Enter WENTLOE.

WEN. Frank, news that will make thee fat, Frank.

ILF. Prythee, rather give me somewhat will keep me lean; I have no mind yet to take physic.

WEN. Master Scarborow is married, man.

ILF. Then heaven grant he may (as few married men do) make much of his wife.

WEN. Why? wouldst have him love her, let her command all, and make her his master?

ILF. No, no; they that do so, make not much of their wives, but give them their will, and its the marring of them.

Enter BARTLEY.

BAR. Honest Frank, valorous Frank, a portion of thy wit, but to help us in this enterprise, and we may walk London streets, and cry pish at the serjeants.

ILF. You may shift out one term, and yet die in the Counter. These are the scabs now that hang upon honest Job. I am Job, and these are the scurvy scabs [aside]; but what's this your pot seethes over withal?

BAR. Master Scarborough is married, man.

WEN. He has all his land in his own hand.

BAR. His brother's and sister's portions.

WEN. Besides four thousand pounds in ready money with his wife.

ILF. A good talent,[361] by my faith; it might help many gentlemen to pay their tailors, and I might be one of them.

WEN. Nay, honest Frank, hast thou found a trick for him? if thou hast not, look, here's a line to direct thee. First draw him into bands[362] for money, then to dice for it; then take up stuff at the mercer's; straight to a punk with it; then mortgage his land, and be drunk with that; so with them and the rest, from an ancient gentleman make him a young beggar.

ILF. What a rogue this is, to read a lecture to me—and mine own lesson too, which he knows I have made perfect to nine hundred fourscore and nineteen! A cheating rascal! will teach me!—I, that have made them, that have worn a spacious park, lodge, and all on their backs[363] this morning, been fain to pawn it afore night! And they that have stalked like a huge elephant, with a castle on their necks, and removed that to their own shoulders in one day, which their fathers built up in seven years—been glad by my means, in so much time as a child sucks, to drink bottle-ale, though a punk pay for't. And shall this parrot instruct me?

WEN. Nay, but, Frank—

ILF. A rogue that hath fed upon me and the fruit of my wit, like pullen[364] from a pantler's chippings, and now I have put him into good clothes to shift two suits in a day, that could scarce shift a patched shirt once in a year, and say his prayers when he had it—hark, how he prates!

WEN. Besides, Frank, since his marriage, he stalks me like a cashiered captain discontent; in, which melancholy the least drop of mirth, of which thou hast an ocean, will make him and all his ours for ever.

ILF. Says mine own rogue so? Give me thy hand then; we'll do't, and there's earnest. [Strikes him.] 'Sfoot, you chittiface, that looks worse than a collier through a wooden window, an ape afraid of a whip, or a knave's head, shook seven years in the weather upon London Bridge[365]—do you catechise me?

WEN. Nay, but valorous Frank, he that knows the secrets of all hearts knows I did it in kindness.

ILF. Know your seasons: besides, I am not of that species for you to instruct. Then know your seasons.

BAR. 'Sfoot, friends, friends, all friends; here comes young Scarborow. Should he know of this, all our designs were prevented.

Enter SCARBOROW.

ILF. What! melancholy, my young master, my young married man? God give your worship joy.

SCAR. Joy of what, Frank?

ILF. Of thy wealth, for I hear of few that have joy of their wives.

SCAR. Who weds as I have to enforced sheets, His care increaseth, but his comfort fleets.

ILF. Thou having so much wit, what a devil meant'st thou to marry?

SCAR. O, speak not of it, Marriage sounds in mine ear like a bell, Not rung for pleasure, but a doleful knell.

ILF. A common course: those men that are married in the morning to wish themselves buried ere night.

SCAR. I cannot love her.

ILF. No news neither. Wives know that's a general fault amongst their husbands.

SCAR. I will not lie with her.

ILF. Caeteri volunt, she'll say still; If you will not, another will.

SCAR. Why did she marry me, knowing I did not love her?

ILF. As other women do, either to be maintained by you, or to make you a cuckold. Now, sir, what come you for?

Enter CLOWN.

CLOWN. As men do in haste, to make an end of their business.

ILF. What's your business?

CLOWN. My business is this, sir—this, sir—and this, sir.

ILF. The meaning of all this, sir?

CLOWN. By this is as much as to say, sir, my master has sent unto you; by this is as much as to say, sir, my master has him humbly commended unto you; and by this is as much as to say, my master craves your answer.

ILF. Give me your letter, and you shall have this, sir, this, sir, and this, sir. [Offers to strike him.

CLOWN. No, sir.

ILF. Why, sir?

CLOWN. Because, as the learned have very well instructed me, Qui supra nos, nihil ad nos, and though many gentlemen will have to do with other men's business, yet from me know the most part of them prove knaves for their labour.

WEN. You ha' the knave, i'faith, Frank.

CLOWN. Long may he live to enjoy it. From Sir John Harcop, of Harcop, in the county of York, Knight, by me his man, to yourself my young master, by these presents greeting.

ILF. How cam'st thou by these good words?

CLOWN. As you by your good clothes, took them upon trust, and swore I would never pay for them.

SCAR. Thy master, Sir John Harcop, writes to me, That I should entertain thee for my man. His wish is acceptable; thou art welcome, fellow. O, but thy master's daughter sends an article, Which makes me think upon my present sin; Here she remembers me to keep in mind My promis'd faith to her, which I ha' broke. Here she remembers me I am a man, Black'd o'er with perjury, whose sinful breast Is charactered like those curst of the blest.

ILF. How now, my young bully, like a young wench, forty weeks after the loss of her maidenhead, crying out.

SCAR. Trouble me not. Give me pen, ink, and paper; I will write to her. O! but what shall I write In mine excuse?[366] why, no excuse can serve For him that swears, and from his oath doth swerve. Or shall I say my marriage was enforc'd? 'Twas bad in them; not well in me to yield: Wretched they two, whose marriage was compell'd. I'll only write that which my grief hath bred: Forgive me, Clare, for I am married: 'Tis soon set down, but not so soon forgot Or worn from hence— Deliver it unto her, there's for thy pains. Would I as soon could cleanse these perjur'd stains!

CLOWN. Well, I could alter mine eyes from filthy mud into fair water: you have paid for my tears, and mine eyes shall prove bankrouts, and break out for you. Let no man persuade me: I will cry, and every town betwixt Shoreditch Church and York Bridge shall bear me witness. [Exit.

SCAR. Gentlemen, I'll take my leave of you, She that I am married to, but not my wife, Will London leave, in Yorkshire lead our life. [Exit.

ILF. We must not leave you so, my young gallant; we three are sick in state, and your wealth must help to make us whole again. For this saying is as true as old— Strife nurs'd 'twixt man and wife makes such a flaw, How great soe'er their wealth, 'twill have a thaw.

[Exeunt.

Enter SIR JOHN HARCOP with his daughter CLARE, and two younger brothers, THOMAS and JOHN SCARBOROW.

HAR. Brothers to him ere long shall be my son By wedding this young girl: you are welcome both. Nay, kiss her, kiss her; though that she shall be Your brother's wife, to kiss the cheek is free.

THOM. Kiss, 'sfoot, what else? thou art a good plump wench, I like you well; prythee, make haste and bring store of boys; but be sure they have good faces, that they may call me uncle.

JOHN. Glad of so fair a sister, I salute you.

HAR. Good, good, i' faith, this kissing's good, i' faith, I lov'd to smack it too when I was young, But mum: they have felt thy cheek, Clare, let them hear thy tongue.

CLARE. Such welcome as befits my Scarborow's brothers, From me his trothplight wife be sure to have, And though my tongue prove scant in any part, The bounds be sure are full large[367] in my heart.

THOM. Tut, that's not that we doubt on, wench; but do you hear, Sir John? what do you think drew me from London and the Inns of Court thus far into Yorkshire?

HAR. I guess, to see this girl shall be your sister.

THOM. Faith, and I guess partly so too, but the main was—and I will not lie to you—that, your coming now in this wise into our kindred, I might be acquainted with you aforehand, that after my brother had married your daughter, I his brother might borrow some money of you.

HAR. What, do you borrow of your kindred, sir?

THOM. 'Sfoot, what else? they, having interest in my blood, why should I not have interest in their coin? Besides, sir, I, being a younger brother, would be ashamed of my generation if I would not borrow of any man that would lend, especially of my affinity, of whom I keep a calendar. And look you, sir, thus I go over them. First o'er my uncles: after, o'er mine aunts: then up to my nephews: straight down to my nieces: to this cousin Thomas and that cousin Jeffrey, leaving the courteous claw given to none of their elbows, even unto the third and fourth remove of any that hath interest in our blood. All which do, upon their summons made by me, duly and faithfully provide for appearance. And so, as they are, I hope we shall be, more entirely endeared, better and more feelingly acquainted.[368]

HAR. You are a merry gentleman.

THOM. 'Tis the hope of money makes me so; and I know none but fools use to be sad with it.

JOHN. From Oxford am I drawn from serious studies, Expecting that my brother still hath sojourn'd With you, his best of choice, and this good knight.

HAR. His absence shall not make our hearts less merry, Than if we had his presence. A day ere long Will bring him back, when one the other meets, At noon i'th' church, at night between the sheets. We'll wash this chat with wine. Some wine! fill up; The sharp'ner of the wit is a full cup. And so to you, sir.

THOM. Do, and I'll drink to my new sister; but upon this condition, that she may have quiet days, little rest o' nights, have pleasant afternoons, be pliant to my brother, and lend me money, whensoe'er I'll borrow it.

HAR. Nay, nay, nay. Women are weak, and we must bear with them: Your frolic healths are only fit for men.

THOM. Well, I am contented; women must to the wall, though it be to a feather-bed. Fill up, then. [They drink.

Enter CLOWN.

CLOWN. From London am I come, Though not with pipe and drum, Yet I bring matter In this poor paper Will make my young mistress, Delighting in kisses, Do as all maidens will, Hearing of such an ill, As to have lost The thing they wish'd most, A husband, a husband, A pretty sweet husband, Cry O, O, O, And alas, and at last Ho, ho, ho, As I do.

CLARE. Return'd so soon from London? what's the news?

CLOWN. O mistress, if ever you have seen Demoniseacleer, look into mine eyes: mine eyes are Severn, plain Severn; the Thames nor the river of Tweed are nothing to them: nay, all the rain that fell at Noah's flood had not the discretion that my eyes have: that drunk but up the whole world, and I have drowned all the way betwixt this and London.

CLARE. Thy news, good Robin.

CLOWN. My news, mistress? I'll tell you strange news. The dust upon London way being so great, that not a lord, gentleman, knight, or knave could travel, lest his eyes should be blown out: at last they all agreed to hire me to go before them, when I, looking but upon this letter, did with this water, this very water, lay the dust, as well as if it had rained from the beginning of April till the last of May.

CLARE. A letter from my Scarborow I give it thy mistress.

CLOWN. But, mistress—

CLARE. Prythee, begone, I would not have my father nor these gentlemen Be witness of the comfort it doth bring.

CLOWN. O, but mistress—

CLARE. Prythee, begone, With this and the glad news leave me alone.

[Exit CLOWN.

THOM. 'Tis your turn, knight; take your liquor, know I am bountiful; I'll forgive any man anything that he owes me but his drink, and that I'll be paid for.

CLARE. Nay, gentlemen, the honesty of mirth Consists not in carousing with excess; My father hath more welcomes than in wine. Pray you, no more.

THOM. Says my sister so? I'll be ruled by thee then. But do you hear? I hope hereafter you'll lend me some money. Now we are half-drunk, let's go to dinner. Come, knight. [Exeunt.

Manet CLARE.

CLARE. I am glad you're gone. Shall I now open't? no, I'll kiss it first, Because this outside last did kiss his hand. Within this fold (I'll call't a sacred sheet) Are writ black lines, where our white hearts shall meet. Before I ope this door of my delight, Methinks I guess how kindly he doth write Of his true love to me; as chuck, sweetheart, I prythee do not think the time too long That keeps us from the sweets of marriage rites: And then he sets my name, and kisses it, Wishing my lips his sheet to write upon; With like desire (methinks) as mine own thoughts Ask him now here for me to look upon; Yet at the last thinking his love too slack, Ere it arrive at my desired eyes, He hastens up his message with like speed, Even as I break this ope, wishing to read. O, what is here? mine eyes are not mine own; Sure, sure, they are not. [O eyes,] Though you have been my lamps this sixteen years, [Lets fall the letter. You do belie my Scarborow reading so; Forgive him, he is married, that were ill: What lying lights are these? look, I have no such letter, No wedded syllable of the least wrong Done to a trothplight virgin like myself. Beshrew you for your blindness: Forgive him, he is married! I know my Scarborow's constancy to me Is as firm knit as faith to charity, That I shall kiss him often, hug him thus, Be made a happy and a fruitful mother Of many prosperous children like to him; And read I, he was married! ask'd forgiveness? What a blind fool was I; yet here's a letter, To whom, directed too? To my beloved Clare. Why, la! Women will read, and read not that they saw. 'Twas but my fervent love misled mine eyes, I'll once again to the inside, Forgive me, I am married; William Scarborow. He has set his name to't too. O perjury! within the hearts of men Thy feasts are kept, their tongue proclaimeth them.

Enter THOMAS SCARBOROW.

THOM. Sister, God's precious, the cloth's laid, the meat cools, we all stay, and your father calls for you.

CLARE. Kind sir, excuse me, I pray you, a little; I'll but peruse this letter, and come straight.

THOM. Pray you, make haste, the meat stays for us, and our stomach's ready for the meat; for believe this— Drink makes men hungry, or it makes them lie,[369] And he that's drunk o'er night, i'th'morning's dry: Seen and approved. [Exit.

CLARE. He was contracted mine, yet he unjust Hath married to another: what's my estate, then? A wretched maid, not fit for any man; For being united his with plighted faiths, Whoever sues to me commits a sin, Besiegeth me; and who shall marry me, Is like myself, lives in adultery. O God, That such hard fortune should betide my youth! I am young, fair, rich, honest, virtuous, Yet for all this, whoe'er shall marry me, I'm but his whore, live in adultery. I cannot step into the path of pleasure For which I was created, born unto: Let me live ne'er so honest, rich or poor, If I once wed, yet I must live a whore. I must be made a strumpet 'gainst my will, A name I have abhorr'd; a shameful ill I have eschewed; and now cannot withstand it In myself. I am my father's only child: In me he hath a hope, though not his name Can be increas'd, yet by my issue His land shall be possess'd, his age delighted. And though that I should vow a single life To keep my soul unspotted, yet will he Enforce me to a marriage: So that my grief doth of that weight consist, It helps me not to yield nor to resist; And was I then created for a whore? a whore! Bad name, bad act, bad man, makes me a scorn: Than live a strumpet, better be unborn.[370]

Enter JOHN SCARBOROW.

JOHN. Sister, pray you, will you come? Your father and the whole meeting stays for you.

CLARE. I come, I come; I pray, return; I come.

JOHN. I must not go without you.

CLARE. Be thou my usher, sooth, I'll follow you. [Exit. He writes here to forgive him, he is married: False gentleman, I do forgive thee with my heart; Yet will I send an answer to thy letter, And in so short words thou shalt weep to read them, And here's my agent ready: Forgive me, I am dead. 'Tis writ, and I will act it. Be judge, you maids Have trusted the false promises of men: Be judge, you wives, the which have been enforc'd From the white sheets you lov'd to them ye loathed: Whether this axiom may not be assured,— Better one sin than many be endured: My arms embracing, kisses, chastity, Were his possessions; and whilst I live, He doth but steal those pleasures he enjoys, Is an adulterer in his married arms, And never goes to his defiled bed, But God writes sin upon the tester's head. I'll be a wife now, help to save his soul Though I have lost his body: give a slake To his iniquities, and with one sin, Done by this hand, and many done by him. Farewell the world then, farewell the wedded joys Till this I have hop'd for from that gentleman! Scarborow, forgive me; thus thou hast lost thy wife, Yet record, world,[371] though by an act too foul, A wife thus died to cleanse her husband's soul.

[Enter SIR JOHN HARCOP.]

HAR. God's precious for his mercy, where's this wench? Must all my friends and guests attend on you? Where are you, minion?

CLARE. Scarborow, come, close mine eyes; for I am dead.

HAR. That sad voice was not hers, I hope: Who's this? My daughter?

CLARE. Your daughter, That begs of you to see her buried, Prays Scarborow to forgive her: she is dead. [Dies.

HAR. Patience, good tears, and let my words have way! Clare, my daughter! help, my servants, there! Lift up thine eyes, and look upon thy father, They were not born to lose their light so soon: I did beget thee for my comforter, And not to be the author of my care. Why speakest thou not? some help, my servants, there! What hand hath made thee pale? or if thine own, What cause hadst thou, that wert thy father's joy, The treasure of his age, the cradle of his sleep, His all in all? I prythee, speak to me: Thou art not ripe for death; come back again. Clare, my Clare, if death must needs have one, I am the fittest: prythee, let me go. Thou dying whilst I live, I am dead with woe.

Enter THOMAS and JOHN SCARBOROW.

THOM. What means this outcry?

JOHN. O ruthful spectacle!

HAR. Thou wert not wont to be so sullen, child, But kind and loving to thy aged father: Awake, awake! if't be thy lasting sleep, Would I had not sense for grief, nor eyes to weep.

JOHN. What paper's this? the sad contents do tell me, My brother writ he hath broke his faith to her, And she replies for him she hath kill'd herself.

HAR. Was that the cause that thou hast soil'd thyself With these red spots, these blemishes of beauty? My child, my child! was't perjury in him Made thee so fair act now so foul a sin? Hath[372] he deceived thee in a mother's hopes, Posterity, the bliss of marriage? Thou hast no tongue to answer no or ay, But in red letters write,[373] For him I die. Curse on his traitorous tongue, his youth, his blood, His pleasures, children, and possessions! Be all his days, like winter, comfortless! Restless his nights, his wants remorseless![374] And may his corpse be the physician's stage, Which play'd upon stands not to honour'd age! Or with diseases may he lie and pine, Till grief wax blind his eyes, as grief doth mine! [Exit.

JOHN. O good old man, made wretched by this deed, The more thy age, more to be pitied.

Enter SCARBOROW, his wife KATHERINE, ILFORD, WENTLOE, BARTLEY, and BUTLER.

ILF. What, ride by the gate, and not call? that were a shame, i'faith.

WEN. We'll but taste of his beer, kiss his daughter, and to horse again. Where's the good knight here?

SCAR. You bring me to my shame unwillingly.

ILF. Shamed of what? for deceiving of a wench! I have not blushed, that have done't to a hundred of 'em? In women's love he's wise that follow this, Love one so long, till he[375] another kiss. Where's the good knight here?

JOHN. O brother, you are come to make your eye Sad mourner at a fatal tragedy. Peruse this letter first, and then this corpse.

SCAR. O wronged Clare! accursed Scarborow! I writ to her, that I was married, She writes to me, Forgive her, she is dead. I'll balm thy body with my faithful tears, And be perpetual mourner at thy tomb; I'll sacrifice this comet into sighs,[376] Make a consumption of this pile of man, And all the benefits my parents gave, Shall turn distemper'd to appease the wrath For this bloodshed, that[377] I am guilty of.

KATH. Dear husband!

SCAR. False woman, not my wife, though married to me: Look what thy friends and thou art guilty of, The murder of a creature equall'd heaven In her creation, whose thoughts (like fire) Never look'd base, but ever did aspire To blessed benefits, till you and yours undid her: Eye her, view her; though dead, yet she does look Like a fresh frame or a new-printed book Of the best paper, never look'd into But with one sullied finger, which did spot her, Which was her own too; but who was cause of it? Thou and thy friends, and I will loathe thee for't.

Enter SIR JOHN HARCOP.

HAR. They do belie her that do say she's dead; She is but stray'd to some by-gallery, And I must have her again. Clare; where art thou, Clare?

SCAR. Here laid to take her everlasting sleep.

HAR. He lies that says so; Yet now I know thee, I do lie that say it, For if she be a villain like thyself, A perjur'd traitor, recreant, miscreant, Dog—a dog, a dog, has done't.

SCAR. O Sir John Harcop!

HAR. O Sir John villain! to betroth thyself To this good creature, harmless, harmless child: This kernel, hope, and comfort of my house: Without enforcement—of thine own accord: Draw all her soul in th'compass of an oath: Take that oath from her, make her for none but thee— And then betray her!

SCAR. Shame on them were the cause of it.

HAR. But hark, what thou hast got by it: Thy wife is but a strumpet, thy children bastards, Thyself a murderer, thy wife accessory, Thy bed a stews, thy house a brothel.

SCAR. O, 'tis too true!

HAR. I made a wretched father, childless.

SCAR. I made a married man, yet wifeless.

HAR. Thou the cause of it?

SCAR. Thou the cause of it? [To his wife.

HAR. Curse on the day that e'er it was begun, For I, an old man, am undone, undone. [Exit.

SCAR. For charity, have care upon that father, Lest that his grief bring on a more mishap. [Exeunt THOMAS and JOHN SCARBOROW.[378] This to my arms my sorrow shall bequeath, Though I have lost her, to the grave I'll bring; Thou wert my wife, and I'll thy requiem sing. Go you to the country, I'll to London back: All riot now, since that my soul's so black. [Exit, with CLARE.

KATH. Thus am I left like sea-toss'd mariners. My fortunes being no more than my distress; Upon what shore soever I am driven, Be it good or bad, I must account it heaven:[379] Though married, I am reputed no wife, Neglected of my husband, scorn'd, despis'd: And though my love and true obedience Lies prostrate to his beck, his heedless eye Receives my services unworthily. I know no cause, nor will be cause of none, But hope for better days, when bad be gone. You are my guide. Whither must I, butler?

BUT. Toward Wakefield, where my master's living lies.

KATH. Toward Wakefield, where thy master we'll attend; When things are at the worst, 'tis hop'd they'll mend.

Enter THOMAS and JOHN SCARBOROW.

THOM. How now, sister? no further forward on your journey yet?

KATH. When grief's before one, who'd go on to grief? I'd rather turn me back to find some comfort.

JOHN. And that way sorrow's hurtfuller than this, My brother having brought unto a grave That murder'd body whom he call'd his wife, And spent so many tears upon her hearse, As would have made a tyrant to relent; Then, kneeling at her coffin, this he vow'd From thence he never would embrace your bed.

THOM. The more fool he.

JOHN. Never from hence acknowledge you his wife: Where others strive t'enrich their father's name, It should be his only aim to beggar ours, To spend their means should be his only pride: Which, with a sigh confirm'd, he's rid to London, Vowing a course,[380] that by his life so foul Men ne'er should join the hands without the soul.

KATH. All is but grief, and I am arm'd for it.

JOHN. We'll bring you on your way in hope thus strong: Time may at length make straight what yet is wrong.

[Exeunt.



ACT III.

An Inn.

Enter ILFORD, WENTLOE, BARTLEY.

WEN. He's our own, he's our own! Come, let's make use of his wealth, as the sun of ice: melt it, melt it.

ILF. But art sure he will hold his meeting?

WEN. As sure as I am now, and was dead drunk last night.

ILF. Why then so sure will I be arrested by a couple of serjeants, and fall into one of the unlucky cranks about Cheapside, called Counters.

BAR. Withal, I have provided Master Gripe the usurer, who upon the instant will be ready to step in, charge the serjeants to keep thee fast, and that now he will have his five hundred pounds, or thou shalt rot for it.

WEN. When it follows, young Scarborow shall be bound for the one; then take up as much more. We share the one-half, and help him to be drunk with the other.

ILF. Ha, ha, ha!

Enter SCARBOROW.

BAR. Why dost laugh, Frank?

ILF. To see that we and usurers live by the fall of young heirs, as swine by the dropping of acorns. But he's come. Where be these rogues: shall we have no 'tendance here?

SCAR. Good day, gentlemen.

ILF. A thousand good days, my noble bully, and as many good fortunes as there were grasshoppers in Egypt, and that's covered over with good luck. But nouns, pronouns and participles! where be these rogues here? what, shall we have no wine here?

Enter DRAWER.

DRAW. Anon, anon, sir.

ILF. Anon, goodman rascal, must we stay your leisure? give't us by and by, with a pox to you.

SCAR. O, do not hurt the fellow.

[Exit DRAWER.

ILF. Hurt him! hang him, scrapetrencher, stair-wearer,[381] wine-spiller, metal-clanker, rogue by generation. Why, dost hear, Will? If thou dost not use these grape-spillers as you do their pottle-pots, quoit them down-stairs three or four times at a supper, they'll grow as saucy with you as serjeants, and make bills more unconscionable than tailors.

Enter DRAWER.

DRAW. Here's the pure and neat grape, gentlemen, I assure you.[382]

ILF. Fill up: what have you brought here, goodman rogue?

DRAW. The pure element of claret, sir.

ILF. Have you so, and did not I call for Rhenish, you mongrel?

[Throws the wine in the DRAWER'S face.

SCAR. Thou need'st no wine; I prythee, be more mild.

ILF. Be mild in a tavern? 'tis treason to the red lattice,[383] enemy to their sign-post, and slave to humour: prythee, let's be mad.

_Sings this.

Then fill our heads with wine Till every pate be drunk, then piss i'the street, Jostle all you meet, And swagger with a punk_—

As thou wilt do now and then: thank me, thy good master, that brought thee to it.

WEN. Nay, he profits well; but the worst is, he will not swear yet.

SCAR. Do not belie me: if there be any good in me, that's the best. Oaths are necessary for nothing; they pass out of a man's mouth, like smoke through a chimney, that files[384] all the way it goes.

WEN. Why then I think tobacco to be a kind of swearing; for it furs our nose pockily.

SCAR. But, come, let's drink ourselves into a stomach afore supper.

ILF. Agreed. I'll begin with a new health. Fill up.

To them that make land fly, By wines, whores, and a die: To them that only thrives By kissing others' wives: To them that pay for clothes With nothing but with oaths: Care not from whom they get, So they may be in debt. This health, my hearts! [Drinks. But who their tailors pay, Borrow, and keep their day, We'll hold him like this glass, A brainless, empty ass, And not a mate for us. Drink round, my hearts!

WEN. An excellent health.

Enter DRAWER.

DRAW. Master Ilford, there's a couple of strangers beneath desires to speak with you.

ILF. What beards have they? gentlemenlike-beards, or brokerlike-beards?

DRAW. I am not so well acquainted with the art of face-mending, sir: but they would speak with you.

ILF. I'll go down to them.

WEN. Do; and we'll stay here and drink tobacco.[385]

SCAR. Thus like a fever that doth shake a man From strength to weakness, I consume myself. I know this company, their custom vile, Hated, abhorr'd of good men, yet like a child By reason's rule, instructed how to know Evil from good, I to the worser go. Why do you suffer this, you upper powers, That I should surfeit in the sin of taste, Have sense to feel my mischiefs, yet make waste Of heaven and earth? Myself will answer, what myself doth ask. Who once doth cherish sin, begets his shame, For vice being foster'd once, comes impudence, Which makes men count sin custom, not offence: When all like me their reputation blot, Pursuing evil, while the good's forgot.

Enter ILFORD, led in by a couple of SERJEANTS, and GRIPE the usurer.

SER. Nay, never strive, we can hold you.

ILF. Ay, me, and the devil too,[386] and he fall into your clutches. Let go your tugging; as I am a gentleman, I'll be your true prisoner.

WEN. How now: what's the matter, Frank?

ILF. I am fallen into the hands of Serjeants: I am arrested.

BAR. How, arrested? a gentleman in our company?

ILF. Put up, put up; for sin's sake put up; let's not all sup in the Counter to night; let me speak with Master Gripe the creditor.

GRIPE. Well, what say you to me, sir?

ILF. You have arrested me here, Master Gripe.

GRIPE. Not I, sir; the serjeants have.

ILF. But at your suit, Master Gripe: yet hear me, as I am a gentleman.

GRIPE. I rather you could say as you were an honest man, and then I might believe you.

ILF. Yet hear me.

GRIPE. Hear me no hearing; I lent you my money for goodwill.

ILF. And I spent it for mere necessity. I confess I owe you five hundred pound, and I confess I owe not a penny to any man, but he would be glad to ha't [on my word]: my bond you have already, Master Gripe; if you will, now take my word.

GRIPE. Word me no words! officers, look to your prisoner. If you cannot either make me present payment, or put me in security—such as I shall like, too—

ILF. Such as you shall like, too: what say you to this young gentleman? he is the widgeon that we must feed upon. [Aside.]

GRIPE. Who, young Master Scarborow? he's an honest gentleman for aught I know; I ne'er lost a penny by him.

ILF. I would be ashamed any man should say so by me, that I have had dealings withal [Aside]: but, my enforced friends, will't please you but to retire into some small distance, whilst I descend with a few words to these gentlemen, and I'll commit myself into your merciless hands immediately.

SER. Well, sir, we'll wait upon you. [They retire.

ILF. Gentlemen, I am to prefer some conference and especially to you, Master Scarborow: our meeting here for your mirth hath proved to me thus adverse, that in your companies I am arrested. How ill it will stand with the flourish of your reputations, when men of rank and note communicate that I, Frank Ilford, gentleman, whose fortunes may transcend to make ample gratuities future, and heap satisfaction for any present extension of his friends' kindness, was enforced from the Mitre in Bread Street to the Counter in the Poultry. For mine own part, if you shall think it meet, and that it shall accord with the state of gentry to submit myself from the feather-bed in the master's side[387] or the flock-bed in the knight's ward, to the straw-bed in the hole, I shall buckle to my heels, instead of gilt spurs, the armour of patience, and do't.

WEN. Come, come, what a pox need all this! this is mellis flora, the sweetest of the honey: he that was not made to fat cattle, but to feed gentlemen.

BAR. You wear good clothes.

WEN. Are well-descended.

BAR. Keep the best company.

WEN. Should regard your credit.

BAR. Stand not upon't, be bound, be bound.

WEN. Ye are richly married.

BAR. Love not your wife.

WEN. Have store of friends.

BAR. Who shall be your heir?

WEN. The son of some slave.

BAR. Some groom.

WEN. Some horse-keeper.

BAR. Stand not upon't; be bound, be bound.

SCAR. Well, at your importunance,[388] for once I'll stretch my purse; Who's born to sink, as good this way as worse.

WEN. Now speaks my bully like a gentleman of worth.

BAR. Of merit.

WEN. Fit to be regarded.

BAR. That shall command our souls.

WEN. Our swords.

BAR. Ourselves.

ILF. To feed upon you, as Pharaoh's lean kine did upon the fat. [Aside.]

SCAR. Master Gripe, is my bond current for this gentleman?

ILF. Good security, you Egyptian grasshopper, good security. [Aside.]

GRIPE. And for as much more, kind Master Scarborow, Provided that men, mortal as we are, May have—

SCAR. May have security.

GRIPE. Your bond with land conveyed, which may assure me of mine own again.

SCAR. You shall be satisfied, and I'll become your debtor For full five hundred more than he doth owe you. This night we sup here; bear us company, And bring your counsel, scrivener, and the money With you, where I will make as full assurance As in the law you'd wish.

GRIPE. I take your word, sir, And so discharge you of your prisoner.

ILF. Why then let's come And take up a new room, the infected hath spit in this. He that hath store of coin wants not a friend; Thou shalt receive, sweet rogue, and we will spend.

[Aside. Exeunt.

Enter THOMAS and JOHN SCARBOROW.

JOHN. Brother, you see the extremity of want Enforceth us to question for our own, The rather that we see, not like a brother, Our brother keeps from us to spend on other.

THOM. True, he has in his hands our portions—the patrimony which our father gave us, with which he lies fatting himself with sack and sugar[389] in the house, and we are fain to walk with lean purses abroad. Credit must be maintained, which will not be without money; good clothes must be had, which will not be without money; company must be kept, which will not be without money; all which we must have, and from him we will have money.

JOHN. Besides, we have brought our sister to this town, That she herself, having her own from him, Might bring herself in court to be preferr'd Under some noble personage; or else that he, Whose friends are great in court by his late match, As he is in nature bound, provide for her.

THOM. And he shall do it, brother, though we have waited at his lodging longer than a tailor's bill on a young knight for an old reckoning, without speaking with him. Here we know he is, and we will call him to parley.

JOHN. Yet let us do't in mild and gentle terms; Fair words perhaps may sooner draw our own Than rougher course,[390] by which is mischief grown.

Enter DRAWER.

DRAW. Anon, anon. Look down into the Dolphin[391] there.

THOM. Here comes a drawer, we will question him. Do you hear, my friend? is not Master Scarborow here?

DRAW. Here, sir! what a jest is that! where should he be else? I would have you well know my master hopes to grow rich,[392] before he leave him.

JOHN. How long hath he continued here, since he came hither?

DRAW. Faith, sir, not so long as Noah's flood, yet long enough to have drowned up the livings of three knights, as knights go nowadays—some month, or thereabouts.

JOHN. Time ill-consum'd to ruinate our house; But what are they that keep him company?

DRAW. Pitch, pitch; but I must not say so; but, for your further satisfaction, did you ever see a young whelp and a lion play together?

JOHN. Yes.

DRAW. Such is Master Scarborow's company.[393] [Within, Oliver! Anon, anon, look down to the Pomegranate[394] there.

THOM. I prythee, say here's them would speak with him.

DRAW. I'll do your message. Anon, anon, there. [Exit.

JOHN. This fool speaks wiser than he is aware. Young heirs left in this town, where sin's so rank, And prodigals gape to grow fat by them, Are like young whelps thrown in the lions' den, Who play with them awhile, at length devour them.

Enter SCARBOROW.

SCAR. Who's there would speak with me?

JOHN. Your brothers, who are glad to see you well.

SCAR. Well.

JOHN. 'Tis not your riot, that we hear you use With such as waste their goods, as tire[395] the world With a continual spending, nor that you keep The company of a most leprous rout, Consumes your body's wealth, infects your name With such plague sores that, had you reason's eye, 'Twould make you sick to see you visit them— Hath drawn us, but our wants to crave the due Our father gave, and yet remains with you.

THOM. Our birthright, good brother; this town craves maintenance; silk stockings must be had, and we would be loth our heritage should be arraigned at the vintner's bar, and so condemned to the vintner's box. Though, while you did keep house, we had some belly timber at your table or so; yet we would have you think we are your brothers, yet no Esaus, to sell our patrimony for porridge.

SCAR. So, so; what hath your coming else?

JOHN. With us our sister joins in our request, Whom we have brought along with us to London, To have her portion, wherewith to provide An honour'd service or an honest bride.

SCAR. So then you two my brothers, and she my sister, come not, as in duty you are bound, to an elder brother out of Yorkshire to see us, but like leeches to suck from us.

JOHN. We come compelled by want to crave our own.

SCAR. Sir, for your own? then thus be satisfied, Both hers and yours were left in trust with me, And I will keep it for ye: must you appoint us, Or what we please to like mix with reproof? You have been too saucy both, and you shall know I'll curb you for it: ask why? I'll have it so.

JOHN. We do but crave our own.

SCAR. Your own, sir? what's your own?

THOM. Our portions given us by our father's will.

JOHN. Which here you spend.

THOM. Consume.

JOHN. Ways worse than ill.

SCAR. Ha, ha, ha!

Enter ILFORD.

ILF. Nay, nay, nay, Will: prythee, come away, we have a full gallon of sack stays in the fire for thee. Thou must pledge it to the health of a friend of thine.

SCAR. What dost think these are, Frank?

ILF. Who? They are fiddlers, I think. If they be, I prythee send them into the next room, and let them scrape there, and we'll send to them presently.

SCAR. They are my brothers, Frank, come out of Yorkshire To the tavern here, to ask their portions: They call my pleasures riots, my company leprous; And like a schoolboy they would tutor me.

ILF. O, thou shouldst have done well to have bound them 'prentices when they were young; they would have made a couple of good saucy tailors.

THOM. Tailors?

ILF. Ay, birdlime tailors. Tailors are good men, and in the term-time they wear good clothes. Come, you must learn more manners: as to stand at your brother's back, to shift a trencher neatly, and take a cup of sack and a capon's leg contentedly.

THOM. You are a slave, That feeds upon my brother like a fly, Poisoning where thou dost suck.

SCAR. You lie.

JOHN. O (to my grief I speak it), you shall find There's no more difference in a tavern-haunter Than is between a spital and a beggar.

THOM. Thou work'st on him like tempests on a ship.

JOHN. And he the worthy traffic that doth sink.

THOM. Thou mak'st his name more loathesome than a grave.

JOHN. Livest like a dog by vomit.

THOM. Die a slave!

[Here they draw, WENTLOE and BARTLEY come in, and the two vintner's boys with clubs. All set upon the two brothers. BUTLER, Scarborow's man, comes in, stands by, sees them fight, takes part with neither.

BUT. Do, fight. I love you all well, because you were my old master's sons, but I'll neither part you, nor be partaker with you. I come to bring my master news; he hath two sons born at a birth in Yorkshire, and I find him together by the ears with his brothers in a tavern in London. Brother and brother at odds, 'tis naught: sure it was not thus in the days of charity. What's this world like to? Faith, just like an innkeeper's chamber-pot, receives all waters, good and bad. It had need of much scouring. My old master kept a good house, and twenty or thirty tall sword-and-buckler men about him, and i'faith his son differs not much, he will have metal too; though he hath not store of cutler's blades, he will have plenty of vintner's pots. His father kept a good house for honest men his tenants, that brought him in part; and his son keeps a bad house with knaves that help to consume all. 'Tis but the change of time; why should any man repine at it? Crickets, good, loving, and lucky worms, were wont to feed, sing, and rejoice in the father's chimney, and now carrion crows build in the son's kitchen. I could be sorry for it, but I am too old to weep. Well then, I will go tell him news of his offspring. [_Exit.

Enter the two brothers, THOMAS and JOHN SCARBOROW, hurt, and SISTER.

SIS. Alas! good brothers, how came this mischance?

THOM. Our portions, our brother hath given us our portions, sister, hath he not?

SIS. He would not be so monstrous, I am sure.

JOHN. Excuse him not; he is more degenerate, Than greedy vipers that devour their mother, They eat on her but to preserve themselves, And he consumes himself, and beggars us. A tavern is his inn, where amongst slaves He kills his substance, making pots the graves To bury that which our forefather's gave. I ask'd him for our portions, told him that you Were brought to London, and we were in want; Humbly we crav'd our own; when his reply Was, he knew none we had: beg, starve, or die.

SIS. Alas! What course is left us to live by, then?

THOM. In troth, sister, we two to beg in the fields, And you to betake yourself to the old trade, Filling of small cans in the suburbs.

SIS. Shall I be left then like a common road, That every beast that can but pay his toll May travel over, and, like to camomile,[396] Flourish the better being trodden on.

Enter BUTLER, bleeding.

BUT. Well, I will not curse him: he feeds now upon sack and anchovies, with a pox to him: but if he be not fain, before he dies, to eat acorns, let me live with nothing but pollard, and my mouth be made a cucking-stool for every scold to set her tail on.

THOM. How now, butler, what's the meaning of this?

BUT. Your brother means to lame as many as he can, that when he is a beggar himself, he may live with them in the hospital. His wife sent me out of Yorkshire to tell him that God had blessed him with two sons; he bids a plague of them, a vengeance of her, crosses me o'er the pate, and sends me to the surgeon's to seek salve: I looked, at least he should have given me a brace of angels for my pains.

THOM. Thou hast not lost all thy longing; I am sure he hath given thee a cracked crown!

BUT. A plague on his fingers! I cannot tell, he is your brother and my master; I would be loth to prophesy of him; but whosoe'er doth curse his children being infants, ban his wife lying in childbed, and beats his man brings him news of it, they may be born rich, but they shall live slaves, be knaves, and die beggars.

SIS. Did he do so?

BUT. Guess you? he bid a plague of them, a vengeance on her, and sent me to the surgeon's.

SIS. Why then I see there is no hope of him; Some husbands are respectless of their wives, During the time that they are issueless; But none with infants bless'd can nourish hate, But love the mother for the children's sake.

JOHN. But he that is given over unto sin, Leproused therewith without, and so within— O butler, we were issue to one father!

BUT. And he was an honest gentleman.

JOHN. Whose hopes were better than the son he left Should set so soon unto his house's shame. He lives in taverns, spending of his wealth, And here his brothers and distressed sister, Not having any means to help us with.

THOM. Not a Scots baubee (by this hand) to bless us with.

JOHN. And not content to riot out his own, But he detains our portions, suffers us In this strange air, open to every wrack, Whilst he in riot swims to be in lack.

BUT. The more's the pity.

SIS. I know not what in course to take me to; Honestly I fain would live, what shall I do?

BUT. Sooth, I'll tell you; your brother hath hurt us; we three will hurt you, and then go all to a 'spital together.

SIS. Jest not at her whose burden is too grievous, But rather lend a means how to relieve us.

BUT. Well, I do pity you, and the rather because you say you would fain live honest, and want means for it; for I can tell you 'tis as strange here to see a maid fair, poor, and honest, as to see a collier with a clean face. Maids here do live (especially without maintenance) Like mice going to a trap, They nibble long, at last they get a clap. Your father was my good benefactor, and gave me a house whilst I live to put my head in: I would be loth then to see his only daughter, for want of means, turn punk. I have a drift to keep you honest, have you a care to keep yourself so: yet you shall not know of it, for women's tongues are like sieves, they will hold nothing they have power to vent. You two will further me?

JOHN. In anything, good honest Butler.

THOM. If't be to take a purse, I'll be one.

BUT. Perhaps thou speakest righter than thou art aware of. Well, as chance is, I have received my wages; there is forty shillings for you, I'll set you in a lodging, and till you hear from us, let that provide for you: we'll first to the surgeon's.

To keep you honest, and to keep you brave, For once an honest man will turn a knave.

[Exeunt.

Enter SCARBOROW, having a boy carrying a torch with him: ILFORD, WENTLOE, and BARTLEY.

SCAR. Boy, bear the torch fair: now am I armed to fight with a windmill, and to take the wall of an emperor; much drink, no money: a heavy head and a light pair of heels.

WEN. O, stand, man.

SCAR. I were an excellent creature to make a punk of; I should down with the least touch of a knave's finger. Thou hast made a good night of this: what hast won, Frank?

ILF. A matter of nothing, some hundred pounds.

SCAR. This is the hell of all gamesters. I think, when they are at play, the board eats up the money; for if there be five hundred pound lost, there's never but a hundred pounds won. Boy, take the wall of any man: and yet by light such deeds of darkness may not be.

[Put out the torch.

WEN. What dost mean by that, Will?

SCAR. To save charge, and walk like a fury with a firebrand in my hand: every one goes by the light, and we'll go by the smoke.

Enter LORD FALCONBRIDGE.

SCAR. Boy, keep the wall: I will not budge[397] for any man, by these thumbs; and the paring of the nails shall stick in thy teeth. Not for a world.

LORD. Who's this? young Scarborow?

SCAR. The man that the mare rid on.

LORD. Is this the reverence that you owe to me.

SCAR. You should have brought me up better.

LORD. That vice should thus transform man to a beast!

SCAR. Go to, your name's lord; I'll talk with you, when you're out of debt and have better clothes.

LORD. I pity thee even with my very soul.

SCAR. Pity i' thy throat! I can drink muscadine and eggs, and mulled sack; do you hear? you put a piece of turned stuff upon me, but I will—

LORD. What will you do, sir?

SCAR. Piss in thy way, and that's no slander.

LORD. Your sober blood will teach you otherwise.

Enter SIR WILLIAM SCARBOROW.

SIR WIL. My honoured lord, you're happily well-met.

LORD. Ill met to see your nephew in this case, More like a brute beast than a gentleman.

SIR WIL. Fie, nephew! shame you not thus to transform yourself?

SCAR. Can your nose smell a torch?

ILF. Be not so wild; it is thine uncle Scarborow.

SCAR. Why then 'tis the more likely 'tis my father's brother.

SIR WIL. Shame to our name to make thyself a beast, Thy body worthy born, and thy youth's breast Till'd in due time for better discipline.

LORD. Thyself new-married to a noble house, Rich in possessions and posterity, Which should call home thy unstay'd affections.

SIR WIL. Where thou mak'st havoc.

LORD. Riot, spoil, and waste.

SIR WIL. Of what thy father left.

LORD. And livest disgraced.

SCAR. I'll send you shorter to heaven than you came to the earth. Do you catechise? do you catechise? [He draws, and strikes at them.

ILF. Hold, hold! do you draw upon your uncle?

SCAR. Pox of that lord! We'll meet at th'Mitre, where we'll sup down sorrow, We are drunk to-night, and so we'll be to-morrow.

[Exeunt.

LORD. Why, now I see: what I heard of, I believed not, Your kinsman lives—

SIR WIL. Like to a swine.

LORD. A perfect Epythite,[398] he feeds on draff, And wallows in the mire, to make men laugh: I pity him.

SIR WIL. No pity's fit for him.

LORD. Yet we'll advise him.

SIR WIL. He is my kinsman.

LORD. Being in the pit, where many do fall in, We will both comfort him and counsel him.

[Exeunt.



ACT IV.

A noise within, crying Follow, follow, follow! then enter BUTLER, THOMAS and JOHN SCARBOROW, with money-bags.

THOM. What shall we do now, butler?

BUT. A man had better line a good handsome pair of gallows before his time, than be born to do these sucklings good, their mother's milk not wrung out of their nose yet; they know no more how to behave themselves in this honest and needful calling of pursetaking, than I do to piece stockings.

WITHIN. This way, this way, this way!

BOTH. 'Sfoot, what shall we do now?

BUT. See if they do not quake like a trembling asp-leaf, and look more miserable than one of the wicked elders pictured in the painted cloth.[399] Should they but come to the credit to be arraigned for their valour before a worshipful bench, their very looks would hang 'em, and they were indicted but for stealing of eggs.

WITHIN. Follow, follow! This way! Follow!

THOM. Butler.

JOHN. Honest butler.

BUT. Squat, heart, squat, creep me into these bushes, and lie me as close to the ground as you would do to a wench.

THOM. How, good butler? show us how.

BUT. By the moon, patroness of all pursetakers, who would be troubled with such changelings? squat, heart, squat.

THOM. Thus, butler?

BUT. Ay so, suckling, so; stir not now: if the peering rogues chance to go over you, yet stir not: younger brothers call you them, and have no more forecast, I am ashamed of you. These are such whose fathers had need leave them money, even to make them ready withal; for, by these hilts, they have not wit to button their sleeves without teaching: close, squat, close. Now if the lot of hanging do fall to my share, so; then the old father's[400] man drops for his young masters. If it chance, it chances; and when it chances, heaven and the sheriff send me a good rope! I would not go up the ladder twice for anything: in the meantime preventions, honest preventions do well, off with my skin; so; you on the ground, and I to this tree, to escape the gallows. [Ascends a tree.]

WITHIN. Follow, follow, follow!

BUT. Do: follow. If I do not deceive you, I'll bid a pox of this wit, and hang with a good grace.

Enter SIR JOHN HARCOP, with two or three others with him.

HAR. Up to this wood they took: search near, my friends, I am this morn robbed of three hundred pound.

BUT. I am sorry there was not four to make even money. Now, by the devil's horns, 'tis Sir John Harcop.

HAR. Leave not a bush unbeat nor tree unsearch'd; As sure as I was robb'd, the thieves went this way.

BUT. There's nobody, I perceive, but may lie at some time, for one of them climbed this way.

1ST MAN. Stand, I hear a voice; and here's an owl in an ivy-bush.

BUT. You lie, 'tis an old servingman in a nut-tree.

2D MAN. Sirrah, sir, what make you in that tree?

BUT. Gathering of nuts, that such fools as you are may crack the shells, and I eat the kernels.

HAR. What fellow's that?

BUT. Sir John Harcop, my noble knight; I am glad of your good health; you bear your age fair, you keep a good house, I have fed at your board, and been drunk in your buttery.

HAR. But sirrah, sirrah, what made you in that tree? My man and I, at foot of yonder hill, Were by three knaves robb'd of three hundred pound.

BUT. A shrewd loss, by'r Lady, sir; but your good worship may now see the fruit of being miserable: you will ride but with one man to save horse-meat and man's meat at your inn at night, and lose three hundred pound in a morning.

HAR. Sirrah, I say I have lost three hundred pound.

BUT. And I say, sir, I wish all miserable knights might be served so; for had you kept half a dozen tall fellows, as a man of your coat should do, they would have helped now to keep your money.

HAR. But tell me, sir, why lurked you in that tree?

BUT. Marry, I will tell you, sir. Coming to the top of the hill where you (right worshipful) were robbed at the bottom, and seeing some a-scuffling together, my mind straight gave me there were knaves abroad: now, sir, I knowing myself to be old, tough, and unwieldy, not being able to do as I would, as much as to say rescue you (right worshipful)—I, like an honest man, one of the king's liege people, and a good subject—

SER. But he says well, sir.

BUT. Got me up to the top of that tree: the tree (if it could speak) would bear me witness, that there I might see which way the knaves took, then to tell you of it, and you right worshipfully to send hue and[401] cry after them.

HAR. Was it so?

BUT. Nay, 'twas so, sir.

HAR. Nay, then, I tell thee they took into this wood.

BUT. And I tell thee (setting thy worship's knighthood aside) he lies in his throat that says so: had not one of them a white frock? did they not bind your worship's knighthood by the thumbs? then faggoted you and the fool your man back to back.

MAN. He says true.

BUT. Why, then, so truly came not they into this wood, but took over the lawns, and left Winnowe steeple on the left hand.

HAR. It may be so. By this they are out of reach; Well, farewell it.

BUT. Ride with more men, good knight.

HAR. It shall teach me wit.

[Exit. HARCOP with followers.

BUT. So, if this be not played a weapon beyond a scholar's prize, let me be hissed at. Now to the next. Come out, you hedgehogs!

THOM. O butler! thou deserv'st to be chronicled for this.

BUT. Do not belie me, if I had any right, I deserve to be hanged for't. But come, down with your dust, our morning's purchase.[402]

THOM. Here 'tis; thou hast played well; thou deserv'st two shares in it.

BUT. Three hundred pound! a pretty breakfast: many a man works hard all his days, and never sees half the money. But come, though it be badly got, it shall be better bestowed. But do ye hear, gallants? I have not taught you this trade to get your livings by. Use it not; for if you do, though I 'scaped by the nut-tree, be sure you'll speed by the rope. But for your pains at this time, there's a hundred pounds for you; how you shall bestow it, I'll give you instructions. But do you hear? look ye, go not to your gills, your punks, and your cock-tricks with it. If I hear you do, as I am an honest thief, though I helped you now out of the briars, I'll be a means yet to help you to the gallows. How the rest shall be employed, I have determined, and by the way I'll make you acquainted with it. To steal is bad, but taken, where is store; The fault's the less, being done to help the poor.

[Exeunt.

Enter WENTLOE, BARTLEY, and ILFORD with a letter in his hand.

ILF. Sure, I have said my prayers, and lived virtuously o' late, that this good fortune's befallen me. Look, gallants, I am sent for to come down to my father's burial.

WEN. But dost mean to go?

ILF. Troth, no; I'll go down to take possession of his land: let the country bury him, and they will. I'll stay here a while, to save charge at his funeral.

BAR. And how dost feel thyself, Frank, now thy father is dead?

ILF. As I did before, with my hands; how should I feel myself else? but I'll tell you news, gallants.

WEN. What's that? dost mean now to serve God?

ILF. Faith, partly; for I intend shortly to go to church, and from thence do faithful service to one woman.

Enter BUTLER.

BUT. Good! I have met my flesh-hooks together. [Aside.]

BAR. What, dost mean to be married?

ILF. Ay, mongrel, married.

BUT. That's a bait for me. [Aside.]

ILF. I will now be honestly married.

WEN. It's impossible, for thou hast been a whoremaster this seven year.

ILF. 'Tis no matter; I will now marry, and to some honest woman too; and so from hence her virtues shall be a countenance to my vices.

BAR. What shall she be, prythee?

ILF. No lady, no widow, nor no waiting gentlewoman, for under protection Ladies may lard their husbands' heads, Widows will woodcocks make, And chambermaids of servingmen Learn that they'll never forsake.

WEN. Who wilt thou wed then, prythee?

ILF. To any maid, so she be fair: To any maid, so she be rich: To any maid, so she be young: And to any maid—

BAR. So she be honest.

ILF. Faith, it's no great matter for her honesty, for in these days that's a dowry out of request.

BUT. From these crabs will I gather sweetness: wherein I'll imitate the bee, that sucks her honey, not from the sweetest flowers, but [from] thyme, the bitterest: so these having been the means to beggar my master, shall be the helps to relieve his brothers and sister. [Aside.]

ILF. To whom shall I now be a suitor?

BUT. Fair fall ye, gallants.

ILF. Nay, and she be fair, she shall fall sure enough. Butler, how is't, good butler?

BUT. Will you be made gallants?

WEN. Ay, but not willingly cuckolds, though we are now talking about wives.

BUT. Let your wives agree of that after: will you first be richly married?

ALL. How, butler? richly married?

BUT. Rich in beauty, rich in purse, rich in virtue, rich in all things. But mum, I'll say nothing, I know of two or three rich heirs. But cargo![403] my fiddlestick cannot play without rosin: avaunt.

WEN. Butler.

ILF. Dost not know me, butler?

BUT. For kex,[404] dried kex, that in summer has been so liberal to fodder other men's cattle, and scarce have enough to keep your own in winter. Mine are precious cabinets, and must have precious jewels put into them, and I know you to be merchants of stock-fish, dry-meat,[405] and not men for my market: then vanish.

ILF. Come, ye old madcap, you: what need all this? cannot a man have been a little whoremaster in his youth, but you must upbraid him with it, and tell him of his defects which, when he is married, his wife shall find in him? Why, my father's dead, man, now; who by his death has left me the better part of a thousand a year.

BUT. Tut, she of Lancashire has fifteen hundred.

ILF. Let me have her then, good butler.

BUT. And then she, the bright beauty of Leicestershire, has a thousand, nay, thirteen hundred a year, at least.

ILF. O, let me have her, honest butler.

BUT. Besides, she the most delicate, sweet countenanced, black-browed gentlewoman in Northamptonshire, in substance equals the best of them.

ILF. Let me have her then.

BAR. Or I.

WEN. Or I, good butler.

BUT. You were best play the parts of right fools and most desperate whoremasters, and go together by the ears for them, ere ye see them. But they are the most rare-featured, well-faced, excellent-spoke, rare-qualitied, virtuous, and worthy-to-be-admired gentlewomen.

ALL. And rich, butler?

BUT. Ay, that must be one, though they want all the rest [Aside]; —and rich, gallants, as are from the utmost parts of Asia to the present confines of Europe.

ALL. And wilt thou help us to them, butler?

BUT. Faith, 'tis to be doubted; for precious pearl will hardly be bought without precious stones, and I think there's scarce one indifferent one to be found betwixt you three: yet since there is some hope ye may prove honest, as by the death of your fathers you are proved rich, walk severally; for I, knowing you all three to be covetous tug-muttons, will not trust you with the sight of each other's beauty, but will severally talk with you: and since you have deigned in this needful portion of wedlock to be ruled by me, Butler will most bountifully provide wives for you generally.

ALL. Why, that's honestly said. [He walks with each apart.

BUT. Why so: and now first to you, sir knight.

ILF. Godamercy.

BUT. You see this couple of abominable woodcocks here.

ILF. A pox on them! absolute coxcombs.

BUT. You heard me tell them I had intelligence to give of three gentlewomen.

ILF. True.

BUT. Now indeed, sir, I have but the performance of one.

ILF. Good.

BUT. And her I do intend for you, only for you.

ILF. Honest butler.

BUT. Now, sir, she being but lately come to this town, and so nearly watched by the jealous eyes of her friends, she being a rich heir,[406] lest she should be stolen away by some dissolute prodigal or desperate-estated spendthrift, as you have been, sir—

ILF. O, but that's passed, butler.

BUT. True, I know't, and intend now but to make use of them, flatter them with hopeful promises, and make them needful instruments.

ILF. To help me to the wench?

BUT. You have hit it—which thus must be effected: first by keeping close your purpose.

ILF. Good.

BUT. Also concealing from them the lodging, beauty, and riches of your new, but admirable mistress.

ILF. Excellent.

BUT. Of which your following happiness if they should know, either in envy of your good or hope of their own advancement, they'd make our labours known to the gentlewoman's uncles, and so our benefit be frustrate.

ILF. Admirable, butler.

BUT. Which done, all's but this: being, as you shall be, brought into her company, and by my praising your virtues, you get possession of her love, one morning step to the Tower, or to make all sure, hire some stipendiary priest for money—for money in these days what will not be done, and what will not a man do for a rich wife?—and with him make no more ado but marry her in her lodging, and being married, lie with her, and spare not.

ILF. Do they not see us, do they not see us? let me kiss thee, let me kiss thee, butler! let but this be done, and all the benefit, requital and happiness I can promise thee for't, shall be this—I'll be thy rich master, and thou shalt carry my purse.

BUT. Enough, meet me at her lodging some half an hour hence: hark, she lies—[407]

ILF. I ha't.

BUT. Fail not.

ILF. Will I live?

BUT. I will, but shift off these two rhinoceros.

ILF. Widgeons, widgeons: a couple of gulls!

BUT. With some discourse of hope to wive them too, and be with you straight.

ILF. Blessed day! my love shall be thy cushion, honest butler. [Exit.

BUT. So now to my t'other gallants.

WEN. O butler, we have been in passion at thy tediousness.

BUT. Why, look you, I had all this talk for your good!

BAR. Hadst?

BUT. For you know the knight is but a scurvy-proud-prating prodigal, licentious, unnecessary—

WEN. An ass, an ass, an ass.

BUT. Now you heard me tell him I had three wenches in store.

BAR. And he would have had them all, would he?

BUT. Hear me. Though he may live to be an ox, he had not now so much of the goat in him, but only hopes for one of the three, when indeed I have but two; and knowing you to be men of more virtue, and dearer in my respect, intend them to be yours.

WEN. We shall honour thee.

BAR. But how, butler?

BUT. I am now going to their place of residence, situate in the choicest place of the city, and at the sign of the Wolf, just against Goldsmith's Row, where you shall meet me; but ask not for me, only walk to and fro, and to avoid suspicion you may spend some conference with the shopkeeper's wives[408]; they have seats built a purpose for such familiar entertainment—where, from a bay-window[409] which is opposite, I will make you known to your desired beauties, commend the good parts you have—

WEN. By the mass, mine are very few. [Aside.]

BUT. And win a kind of desire, as women are soon won, to make you be beloved; where you shall first kiss, then woo, at length wed, and at last bed, my noble hearts.

BOTH. O butler!

BUT. Wenches, bona robas[410], blessed beauties, without colour or counterfeit. Away, put on your best clothes, get you to the barber's, curl up your hair, walk with the best struts you can: you shall see more at the window, and I have vowed to make you—

BAR. Wilt thou?

BUT. Both fools [Aside]; and I'll want of my wit, but I'll do't.

BAR. We will live together as fellows.

WEN. As brothers. [Exeunt.

BUT. As arrant knaves, if I keep you company. O, the most wretched season of this time! These men, like fish, do swim within one stream, Yet they'd eat one another, making no conscience To drink with them they'd poison; no offence Betwixt their thoughts and actions has control, But headlong run, like an unbiass'd bowl. Yet I will draw[411] them on; but like to him, At play knows how to lose, and when to win.

Enter THOMAS and JOHN SCARBOROW.

THOM. Butler.

BUT. O, are you come, And fit as I appointed? so, 'tis well, You know your cues, and have instructions How to bear yourselves: all, all is fit, Play but your part, your states from hence are firm. [Exit.

JOHN. What shall I term this creature? not a man,

[Betwixt this BUTLER leads ILFORD in.

He's not of mortal's temper, but he's one Made all of goodness, though of flesh and bone: O brother, brother, but for that honest man, As near to misery had been our breath, As where the thundering pellet strikes, is death.

THOM. Ay, my shift of shirts and change of clothes know't.

JOHN. We'll tell of him, like bells whose music rings On coronation-day for joy of kings, That hath preserv'd their steeples, not like tolls, That summons living tears for the dead souls.

Enter BUTLER and ILFORD above[412].

BUT. God's precious, see the hell, sir: even as you had new-kissed, and were about to court her, if her uncles be not come.

ILF. A plague on the spite on't.

BUT. But 'tis no matter, sir; stay you here in this upper chamber, and I'll stay beneath with her: 'tis ten to one you shall hear them talk now of the greatness of her possessions, the care they have to see her well-bestowed, the admirableness of her virtues, all which for all their coming shall be but happiness ordained for you, and by my means be your inheritance.

ILF. Then thou'lt shift them away, and keep me from the sight of them?

BUT. Have I not promised to make you?

ILF. Thou hast.

BUT. Go to, then, rest here with patience, and be confident in my trust; only in my absence you may praise God for the blessedness you have to come, and say your prayers, if you will. I'll but prepare her heart for entertainment of your love, dismiss them for your free access, and return straight.

ILF. Honest-blessed-natural-friend, thou dealest with me like a brother, butler. [Exit BUTLER.] Sure, heaven hath reserved this man to wear grey hairs to do me good. Now will I listen—listen close to suck in her uncles' words with a rejoicing ear.

THOM. As we were saying, brother[413], Where shall we find a husband for my niece?

ILF. Marry, she shall find one here, though you little know't. Thanks, thanks, honest butler.

JOHN. She is rich in money, plate, and jewels.

ILF. Comfort, comfort to my soul.

THOM. Hath all her manor-houses richly furnished.

ILF. Good, good; I'll find employment for them.

BUT. within. Speak loud enough, that he may hear you.

JOHN. I take her estate to be about a thousand pound a year.

ILF. And that which my father hath left me will make it about fifteen hundred. Admirable!

JOHN. In debt to no man: then must our natural care be, As she is wealthy, to see her married well.

ILF. And that she shall be as well as the priest can; he shall not leave a word out.

THOM. I think she has—

ILF. What, a God's name?

THOM. About four thousand pound in her great chest.

ILF. And I'll find a vent for't, I hope.

JOHN. She is virtuous, and she is fair.

ILF. And she were foul, being rich, I would be glad of her.

BUT. Pish, pish!

JOHN. Come, we'll go visit her, but with this care, That to no spendthrift we do marry her.

[Exeunt.

ILF. You may chance be deceived, old greybeards; here's he will spend some of it; thanks, thanks, honest butler! Now do I see the happiness of my future estate. I walk me as to-morrow, being the day after my marriage, with my fourteen men in livery-cloaks after me, and step to the wall in some chief streets of the city, though I have no occasion to use it, that the shopkeepers may take notice how many followers stand bare to me. And yet in this latter age, the keeping of men being not in request, I will turn my aforesaid fourteen into two pages and two coaches. I will get myself into grace at court, run headlong into debt, and then look scurvily upon the city. I will walk you into the presence in the afternoon, having put on a richer suit than I wore in the morning, and call, boy or sirrah. I will have the grace of some great lady, though I pay for't, and at the next triumphs run a-tilt, that when I run my course, though I break not my lance, she may whisper to herself, looking upon my jewel: well-run, my knight. I will now keep great horses, scorning to have a queen to keep me; indeed I will practise all the gallantry in use; for by a wife comes all my happiness.

Enter BUTLER.

BUT. Now, sir, you have heard her uncles, and how do you like them?

ILF. O butler, they have made good thy words, and I am ravished with them.

BUT. And having seen and kissed the gentlewoman, how do you like her?

ILF. O butler, beyond discourse, beyond any element; she's a paragon for a prince, rather than a fit implement for a gentleman.[414]

BUT. Well then, since you like her, and by my means, she shall like you, nothing rests now, but to have you married.

ILF. True, butler, but withal to have her portion!

BUT. Tut, that's sure yours, when you are married once, for 'tis hers by inheritance; but do you love her?

ILF. O, with my soul.

BUT. Have you sworn as much?

ILF. To thee, to her; and have called heaven to witness.

BUT. How shall I know that?

ILF. Butler, here I protest, make vows irrevocable.

BUT. Upon your knees?

ILF. Upon my knees, with my heart and soul I love her.

BUT. Will live with her?

ILF. Will live with her.

BUT. Marry her and maintain her?

ILF. Marry her and maintain her.

BUT. For her forsake all other women?

ILF. Nay, for her forswear all other women.

BUT. In all degrees of love?

ILF. In all degrees of love, either to court, kiss, give private favours, or use private means. I'll do nothing that married men, being close whoremasters, do, so I may have her.

BUT. And yet you, having been an open whoremaster, I will not believe you till I hear you swear as much in the way of contract to herself, and call me to be a witness.

ILF. By heaven, by earth, by hell, by all that man can swear, I will, so I may have her.

BUT. Enough. Thus at first sight rash men to women swear, When, such oaths broke, heaven grieves and sheds a tear. But she's come; ply her, ply her.

Enter SCARBOROW'S SISTER.

ILF. Kind mistress, as I protested, so again I vow, I'faith, I love you.

SIS. And I am not, sir, so uncharitable, To hate the man that loves me.

ILF. Love me then, The which loves you as angels love good men; Who wisheth them to live with them for ever, In that high bliss, whom hell cannot dissever.

BUT. I'll steal away and leave them, as wise men do; Whom they would match, let them have leave to woo. [Exit BUTLER.

ILF. Mistress, I know your worth is beyond my desert; yet by my praising of your virtues, I would not have you, as women use to do, become proud.

SIS. None of my affections are pride's children, nor akin to them.

ILF. Can you love me then?

SIS. I can; for I love all the world, but am in love with none.

ILF. Yet be in love with me; let your affections Combine with mine, and let our souls Like turtles have a mutual sympathy, Who love so well, that they die together. Such is my life, who covets to expire, If it should lose your love.

SIS. May I believe you?

ILF. In troth you may: Your life's my life, your death my dying-day.

SIS. Sir, the commendations I have received from Butler of your birth and worth, together with the judgment of mine own eye, bids me believe and love you.

ILF. O, seal it with a kiss. Bless'd hour! my life had never joy till this.

Enter WENTLOE and BARTLEY beneath.

BAR. Hereabout is the house, sure.

WEN. We cannot mistake it; for here's the sign of the Wolf, and the bay-window.

Enter BUTLER above.

BUT. What, so close? 'Tis well I have shifted away your uncles, mistress. But see the spite of Sir Francis! if yon same couple of smell-smocks, Wentloe and Bartley, have not scented after us.

ILF. A pox on them! what shall we do then, butler?

BUT. What, but be married straight, man?

ILF. Ay, but how, butler?

BUT. Tut, I never fail at a dead lift; for, to perfect your bliss, I have provided you a priest.

ILF. Where? prythee, butler, where?

BUT. Where but beneath in her chamber? I have filled his hands with coin, and he shall tie you fast with words; he shall close your hands in one, and then do clap yourself into her sheets, and spare not.

ILF. O sweet!

[Exit ILFORD with SCARBOROW'S SISTER.[415]

BUT. Down, down, 'tis the only way for you to get up. Thus in this task for others' good I toil, And she, kind gentlewoman, weds herself, Having been scarcely woo'd, and ere her thoughts Have learn'd to love him that, being her husband, She may relieve her brothers in their wants; She marries him to help her nearest kin: I make the match, and hope it is no sin.

WEN. 'Sfoot, it is scurvy walking for us so near the two Counters; would he would come once!

BAR. Mass, he's yonder: now, Butler.

BUT. O gallants, are you here? I have done wonders for you, commended you to the gentlewomen who, having taken note of your good legs and good faces, have a liking to you; meet me beneath.

BOTH. Happy butler.

BUT. They are yours, and you are theirs; meet me beneath, I say.

[Exeunt WENTLOE and BARTLEY.

By this they are wed; ay, and perhaps have bedded. Now follows whether, knowing she is poor, He'll swear he lov'd her, as he swore before.

[Exit BUTLER.



ACT V.

Enter ILFORD with SCARBOROW'S SISTER.

ILF. Ho, sirrah, who would have thought it? I perceive now a woman may be a maid, be married, and lose her maidenhead, and all in half an hour. And how dost like me now, wench?

SIS. As doth befit your servant and your wife, That owe you love and duty all my life.

ILF. And there shall be no love lost, nor service neither; I'll do thee service at board, and thou shalt do me service a-bed: now must I, as young married men use to do, kiss my portion out of my young wife. Thou art my sweet rogue, my lamb, my pigsny, my playfellow, my pretty-pretty anything. Come, a buss, prythee, so 'tis my kind heart; and wots thou what now?

SIS. Not till you tell me, sir.

ILF. I have got thee with child in my conscience, and, like a kind husband, methinks I breed it for thee. For I am already sick at my stomach, and long extremely. Now must thou be my helpful physician, and provide for me.

SIS. Even to my blood, What's mine is yours, to gain your peace or good.

ILF. What a kind soul is this! Could a man have found a greater content in a wife, if he should have sought through the world for her? Prythee, heart, as I said, I long, and in good troth I do, and methinks thy first child will be born without a nose, if I lose my longing: 'tis but for a trifle too; yet methinks it will do me no good, unless thou effect it for me. I could take thy keys myself, go into thy closet, and read over the deeds and evidences of thy land, and in reading over them, rejoice I had such blessed fortune to have so fair a wife with so much endowment, and then open thy chests, and survey thy plate, jewels, treasure; but a pox on't, all will do me no good, unless thou effect it for me.

SIS. Sir, I will show you all the wealth I have Of coin, of jewels, and possessions.

ILF. Good gentle heart, I'll give thee another buss for that: for that, give thee a new gown to-morrow morning by this hand; do thou but dream what stuff and what fashion thou wilt have it on to-night.

SIS. The land I can endow you with's my Love: The riches I possess for you is Love, A treasure greater than is land or gold, It cannot be forfeit, and it shall ne'er be sold.

ILF. Love, I know that; and I'll answer thee love for love in abundance: but come, prythee, come, let's see these deeds and evidences—this money, plate, and jewels. Wilt have thy child born without a nose? if thou be'st so careless, spare not: why, my little frappet, you, I heard thy uncles talk of thy riches, that thou hadst hundreds a year, several lordships, manors, houses, thousands of pounds in your great chest; jewels, plate, and rings in your little box.

SIS. And for that riches you did marry me?

ILF. Troth, I did, as nowadays bachelors do: swear I lov'd thee, but indeed married thee for thy wealth.

SIS. Sir, I beseech you say not your oaths were such, So like false coin being put unto the touch; Who bear a flourish in the outward show Of a true stamp, but truly[416] are not so. You swore me love, I gave the like to you: Then as a ship, being wedded to the sea, Does either sail or sink, even so must I, You being the haven, to which my hopes must fly.

ILF. True, chuck, I am thy haven, and harbour too, And like a ship I took thee, who brings home treasure As thou to me the merchant-venturer.

SIS. What riches I am ballast with are yours.

ILF. That's kindly said now.

SIS. If but with sand, as I am but with earth, Being your right, of right you must receive me: I have no other lading but my love, Which in abundance I will render you. If other freight you do expect my store, I'll pay you tears: my riches are no more.

ILF. How's this? how's this? I hope you do but jest.

SIS. I am sister to decayed Scarborow.

ILF. Ha!

SIS. Whose substance your enticements did consume.

ILF. Worse than an ague.

SIS. Which as you did believe, so they supposed. 'Twas fitter for yourself than for another To keep the sister, had undone the brother.

ILF. I am gulled, by this hand. An old coneycatcher, and beguiled! where the pox now are my two coaches, choice of houses, several suits, a plague on them, and I know not what! Do you hear, puppet, do you think you shall not be damned for this, to cosen a gentleman of his hopes, and compel yourself into matrimony with a man, whether he will or no with you? I have made a fair match, i'faith: will any man buy my commodity out of my hand? As God save me, he shall have her for half the money she cost me.

Enter WENTLOE and BARTLEY.

WEN. O, have we met you, sir?

BAR. What, turned micher, steal a wife, and not make your old friends acquainted with it?

ILF. A pox on her, I would you had her!

WEN. Well, God give you joy! we can hear of your good fortune, now 'tis done, though we could not be acquainted with it aforehand.

BAR. As that you have two thousand pounds a year.

WEN. Two or three manor-houses.

BAR. A wife, fair, rich, and virtuous.

ILF. Pretty, i'faith, very pretty.

WEN. Store of gold.

BAR. Plate in abundance.

ILF. Better, better, better.

WEN. And so many oxen, that their horns are able to store all the cuckolds in your country.

ILF. Do not make me mad, good gentlemen, do not make me mad: I could be made a cuckold with more patience, than endure this.

WEN. Foh! we shall have you turn proud now, grow respectless of your ancient acquaintance. Why, Butler told us of it, who was the maker of the match for you.

ILF. A pox of his furtherance! gentlemen, as you are Christians, vex me no more. That I am married, I confess; a plague of the fates, that wedding and hanging comes by destiny; but for the riches she has brought, bear witness how I'll reward her. [Kicks her.

SIS. Sir!

ILF. Whore, ay, and jade. Witch! Ill-faced, stinking-breath, crooked-nose, worse than the devil—and a plague on thee that ever I saw thee!

BAR. A comedy, a comedy!

WEN. What's the meaning of all this? is this the masque after thy marriage!

ILF. O gentlemen, I am undone, I am undone, for I am married! I, that could not abide a woman, but to make her a whore, hated all she-creatures, fair and poor; swore I would never marry but to one that was rich, and to be thus coney-catched! Who do you think this is, gentlemen?

WEN. Why, your wife; who should it be else?

ILF. That's my misfortune; that marrying her in hope she was rich, she proves to be the beggarly sister to the more beggarly Scarborow.

BAR. How?

WEN. Ha, ha, ha!

ILF. Ay, you may laugh, but she shall cry as well as I for't.

BAR. Nay, do not weep.

WEN. He does but counterfeit now to delude us. He has all her portion of land, coin, plate, jewels, and now dissembles thus, lest we should borrow some money of him.

ILF. And you be kind, gentlemen, lend me some; for, having paid the priest, I have not so much left in the world as will hire me a horse to carry me away from her.

BAR. But art thou thus gulled, i'faith?

ILF. Are you sure you have eyes in your head?

WEN. Why, then, [it is] by her brother's setting on, in my conscience; who knowing thee now to have somewhat to take to by the death of thy father, and that he hath spent her portion and his own possessions, hath laid this plot for thee to marry her, and so he to be rid of her himself.

ILF. Nay, that's without question; but I'll be revenged of 'em both. For you, minx:—nay, 'sfoot, give 'em me, or I'll kick else.

SIS. Good, sweet.

ILF. Sweet with a pox! you stink in my nose, give me your jewels: nay, bracelets too.

SIS. O me most miserable!

ILF. Out of my sight, ay, and out of my doors: for now what's within this house is mine; and for your brother, He made this match in hope to do you good, And I wear this, the[417] which shall draw his blood.

WEN. A brave resolution.

BAR. In which we'll second thee. [Exit with WENTLOE.

ILF. Away, whore! out of my doors, whore! [Exit.

SIS. O grief, that poverty should have that power to tear Men from themselves, though they wed, bed, and swear.

Enter THOMAS and JOHN SCARBOROW with BUTLER.

THOM. How now, sister?

SIS. Undone, undone!

BUT. Why, mistress, how is't? how is't?

SIS. My husband has forsook me.

BUT. O perjury!

SIS. Has ta'en my jewels and my bracelets from me.

THOM. Vengeance, I played the thief for the money that bought 'em.

SIS. Left me distressed, and thrust me forth o' doors.

THOM. Damnation on him! I will hear no more. But for his wrong revenge me on my brother, Degenerate, and was the curse of all, He spent our portion, and I'll see his fall.

JOHN. O, but, brother—

THOM. Persuade me not. All hopes are shipwreck'd, misery comes on, The comfort we did look from him is frustrate, All means, all maintenance, but grief is gone; And all shall end by his destruction. [Exit.

JOHN. I'll follow, and prevent what in this heat may happen: His want makes sharp his sword; too great's the ill, If that one brother should another kill. [Exit.

BUT. And what will you do, mistress?

SIS. I'll sit me down, sigh loud instead of words, And wound myself with grief as they with swords. And for the sustenance that I should eat, I'll feed on grief, 'tis woe's best-relish'd meat.

BUT. Good heart, I pity you, You shall not be so cruel to yourself, I have the poor serving-man's allowance: Twelve pence a day, to buy me sustenance; One meal a day I'll eat, the t'other fast, To give your wants relief. And, mistress, Be this some comfort to your miseries, I'll have thin cheeks, ere you shall have wet eyes.

[Exeunt.

Enter SCARBOROW.

SCAR. What is a prodigal? Faith, like a brush, That wears himself to furbish[418] others' clothes, And, having worn his heart even to the stump, He's thrown away like a deformed lump. O, such am I: I have spent all the wealth My ancestors did purchase, made others brave In shape and riches, and myself a knave. For though my wealth rais'd some to paint their door, 'Tis shut against me saying I am but poor: Nay, even the greatest arm, whose hand hath grac'd My presence to the eye of majesty, shrinks back, His fingers clutch, and like to lead, They are heavy to raise up my state, being dead. By which I find spendthrifts (and such am I) Like strumpets flourish, but are foul within, And they (like snakes) know when to cast their skin.

Enter THOMAS SCARBOROW.

THOM. Turn, draw, and die; I come to kill thee.

SCAR. What's he that speaks like sickness? O, is't you? Sleep still, you cannot move me: fare you well.

THOM. Think not my fury slakes so, or my blood Can cool itself to temper by refusal: Turn, or thou diest.

SCAR. Away.

THOM. I do not wish to kill thee like a slave, That taps men in their cups, and broach[es] their hearts, Ere with a warning-piece they have wak'd their ears; I would not like to powder shoot thee down To a flat grave, ere thou hast thought to frown: I am no coward, but in manly terms And fairest oppositions vow to kill thee.

SCAR. From whence proceeds this heat?

THOM. From sparkles bred By thee, that like a villain—

SCAR. Ha!

THOM. I'll hollow it In thine ears, till thy soul quake to hear it, That like a villain hast undone thy brothers.

SCAR. Would thou wert not so near me! yet, farewell.

THOM. By Nature and her laws make[419] us akin— As near as are these hands, or sin to sin— Draw and defend thyself, or I'll forget Thou art a man.

SCAR. Would thou wert not my brother!

THOM. I disclaim thee[420].

SCAR. Are we not offspring of one parent, wretch?

THOM. I do forget it; pardon me the dead, I should deny the pains you bid for me. My blood grows hot for vengeance, thou hast spent My life's revenues, that our parents purchas'd.

SCAR. O, do not rack me with remembrance on't.

THOM. Thou hast made my life a beggar in this world, And I will make thee bankrupt of thy breath: Thou hast been so bad, the best that I can give[421]. Thou art a devil: not with men to live.

SCAR. Then take a devil's payment

Here they make a pass one upon another, when at Scarborow's back come in ILFORD, WENTLOE, and BARTLEY.

ILF. He's here; draw, gentlemen.

WEN., BART. Die, Scarborow.

SCAR. Girt round with death!

THOM. How, set upon by three! 'Sfoot, fear not, brother; you cowards, three to one! slaves, worse than fencers that wear long weapons. You shall be fought withal, you shall be fought withal.

[Here the brothers join, drive the rest out, and return.

SCAR. Brother, I thank you, for you now have been A patron of my life. Forget the sin, I pray you, which my loose and wasteful hours Hath made against your fortunes; I repent 'em, And wish I could new-joint and strength your hopes, Though with indifferent ruin of mine own. I have a many sins, the thought of which Like finest[422] needles prick me to the soul, But find your wrongs to have the sharpest point. If penitence your losses might repair, You should be rich in wealth, and I in care.

THOM. I do believe you, sir: but I must tell you, Evils the which are 'gainst another done, Repentance makes no satisfaction To him that feels the smart. Our father, sir, Left in your trust my portion: you have spent it, And suffered me (whilst you in riot's house— A drunken tavern—spill'd my maintenance, Perhaps upon the ground with o'erflown cups;) Like birds in hardest winter half-starv'd, to fly And pick up any food, lest I should die.

SCAR. I pr'ythee, let us be at peace together.

THOM. At peace for what? For spending my inheritance? By yonder sun that every soul has life by, As sure as thou hast life, I'll fight with thee.

SCAR. I'll not be mov'd unto't.

THOM. I'll kill thee then, wert thou now clasp'd Within thy mother, wife, or children's arms.

SCAR. Would'st, homicide? art so degenerate? Then let my blood grow hot.

THOM. For it shall cool.

SCAR. To kill rather than be kill'd is manhood's rule.

Enter JOHN SCARBOROW.

JOHN. Stay, let not your wraths meet.

THOM. Heart! what mak'st thou here?

JOHN. Say, who are you, or you? are you not one, That scarce can make a fit distinction Betwixt each other? Are you not brothers?

THOM. I renounce him.

SCAR. Shalt not need.

THOM. Give way.

SCAR. Have at thee!

JOHN. Who stirs? which of you both hath strength within his arm To wound his own breast? who's so desperate To damn himself by killing of himself? Are you not both one flesh?

THOM. Heart! give me way.

SCAR. Be not a bar betwixt us, or by my sword I'll[423] mete thy grave out.

JOHN. O, do: for God's sake, do; 'Tis happy death, if I may die, and you Not murder one another. O, do but hearken: When do the sun and moon, born in one frame, Contend, but they breed earthquakes in men's hearts? When any star prodigiously appears, Tells it not fall of kings or fatal years? And then, if brothers fight, what may men think? Sin grows so high, 'tis time the world should sink.

SCAR. My heart grows cool again; I wish it not.

THOM. Stop not my fury, or by my life I swear. I will reveal the robbery we have done, And take revenge on thee, That hinders me to take revenge on him.

JOHN. I yield to that; but ne'er consent to this, I shall then die, as mine own sin affords, Fall by the law, not by my brothers' swords.

THOM. Then, by that light that guides me here, I vow, I'll straight to Sir John Harcop, and make known We were the two that robb'd him.

JOHN. Prythee, do.

THOM. Sin has his shame, and thou shalt have thy due. [Exit.

JOHN. Thus have I shown the nature of a brother, Though you have proved unnatural to me. He's gone in heat to publish out the theft, Which want and your unkindness forc'd us to: If now I die, that death and public shame Is a corsive to your soul, blot to your name. [Exit.

SCAR. O, 'tis too true, there's not a thought I think, But must partake thy grief, and drink A relish of thy sorrow and misfortune. With weight of others' tears I am o'erborne, That scarce am Atlas to hold up mine own, And all too good for me. A happy creature In my cradle, and I have made myself The common curse of mankind by my life; Undone my brothers, made them thieves for bread, And begot pretty children to live beggars. O conscience, how thou art stung to think upon't! My brothers unto shame must yield their blood: My babes at others' stirrups beg their food, Or else turn thieves too, and be chok'd for it, Die a dog's death, be perch'd upon a tree; Hang'd betwixt heaven and earth, as fit for neither. The curse of heaven that's due to reprobates Descends upon my brothers and my children, And I am parent to it—ay, I am parent to it.

Enter BUTLER.

BUT. Where are you, sir?

SCAR. Why star'st thou, what's thy haste?

BUT. Here's fellows swarm like flies to speak with you.

SCAR. What are they?

BUT. Snakes, I think, sir; for they come with stings in their mouths, and their tongues are turn'd to teeth too: they claw villainously, they have ate up your honest name and honourable reputation by railing against you: and now they come to devour your possessions.

SCAR. In plainer evargy,[424] what are they? speak.

BUT. Mantichoras,[425] monstrous beasts, enemies to mankind, that have double rows of teeth in their mouths. They are usurers, they come yawning for money, and the sheriff with them is come to serve an extent upon your land, and then seize on your body by force of execution: they have begirt the house round.

SCAR. So that the roof our ancestors did build For their sons' comfort, and their wives for charity, I dare not to look out at.

BUT. Besides, sir, here's your poor children—

SCAR. Poor children they are indeed.

BUT. Come with fire and water, tears in their eyes and burning grief in their hearts, and desire to speak with you.

SCAR. Heap sorrow upon sorrow! tell me, are My brothers gone to execution For what I did? for every heinous sin Sits on his soul, by whom it did begin. And so did theirs by me. Tell me withal, My children carry moisture in their eyes, Whose speaking drops say, father, thus must we Ask our relief, or die with infamy, For you have made us beggars. Yet when thy tale has kill'd me, To give my passage comfort from this stage, Say all was done by enforc'd marriage: My grave will then be welcome.

BUT. What shall we do, sir?

SCAR. Do as the devil does, hate (panther-like) mankind![426] And yet I lie; for devils sinners love, When men hate men, though good like some above.

Enter SCARBOROW'S wife KATHERINE, with two Children.

BUT. Your wife's come in, sir.

SCAR. Thou li'st, I have not a wife. None can be call'd True man and wife, but those whom heaven install'd, Say—

KATH. O my dear husband!

SCAR. You are very welcome. Peace: we'll have compliment. Who are you, gentlewoman?

KATH. Sir, your distressed wife, and these your children,

SCAR. Mine! Where, how, begot? Prove me by certain instance that's divine, That I should call them lawful, or thee mine.

KATH. Were we not married, sir?

SCAR. No; though we heard the words of ceremony, But had hands knit, as felons that wear fetters Forc'd upon them. For tell me, woman, Did e'er my love with sighs entreat thee mine? Did ever I in willing conference Speak words, made half with tears, that I did love thee? Or was I ever but glad to see thee, as all lovers are? No, no, thou know'st I was not.

KATH. O me!

BUT. The more's the pity.

SCAR. But when I came to church, I did there stand, As water, whose forc'd breach[427] had drown'd my land. Are you my wife, or these my children? Why, 'tis impossible; for like the skies Without the sun's light, so look all your eyes; Dark, cloudy, thick, and full of heaviness; Within my country there was hope to see Me and my issue to be like our fathers, Upholders of our country all our life, Which should have been if I had wed a wife: Where now, As dropping leaves in autumn you look all, And I, that should uphold you, like to fall.

KATH. 'Twas nor shall be my fault, heaven bear me witness.

SCAR. Thou liest, strumpet, thou liest!

BUT. O sir!

SCAR. Peace, saucy Jack! strumpet, I say thou liest, For wife of mine thou art not, and these thy bastards Whom I begot of thee with this unrest, That bastards born are born not to be blest.

KATH. On me pour all your wrath, but not on them.

SCAR. On thee and them, for 'tis the end of lust To scourge itself, heaven lingering to be just: Harlot!

KATH. Husband!

SCAR. Bastards!

CHIL. Father!

BUT. What heart not pities this?

SCAR. Even in your cradle, you were accurs'd of heaven, Thou an adultress in my married arms. And they that made the match, bawds to thy lust: Ay, now you hang the head; shouldst have done so before, Then these had not been bastards, thou a whore.

BUT. I can brook't no longer: sir, you do not well in this.

SCAR. Ha, slave!

BUT. 'Tis not the aim of gentry to bring forth Such harsh unrelish'd fruit unto their wines[428], And to their pretty—pretty children by my troth.

SCAR. How, rascal!

BUT. Sir, I must tell you, your progenitors, Two of the which these years were servant to, Had not such mists before their understanding, Thus to behave themselves.

SCAR. And you'll control me, sir!

BUT. Ay, I will.

SCAR. You rogue!

BUT. Ay, 'tis I will tell 'tis ungently done Thus to defame your wife, abuse your children: Wrong them, you wrong yourself; are they not yours?

SCAR. Pretty—pretty impudence, in faith.

BUT. Her whom you are bound to love, to rail against! Those whom you are bound to keep, to spurn like dogs! And you were not my master, I would tell you—