A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Vol. IX - Various
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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]