Chapter IX: Part 9

_Lel._ You may,
But not this rough way, Servant; we are tender,
And ought in all to be respected so;
If I had been your Horse, or Whore, you might
Back me with this intemperance; I thought
You had lov'd as worthy men, whose fair affections
Seek pleasures warranted, not pull'd by violence,
Do so no more.

_Jul._ I hope you are not angry?

_Lel._ I should be with another man, I am sure,
That durst appear but half thus violent.

_Jul._ I did not mean to ravish ye.

_Lel._ You could not.

_Jul._ You are so willing--

_Lel._ How?

_Jul._ Methinks this shadow,
If you had so much shame as fits a woman,
At least of your way, Mistriss, long e're this
Had been laid off to me that understand ye.

_Lel._ That understand me? Sir, ye understand,
Nor shall, no more of me than modesty
Will, without fear, deliver to a stranger;
You understand I am honest, else I tell ye,
(Though you were better far than _Julio_)
You, and your understanding are two fools,
But were we Saints, thus we are still rewarded:
I see that Woman had a pretty catch on't,
That had made you the Master of a kindness,
She durst not answer openly; O me!
How easily we Women may be cozen'd!
I took this _Julio_, as I have a faith,
(This young Dissembler with the sober Vizard)
For the most modest, temper'd Gentleman,
The coolest, quietest, and best Companion;
For such an one I could have wish'd a Woman.

_Jul._ You have wish'd me ill enough o' conscience,
Make me no worse for shame; I see the more
I work by way of service to obtain ye,
You work the more upon me. Tell me truly
(While I am able to believe a Woman,
For if you use me thus, that faith will perish)
What is your end, and whither you will pull me;
Tell me, but tell me that I may not start at,
And have a cause to curse ye.

_Lel._ Bless me goodness!
To curse me did you say, Sir? let it be
For too much loving you then, such a curse
Kill me withal, and I shall be a _Martyr_,
You have found a new way to reward my doting,
And I confess a fit one for my folly,
For you your self, if you have good within ye,
And dare be Master of it, know how dearly
This heart hath held you ever; Oh good Heaven!
That I had never seen that false mans eyes,
That dares reward me thus with fears and curses;
Nor never heard the sweetness of that tongue,
That will, when this is known, yet cozen women;
Curse me, good _Julio_, curse me bitterly,
I do deserve it for my confidence,
And I beseech thee if thou hast a goodness
Or power yet in thee to confirm thy wishes,
Curse me to earth, for what should I do here
Like a decaying flower, still withering
Under his bitter words, whose kindly heat
Should give my poor heart life? No, curse me, _Julio_,
Thou canst not do me such a benefit
As that, and well done, that the Heav'ns may hear it.

_Jul._ O fair tears! were you but as chast as subtil,
Like Bones of Saints, you would work miracles;
What were these women to a man that knew not
The thousand, thousand ways of their deceiving?
What riches had he found? O he would think
Himself still dreaming of a blessedness,
That like continual spring should flourish ever.
For if she were as good as she is seeming,
Or, like an Eagle, could renew her vertues,
Nature had made another world of sweetness.
Be not so griev'd, sweet Mistriss, what I said,
You do, or should know, was but passion;
Pray wipe your eyes and kiss me; take these trifles,
And wear them for me, which are only rich
When you will put them on: indeed I love ye,
Beshrew my sick heart, if I grieve not for ye.

_Lel._ Will you dissemble still? I am a fool,
And you may easily rule me, if you flatter,
The sin will be your own.

_Jul._ You know I do not.

_Lel._ And shall I be so childish once again,
After my late experience of your spight
To credit you? you do not know how deep
(Or if you did you would be kinder to me,)
This bitterness of yours has struck my heart.

_Jul._ I pray, no more.

_Lel._ Thus you would do I warrant,
If I were married to you.

_Jul._ Married to me?
Is that your end?

_Lel._ Yes, is not that the best end,
And, as all hold, the noblest way of love?
Why do you look so strange, Sir? do not you
Desire it should be so?

_Jul._ Stay.

_Lel._ Answer me.

_Jul._ Farewel. [_Exit_ Julio.

_Lel._ I! are you there? are all these tears lost then?
Am I so overtaken by a fool
In my best days and tricks? my wise fellow,
I'll make you smart for't as I am a woman,
And if thou beest not timber, yet I'll warm thee;
And is he gone?

_Enter Woman._

_Wom._ Yes.

_Lel._ He's not so lightly struck,
To be recovered with a base repentance,
I should be sorry then; Fortune, I prithee
Give me this man but once more in my arms,
And if I lose him, women have no charms. [_Exeunt._

_Actus Secundus. Scena Prima._

_Enter_ Jacomo, _and_ Fabricio.

_Jac._ Seignior, what think you of this sound of Wars?

_Fab._ As only of a sound; they that intend
To do, are like deep waters that run quietly,
Leaving no face of what they were, behind 'em.
This rumour is too common, and too loud
To carry truth.

_Jac._ Shall we never live to see
Men look like men again,
Upon a March?
This cold dull rusty peace makes u[s] appear
Like empty Pictures, only the faint shadows
Of what we should be;
Would to Heaven my Mother
Had given but half her will to my begetting,
And made me woman, to sit still and sing,
Or be sick when I list, or any thing
That is too idle for a man to think of;
Would I had been a Whore, 't had been a course
Certain, and (o' my Conscience) of more gain
Than two commands, as I would handle it:
'Faith, I could wish I had been any thing
Rather tha[n] what I am, a Souldier;
A Carrier or a Cobler, when I knew
What 'twas to wear a Sword first; for their trades
Are, and shall be a constant way of life,
While men send Cheeses up, or wear out Buskins.

_Fab._ Thou art a little too impatient,
And mak'st thy anger a far more vexation
Than the not having Wars; I am a Souldier,
Which is my whole inheritance, yet I
Though I could wish a breach with all the world,
If not dishonourable, I am not so malicious,
To curse the fair peace of my Mother Country;
But thou want'st money, and the first supply
Will bury these thoughts in thee.

_Jac._ 'Pox o' peace,
It fills the Kingdom full of holydays,
And only feeds the wants of Whores and Pipers;
And makes the idle drunken Rogues get Spinsters:
'Tis true, I may want money, and no little,
And almost Cloaths too; of which if I had both
In full abundance; yet against all peace,
That brings up mischiefs thicker than a shower,
I would speak louder than a Lawyer;
By Heaven, it is the surfeit of all youth,
That makes the toughness, and the strength of Nations
Melt into Women. 'Tis an ease that broods
Thieves, and Bastards only.

_Fab._ This is more,
(Though it be true) than we ought to lay open,
And savours only of an indiscretion.
Believe me, Captain, such distemper'd spirits
Once out of motion, though they be proof valiant,
If they appear thus violent and fiery,
Breed but their own disgraces; and are nearer
Doubt and suspect in Princes, than rewards.

_Jac._ 'Tis well they can be near 'em any way.
But call you those true spirits ill affected,
That whilst the wars were, serv'd like walls and ribs
To girdle in the Kingdom?
And now faln
Through a faint Peace into affliction,
Speak but their miseries? come, come, _Fabritio_,
You may pretend what patience ye please,
And seem to yoak your wants like passions;
But while I know thou art a Souldier,
And a deserver, and no other Harvest
But what thy Sword reaps for thee to come in,
You shall be pleas'd to give me leave to tell ye,
You wish a Devil of this musty peace;
To which Prayer,
As one that's bound in Conscience, and all
That love our trade, I cry, Amen.

_Fab._ Prithee no more, we shall live well enough,
There's ways enough besides the wars to men
That are not logs, and lye still for the hands
Of others to remove 'em.

_Jac._ You may thrive, Sir,
Thou art young and handsom yet, and well enough
To please a Widow; thou canst sing, and tell
These foolish love-tales, and indite a little,
And if need be, compile a pretty matter,
And dedicate it to the honourable,
Which may awaken his compassion,
To make ye Clark o'th' Kitchen, and at length,
Come to be married to my Ladies Woman,
After she's crackt i'th' Ring.

_Fab._ 'Tis very well, Sir.

_Jac._ But what dost thou think shall become of me,
With all my imperfections? let me dye,
If I think I shall ever reach above
A forlorn Tapster, or some frothy fellow,
That stinks of stale Beer.

_Fab._ Captain _Jacomo_,
Why should you think so hardly of your vertues?

_Jac._ What vertues? by this light, I have no vertue,
But down-right buffetting, what can my face,
That is no better than a ragged Map now
Of where I have march'd and travell'd, profit me?
Unless it be for Ladies to abuse, and say
'Twas spoil'd for want of a Bongrace when I was young,
And now 'twill make a true prognostication
Of what man must be? Tell me of a fellow
That can mend Noses, and complain,
So tall a Souldier should want teeth to his Stomach;
And how it was great pity, that it was,
That he that made my Body was so busied
He could not stay to make my Legs too; but was driven
To clap a pair of Cat-sticks to my Knees, for which
I am indebted to two School-Boys; this
Must follow necessary.

_Fab._ There's no such matter.

_Jac._ Then for my Morals, and those hidden pieces,
That Art bestows upon me, they are such,
That when they come to light, I am sure will shame me,
For I can neither write, nor read, nor speak
That any man shall hope to profit by me;
And for my Languages, they are so many,
That put them all together, they will scarce
Serve to beg single Beer in; the plain truth is,
I love a Souldier, and can lead him on,
And if he fight well, I dare make him drunk;
This is my vertue, and if this will do,
I'll scramble yet amongst 'em.

_Fab._ 'Tis your way
To be thus pleasant still, but fear not, man,
For though the Wars fail, we shall screw our selves
Into some course of life yet.

_Jac._ Good _Fabricio_,
Have a quick eye upon me, for I fear
This Peace will make me something that I love not;
For by my troth, though I am plain and dudgion,
I would not be an Ass; and to sell parcels,
I can as soon be hang'd: prithee bestow me,
And speak some little good, though I deserve not.

_Enter Father._

_Fab._ Come, we'll consider more; stay, this
Should be another wind-fall of the Wars.

_Jac._ He looks indeed like an old tatter'd Colours,
That every wind would borrow from the Staff:
These are the hopes we have for all our hurts;
They have not cast his tongue too.

_Fath._ They that say
Hope never leaves a wretched man that seeks her,
I think are either patient fools, or liers,
I am sure I find it so, for I am master'd,
With such a misery and grief together
That that stay'd Anchor, men lay hold upon
In all their needs, is to me Lead that bows,
Or breaks with every strong sea of my sorrows.
I could now question Heaven (were it well
To look into their Justice) why those faults,
Those heavy sins others provoke 'em with
Should be rewarded on the head of us,
That hold the least alliance to their vices;
But this would be too curious; for I see
Our sufferings, not disputing, is the end,
Reveal'd to us of all these miseries.

_Jac._ Twenty such holy _Hermits_ in a Camp
Would make 'em all _Carthusians_, I'll be hang'd
If he know what a Whore is, or a health,
Or have a nature liable to learn,
Or so much honest nurture to be drunk.
I do not think he has the spleen to swear
A greater Oath than Semsters utter Socks with,
S'pur him a question.

_Fath._ They are strangers both
To me, as I to them I hope; I would not have
Me and my shame together known by any,
I'll rather lie my self unto another.

_Fab._ I need not ask you, Sir, your Country,
I hear you speak this tongue, 'pray what more are you?
Or have you been? if it be not offensive
To urge ye so far, misery in your years
Gives every thing a tongue to question it.

_Fath._ Sir, though I could be pleas'd to make my ills
Only mine own, for grieving other men,
Yet to so fair and courteous a demander
That promises compassion, at worst pity,
I will relate a little of my story.
I am a Gentleman, however thus
Poor and unhappy; which believe me, Sir,
Was not born with me; for I well have try'd
Both the extreams of Fortune, and have found
Both dangerous; my younger years provok'd me,
Feeling in what an ease I slept at home,
Which to all stirring spirits is a sickness,
To see far Countrys, and observe their Customs:
I did so, and I travell'd till that course
Stor'd me with language, and some few slight manners,
Scarce worth my money; when an itch possess'd me
Of making Arms my active end of travel.

_Fab._ But did you so?

_Fath._ I did, and twenty Winters
I wore the Christian Cause upon my Sword
Against his Enemies, at _Buda_ Siege
Full many a cold Night have I lodg'd in armour,
When all was frozen in me but mine Honour;
And many a day, when both the Sun and Cannon
Strove who should most destroy us; have I stood
Mail'd up in Steel, when my tough sinew shrunk,
And this parch'd Body ready to consume
As soon to ashes, as the Pike I bore;
Want has been to me as another Nature,
Which makes me with this patience still profess it;
And if a Souldier may without vain glory
Tell what h'as done, believe me, Gentlemen,
I could turn over annals of my dangers;
With this poor weakness have I man'd a breach,
And made it firm with so much bloud, that all
I had to bring me off alive was anger;
Thrice was I made a Slave, and thrice redeem'd
At price of all I had; The miseries
Of which times, if I had a heart to tell,
Would make ye weep like Children; but [I]'ll spare ye.

_Jac. Fabricio_, we two have been Souldiers
Above these fourteen years, yet o' my Conscience,
All we have seen, compar'd to his experience
Has been but cudgel-play, or Cock-fighting.
By all the faith I have in Arms, I reverence
The very poverty of this brave fellow;
Which were enough it self, and his to strengthen
The weakest town against half _Christendom_.
I was never so asham'd of service
In all my life before, now I consider
What I have done; and yet the Rogues would swear
I was a valiant fellow; I do find
The greatest danger I have brought my life through,
Now I have heard this worthy, was no more
Than stealing of a _May_-pole, or at worst,
Fighting at single Billet with a Barge-man.

_Fab._ I do believe him, _Jacomo_.

_Jac._ Believe him?
I have no faith within me, if I do not.

_Fath._ I see they are Souldiers;
And if we may judge by affections,
Brave and deserving men; how they are stir'd
But with a meer relation of what may be?
Since I have won belief, and am not known,
Forgive me, Honour, I'll make use of thee.

_Fab._ Sir, would I were a man, or great, or able
To look with liberal eyes upon your vertue.

_Jac._ Let's give him all we have, and leave off prating.
Here, Souldier, there's even five months pay, be merry,
And get thee handsom Cloaths.

_Fab._ What mean you, _Jacomo_?

_Jac._ Ye are a fool,
The very story's worth a hundred pound.
Give him more money.

_Fath._ Gentlemen, I know not
How I am able to deserve this blessing;
But if I live to see fair days again,
Something I'll do in honour of your goodness,
That shall shew thankfulness, if not desert.

_Fab._ If you please, Sir, till we procure ye place,
To eat with us, or wear such honest Garments
As our poor means can reach to, you shall be
A welcome man; to say more, were to feed ye
Only with words; we honour what y'have been,
For we are Souldiers, though not near the worth
You spake of lately.

_Fath._ I do guess ye so,
And knew, unless ye were a Souldier,
Ye could not find the way to know my wants.

_Jac._ But methinks all this while y'are too temperate;
Do you not tell men sometimes of the dulness
When you are grip't, as now you are with need?
I do, and let them know those silks they wear,
The War weaves for 'em; and the bread they eat
We sow, and reap again to feed their hunger;
I tell them boldly, they are masters of
Nothing but what we fight for; their fair women
Lye playing in their arms, whilst we, like _Lares_
Defend their pleasures; I am angry too,
And often rail at these forgetful great men
That suffer us to sue for what we ought
To have flung on us, e're we ask.

_Fath._ I have
Too often told my griefs that way, when all
I reapt, was rudeness of behaviour;
In their opinion men of War that thrive,
Must thank 'em when they rail, and wait to live.

_Fab._ Come, Sir, I see your wants need more relieving,
Than looking what they are; pray go with us.

_Fath._ I thank you, Gentlemen; since you are pleas'd
To do a benefit, I dare not cross it,
And what my service or endeavours may
Stand you in stead, you shall command, not pray. [_Exeunt._

_Jac._ So you shall us, I'll to the Taylors with you bodily.

SCENE II.

_Enter_ Frederick, Lodovico, _and_ Piso.

_Lod._ Well, if this be true, I'll believe a Woman
When I have nothing else to do.

_Piso._ 'Tis certain, if there be a way of truth
In blushes, smiles, and commendations;
For by this light, I have heard her praise yond' fellow
In such a pitch, as if sh'ad studied
To crowd the worths of all men into him,
And I imagine these are seldom us'd
Without their special ends, and by a maid
Of her desires and youth.

_Fred._ It may be so.
She's free, as you, or I am, and may have
By that Prerogative, a liberal choice
In the bestowing of her love.

_Lod._ Bestowing?
If it be so, she has bestow'd her self
Upon a trim youth, _Piso_, what do you call him?

_Piso._ Why, Captain _Jacomo_.

_Lod._ O, Captain Jack-boy,
That is the Gentleman.

_Fred._ I think he be
A Gentleman at worst.

_Lod._ So think I too,
Would he would mend, Sir.

_Fred._ And a tall one too.

_Lod._ Yes, of his teeth; for of my faith I think
They are sharper than his sword, and dare do more
If the Buff meet him fairly.

_Fred._ Very well.

_Piso._ Now do I wonder what she means to do
When she has married him.

_Lod._ Why, well enough;
Trail his Pike under him, and be a Gentlewoman
Of the brave Captains Company.

_Fred._ Do you hear me?
This woman is my Sister, Gentlemen.

_Lod._ I am glad she is none of mine; but _Frederick_
Thou art not such a fool sure to be angry
Unless it be with her; we are thy friends, man.

_Fred._ I think ye are.

_Lod._ Yes, 'faith, and do but tell thee
How she will utterly overthrow her credit,
If she continue gracing of this pot-gun.

_Piso._ I think she was bewitcht, or mad or blind,
She would never have taken such a scar-Crow else
Into protection; of my life he looks
Of a more rusty swarth Complexion
Than an old arming Doublet.

_Lod._ I would send
His face to the Cutlers then, and have it sanguin'd,
'Twill look a great deal sweeter; then his Nose
I would have shorter, and my reason is,
His face will be ill mounted else.

_Piso._ For his Body,
I will not be my own Judge, lest I seem
A Railer, but let others look upon't,
And if they find it any other thing
Than a Trunk-sellar, to send wines down in,
Or a long walking bottle, I'll be hang'd for't;
His Hide (for sure he is a Beast) is ranker
Than the _Muscovy_-Leather, and grain'd like it:
And by all likelihoods he was begotten
Between a stubborn pair of Winter-boots;
His body goes with straps, he is so churlish.

_Lod._ He's poor and beggarly besides all this,
And of a nature far uncapable
Of any benefit; for his manners cannot
Shew him a way to thank a man that does one,
He's so uncivil; you may do a part
Worthy a Brother, to perswade your Sister
From her undoing; if she prove so foolish
To marry this cast Captain, look to find her
Within a month, where you, or any good man,
Would blush to know her; selling cheese and prunes,
And retail'd Bottle-Ale; I grieve to think,
Because I lov'd her, what a march this Captain
Will set her into.

_Fred._ You are both, believe me,
Two arrant Knaves, and were it not for taking
So just an execution from his hands
You have bely'd thus, I would swaddle ye,
Till I could draw off both your skins like Scabbards.
That man that you have wrong'd thus, though to me
He be a stranger, yet I know so worthy,
However low in fortune, that his worst parts,
The very wearing of his Cloaths, would make
Two better Gentlemen than you dare be,
For there is vertue in his outward things.

_Lod._ Belike you love him then?

_Fred._ Yes marry do I.

_Lod._ And will be angry for him.

_Fred._ If you talk,
Or pull your face into a stich again,
As I love truth I shall be very angry.
Do not I know thee, though thou hast some land
To set thee out thus among Gentlemen,
To be a prating, and vain-glorious Ass?
I do not wrong thee now, for I speak truth.
Do not I know thou hast been a cudgel'd Coward,
That has no cure for shame but Cloath of Silver?
And think'st the wearing of a gawdy Suit
Hides all disgraces?

_Lod._ I understand you not, you hurt not me,
Your anger flies so wide.

_Piso._ Seignior _Frederick_,
You much mistake this Gentleman.

_Fred._ No, Sir.

_Piso._ If you would please to be less angry,
I would tell you how.

_Fred._ You had better study, Sir,
How to excuse your self if ye be able,
Or I shall tell you once again.

_Piso._ Not me, Sir;
For I protest what I have said, was only
To make you understand your Sisters danger.

_Lod._ He might, if it pleas'd him, conceive it so.

_Fred._ I might, if it pleas'd me, stand still and hear
My Sister made a _May_-game, might I not?
And give allowance to your liberal jests
Upon his Person, whose least anger would
Consume a Legion of such wretched people,
That have no more to justifie their actions
But their tongues ends? that dare lie every way
As a Mill grinds? from this hour, I renounce
All part of fellowship that may hereafter
Make me take knowledg of ye, but for Knaves;
And take heed, as ye love whole skins and coxcombs,
How, and to whom, ye prate thus; for this time,
I care not if I spare ye; do not shake,
I will not beat ye, though ye do deserve it
Richly.

_Lod._ This is a strange Course, _Frederick_;
But sure you do not, or you would not know us;
Beat us?

_Piso._ 'Tis somewhat low, Sir, to a Gentleman.

_Fred._ I'll speak but few words, but I'll make 'em truths;
Get you gone both, and quickly, without murmuring,
Or looking big; and yet before you go,
I will have this confess'd, and seriously,
That you two are two Rascals.

_Lod._ How?

_Fred._ Two Rascals.
Come speak it from your hearts, or by this light
My sword shall flye among ye; answer me,
And to the point directly.

_Piso._ You shall have
Your will for this time: since we see y'are grown
So far untemperate; Let it be so Sir
In your opinion.

_Fred._ Do not mince the matter,
But speak the words plain; and you _Lodovick_
That stand so tally on your reputation,
You shall be he shall speak it.

_Lod._ This is pretty.

_Fred._ Let me not stay upon't.

_Lod._ Well we are Rascals,
Yes _Piso,_ we are Rascals. [_Ex._ Lod. _and_ Piso.

_Fred._ Get ye gone now, not a word more, y'are Rascals.

_Enter_ Fabricio, _and_ Jacomo.

_Fab._ That should be _Frederick_.

_Jac._ 'Tis he: _Frederick_?

_Fred._ Who's that?

_Jac._ A friend Sir.

_Fred._ It is so, by the voyce:
I have sought you Gentlemen, and since I have found you,
So near our house, I'le force ye stay a while,
I pray let it be so.

_Fab._ It is too late,
We'l come and dine to morrow with your Sister,
And do our services.

_Jac._ Who were those with you?

_Fab._ We met two came from hence.

_Fred._ Two idle fellows,
That you shall beat hereafter, and I'le tell ye
Some fitter time a cause sufficient for it.

_Fab._ But _Frederick_, tell me truly; do you think
She can affect my friend?

_Fred._ No certainer
Than when I speak of him, or any other,
She entertains it with as much desire
As others do their recreations.

_Fabr._ Let not him have this light by any means;
He will but think he's mockt, and so grow angry,
Even to a quarrel: he's so much distrustfull
Of all that take occasion to commend him--
Women especially: for which he shuns
All conversation with 'em, and believes
He can be but a mirth to all their Sex,
Whence is this musique?

_Fred._ From my Sisters chamber.

_Fab._ The touch is excellent, let's be attentive.

_Jac._ Hark, are the Waits abroad?

_Fab._ Be softer prethee,
'Tis private musick.

_Jac._ What a dyn it makes!
I had rather hear a Jews trump than these Lutes,
They cry like School-boys.

_Fabr._ Prethee _Jacomo_.

_Jac._ Well I will hear, or sleep, I care not whether.

THE SONG.

_Enter at the Window_ Frank, _and_ Clora.

1. _Tell me dearest what is Love?_

2. _'Tis a lightning from above,_
_'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire,_
_'Tis a boy they call Desire._

Both. _'Tis a grave,_
_Gapes to have_
_Those poor fools that long to prove._

1. _Tell me more, are Women true?_

2. _Yes, some are, and some as you._
_Some are willing, some are strange,_
_Since you men first taught to change._

Both. _And till troth_
_Be in both,_
_All shall love, to love anew._

1. _Tell me more yet can they grieve?_

2. _Yes, and sicken sore, but live:_
_And be wise, and delay,_
_When you men are as wise as they._

Both. _Then I see_
_Fai[th] will be,_
_Never till they both believe._

_Fran. Clora_, come hither; who are these below there?

_Clor._ Where?

_Fran._ There.

_Clor._ Ha? I should know their shapes
Though it be darkish; there are both our Brothers,
What should they make thus late here?

_Fran._ What's the tother?

_Clor._ What tother?

_Fran._ He that lyes along there.

_Clor._ O, I see him
As if he had a branch of some great Petigree
Grew out on's belly.

_Fran._ Yes.

_Clor._ That should be,
If I have any knowledge in proportion.--

_Fab._ They see us.

_Fred._ 'Tis no matter.

_Fab._ What a log
Is this, to sleep such musique out!

_Fred._ No more, let's hear 'em.

_Clor._ If I have any knowledge in proportion
The Captain _Jacomo_, those are his legs
Upon my conscience.

_Fran._ By my faith, and neat ones.

_Clor._ You mean the boots, I think they are neat by nature.

_Fra._ As thou art knavish, would I saw his face!

_Clor._ 'Twould scare you in the dark.

_Fran._ A worse than that
Has never scar'd you _Clora_ to my knowledge.

_Clor._ 'Tis true, for I never have seen a worse;
Nor while I say my prayers heartily,
I hope I shall not.

_Fran._ Well, I am no tell tale:
But is it not great pity, tell me _Clora_,
That such a brave deserving Gentleman
As every one delivers this to be,
Should have no more respect, and worth flung on him
By able men? Were I one of these great ones,
Such vertues should not sleep thus.

_Clor._ Were he greater
He would sleep more I think: I'le waken him.

_Fran._ Away ye fool.

_Clor._ Is he not dead already, and they two taking order
About his Blacks? me thinks they are very busie,
A fine clean coarse he is: I would have him buried
Even as he lyes, cross legg'd, like one o'th' _Templers_
(If his Westphalia gammons will hold crossing)
And on his brest, a buckler with a pike in't,
In which I would have some learned Cutler
Compile an Epitaph, and at his feet
A musquet, with this word upon a Label
Which from the cocks mouth thus should be delivered,
_I have discharg'd the office of a Souldier._

_Fran._ Well, if thy Father were a Souldier
Thus thou wouldst use him.

_Clora._ Such a Souldier,
I would indeed.

_Fab._ If he hear this, not all
The power of man could keep him from the windows
Till they were down and all the doors broke open:
For Gods sake make her cooler: I dare not venture
To bring him else: I know he will go to buffets
Within five words with her, if she holds this spirit;
Let's waken him, and away, we shall hear worse else.

_Fran._ Well if I be not even with thee _Clora_
Let me be hang'd for this: I know thou dost it
Only to anger me, and purge thy wit
Which would break out else.

_Clora._ I have found ye,
I'le be no more cross, bid 'em good night.

_Fran._ No, no, they shall not know we have seen 'em;
Shut the window. [_Ex._ Fran. _and_ Clora.

_Fab._ Will you get up Sir?

_Jac._ Have you paid the Fidlers?

_Fab._ You are not left to do it: Fie upon thee,
Hast thou forsworn manners?

_Jac._ Yes unless
They would let me eat my meat without long graces
Or drink without a preface to the pledger;
Oft, will it please you, shall I be so bold Sir,
Let me remember your good bed-fellow,
And lye and kiss my hand unto my Mistris
As often as an Ape does for an Aple;
These are meer Schisms in Souldiers; where's my friend?
These are to us as bitter as purgations,
We love that general freedom we are bred to;
Hang these faint fooleries, they smell of peace,
Do they not friend?

_Fab._ Faith Sir to me they are
As things indifferent, yet I use 'em not,
Or if I did, they would not prick my conscience.

_Fred._ Come, shall we go? 'tis late.

_Jac._ Yes any whither,
But no more Musick, it has made me dull.

_Fab._ Faith any thing but drinking disturbs thee _Jacomo_,
We'l ev'n to bed.

_Jac._ Content.

_Fab._ Thou wilt dream of wenches.

_Jac._ I never think of any I thank Heaven
But when I am drunk, and then 'tis but to cast
A cheap way how they may be all destroy'd
Like vermine; let's away, I am very sleepy.

_Fab._ I, thou art ever so, or angry, come. [_Exeunt._

_Actus Tertius. Scena Prima._

_Enter_ Julio, _and_ Angelo.

_Jul._ I will but see her once more _Angelo_,
That I may hate her more, and then I am
My self again.

_Ang._ I would not have thee tempt lust,
'Tis a way dangerous, and will deceive thee,
Hadst thou the constancy of all men in thee.

_Jul._ Having her sins before me, I dare see her
Were she as catching as the plague, and deadly,
And tell her she is fouler than all those
And far more pestilent, if not repentant,
And like a strong man, chide her well, and leave her.

_Ang._ 'Tis easily said, of what complexion is she?

_Jul._ Make but a curious frame unto thy self
As thou wouldst shape an Angel in thy thought;
Such as the Poets, when their fancies sweat,
Imagine _Juno_ is, or fair ey'd _Pallas_,
And one more excellent, than all those figures
Shalt thou find her; she's brown, but of a sweetness,
(If such a poor word may express her beauty)
Believe me _Angelo_, would do more mischief
With a forc't smile, than twenty thousand _Cupids_
With their love quivers, full of Ladies eyes,
And twice as many flames, could fling upon us.

_Ang._ Of what age is she?

_Jul._ As a Rose at fairest,
Neither a bud, nor blown, but such a one,
Were there a _Hercules_ to get again
With all his glory, or one more than he,
The god would choose out amongst a race of women
To make a Mother of: she is outwardly
All that bewitches sense; all that entices,
Nor is it in our vertue to uncharm it.
And when she speaks, oh _Angelo_, then musick
(Such as old _Orpheus_ made, that gave a soul
To aged mountains, and made rugged beasts
Lay by their rages; and tall trees that knew
No sound but tempests, to bow down their branches
And hear, and wonder; and the Sea, whose surges
Shook their white heads in Heaven, to be as mid-night
Still, and attentive) steals into our souls
So suddenly, and strangely, that we are
From that time no more ours, but what she pleases.

_Ang._ Why look, how far you have thrust your self again
Into your old disease! are you that man
With such a resolution, that would venture
To take your leave of folly, and now melt
Even in repeating her?

_Jul._ I had forgot me.

_Ang._ As you will still do.

_Jul._ No, the strongest man
May have the grudging of an ague on him,
This is no more; let's go, I would fain be fit
To be thy friend again, for now I am no mans.

_Ang._ Go you, I dare not go, I tell you truly
Nor were it wise I should.

_Jul._ Why?

_Ang._ I am well,
And if I can, will keep my self so.

_Jul._ Ha? thou mak'st me smile, though I have little cause,
To see how prettily thy fear becomes thee;
Art thou not strong enough to see a woman?

_Ang._ Yes, twenty thousand: but not such a one
As you have made her: I'le not lye for th' matter:
I know I am frail, and may be cozen'd too
By such a Syren.

_Jul._ Faith thou shalt go, _Angelo_.

_Ang._ Faith but I will not; no I know how far Sir
I am able to hold out, and will not venture
Above my depth: I do not long to have
My sleep ta'ne from me, and go pulingly
Like a poor wench had lost her market-mony;
And when I see good meat, sit still and sigh,
And call for small beer; and consume my wit
In making _Anagrams_, and faithful posies;
I do not like that Itch, I am sure I had rather
Have the main pox, and safer.

_Jul._ Thou shalt go,
I must needs have thee as a witness with me
Of my repentance; as thou lov'st me go.

_Ang._ Well I will go, since you will have it so,
But if I prove a fool too, look to have me
Curse you continually, and fearfully.

_Jul._ And if thou seest me fall again, good _Angelo_
Give me thy counsel quickly lest I perish.

_Ang._ Pray Heaven I have enough to save my self,
For as I have a soul, I had rather venture
Upon a savage Island, than this woman. [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.

_Enter Father, and Servant._

_Fath._ From whom Sir, comes this bounty? for I think
You are mistaken.

_Serv._ No Sir, 'tis to you
I am sure my Mistris sent it.

_Fath._ Who's your Mistris,
That I may give her thanks?

_Serv._ The vertuous Widow.

_Fath._ The vertuous widow Sir? I know none such:
Pray what's her name?

_Ser._ Lælia.

_Fath._ I knew you err'd,
'Tis not to me I warrant ye; there Sir,
Carry it to those she feeds fat with such favours,
I am a stranger to her.

_Serv._ Good Sir take it,
And if you will, I'le swear she sent it to you,
For I am sure mine eye never went off ye
Since you forsook the Gentlemen you talk'd with
Just at her door.

_Fath._ Indeed I talkt with two
Within this half hour in the street.

_Serv._ 'Tis you Sir,
And none but you I am sent to: wiser men
Would have been thankful sooner, and receiv'd it,
'Tis not a fortune every man can brag of,
And from a woman of her excellence.

_Fa._ Well Sir, I am Catechiz'd; what more belongs to't?

_Serv._ This only Sir; she would intreat you come
This evening to her without fail.

_Fath._ I will.

_Serv._ You ghess where.

_Fath._ Sir I have a tongue else. [_Exit Ser._
She is down-right Devil; or else my wants
And her disobedience have provok't her
To look into her foul self, and be sorry.
I wonder how she knew me? I had thought
I had been the same to all, I am to them
That chang'd me thus: Heaven pardon me for lying,
For I have paid it home: many a good man
That had but found the profit of my way
Would forswear telling true again in hast.

_Enter_ Lodovico, _and_ Piso.

Here are my praters; now if I did well
I should belabour 'em, but I have found
A way to quiet 'em, worth a thousand on't.

_Lod._ If we could get a fellow that would do it.

_Fat._ What villany is now in hand?

_Pis._ 'Twill be hard to be done in my opinion
Unless we light upon an _English-man_
With seven-score surfeits in him.

_Lod._ Are the _English-men_ such stubborn drinkers?

_Piso._ Not a leak at Sea
Can suck more liquor; you shall have their children
Christened in mull'd sack, and at five years old, able
To knock a _Dane_ down: Take an _English-man_
And cry St. _George_, and give him but a rasher,
And you shall have him upon even terms
Defy a hogshead; such a one would do it
Home boy, and like a work-man: at what weapon?

_Lod._ Sherry sack: I would have him drink stark dead
If it were possible: at worst past portage.

_Piso._ What is the end then?

_Lod._ Dost thou not perceive it?
If he be drunk dead, there's a fair end of him.
If not, this is my end, or by enticing,
Or by deceiving, to conduct him where
The fool is, that admires him; and if sober,
His nature be so rugged, what will't be
When he is hot with wine? come let's about it,
If this be done but handsomely, I'le pawn
My head she hath done with Souldiers.

_Piso._ This may do well.

_Fat._ Here's a new way to murther men alive,
I'le choak this train: God save ye Gentlemen.
It is to you, stay: yes it is to you.

_Lod._ What's to me?

_Fath._ You are fortunate,
I cannot stand to tell you more now, meet me
Here soon, and you'l be made a man. [_Exit_ Father.

_Lod._ What Vision's this?

_Piso._ I know not.

_Lod._ Well, I'le meet it,
Think you o'th' other, and let me a while
Dream of this fellow.

_Piso._ For the Drunkard, _Lodovick_,
Let me alone.

_Lod._ Come, let's about it then. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_Enter_ Clora, _and_ Frank.

_Clor._ Ha, ha, ha, pray let me laugh extreamly.

_Fra._ Why? prethee why? hast thou such cause?

_Clor._ Yes faith, my Brother will be here straightway, and--

_Fra._ What?

_Clor._ The other party: ha, ha, ha.

_Fra._ What party?
Wench thou art not drunk?

_Clor._ No faith.

_Fra._ Faith thou hast been among the bottles _Clora_.

_Clor._ Faith but I have not _Frank_: Prethee be handsom,
The Captain comes along too, wench.

_Fra._ O is that it
That tickles ye?

_Clor._ Yes, and shall tickle you too,
You understand me?

_Fran._ By my troth thou art grown
A strange lewd wench: I must e'ne leave thy company,
Thou wilt spoil me else.

_Clor._ Nay, thou art spoil'd to my hand;
Hadst thou been free, as a good wench ought to be,
When I went first a birding for thy Love,
And roundly said, that is the man must do it,
I had done laughing many an hour agoe.

_Fra._ And what dost thou see in him, now thou knowst him
To be thus laught at?

_Clor._ Prethee be not angry
And I'le speak freely to thee.

_Fran._ Do, I will not.

_Clor._ Then as I hope to have a handsom husband,
This fellow in mine eye, (and _Frank_ I am held
To have a shrewd ghess at a pretty fellow)
Appears a strange thing.

_Fra._ Why, how strange for _Gods_ sake?
He is a man, and one that may content
(For any thing I see) a right good woman:
And sure I am not blind.

_Clor._ There lyes the question?
For, (but you say he is a man, and I
Will credit you,) I should as soon have thought him
Another of _Gods_ creatures; out upon him,
His body, that can promise nothing
But laziness and long strides.

_Fra._ These are your eyes;
Where were they _Clora_, when you fell in love
With the old foot-man, for singing of Queen _Dido_?
And swore he look'd in his old velvet trunks
And his slic't _Spanish_ Jerkin, like _Don John_?
You had a parlous judgment then, my _Clora_.

_Clora._ Who told you that?

_Fran._ I heard it.

_Clora._ Come, be friends,
The Souldier is a _Mars_, no more, we are all
Subject to slide away.

_Fra._ Nay, laugh on still.

_Clor._ No faith, thou art a good wench, and 'tis pity
Thou shouldst not be well quarried at thy entring,
Thou art so high flown for him: Look, who's there?

_Enter_ Fabricio, _and_ Jacomo.

_Jac._ Prethee go single, what should I do there?
Thou knowst I hate these visitations,
As I hate peace or perry.

_Fab._ Wilt thou never
Make a right man?

_Jac._ You make a right fool of me
To lead me up and down to visit women,
And be abus'd and laugh'd at; let me sta[rv]e
If I know what to say, unless I ask 'em
What their shooes cost?

_Fab._ Fye upon thee, coward,
Canst thou not sing?

_Jac._ Thou knowest I can sing nothing
But _Plumpton_ park.

_Fab._ Thou't be bold enough,
When thou art enter'd once.

_Jac._ I had rather enter
A breach: if I miscarry, by this hand
I will have you by th' ears for't.

_Fab._ Save ye Ladies.

_Clo._ Sweet Brother I dare swear, you're welcom hither,
So is your Friend.

_Fab._ Come, blush not, but salute 'em.

_Fra._ Good Sir believe your Sister; you are most welcom,
So is this worthy Gentleman whose vertues
I shall be proud to be acquainted with.

_Jac._ She has found me out already, and has paid me;
Shall we be going?

_Fab._ Peace;
Your goodness Lady
Will ever be afore us, for my self
I will not thank you single, lest I leave
My friend, this Gentleman, out of acquaintance.

_Jac._ More of me yet?

_Fra._ Would I were able, Sir,
From either of your worths to merit thanks.

_Clor._ But Brother, is your friend thus sad still? methinks
'Tis an unseemly nature in a Souldier.

_Jac._ What hath she to do with me, or my behaviour?

_Fab._ He do's but shew so, prethee to him Sister.

_Jac._ If I do not break thy head, I am no Christian,
If I get off once.

_Clor._ Sir, we must intreat you
To think your self more welcom, and be merry,
'Tis pity a fair man of your proportion
Should have a soul of sorrow.

_Jac._ Very well;
Pray Gentlewoman what would you have me say?

_Clora._ Do not you know, Sir?

_Jac._ Not so well as you
That talk continually.

_Fran._ You have hit her, Sir.

_Clora._ I thank him, so he has,
Fair fall his sweet face for't.

_Jac._ Let my face
Alone, I would wish you, lest I take occasion
To bring a worse in question.

_Clora._ Meaning mine?
Brother, where was your friend brought up? h'as sure
Been a great lover in his youth of pottage,
They lye so dull upon his understanding.

_Fab._ No more of that, thou'lt anger him at heart.

_Clo._ Then let him be more manly, for he looks
Like a great School-boy that had been blown up
Last night at dust-point.

_Fran._ You will never leave
Till you be told how rude you are, fye _Clora_.
Sir will it please you sit?

_Clora._ And I'le sit by you.

_Jac._ Woman be quiet, and be rul'd I would wish you.

_Clora._ I have done, Sir Captain.

_Fab._ Art thou not asham'd?

_Jac._ You are an asse, I'le tell you more anon,
You had better have been hang'd than brought me hither.

_Fab._ You are grown a sullen fool; either be handsom,
Or by this light I'le have wenches bait thee;
Go to the Gentlewoman, and give her thanks,
And hold your head up; what?

_Jac._ By this light I'le brain thee.

_Fra._ Now o' my faith this Gentleman do's nothing
But it becomes him rarely; _Clora_, look
How well this little anger, if it be one,
Shews in his face.

_Clo._ Yes, it shews very sweetly.

_Fra._ Nay do not blush Sir, o' my troth it does,
I would be ever angry to be thus.
_Fabritio_, o' my conscience if I ever
Do fall in love, as I will not forswear it
Till I am something wiser, it must be,
I will not say directly with that face,
But certainly, such another as that is,
And thus dispose my chance to hamper me.

_Fab._ Dost thou hear this, and stand still?

_Jac._ You will prate still;
I would you were not women, I would take
A new course with ye.

_Clora._ Why couragious?

_Jac._ For making me a stone to whet your tongues on.

_Clora._ Prethee sweet Captain.

_Jac._ Go, go spin, go hang.

_Clo._ Now could I kiss him.

_Jac._ If you long for kicking,
You'r best come kiss me, do not though, I'de wish ye,
I'le send my Foot-man to thee, he shall leap thee,
And thou wantst horsing: I'le leave ye Ladies.

_Fra._ Beshrew my heart you are unmannerly
To offer this unto a Gentleman
Of his deserts, that comes so worthily
To visit me, I cannot take it well.

_Jac._ I come to visit you, you foolish woman?

_Fra._ I thought you did Sir, and for that I thank you,
I would be loth to lose those thanks; I know
This is but some odd way you have, and faith
It do's become you well to make us merry;
I have heard often of your pleasant vein.

_Fab._ What wouldst thou ask more?

_Jac._ Pray thou scurvy fellow
Thou hast not long to live; adieu dear Damsels,
You filthy women farewel, and be sober,
And keep your chambers.

_Clor._ Farewel old _Don Diego_.

_Fra._ Away, away, you must not [be so] angry,
To part thus roughly from us; yet to me
This do's not shew, as if it were yours, the wars
May breed men something plain I know,
But not thus rude; give me your hand good Sir
I know 'tis white, and--

_Jac._ If I were not patient,
What would become of you two prating houswives?

_Clo._ For any thing I know, we would in to supper,
And there begin a health of lusty Claret
To keep care from our hearts, and it should be--

_Fab._ Faith to whom? Mark but this _Jacomo_.

_Clo._ Even to the handsomest fellow now alive.

_Fab._ Do you know such a one?

_Fra._ He may be ghest at,
Without much travel.

_Fab._ There's another item.

_Clor._ And he should be a Souldier.

_Fra._ 'Twould be better.

_Clor._ And yet not you sweet Captain.

_Fra._ Why not he?

_Jac._ Well; I shall live to see your husbands beat you,
And hiss 'em on like ban-dogs.

_Clora._ Ha, ha, ha.

_Jac._ Green sicknesses and serving-men light on ye
With greasy Codpieces, and woollen stockings,
The Devil (if he dare deal with two women)
Be of your counsels: farewel Plaisterers-- [_Exit_ Jac.

_Clora._ This fellow will be mad at Mid-summer
Without all doubt.

_Fab._ I think so too.

_Fra._ I am sorry,
He's gone in such a rage; but sure this holds him
Not every day.

_Fab._ 'Faith every other day
If he come near a woman.

_Clor._ I wonder how his mother could endure
To have him in her Belly, he's so boysterous.

_Fra._ He's to be made more tractable I doubt not.

_Clo._ Yes, if they taw him as they do whit-leather
Upon an iron, or beat him soft like Stock-fish.

SCENE IV.

_Enter_ Lelia _and her waiting-woman with a Vail_.

_Lel._ Art t' sure 'tis he?

_Wom._ Yes, and another with him.

_Lel._ The more the merrier; did you give that money
And charg'd it to be delivered where I shew'd you?

_Wom._ Yes, and what else you bad me.

_Lel._ That brave fellow,
Though he be old, whate'r he be, shews toughness,
And such a one I long for, and must have
At any price; these young soft melting gristles
Are only for my safer ends.

_Wom._ They are here.

_Lel._ Give me my Vail, and bid the Boy go sing
That song above, I gave him; the sad song;
Now if I miss him, I am curst, go, wench,
And tell 'em I have utterly forsworn
All company of men, yet make a venture
At last to let 'em in; thou knowst these things,
Do 'em to th' life.

_Wom._ I warrant you I am perfect.

_Lel._ Some ill woman for her use would give
A million for this Wench, she is so subtle.

_Enter to the door_ Julio, _and_ Angelo.

_Wom._ Good Sir, desire it not, I dare not do it,
For since your last being here, Sir, believe me,
She has griev'd her self out of all Company,
And (sweet Soul) almost out of life too.

_Jul._ Prithee,
Let me but speak one word.

_Wom._ You will offend, Sir,
And yet your name is more familiar with her
Than any thing but sorrow, good Sir, go.

_Ang._ This little Varlet hath her Lesson perfect,
These are the baits they bob with.

_Jul._ 'Faith I will not.

_Wom._ I shall be chidden cruelly for this;
But you are such a Gentleman--

_Jul._ No more.

_Ang._ There's a new Tyre, wench; peace, thou art well enough.

_Jul._ What, has she musick?

_Wom._ Yes, for Heavens sake stay,
'Tis all she feeds upon.

_Jul._ Alas, poor soul.

_Ang._ Now will I pray devoutly, for there's need on't.

The SONG.

_Away delights, go seek some other dwelling,_
_For I must dye:_
_Farewel false Love, thy tongue is ever telling_
_Lye after Lye._
_For ever let me rest now from thy smarts,_
_Alas, for pity go,_
_And fire their hearts_
_That have been hard to thee, mine was not so._

_Never again deluding Love shall know me,_
_For I will dye;_
_And all those griefs that think to over-grow me,_
_Shall be as I:_
_For ever will I sleep, while poor Maids cry,_
_Alas, for pity stay,_
_And let us dye_
_With thee, men cannot mock us in the day._

_Jul._ Mistriss? not one word, Mistriss if I grieve ye
I can depart again.

_Ang._ Let's go then quickly,
For if she get from under this dark Cloud,
We shall both sweat I fear, for't.

_Jul._ Do but speak
Though you turn from me, and speak bitterly,
And I am gone, for that I think will please you.

_Ang._ Oh, that all women were thus silent ever,
What fine things they were!