Chapter XI: Act III: Scene III

ENTER THORELLO WITH COB.

THO. Ha, how many are there, sayest thou?

COB. Marry, sir, your brother, Signior Prospero.

THO. Tut, beside him: what strangers are there, man?

COB. Strangers? let me see, one, two; mass, I know not well,
there's so many.

THO. How? so many?

COB. Ay, there's some five or six of them at the most.

THO. A swarm, a swarm?
Spite of the devil, how they sting my heart!
How long hast thou been coming hither, Cob?

COB. But a little while, sir.

THO. Didst thou come running?

COB. No, sir.

THO. Tut, then I am familiar with thy haste.
Ban to my fortunes: what meant I to marry?
I that before was rank'd in such content,
My mind attired in smooth silken 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 in 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: yet I heard not a word of welcome.

THO. 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't 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?

THO. Oh ay, good Cob: I pray thee.

COB. God's my judge, I saw nobody 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.

THO. How? were they not gone in then ere thou cam'st?

COB. Oh no, sir.

THO. Spite of the devil, what do I stay here then?
Cob, follow me.

[EXIT THO.]

COB. Nay, soft and fair, I have eggs on the spit; I cannot
go yet sir: now am I for some divers reasons hammering,
hammering revenge: oh, for three or four gallons of vinegar,
to sharpen my wits: Revenge, vinegar revenge, russet 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 neckerchers for clean bands
for him: sold almost all my platters to buy him tobacco;
and yet to see an ingratitude wretch strike his host;
well, I hope to raise up an host of furies for't: here
comes M. Doctor.

[ENTER DOCTOR CLEMENT, LORENZO SENIOR, PETO.]

CLEM. What's Signior Thorello gone?

PET. Ay, sir.

CLEM. Heart of 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 neighbour of mine, knave?

COB. Ay, 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. What, at the Green Lattice?

COB. No sir: to the parish: marry, I have seldom scaped
scot-free at the Lattice.

CLEM. So: but what business hath my neighbour?

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 e'er
hurt thee? did I ever threaten thee? or wrong thee? ha?

COB. No, God's my comfort, I mean your worship's warrant,
for one that hath wrong'd me, sir: his arms are at too much
liberty, I would fain have them bound to a treaty of peace,
an I could by any means compass it.

LOR. Why, dost thou go in danger of thy life for him?

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 laws of the land, that he kill'd me.

CLEM. How? how, knave? swear he kill'd thee? what pretext?
what colour hast thou for that?

COB. Marry, sir, 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 in the city, sir.

CLEM. A gentleman? what call you him?

COB. Signior Bobadilla.

CLEM. Good: But wherefore did he beat you, sirrah?
how began the quarrel 'twixt you? ha: speak truly,
knave, I advise you.

COB. Marry, sir, because I spake against their vagrant
tobacco, as I came by them: for nothing else.

CLEM. Ha, you speak against tobacco? Peto, his name.

PET. What's your name, sirrah?

COB. Oliver Cob, sir, set Oliver Cob, sir.

CLEM. Tell Oliver Cob he shall go to the jail.

PET. Oliver Cob, master Doctor says you shall go to the jail.

COB. Oh, I beseech your worship, for God's love, dear master
Doctor.

CLEM. Nay, God's precious! an such drunken knaves as you are
come to dispute of tobacco once, I have done: away with him.

COB. Oh, good master Doctor, sweet gentleman.

LOR. SE. Sweet Oliver, would I could do thee any good; master
Doctor, let me intreat, sir.

CLEM. What? a tankard-bearer, 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:
Peto, away with him, by God's passion, I say, go to.

COB. Dear master Doctor.

LOR. SE. Alas, poor Oliver.

CLEM. Peto: ay: and make him a warrant, he shall not go,
I but fear the knave.

COB. O divine Doctor, thanks, noble Doctor, most dainty
Doctor, delicious Doctor.

[EXEUNT PETO WITH COB.]

CLEM. Signior Lorenzo: God's pity, man,
Be merry, be merry, leave these dumps.

LOR. SE. Troth, would I could, sir: but enforced mirth
(In my weak judgment) has no happy birth.
The mind, being once a prisoner unto cares,
The more it dreams on joy, the worse it fares.
A smiling look is to a heavy soul
As a gilt bias to a leaden bowl,
Which (in itself) appears most vile, being spent
To no true use; but only for ostent.

CLEM. Nay, but, good Signior, hear me a word, hear me a word,
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, God's passion,
an I had twice so many cares as you have, I'd drown them all
in a cup of sack: come, come, I muse your parcel of a soldier
returns not all this while.

[EXEUNT.]