Chapter XXIII: Act I: Scene I

_The Middle[946] Aisle of St. Paul’s._

_Enter_ REARAGE _meeting_ SALEWOOD.

SALE. What, master Rearage?
REAR. Master Salewood? exceedingly well met in town.
Comes your father up this term?
SALE. Why, he was here three days before the Exchequer
gaped.
REAR. Fie, such an early termer?
SALE. He’s not to be spoke withal; I dare not ask him
blessing till the last of November.
REAR. And how looks thy little venturing cousin?
SALE. Faith, like a lute that has all the strings broke;
nobody will meddle with her.
REAR. Fie, there are doctors enow in town will string
her again, and make her sound as sweet as e’er she did.
Is she not married yet?
SALE. Sh’as no luck; some may better steal a horse than
others look on: I have known a virgin of five bastards
wedded. Faith, when all’s done, we must be fain to marry
her into the north, I’m afraid.
REAR. But will she pass so, think you?
SALE. Pooh, any thing that is warm enough is good enough
for them: so it come in the likeness, though the devil
be in’t, they’ll venture the firing.
REAR. They’re worthy spirits, i’faith. Heard you the
news?
SALE. Not yet.
REAR. Mistress Difficult is newly fallen a widow.
SALE. Say true; is master Difficult, the lawyer, dead?
REAR. Easily dead, sir.
SALE. Pray, when died he?
REAR. What a question’s that! when should a lawyer die
but in the vacation? he has no leisure to die in the
term-time; beside, the noise there would fetch him
again.
SALE. Knew you the nature of his disease?
REAR. Faith, some say he died of an old grief he had,
that the vacation was fourteen weeks long.
SALE. And very likely: I knew ’twould kill him at last;
’t’as troubled him a long time. He was one of those that
would fain have brought in the heresy of a fifth term;
often crying, with a loud voice, O why should we lose
Bartholomew week?
REAR. He savours; stop your nose; no more of him.

_Enter_ COCKSTONE _meeting_ EASY.

COCK. Young master Easy, let me salute you, sir.
When came you?
EASY. I have but inn’d my horse since, master
Cockstone.
COCK. You seldom visit London, master Easy;
But now your father’s dead, ’tis your only course:
Here’s gallants of all sizes, of all lasts;
Here you may fit your foot, make choice of those
Whom your affection may rejoice in.
EASY. You’ve[947] easily possess’d[948] me, I am free:
Let those live hinds that know not liberty!
COCK. Master Rearage?
EASY. Good master Salewood, I am proud of your society.
REAR. What gentleman might that be?
COCK. One master Easy; has good land in Essex;
A fair, free-breasted gentleman, somewhat
Too open—bad in man, worse in woman,
The gentry-fault at first:—he is yet fresh,
And wants the city powdering. But what news?
Is’t yet a match ’twixt master Quomodo’s
The rich draper’s daughter and yourself?
REAR. Faith, sir, I am vildly[949] rivall’d.
COCK. Vildly? by whom?
REAR. One Andrew Lethe, crept to a little warmth,
And now so proud that he forgets all storms;
One that ne’er wore apparel, but, like ditches,
’Twas cast before he had it; now shines bright
In rich embroideries. Him master Quomodo affects,
The daughter him, the mother only me:
I rest most doubtful, my side being weakest.
COCK. Yet the mother’s side
Being surer than the father’s, it may prove,
Men plead for money best, women for love.
REAR. ’Slid, master Quomodo!
COCK. How then? afraid of a woollen-draper!
REAR. He warned me his house, and I hate he should see
me abroad.
[_They all retire._

_Enter_ QUOMODO, SHORTYARD,[950] _and_ FALSELIGHT.

QUO. O my two spirits, Shortyard and Falselight, you
that have so enricht me! I have industry for you both.
SHO. Then do you please us best, sir.
QUO. Wealthy employment.
SHO. You make me itch, sir.
QUO. You, Falselight, as I have directed you—
FAL. I am nimble.
QUO. Go, make my coarse commodities look sleek;[951]
With subtle art beguile the honest eye:
Be near to my trap-window, cunning Falselight.
FAL. I never fail’d it yet.
QUO. I know thou didst not.— [_Exit_ FALSELIGHT.
But now to thee, my true and secret Shortyard,
Whom I dare trust e’en with my wife;
Thou ne’er didst mistress harm, but master good:
There are too few of thy name gentlemen,
And that we feel, but citizens abundance:
I have a task for thee, my pregnant spirit,
To exercise thy pointed wits upon.
SHO. Give it me, for I thirst.
QUO. Thine ear shall drink it.
Know, then, I have not spent this long vacation
Only for pleasure’s sake:—give me the man
Who out of recreation culls advantage,
Dives into seasons, never walks but thinks,
Ne[952] rides but plots:—my journey was toward Essex——
SHO. Most true.
QUO. Where I have seen what I desire.
SHO. A woman?
QUO. Pooh, a woman! yet beneath her,
That which she often treads on, yet commands her;
Land, fair neat land.
SHO. What is the mark you shoot at?
QUO. Why, the fairest to cleave the heir in twain,
I mean his title; to murder his estate,
Stifle his right in some detested prison:
There are means and ways enow to hook in gentry,
Besides our deadly enmity, which thus stands,
They’re busy ’bout our wives, we ’bout their lands.
SHO. Your revenge is more glorious.
To be a cuckold is but for one life;
When land remains to you, your heir, or wife.
QUO. Ah, sirrah, do we sting ’em? This fresh gallant
Rode newly up before me.
SHO. I beseech his name.
QUO. Young master Easy.
SHO. Easy? it may fall right.
QUO. I have inquired his haunt—stay,—hah! ay, that ’tis,
that’s he, that’s he!
SHO. Happily!
QUO. Observe, take surely note of him; he’s fresh
and free: shift thyself speedily into the shape of
gallantry:[953] I’ll swell thy purse with angels.[954]
Keep foot by foot with him, outdare his expenses,
flatter, dice, and brothel to him; give him a sweet
taste of sensuality; train him to every wasteful sin,
that he may quickly need health, but especially money;
ravish him with a dame or two,—be his bawd for once,
I’ll be thine for ever;—drink drunk with him, creep into
bed to him, kiss him, and undo him, my sweet spirit.
SHO. Let your care dwell in me; soon shall it shine:
What subtilty’s[955] in man that is not mine?
QUO. O my most cheerful spirit! go, despatch.
[_Exit_ SHORTYARD.
Gentry is the chief fish we tradesmen catch. [_Exit._
EASY. What’s here?
SALE. O, they are bills[956] for chambers.
EASY [_reads_]. _Against St. Andrew’s, at a painter’s
house, there’s a fair chamber ready furnished to be let;
the house not only endued with a new fashion forepart,
but, which is more convenient for a gentleman, with a
very provident back door._
SALE. Why, here’s virtue still: I like that thing that’s
necessary as well as pleasant.
COCK. What news in yonder paper?
REAR. Hah! seek you for news? there’s for you!

_Enter_ LETHE, _who remains behind reading the bills_.

SALE. Who’s this?[957]
In the name of the black angels, Andrew Gruel!
REAR. No, Andrew Lethe.
SALE. Lethe?
REAR. Has forgot[958] his father’s name,
Poor Walter Gruel, that begot him, fed him,
And brought him up.
SALE. Not hither.
REAR. No;
’Twas from his thoughts; he brought him up below.
SALE. But does he pass for Lethe?
REAR. ’Mongst strange eyes,
That no more know him than he knows himself,
That’s nothing now; for master Andrew Lethe,
A gentleman of most received parts,
Forgetfulness, lust, impudence, and falsehood,
And one especial courtly quality,
To wit, no wit at all. I am his rival
For Quomodo’s daughter; but he knows it not.
SALE. Has spied us o’er his paper.
REAR. O, that’s a warning
To make our duties ready.
COCK. Salute him? hang him!
REAR. Pooh, wish his health awhile; he’ll be laid
shortly:
Let him gorge venison for a time, our doctors
Will bring him to dry mutton. Seem respective,[959]
To make his pride swell like a toad with dew.
[LETHE _comes forward_.
SALE. Master Lethe.
REAR. Sweet master Lethe.
LET. Gentlemen, your pardon; I remember you not.
SALE. Why, we supt with you last night, sir.
LET. O, cry you mercy! ’tis so long ago,
I’d[960] quite forgot you; I must be forgiven.
Acquaintance, dear society, suits, and things,
Do so flow to me,
That had I not the better memory,
’Twould be a wonder I should know myself.
Esteem is made of such a dizzy metal;
I have receiv’d of many gifts o’er night,
Whom I’ve[961] forgot ere morning: meeting the men,
I wish’d ’em to remember me agen:[962]
They do so; then if I forget agen,
I know what help’d before, that will help then:
This is my course; for memory I’ve been told
Twenty preserves; the best I find is gold;
Ay, truly! Are you not knights yet, gentlemen?
SALE. Not yet.
LET. No? that must be looked into; ’tis your own fault.
I have some store of venison: where shall we devour it,
gentlemen?
SALE. The Horn were a fit place.
LET. For venison fit:
The horn having chas’d it,
At the Horn we’ll——
Rhyme to that?
COCK. Taste it.
SALE. Waste it.
REAR. Cast it.
LET. That’s the true rhyme indeed! we hunt our venison
twice, I tell you; first out a’ th’ park, next out a’
th’ belly.
COCK. First dogs take pains to make it fit for men,
Then men take pains[963] to make it fit for dogs.
LET. Right.
COCK. Why, this [is] kindness; a kind gallant you,
And love to give the dogs more than their due:
We shall attend you, sir.
LET. I pray do so.
SALE. The Horn.
LET. Easily remember’d that, you know.
[_Exeunt all except_ LETHE.
But now unto my present business. The daughter yields,
and Quomodo consents; only my mistress Quomodo, her
mother, without regard runs full against me, and sticks
hard. Is there no law for a woman that will run upon a
man at her own apperil?[964] Why should not she consent,
knowing my state, my sudden fortunes? I can command a
custard, and other bake-meats, death of sturgeon:[965] I
could keep house with nothing. What friends have I! how
well am I beloved! e’en quite throughout the scullery.
Not consent? ’tis e’en as I have writ: I’ll be hanged,
and[966] she love me not herself, and would rather
preserve me, as a private friend, to her own pleasures,
than any way advance her daughter upon me to beguile
herself. Then how have I relieved her in that point? let
me peruse this letter. [_Reads_]—_Good mistress Quomodo,
or rather, as I hope ere the term end, mother Quomodo,
since only your consent keeps aloof off,[967] and
hinders the copulation of your daughter, what may I
think, but that it is a mere affection in you, doating
upon some small inferior virtue of mine, to draw me in
upon yourself? If the case stand so, I have comfort for
you; for this you may well assure yourself, that by the
marriage of your daughter I have the better means
and opportunity to yourself, and without the least
suspicion._—This is moving stuff, and that works best
with a citizen’s wife: but who shall I get to convey
this now? My page I ha’ lent forth; my pander I have
employed about the country to look out some third
sister, or entice some discontented gentlewoman from her
husband, whom the laying out of my appetite shall
maintain. Nay, I’ll deal like an honourable gentleman,
I’ll be kind to women; that which I gather i’ th’ day,
I’ll put into their purses at night. You shall have no
cause to rail at me; no, faith: I’ll keep you in good
fashion, ladies; no meaner men than knights shall ransom
home your gowns and recover your smocks: I’ll not dally
with you.—Some poor[968] widow woman would come as a
necessary bawd now! and see where fitly comes—

_Enter_ MOTHER GRUEL.

my mother! Curse of poverty! does she come up to shame
me, to betray my birth, and cast soil upon my new suit?
Let her pass me; I’ll take no notice of her,—scurvy
murrey kersey![969]
MOTH. G. By your leave, and[970] like your worship——
LET. Then I must proudly venture it.—To me, good woman?
MOTH. G. I beseech one word with your worship.
LET. Prithee, be brief then.
MOTH. G. Pray, can your worship tell me any tidings of
one Andrew Gruel, a poor son of mine own?
LET. I know a gallant gentleman of the name, one master
Andrew Gruel, and well received amongst ladies.
MOTH. G. That’s not he, then: he is no gentleman that I
mean.
LET. Good woman, if he be a Gruel, he’s a gentleman i’
th’ mornings, that’s a gentleman a’ th’ first; you
cannot tell me.
MOTH. G. No, truly; his father was an honest, upright
tooth-drawer.
LET. O my teeth!
MOTH. G. An’t please your worship, I have made a sore
journey out, all this vacant time, to come up and see my
son Andrew. Poor Walter Gruel, his father, has laid his
life, and left me a lone woman; I have not one husband
in all the world: therefore my coming up is for relief,
an’t like your worship, hoping that my son Andrew is in
some place about the kitchen.
LET. Kitchen! pooh, faugh!
MOTH. G. Or a serving-man to some knight of worship.
LET. O, let me not endure her! [_Aside._]—Know you not
me, good woman?
MOTH. G. Alas, an’t please your worship, I never saw
such a glorious suit since the hour I was kersened.[971]
LET. Good, she knows me not; my glory does
disguise[972] me;
Beside, my poorer name being drench’d in Lethe,
She’ll hardly understand me. What a fresh air can do!
I may employ her as a private drudge,
To pass my letters and secure my lust;
And ne’er be noted mine, to shame my blood,
And drop my staining birth upon my raiment.— [_Aside._
Faith, good woman, you will hardly get to the speech of
master Andrew, I tell you.
MOTH. G. No? marry, hang him! and[973] like your
worship, I have known the day when nobody cared to speak
to him.
LET. You must take heed how you speak ill of him, I can
tell you, now; he’s so employed.
MOTH. G. Employed? for what?
LET. For his ’haviour, wisdom, and other virtues.
MOTH. G. He, virtues? no, ’tis well known his father was
too poor a man to bring him up to any virtues; he can
scarce write and read.
LET. He’s the better regarded for that amongst
courtiers, for that’s but a needy quality.
MOTH. G. If it be so, then he’ll be great shortly, for
he has no good parts about him.
LET. Well, good woman, or mother, or what you will——
MOTH. G. Alack the day! I know your worship scorns to
call me mother; ’tis not a thing fit for your worship
indeed, such a simple old woman as I am.
LET. In pity of thy long journey, there’s sixpence
British: tend upon me; I have business for you.
MOTH. G. I’ll wait upon your worship.
LET. Two pole off at least.
MOTH. G. I am a clean old woman, an’t like your worship.
LET. It goes not by cleanness here, good woman; if you
were fouler, so you were braver,[974] you might come
nearer. [_Exit._
MOTH. G. Nay, and[975] that be the fashion, I hope I
shall get it shortly; there’s no woman so old but she
may learn: and as an old lady delights in a young page
or monkey, so there are young courtiers will be hungry
upon an old woman, I warrant you. [_Exit._

SCENE II.

_A Street._

_Enter_ HELLGILL[976] _and_ COUNTRY WENCH.

HELL. Come, leave your puling and sighing.
COUN. W. Beshrew you now, why did you entice me from my
father?
HELL. Why? to thy better advancement. Wouldst thou, a
pretty, beautiful, juicy squall, live in a poor
thrummed[977] house i’ th’ country, in such servile
habiliments, and may well pass for a gentlewoman i’ th’
city? does not five hundred do so, thinkest thou, and
with worse faces? O, now in these latter days, the devil
reigning, ’tis an age for cloven creatures! But why sad
now? yet indeed ’tis the fashion of any courtesan to be
sea-sick i’ th’ first voyage; but at next she proclaims
open wars, like a beaten soldier. Why, Northamptonshire
lass, dost dream of virginity now? remember a loose-
bodied gown,[978] wench, and let it go; wires and tires,
bents and bums,[979] felts and falls, thou that shalt
deceive the world, that gentlewomen indeed shall not be
known from others. I have a master, to whom I must
prefer thee after the aforesaid deckening; Lethe by
name, a man of one most admired property; he can both
love thee, and for thy better advancement, be thy pander
himself; an excellent spark of humility.
COUN. W. Well, heaven forgive you! you train me up to’t.
HELL. Why, I do acknowledge it, and I think I do you a
pleasure in’t.
COUN. W. And if I should prove a harlot now, I should be
bound to curse you.
HELL. Bound? nay, and[980] you prove a harlot, you’ll be
loose enough.
COUN. W. If I had not a desire to go like a gentlewoman,
you should be hanged ere you should get me to’t, I
warrant you.
HELL. Nay, that’s certain, nor a thousand more of you; I
know you are all chaste enough till one thing or other
tempt you: deny[981] a satin gown and[982] you dare now?
COUN. W. You know I have no power to do’t, and that
makes you so wilful; for what woman is there such a
beast that will deny any thing[983] that is good?
HELL. True; they will not, most[984] dissembler.
COUN. W. No; and[985] she bear a brave mind, she will
not, I warrant you.
HELL. Why, therefore take heart, faint not at all;
Women ne’er rise but when they fall:
Let a man break, he’s gone, blown up;
A woman’s breaking sets her up:
Virginity is no city trade,
You’re out a’ th’ freedom when you’re a maid:
Down with the lattice, ’tis but thin;
Let coarser beauties work within,
Whom the light mocks; thou art fair and fresh;
The gilded flies will light upon thy flesh.
COUN. W. Beshrew your sweet enchantments, you have
won!
HELL. How easily soft women are undone!
So farewell wholesome weeds, where treasure pants;[986]
And welcome silks, where lie[987] disease and wants!
[_Aside._

Come, wench; now flow thy fortunes in to bless thee;
I’ll bring thee where thou shalt be taught to dress
thee.
COUN. W. O, as soon as may be! I am in a swoon till I be
a gentlewoman; and you know what flesh is man’s meat
till it be dressed?
HELL. Most certain, no more; a woman. [_Exeunt._