A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Vol. VII (4th edition) - Various
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PHIL. Well-said, Proverbs: ne'er another to that purpose?
NICH. Yes, I could have said to you, sir, Take heed is a good reed.[347]
PHIL. Why to me, take heed?
NICH. For happy is he whom other men's harms do make to beware.
PHIL. O, beware, Frank! Slip away, Mall, you know what I told ye. I'll
hold our mothers both in talk meanwhile. [_Aside_.]
Mother and Mistress Barnes, methinks you should not stand in hatred so
hard one with another.
MRS BAR. Should I not, sir? should I not hate a harlot,
That robs me of my right, vild[348] boy?
MRS GOUR. That title I return unto thy teeth,
[_Exeunt_ FRANCIS _and_ MALL.
And spit the name of harlot in thy face.
MRS BAR. Well, 'tis not time of night to hold out chat
With such a scold as thou art; therefore now
Think that I hate thee, as I do the devil.
MRS GOUR. The devil take thee, if thou dost not, wretch!
MRS BAR. Out upon thee, strumpet!
MRS GOUR. Out upon thee, harlot!
MRS BAR. Well, I will find a time to be reveng'd:
Meantime I'll keep my daughter from thy son.--
Where are ye, minion? how now, are ye gone?
PHIL. She went in, mother.
MRS GOUR. Francis, where are ye?
MRS BAR. He is not here. O, then, they slipp'd away,
And both together!
PHIL. I'll assure ye, no:
My sister she went in--into the house.
MRS BAR. But then she'll out again at the back door,
And meet with him: but I will search about
All these same fields and paths near to my house:
They are not far, I am sure, if I make haste.
[_Exit_.
MRS GOUR. O God, how went he hence, I did not see him?
It was when Barnes's wife did scold with me;
A plague on[349] her!--Dick, why didst not thou look to him?
COOMES. What should I look for him? no, no.
I look not for him while[350] to-morrow morning.
MRS GOUR. Come, go with me to help me look him out.
Alas! I have nor light, nor link, nor torch!
Though it be dark, I will take any pains
To cross this match. I prithee, Dick, away.
COOMES. Mistress, because I brought ye out, I'll bring ye home; but,
if I should follow, so he might have the law on his side.
MRS GOUR. Come, 'tis no matter; prythee, go with me.
_Exeunt_ [MRS GOURSEY _and_ COOMES.]
MR BAR. Philip, thy mother's gone to seek thy sister,
And in a rage, i'faith: but who comes here?
PHIL. Old Master Goursey, as I think, 'tis he.
MR BAR. 'Tis so, indeed.
[_Enter_ MASTER GOURSEY.]
MR GOUR. Who's there?
MR BAR. A friend of yours.
MR GOUR. What, Master Barnes! did ye not see my wife?
MR BAR. Yes, sir, I saw her; she was here even now.
MR GOUR. I doubted that; that made me come unto you:
But whither is she gone?
PHIL. To seek your son, who slipp'd away from her
To meet with Mall my sister in a place,
Where I appointed; and my mother too
Seeks for my sister; so they both are gone:
My mother hath a torch; marry, your wife
Goes darkling up and down, and Coomes before her.
MR GOUR. I thought that knave was with her; but 'tis well:
I pray God, they may come by ne'er a light,
But both be led a dark dance in the night!
HOD. Why, is my fellow, Dick, in the dark with my mistress? I pray God,
they be honest, for there may be much knavery in the dark: faith, if I
were there, I would have some knavery with them. [_Aside_]
Good master, will ye carry the torch yourself, and give me leave to play
at blind-man-buff with my mistress.
PHIL. On that condition thou wilt do thy best
To keep thy mistress and thy fellow, Dick,
Both from my sister and thy master's son,
I will entreat thy master let thee go.
HOD. O, ay, I warrant ye, I'll have fine tricks to cosen them.
MR GOUR. Well, sir, then, go your ways; I give you leave.
HOD. O brave! but whereabout are they?
PHIL. About our coney-green they surely are,
If thou canst find them.
HOD. O, let me alone to grope for cunnies.
[_Exit_.
PHIL. Well, now will I to Frank and to my sister.
Stand you two heark'ning near the coney-green;
But sure your light in you must not be seen;
Or else let Nicholas stand afar off with it,
And as his life keep it from Mistress Goursey.
Shall this be done?
MR BAR. Philip, it shall.
PHIL. God be with ye! I'll be gone.
[_Exit_.
MR BAR. Come on, Master Goursey: this same is a means
To make our wives friends, if they resist not.
MR GOUR. Tut, sir, howsoever, it shall go forward.
MR BAR. Come, then, let's do as Philip hath advis'd.
[_Exeunt_.
_Enter_ MALL.
MAL. Here is the place where Philip bad me stay,
Till Francis came; but wherefore did my brother
Appoint it here? why in the coney-burrow?
He had some meaning in't, I warrant ye.
Well, here I'll set me down under this tree,
And think upon the matter all alone.
Good Lord, what pretty things these conies are!
How finely they do feed till they be fat,
And then what a sweet meat a coney is!
And what smooth skins they have, both black and gray!
They say they run more in the night than day:
What is the reason? mark; why in the light
They see more passengers than in the night;
For harmful men many a hay[351] do set,
And laugh to see them tumble in the net;
And they put ferrets in the holes--fie, fie!--
And they go up and down where conies lie;
And they lie still, they have so little wit:
I marvel the warrener will suffer it;
Nay, nay, they are so bad, that they themselves
Do give consent to catch these pretty elves.
How if the warrener should spy me here?
He would take me for a coney, I dare swear.
But when that Francis comes, what will he say?
"Look, boy, there lies a coney in my way!"
But, soft, a light! who's that? soul, my mother!
Nay, then, all-hid[352]: i'faith, she shall not see me;
I'll play bo-peep with her behind this tree.
[_Enter_ MISTRESS BARNES.]
MRS BAR. I marvel where this wench doth[353] hide herself
So closely; I have search'd in many a bush.
MAL. Belike my mother took me for a thrush. [_Aside_.]
MRS BAR. She's hid in this same warren, I'll lay money.
MAL. Close as a rabbit-sucker[354] from an old coney. [_Aside_.]
MRS BAR. O God, I would to God that I could find her!
I would keep her from her love's toys yet.
MAL. Ay, so you might, if your daughter had no wit. [_Aside_.]
MRS BAR. What a vild[355] girl 'tis, that would hav't so young!
MAL. A murrain take that dissembling tongue!
Ere your calf's teeth were out, you thought it long. [_Aside_.]
MRS BAR. But, minion, yet I'll keep you from the man.
MAL. To save a lie, mother, say, if you can. [_Aside_.]
MRS BAR. Well, now to look for her.
MAL. Ay, there's the spite:
What trick shall I now have to 'scape her light? [_Aside_.]
MRS BAR. Who's there? what, minion, is it you?--
Beshrew her heart, what a fright she put me to!
But I am glad I found her, though I was afraid. [_Aside_.]
Come on your ways; you are[356] a handsome maid!
Why [steal] you forth a-doors so late at night?
Why, whither go ye? come, stand still, I say.
MAL. No, indeed, mother; this is my best way.
MRS BAR. 'Tis not the best way; stand by me, I tell ye.
MAL. No; you would catch me, mother. O, I smell ye!
MRS BAR. Will ye not stand still?
MAL. No, by lady, no.
MRS BAR. But I will make ye.
MAL. Nay, then, trip-and-go.
MRS BAR. Mistress, I'll make ye weary, ere I have done.
MAL. Faith, mother, then, I'll try, how you can run.
MRS BAR. Will ye?
MAL. Yes, faith. [_Exeunt_.
_Enter_ [FRANK _and_ BOY.]
FRAN. Mall, sweet-heart, Mall! what, not a word?
BOY. A little farther, master; call again.
FRAN. Why, Mall! I prythee, speak; why, Mall, I say!
I know thou art not far, if thou wilt[357] speak;
Why, Mall!--
But now I see she's in her merry vein,
To make me call, and put me to more pain.
Well, I must bear with her; she'll bear with me:
But I will call, lest that it be not so.--
What, Mall! what, Mall, I say! Boy, are we right?
Have we not miss'd the way this same dark night?
BOY. Mass, it may be so: as I am true[358] man,
I have not seen a coney since I came;
Yet at the coney-burrow we should meet.
But, hark! I hear the trampling of some feet.
FRAN. It may be so, then; therefore, let's lie close.
[_Enter_ MISTRESS GOURSEY _and_ COOMES.]
MRS GOUR. Where art thou, Dick?
COOMES. Where am I, quoth-a! marry, I may be where anybody will say I
am; either in France or at Rome, or at Jerusalem, they may say I am,
for I am not able to disprove them, because I cannot tell where I am.
MRS GOUR. O, what a blindfold walk have we had, Dick,
To seek my son! and yet I cannot find him.
COOMES. Why, then, mistress, let's go home.
MRS GOUR. Why, 'tis so dark we shall not find the way.
FRAN. I pray God, ye may not, mother, till it be day! [_Aside_.
COOMES. 'Sblood, take heed, mistress, here's a tree.
MRS GOUR. Lead thou the way, and let me hold by thee.
BOY. Dick Coomes, what difference is there between a blind man and he
that cannot see?
FRAN. Peace, a pox on thee!
COOMES. Swounds, somebody spake.
MRS GOUR. Dick, look about;
It may be here we may find them out.
COOMES. I see the glimpse[359] of somebody here.--
And ye be a sprite, I'll fray the bugbear.--
There a-goes, mistress.
MRS GOUR. O, sir, have I spied you?
FRAN. A plague on the boy! 'was he that descried[360] me.
[_Exeunt_.
[_Enter_ PHILIP.]
PHIL. How like a beautous lady mask'd in black
Looks that same large circumference of heaven!
The sky, that was so fair three hours ago,
Is in three hours become an Ethiop;
And being angry at her beauteous change,
She will not have one of those pearled stars
To blab her sable metamorphosis:[361]
'Tis very dark. I did appoint my sister
To meet me at the coney-borough below,
And Francis too; but neither can I see.
Belike my mother happ'ned on that place,
And fray'd them from it, and they both are now
Wand'ring about the[362] fields: how shall I find them?
It is so dark, I scarce can see my hand:
Why, then, I'll hollow for them--no, not so;
So will his voice betray him to our mothers,
And if he answer, and bring them where he is.
What shall I then do? it must not be so--
'Sblood,[363] it must be so; how else, I pray?
Shall I stand gaping here all night till day,
And then be ne'er the near?[364] So ho, so ho!
[_Enter_ WILL.]
WILL. So ho! I come: where are ye? where art thou? here!
PHIL. How now, Frank, where hast thou[365] been?
WILL. Frank! what Frank? 'sblood, is Sir Ralph mad? [_Aside_.]
Here's the bow.
PHIL. I have not been much private with that voice:
Methinks Frank Goursey's talk and his doth tell me
I am mistaken; especially by his bow;
Frank had no bow. Well, I will leave this fellow,
And hollow somewhat farther in the fields. [_Aside_.]
--Dost thou hear, fellow? I perceive by thee
That we are both mistaken: I took thee
For one thou art not; likewise thou took'st me
For Sir Ralph Smith, but sure I am not he:
And so, farewell; I must go seek my friend.
So ho!
[_Exit_.
WILL. So ho, so ho! nay, then, Sir Ralph, so whore!
For a whore she was sure, if you had her here
So late. Now, you are Sir Ralph Smith![366]
Well do ye counterfeit and change your voice,
But yet I know ye. But what should be that Francis?
Belike that Francis cosen'd him of his wench,
And he conceals himself to find her out;
'Tis so, upon my life. Well, I will go,
And help him ring his peal of so ho, so ho! [_Exit_.
_Enter_ FRANK.
FRAN. A plague on Coomes! a plague upon the boy!
A plague, too--not on my mother for an hundreth pound!
'Twas time to run; and yet I had not thought
My mother could have followed me so close,
Her legs with age I thought had foundered;
She made me quite run through a quickset hedge,
Or she had taken me. Well, I may say,
I have run through the briars for a wench;
And yet I have her not--the worse luck mine.
Methought I heard one hollow hereabout;
I judge it Philip; O, the slave will laugh,
When as he hears how that my mother scar'd me!
Well, here I'll stand until I hear him hollow,
And then I'll answer him; he is not far.
[_Enter_ SIR RALPH SMITH.]
SIR RALPH. My man is hollowing for me up and down,
And yet I cannot meet with him. So ho!
FRAN. So ho!
SIR RALPH. Why, what a pox, wert thou so near me, man,
And wouldst not speak?
FRAN. 'Sblood, ye're very hot.
SIR RALPH. No, sir, I am cold enough with staying here
For such a knave as you.
FRAN. Knave! how now, Philip?
Art mad, art mad?
SIR RALPH. Why, art not thou my man,
That went to fetch my bow?[367]
FRAN. Indeed, a bow
Might shoot me ten bows down the weather so:
I your man!
SIR RALPH. What art thou, then?
FRAN. A man: but what's thy name?
SIR RALPH. Some call me Ralph.
FRAN. Then, honest Ralph, farewell.
SIR RALPH. Well-said, familiar Will! plain Ralph, i'faith.
[_Hollow within_ PHILIP _and_ WILL.][368]
FRAN. There calls my man.
SIR RALPH. But there goes mine away;
And yet I'll hear what this next call will say,
And here I'll tarry, till he call again.
[_Retires_.][369]
[_Enter_ WILL.]
WILL. So ho!
FRAN. So ho! where art thou, Philip?
WILL. 'Sblood,[370] Philip!
But now he call'd me Francis: this is fine. [_Aside_.]
FRAN. Why studiest thou? I prythee, tell me, Philip,
Where the wench[371] is.
WILL. Even now he ask'd me (Francis) for the wench,
And now he asks[372] me (Philip) for the wench. [_Aside_.]
Well, Sir Ralph, I must needs tell ye now,
'Tis[373] not for your[374] credit to be forth
So late a-wenching in this order.[375]
FRAN. What's this? so late a-wenching, doth he say? [_Aside_]
--Indeed, 'tis true I am thus late a-wenching,
But I am forc'd to wench without a wench.
WILL. Why, then, you might have ta'n your bow at first,
And gone and kill'd a buck, and not have been
So long a-drabbing, and be ne'er the near.[376]
FRAN. Swounds, what a puzzle am I in this night!
But yet I'll put this fellow farther [question. _Aside_]
--Dost thou hear, man? I am not Sir Ralph Smith,
As thou dost think I am; but I did meet him,
Even as thou sayest, in pursuit of a wench.
I met the wench too, and she ask'd for thee,
Saying 'twas thou that wert her love, her dear,
And that Sir Ralph was not an honest knight
To train her thither, and to use her so.
WILL. 'Sblood, my wench! swounds, were he ten Sir Ralphs--
FRAN. Nay, 'tis true, look to it; and so, farewell.
[_Exit_.
WILL. Indeed, I do love Nan our dairymaid:
And hath he traine[d] her forth to that intent,
Or for another? I carry his crossbow,
And he doth cross me, shooting in my bow.
What shall I do?
[_Exit_.][377]
_Enter_ PHILIP.
PHIL. So ho!
SIR RALPH. So ho!
PHIL. Francis, art thou there?
SIR RALPH. No, here's no Francis. Art thou Will, my man?
PHIL. Will Fool your man, Will goose[378] your man!
My back, sir, scorns to wear your livery.
SIR RALPH. Nay, sir, I mov'd but such a question to you,
And it hath not disparag'd you, I hope;
'Twas but mistaking; such a night as this
May well deceive a man. God be w'ye,[379] sir.
[_Exit_.]
PHIL. God's will, 'tis Sir Ralph Smith, a virtuous knight!
How gently entertains he my hard answer!
Rude anger made my tongue unmannerly:
I cry him mercy. Well, but all this while
I cannot find a Francis.--Francis, ho!
[_Enter_ WILL.]
WILL. Francis, ho! O, you call Francis now!
How have ye us'd my Nan? come, tell me, how.
PHIL. Thy Nan! what Nan?
WILL. Ay, what Nan, now! say, do you not seek a wench?
PHIL. Yes, I do.
WILL. Then, sir, that is she.
PHIL. Art not thou [he] I met withal before?
WILL. Yes, sir; and you did counterfeit before,
And said to me you were not Sir Ralph Smith.
PHIL. No more I am not. I met Sir Ralph Smith;
Even now he ask'd me, if I saw his man.
WILL. O, fine!
PHIL. Why, sirrah, thou art much deceived in me:
Good faith, I am not he thou think'st I am.
WILL. What are ye, then?
PHIL. Why, one that seeks one Francis and a wench.
WILL. And Francis seeks one Philip and a wench.
PHIL. How canst thou tell?
WILL. I met him seeking Philip and a wench.
As I was seeking Sir Ralph and a wench.
PHIL. Why, then, I know the matter: we met cross,
And so we miss'd; now here we find our loss.
Well, if thou wilt, we two will keep together,
And so we shall meet right with one or other.
WILL. I am content: but, do you hear me, sir?
Did not Sir Ralph Smith ask ye for a wench?
PHIL. No, I promise thee, nor did he look
For any but thyself, as I could guess.
WILL. Why, this is strange: but come, sir, let's away:
I fear that we shall walk here, till't be day.
[_Exeunt_.
_Enter_ BOY.
[BOY.] O God, I have run so far into the wind, that I have run myself
out of wind! They say a man is near his end, when he lacks breath; and
I am at the end of my race, for I can run no farther; then here I be in
my breath-bed, not in my death-bed.[380]
_Enter_ COOMES.
COOMES. They say men moil and toil for a poor living; so I moil and
toil, and am living, I thank God; in good time be it spoken. It had
been better for me my mistress's angel had been light, for then perhaps
it had not led me into this darkness. Well, the devil never blesses a
man better, when he purses up angels by owl-light. I ran through a hedge
to take the boy, but I stuck in the ditch, and lost the boy. [_Falls_.]
'Swounds, a plague on that clod, that molehill, that ditch, or what the
devil so e'er it were, for a man cannot see what it was! Well, I would
not, for the price of my sword and buckler, anybody should see me in
this taking, for it would make me but cut off their legs for laughing at
me. Well, down I am, and down I mean to be, because I am weary; but to
tumble down thus, it was no part of my meaning: then, since I am down,
here I'll rest me, and no man shall remove me.
_Enter_ HODGE.
HOD. O, I have sport in coney, i'faith! I have almost burst myself with
laughing at Mistress Barnes. She was following of her daughter; and I,
hearing her, put on my fellow Dick's sword-and-buckler voice and his
_swounds_ and _sblood_ words, and led her such a dance in the dark as it
passes.[381] "Here she is," quoth I. "Where?" quoth she. "Here," quoth I.
O, it hath been a brave here-and-there night! but, O, what a soft-natured
thing the dirt is! how it would endure my hard treading, and kiss my feet
for acquaintance! and how courteous and mannerly were the clods[382] to
make me stumble only of purpose to entreat me lie down and rest me! But
now, and I could find my fellow Dick, I would play the knave with him
honestly, i'faith. Well, I will grope in the dark for him, or I'll poke
with my staff, like a blind man, to prevent a ditch.
[_He stumbles[383] on_ DICK COOMES.
COOMES. Who's that, with a pox?
HOD. Who art thou, with a pestilence?
COOMES. Why, I am Dick Coomes.
HOD. What, have I found thee. Dick? nay, then, I am for ye, Dick,
[_Aside_.]
--Where are ye, Dick?
COOMES. What can I tell, where I am?
HOD. Can ye not tell? come, come, ye wait on your mistress well! come
on your ways; I have sought you, till I am weary, and call'd ye, till
I am hoarse: good Lord, what a jaunt I have had this night, heigho!
COOMES. Is't you, mistress, that came over me? 'Sblood, 'twere a good
deed to come over you for this night's work. I cannot afford all this
pains for an angel: I tell ye true; a kiss were not cast away upon a
good fellow, that hath deserved more that way than a kiss, if your
kindness would afford it him: what, shall I have't, mistress?
HOD. Fie, fie, I must not kiss my man.
COOMES. Nay, nay, ne'er stand; shall I, shall I? nobody sees: say but
I shall, and I'll smack it[384] soundly, i'faith.
HOD. Away, bawdy man! in truth, I'll tell your master.
COOMES. My master! go to, ne'er tell me of my master: he may pray for
them that may, he is past it: and for mine own part, I can do somewhat
that way, I thank God; I am not now to learn, and 'tis your part to have
your whole desire.
HOD. Fie, fie, I am ashamed of you: would you tempt your mistress to
lewdness?
COOMES. To lewdness! no, by my troth, there's no such matter in't, it is
for kindness; and, by my troth, if you like my gentle offer, you shall
have what courteously I can afford ye.
HOD. Shall I indeed, Dick? I'faith, if I thought nobody would see--
COOMES. Tush, fear not that; swoons, they must have cats' eyes, then.
HOD. Then, kiss me, Dick.
COOMES. A kind wench, i'faith! [_Aside_.]--Where are ye, mistress?
HOD. Here, Dick. O, I am in the dark! Dick, go about.[385]
COOMES. Nay, I'll throw[386] sure: where are ye?
HOD. Here.
COOMES. A plague on this post! I would the carpenter had been hang'd,
that set it up, for me.[387] Where are ye now?
HOD. Here.
COOMES. Here! O, I come. [_Exit_.] A plague on it, I am in a pond,
mistress!
HOD. Ha, ha! I have led him into a pond.--Where art thou, Dick?
COOMES. [_Within_.] Up to the middle in a pond!
HOD. Make a boat of thy buckler, then, and swim out. Are ye so hot, with
a pox? would you kiss my mistress? cool ye there, then, good Dick Coomes.
O, when he comes forth, the skirts of his blue coat will drop like a
pent[388]-house! O, that I could see, and not be seen; how he would
spaniel it, and shake himself, when he comes out of the pond! But I'll
be gone; for now he'll fight with a fly, if he but buzz[389] in his ear.
[_Exit_.
_Enter_ COOMES.
COOMES. Here's so-ho-ing with a plague! so hang, and ye will; for I have
been almost drown'd. A pox of your stones,[390] and ye call this kissing!
Ye talk of a drowned rat, but 'twas time to swim like a dog; I had been
serv'd like a drown'd cat else. I would he had digg'd his grave that
digg'd the pond! my feet were foul indeed, but a less pail than a pond
would have served my turn to wash them. A man shall be serv'd thus
always, when he follows any of these females: but 'tis my kind heart
that makes me thus forward in kindness unto them: well, God amend them,
and make them thankful to them that would do them pleasure. I am not
drunk, I would ye should well know it; and yet I have drunk more than
will do me good, for I might have had a pump set up with as[391] good
March beer as this was, and ne'er set up an ale-bush for the matter.
Well, I am somewhat in wrath, I must needs say; and yet I am not more
angry than wise, nor more wise than angry; but I'll fight with the next
man I meet, and it be but for luck's sake; and if he love to see himself
hurt, let him bring light with him; I'll do it by darkling else, by
God's dines. Well, here will I walk, whosoever says nay.
_Enter_ NICHOLAS.
NICH. He that worse may, must hold the candle; but my master is not so
wise, as God might have made him. He is gone to seek a hare in a hen's
nest, a needle in a bottle of hay, which is as seldom seen as a black
swan: he is gone to seek my young mistress; and I think she is better
lost than found, for whosoever hath her, hath but a wet eel by the tail.
But they may do, as they list; the law is in their own hands; but, and
they would be rul'd by me, they should set her on the lee-land, and bid
the devil split her; beshrew her fingers, she hath made me watch past
mine hour; but I'll watch her a good turn for it.
COOMES. How, who's that? Nicholas!--So, first come, first serv'd;
I am for him [_Aside_].
--How now, Proverb, Proverb? 'sblood, how now, Proverb?
NICH. My name is Nicholas, Richard; and I know your meaning, and I hope
ye mean no harm. I thank ye: I am the better for your asking.
COOMES. Where have ye been a-whoring thus late, ha?
NICH. Master Richard, the good wife would not seek her daughter in
the oven, unless she had been there herself: but, good Lord, you
are knuckle-deep in dirt!--I warrant, when he was in, he swore
Walsingham[392], and chaf'd terrible for the time. [_Aside_.]
--Look, the water drops from you as fast as hops.
COOMES. What need'st thou to care, whip-her-Jenny[393],
tripe-cheeks?[394], out, you fat ass!
NICH. Good words cost nought: ill words corrupt good manners, Richard;
for a hasty man never wants woe. And I had thought you had been my
friend; but I see all is not gold that glitters; there's falsehood in
fellowship; _amicus certus in re certa cernitur_; time and truth tries
all; and 'tis an old proverb, and not so old as true, bought wit is the
best; I can see day at a little hole; I know your mind as well as though
I were within you; 'tis ill halting before a cripple: go to, you seek to
quarrel; but beware of had I wist[395]; so long goes the pot to the
water, at length it comes home broken; I know you are as good a man as
ever drew sword, or as was e'er girt in a girdle, or as e'er went on
neat's leather, or as one shall see upon a summer's day, or as e'er
look'd man in the face, or as e'er trod on God's earth, or as e'er broke
bread or drunk drink; but he is proper that hath proper conditions[396];
but be not you like the cow, that gives a good sop of milk, and casts it
down with her[397] heels; I speak plainly, for plain-dealing is a jewel,
and he that useth it shall die a beggar; well, that happens in an hour,
that happens not in seven years; a man is not so soon whole as hurt; and
you should kill a man, you would kiss his--well, I say little, but I
think the more. Yet I'll give him good words; 'tis good to hold a candle
before the devil; yet, by God's dine[398], I'll take no wrong, if he had
a head as big as Brass[399], or look'd as high as Paul's steeple.
[_Aside_.]