUNCHENSEY.
Harry and Francke, you are enjoined to wain
Your friendship from me; we must part: the breath
Of all advised corruption—pardon me!
Faith, I must say so;—you may think I love you;
I breath not, rougher spight do sever us;
We'll meet by stealth, sweet friend,—by stealth, you twain;
Kisses are sweetest got with struggling pain.
JERNINGHAM.
Our friendship dies not, Raymond.
MOUNCHENSEY.
Pardon me:
I am busied; I have lost my faculties,
And buried them in Milliscent's clear eyes.
MILLISCENT.
Alas, sweet Love, what shall become of me?
I must to Chesson to the Nunry,
I shall ne'er see thee more.
MOUNCHENSEY.
How, sweet?
I'll be thy votary, we'll often meet:
This kiss divides us, and breathes soft adieu,—
This be a double charm to keep both true.
FABELL.
Have done: your fathers may chance spy your parting.
Refuse not you by any means, good sweetness,
To go unto the Nunnery; far from hence
Must we beget your love's sweet happiness.
You shall not stay there long; your harder bed
Shall be more soft when Nun and maid are dead.
[Enter Bilbo.]
MOUNCHENSEY.
Now, sirra, what's the matter?
BILBO. Marry, you must to horse presently; that villainous old gouty churl, Sir Arthur Clare, longs till he be at the Nunry.
HARRY CLARE.
How, sir?
BILBO. O, I cry you mercy, he is your father, sir, indeed; but I am sure that there's less affinity betwixt your two natures then there is between a broker and a cutpurse.
MOUNCHENSEY.
Bring my gelding, sirra.
BILBO. Well, nothing grieves me, but for the poor wench; she must now cry vale to Lobster pies, hartichokes, and all such meats of mortality; poor gentlewoman, the sign must not be in virgo any longer with her, and that me grieves full well.
Poor Milliscent
Must pray and repent:
O fatal wonder!
She'll now be no fatter,
Love must not come at her
Yet she shall be kept under.
[Exit.]
JERNINGHAM.
Farewell, dear Raymond.
HARRY CLARE.
Friend, adieu.
MILLISCENT.
Dear sweet,
No joy enjoys my heart till we next meet.
[Exeunt.]
FABELL.
Well, Raymond, now the tide of discontent
Beats in thy face; but, er't be long, the wind
Shall turn the flood. We must to Waltham abbey,
And as fair Milliscent in Cheston lives,
A most unwilling Nun, so thou shalt there
Become a beardless Novice; to what end,
Let time and future accidents declare:
Taste thou my sleights, thy love I'll only share.
MOUNCHENSEY.
Turn friar? Come, my good Counsellor, let's go,
Yet that disguise will hardly shroud my woe.
[Exeunt.]