Chapter XXV: Act I: Scene I

_A room in_ SIR FRANCIS CRESSINGHAM’S _house_.

_Enter_ LORD BEAUFORT _and_ SIR FRANCIS CRESSINGHAM.

L. BEAU. Away, I am asham’d of your proceedings!
And, seriously, you have in this one act
O'erthrown the reputation the world
Held of your wisdom.
SIR F. CRES. Why, sir?
L. BEAU. Can you not see your error?
That having buried so good a wife
Not a month since,—one that, to speak the truth,
Had all those excellencies which our books
Have only feign’d to make a complete wife
Most exactly in her in practice,—and to marry
A girl of fifteen, one bred up i' the court,
That by all consonancy of reason is like
To cross your estate: why, one new gown of hers,
When ’tis paid for, will eat you out the keeping
Of a bountiful Christmas. I'm asham’d of you;
For you shall make too dear a proof of it,
I fear, that in the election of a wife,
As in a project of war, to err but once
Is to be undone for ever.
SIR F. CRES. Good my lord,
I do beseech you, let your better judgment
Go along with your reprehension!
L. BEAU. So it does,
And can find nought t' extenuate your fault
But your dotage: you’re a man well sunk in years,
And to graft such a young blossom into your stock
Is the next way to make every carnal eye
Bespeak your injury. Troth, I pity her too;
She was not made to wither and go out
By painted fires, that yield[858] her no more heat
Than to be lodg’d in some bleak banqueting-house
I' the dead of winter; and what follows then?
Your shame and the ruin of your children; and there’s
The end of a rash bargain.
SIR F. CRES. With your pardon,
That she is young is true; but that discretion
Has gone beyond her years, and overta’en
Those of maturer age, does more improve[859]
Her goodness. I confess she was bred at court,
But so retiredly, that, as still the best
In some place is to be learnt there, so her life
Did rectify itself more by the court-chapel
Than by th' office of the revels: best of all virtues
Are to be found at court; and where you meet
With writings contrary to this known truth,
They’re fram’d by men that never were so happy
To be planted there to know it. For the difference
Between her youth and mine, if you will read
A matron’s sober staidness in her eye,
And all the other grave demeanour fitting
The governess of a house, you’ll then confess
There’s no disparity between us.
L. BEAU. Come, come, you read

_Enter_ WATER-CAMLET.

What you’d have her to be, not what she is.—
O, master Water-Camlet, you are welcome.
W.-CAM. I thank your lordship.
L. BEAU. And what news stirring in Cheapside?
W.-CAM. Nothing new there,[860] my lord, but the
Standard.[861]
L. BEAU. O, that’s a monument your wives take great
delight in: I do hear you are grown a mighty purchaser;
I hope shortly to find you a continual resident upon the
north aisle of the Exchange.
W.-CAM.. Where? with the Scotchmen?
L. BEAU. No, sir, with the aldermen.
W.-CAM. Believe it, I am a poor commoner.
SIR F. CRES. Come, you are warm, and blest with a fair
wife.
W.-CAM. There’s it; her going brave[862] has the
only virtue to improve my credit in the subsidy-book.
L. BEAU. But, I pray, how thrives your new
plantation of silk-worms? those I saw last summer
at your garden.
W.-CAM. They are removed, sir.
L. BEAU. Whither?

W.-CAM. This winter my wife has removed them home to
a fair chamber, where divers courtiers use to come
and see them, and my wife carries them up: I think
shortly, what with the store of visitants, they’ll
prove as chargeable to me as the morrow after Simon
and Jude, only excepting the taking down and setting
up again of my glass-windows.
L. BEAU. That a man of your estate should be so
gripple-minded and repining at his wife’s bounty!
SIR F. CRES. There are no such ridiculous things i' the
world as those love money better than themselves; for
though they have understanding to know riches, and a
mind to seek them, and a wit to find them, and policy to
keep them, and long life to possess them; yet, commonly,
they have withal such a false sight, such bleared eyes,
all their wealth, when it lies before them, does seem
poverty; and such a one are you.
W.-CAM.. Good sir Francis, you have had sore eyes too,
you have been a gamester, but you have given it o’er;
and to redeem the vice belonged to’t, now you entertain
certain farcels[863] of silenced ministers, which, I
think, will equally undo you; yet should these waste you
but lenitively, your devising new water-mill[s] for
recovery of drowned land, and certain dreams you have in
alchemy to find the philosopher’s stone, will certainly
draw you to the bottom. I speak freely, sir, and would
not have you angry, for I love you.
SIR F. CRES. I am deeply in your books for furnishing
my late wedding; have you brought a note of the
particulars?
W.-CAM.. No, sir; at more leisure.
SIR F. CRES. What comes the sum to?
W.-CAM.. For tissue, cloth-of-gold, velvets, and silks,
about fifteen hundred pounds.
SIR F. CRES. Your money is ready.
W.-CAM.. Sir, I thank you.
SIR F. CRES. And how do[864] my two young children, whom
I have put to board with you?
L. BEAU. Have you put forth two of your children
already?
SIR F. CRES. ’Twas my wife’s discretion to have it so.
L. BEAU. Come, ’tis the first principle in a
mother-in-law’s chop-logic to divide the family, to
remove from forth your sight the object[s] that her
cunning knows would dull her insinuation. Had you been a
kind father, it would have been your practice every day
to have preached to these two young ones carefully your
late wife’s funeral-sermon. 'Las, poor souls, are they
turn’d so soon a-grazing?
W.-CAM.. My lord, they are placed where they shall be
respected as mine own.

_Enter_ GEORGE CRESSINGHAM _and_ FRANKLIN _junior_.

L. BEAU. I make no question of’t, good master Camlet.—
See here your eldest son, George[865] Cressingham.
SIR F. CRES. You have displeas’d and griev’d your
mother-in-law;
And till you’ve made submission and procur’d
Her pardon, I'll not know you for my son.
G. CRES. I've wrought her no offence, sir; the
difference
Grew about certain jewels which my mother,
By your consent, lying upon her deathbed,
Bequeath’d to her three children: these I demanded,
And being denied these, thought this sin of hers,
To violate so gentle a request
Of her predecessor, was an ill foregoing
Of a mother-in-law’s harsh nature.
SIR F. CRES. Sir, understand
My will mov’d in her denial: you have jewels,
To pawn or sell them! sirrah, I will have you
As obedient to this woman as to myself;
Till then you’re none of mine.
W.-CAM. O master George,
Be rul’d, do any thing for a quiet life!
Your father’s peace of life moves in it too.
I have a wife; when she is in the sullens,
Like a cook’s dog that you see turn a wheel,
She will be sure to go and hide herself
Out of the way dinner and supper; and in
These fits Bow-bell is a still organ to her.
When we were married first, I well remember,
Her railing did appear but a vision,
Till certain scratches on my hand[s] and face
Assur’d me ’twas substantial. She’s a creature
Uses to waylay my faults, and more desires
To find them out than to have them amended:
She has a book, which I may truly nominate
Her Black Book, for she remembers in it,
In short items, all my misdemeanours;
as, item, such a day I was got foxed[866] with foolish
metheglin, in the company of certain Welsh chapmen:
item, such a day, being at the Artillery Garden,[867]
one of my neighbours, in courtesy to salute me with his
musket, set a-fire my fustian and apes breeches:[868]
such a day I lost fifty pound in hugger-mugger at dice,
at the Quest-house:[869] item, I lent money to a
sea-captain on his bare _Confound him he would pay me
again the next morning_: and such like:
For which she rail’d upon me when I should sleep,
And that’s, you know, intolerable, for indeed
'Twill tame an elephant.
G. CRES. ’Tis a shrewd vexation;
But your discretion, sir, does bear it out
With a month’s sufferance.
W.-CAM. Yes, and I would wish you
To follow mine example.
FRANK. JUN. Here’s small comfort,
George, from your father; here’s a lord whom I
Have long depended upon for employment; I'll see
If my suit will thrive better.—Please your lordship,
You know I'm a younger brother, and my fate
Throwing me upon the late ill-starr’d voyage
To Guiana,[870] failing of our golden hopes,
I and my ship address’d ourselves to serve
The duke of Florence.
L. BEAU. Yes, I understood so.
FRANK. JUN. Who gave me both encouragement and means
To do him some small service ’gainst the Turk:
Being settled there, both in his pay and trust,
Your lordship, minding to rig forth a ship
To trade for the East Indies, sent for me;
And what your promise was, if I would leave
So great a fortune to become your servant,
Your letters yet can witness.
L. BEAU. Yes; what follows?
FRANK. JUN. That, for ought I perceive, your former
purpose
Is quite forgotten. I've stay’d here two months,
And find your intended voyage but a dream,
And the ship you talk of as imaginary
As that th' astronomers point at in the clouds.
I've spent two thousand ducats since my arrival;
Men that have command, my lord, at sea, cannot live
Ashore without money.
L. BEAU. Know, sir, a late purchase,
Which cost me a great sum, has diverted me
From my former purpose; besides, suits in law
Do every term so trouble me by land,
I've forgot going by water. If you please
To rank yourself among my followers,
You shall be welcome, and I'll make your means
Better than any gentleman’s I keep.

FRANK. JUN. Some twenty mark[871] a-year! will that
maintain
Scarlet and gold lace, play at th' ordinary,[872]
And bevers[873] at the tavern?
L. BEAU. I had thought
To prefer you to have been captain of a ship
That’s bound for the Red Sea.
FRANK. JUN. What hinders it?
L. BEAU. Why, certainly, the merchants are
possess’d[874]
You’ve been a pirate.
FRANK. JUN. Say I were one still,
If I were past the Line once, why, methinks,
I should do them better service.

_Enter_ KNAVESBY.

L. BEAU. Pray, forbear;
Here is a gentleman whose business must
Engross me wholly.
G. CRES. What’s he? dost thou know him?
FRANK. JUN. A pox upon him! a very knave and rascal,
That goes a-hunting with the penal statutes,
And good for nought but to persuade their lords
To rack their rents and give o’er housekeeping:
Such caterpillars may hang at their lords' ears
When better men are neglected.
G. CRES. What’s his name?
FRANK. JUN. Knavesby.
G. CRES. Knavesby!
FRANK. JUN. One that deals in a tenth share
About projections: he and his partners, when
They’ve got a suit once past the seal, will so
Wrangle about partition, and sometimes
They fall to th' ears about it; like your fencers,
That cudgel one another by patent: you shall see him
So terribly bedash’d in a Michaelmas term,
Coming from Westminster, that you would swear
He were lighted from a horse-race. Hang him, hang him!
He’s a scurvy informer; has more cozenage
In him than is in five travelling lotteries.
To feed a kite with the carrion of this knave
When he’s dead, and reclaim[875] her, O she would prove
An excellent hawk for talon! has a fair creature
To his wife too, and a witty rogue it is;
And some men think this knave will wink at small faults.
But, honest George, what shall become of us now?
G. CRES. Faith, I'm resolvèd to set up my rest
For[876] the Low Countries.
FRANK. JUN. To serve there?
G. CRES. Yes, certain.
FRANK. JUN. There’s thin commons;
Besides, they’ve added one day more to the week
Than was in the creation: art thou valiant,
Art thou valiant, George?
G. CRES. I may be, and[877] I be put to’t.
FRANK. JUN. O, never fear that;
Thou canst not live two hours after thy landing
Without a quarrel: thou must resolve to fight,
Or, like a sumner,[878] thou’lt be bastinado’d
At every town’s end. You shall have gallants there
As ragged as the fall o' the leaf, that live
In Holland, where the finest linen’s made,
And yet wear ne’er a shirt: these will not only
Quarrel with a new-comer when they’re drunk,
But they will quarrel with any man has means
To be drunk afore them. Follow my council, George,
Thou shalt not go o’er; we’ll live here i' the city.
G. CRES. But how?
FRANK. JUN. How! why, as other gallants do,
That feed high and play copiously, yet brag
They’ve but nine pound a-year to live on: these
Have wit to turn rich fools and gulls into quarter-days,
That bring them in certain payment. I've a project
Reflects upon yon mercer, master Camlet,
Shall put us into money.
G. CRES. What is’t?
FRANK. JUN. Nay,
I will not stale[879] ’t aforehand, ’tis a new one:
Nor cheating amongst gallants may seem strange;
Why, a reaching wit goes current on th' Exchange.
[_Exeunt._ G. CRESSINGHAM _and_ FRANKLIN _junior_.
KNA. O, my lord, I remember you and I were students
together at Cambridge; but, believe me, you went far
beyond me.
L. BEAU. When I studied there, I had so fantastical a
brain, that like a felfare[880] frighted in winter by a
birding-piece, I could settle no where; here and there a
little of every several art, and away.
KNA. Now, my wit, though it were more dull, yet I went
slowly on; and as divers others, when I could not prove
an excellent scholar, by a plodding patience I attained
to be a petty lawyer; and I thank my dulness for’t: you
may stamp in lead any figure, but in oil or quicksilver
nothing can be imprinted, for they keep no certain
station.
L. BEAU. O, you tax me well of irresolution: but say,
worthy friend, how thrives my weighty suit which I have
trusted to your friendly bosom? is there any hope to
make me happy?
KNA. ’Tis yet questionable, for I have not broke the ice
to her: an hour hence come to my house; and if it lie in
man, be sure, as the law-phrase says, I will create you
lord-paramount of your wishes.
L. BEAU. O my best friend! and one that takes the
hardest course i' the world to make himself so. [_Exit_
KNAVESBY.]—Sir, now I'll take my leave.
SIR F. CRES. Nay, good my lord, my wife is coming down.
L. BEAU. Pray, pardon me; I have business so importunes
me o' the sudden, I cannot stay: deliver mine excuse;
and in your ear this,—let not a fair woman make you
forget your children. [_Exit._

_Enter_ LADY CRESSINGHAM _and_ SAUNDER.

L. CRES. What, are you taking leave too?
W.-CAM.. Yes, good madam.
L. CRES. The rich stuff[s] which my husband bought of
you, the works of them are too common; I have got a
Dutch painter to draw patterns, which I'll have sent to
your factors, as in Italy, at Florence, and Ragusa,
where these stuffs are woven, to have pieces made for
mine own wearing, of a new invention.
W.-CAM.. You may, lady; but ’twill be somewhat
chargeable.
L. CRES. Chargeable! what of that? if I live another
year, I'll have my agents shall lie for me at Paris, and
at Venice, and at Valladolid in Spain, for intelligence
of all new fashions.
SIR F. CRES. Do, sweetest; thou deservest to be
exquisite in all things.
W.-CAM.. The two children, to which you are
mother-in-law, would be repaired too; ’tis time they had
new clothing.
L. CRES. I pray, sir, do not trouble me with them; they
have a father indulgent and careful of them.
SIR F. CRES. I am sorry you made the motion to her.
W.-CAM.. I have done.—
He has run himself into a pretty dotage!— [_Aside._
Madam, with your leave.—
He’s tied to a new law and a new wife;
Yet, to my old proverb, Any thing for a quiet life.
[_Aside, and exit._
L. CRES. Good friend, I have a suit to you.
SIR F. CRES. Dearest self, you most powerfully sway me.—
L. CRES. That you would give o’er this fruitless, if I
may not say this idle, study of alchemy; why, half your
house looks like a glass-house.
SAUN. And the smoke you make is a worse enemy to good
housekeeping than tobacco.
L. CRES. Should one of your glasses break, it might
bring you to a dead palsy.
SAUN. My lord, your quicksilver has made all your more
solid gold and silver fly in fume.
SIR F. CRES. I'll be ruled by you in any thing.
L. CRES. Go, Saunder, break all the glasses.
SAUN. I fly to’t. [_Exit._
L. CRES. Why, noble friend, would you find the true
philosopher’s stone indeed, my good housewifery should
do it: you understand I was bred up with a great courtly
lady; do not think all women mind gay clothes and riot;
there are some widows living have improved both their
own fortunes and their children’s: would you take my
counsel, I'd advise you to sell your land.
SIR F. CRES. My land!
L. CRES. Yes; and the manor-house upon’t, ’tis rotten: O
the new-fashioned buildings brought from the Hague! ’tis
stately. I have intelligence of a purchase, and the
title sound, will for half the money you may sell yours
for, bring you in more rent than yours now yields you.
SIR F. CRES. If it be so good a pennyworth, I need not
sell my land to purchase it; I'll procure money to do
it.
L. CRES. Where, sir?
SIR F. CRES. Why, I'll take it up at interest.
L. CRES. Never did any man thrive that purchased with
use-money.
SIR F. CRES. How come you to know these thrifty
principles?
L. CRES. How? why, my father was a lawyer, and died in
the commission; and may not I, by a natural instinct,
have a reaching that way? there are, on mine own
knowledge, some divines' daughters infinitely affected
with reading controversies; and that, some think, has
been a means to bring so many suits into the spiritual
court. Pray, be advised; sell your land, and purchase
more: I knew a pedlar, by being merchant this way, is
become lord of many manors: we should look to lengthen
our estates, as we do our lives;

_Re-enter_ SAUNDER.

And though I'm young, yet I am confident
Your able constitution of body,
When you are past fourscore, shall keep you fresh
Till I arrive at the neglected year
That I'm past child-bearing; and yet even there[881]
Quickening our faint heats in a soft embrace,
And kindling divine flames in fervent prayers,
We may both go out together, and one tomb
Quit our executors the rites of two.
SIR F. CRES. O, you’re so wise and so good in every
thing,
I move by your direction.
SAUN. She has caught him. [_Aside._
[_Exeunt._