The Spanish Curate eBook

The Spanish Curate by John Fletcher (playwright)

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Table of Contents

Table of Contents
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LETTER READ.1
APPENDIX50

Page 1

LETTER READ.

Signior Lopez, Since my arrival from Cordova to these parts, I have written divers Letters unto you, but as yet received no Answer of any (Good and very good) And although so great a forgetfulness might cause a want in my due correspondence, yet the desire I have still to serve you must more prevail with me (Better and better:  the devil a man know I yet) and therefore with the present occasion offered I am willing to crave a continuance of the favours, which I have heretofore received from you, and do recommend my Son Leandro the Bearer to you with request that he may be admitted in that Universitie till such time as I shall arrive at home; his studies he will make you acquainted withall; This kindness shall supply the want of your slackness:  And so heaven keep you.

     Yours

     Alonzo Tiveria.

     Alonzo Tiveria, very well,
     A very ancient friend of mine, I take it,
     For till this hour I never heard his name yet.

     Lea.

     You look, Sir, as if ye had forgot my Father.

     Lop.

     No, no, I look, as I would remember him,
     For that I never remembred, I cannot forget, Sir,
     Alonzo Tiveria?

     Lea.

     The same, Sir.

     Lop.

     And now i’th’ Indies?

     Lea.

     Yes.

     Lop.

     He may be any where,
     For ought that I consider.

     Lea.

     Think again, Sir,
     You were Students both at one time in Salamanca,
     And, as I take it, Chamber-fellows.

     Lop.

     Ha?

     Lea.

     Nay, sure you must remember.

     Lop.

     Would I could.

     Lea.

     I have heard him say, you were Gossips too.

     Lop.

     Very likely,
     You did not hear him say, to whom? for we Students
     May oft-times over-reach our memories. 
     Do’st thou remember, Diego, this same Signiour? 
     Thou hast been mine these twenty years.

     Die.

     Remember? 
     Why this Fellow would make ye mad:  Nova Hispania
     And Signiour Tiveria? what are these? 
     He may as well name ye Friends out of Cataya
     Take heed I beseech your worship:  do you hear, (my friend?)
     You have no Letters for me?

     Lea.

     Not any letter,
     But I was charged to doe my Fathers love
     To the old honest Sexton Diego:  are you he, Sir?

     Di[e].

Page 2

     Ha? have I friends, and know ’em not? my name is Diego,
     But if either I remember you or your Father,
     Or Nova Hispania (I was never there Sir)
     Or any kindred that you have—­for heaven-sake, Master,
     Let’s cast about a little, and consider,
     We may dream out our time.

     Lea.

     It seems I am deceiv’d, Sir,
     Yet, that you are Don Lopez all men tell me,
     The Curate here, and have been some time, Sir,
     And you the Sexton Diego, such I am sent to,
     The letter tells as much:  may be they are dead,
     And you of the like names succeed:  I thank ye Gentlemen,
     Ye have done honestly, in telling truth,
     I might have been forward else.  For to that Lopez,
     That was my Fathers friend, I had a charge,
     (A charge of mony) to deliver (Gentlemen)
     Five hundred Duckets, a poor small gratuity,
     But since you are not he—­

     Lop.

     Good Sir, let me think,
     I pray ye be patient,
     Pray ye stay a little,
     Nay, let me remember, I beseech ye stay, Sir.

     Die.

     An honest noble friend, that sends so lovingly;
     An old friend too; I shall remember sure, Sir.

     Lop.

     Thou sayst true Diego.

     Die.

     ’Pray ye consider quickly,
     Doe, doe, by any means, me thinks already
     A grave staid gentleman comes to my memory.

     Lea.

     He’s old indeed, sir.

     Die.

     With a goodly white Beard,
     (For now he must be so:  I know he must be)
     Signior Alonzo, Master.

     Lop.

     I begin to have him.

     Die.

     H’as been from hence, about some twenty years, sir.

     Lea.

     Some five and twenty, sir.

     Die.

     You say most true, Sir,
     Just to an hour; ’tis now just five and twenty,
     A fine straight timber’d man, and a brave soldier,
     He married:  let me see,—­

     Lea.

     De Castro’s Daughter.

     Die.

     The very same.

     Lea.

     Thou art a very Rascal. 
     De Castro is the Turk to thee, or any thing: 
     The Mony rubbs ’em into strange remembrances,
     For as many Duckets more they would remember Adam.

     Lop.

     Give me your hand, you are welcome to your country,
     Now I remember plainly, manifestly,
     As freshly, as if yesterdy I had seen him,
     Most heartily welcome:  sinfull that I am,
     Most sinfull man! why should I lose this Gentleman? 
     This loving old Companion? we had all one soul, sir,
     He dwelt here hard by, at a handsome—­

Page 3

     Lea.

     Farm sir,
     You say most true.

     Lop.

Alonzo Tiveria!  Lord, Lord that time should play the treacherous knave thus!  Why, he was the only friend I had in Spain, sir, I knew your Mother too, a handsome Gentlewoman, She was married very young:  I married ’em:  I do remember now the Maskes and Sports then, The Fire-works, and the fine delights; good faith, sir, Now I look in your face, whose eyes are those, Diego?  Nay, if he be not just Alonzo’s picture—­

     Lea.

     Lord, how I blush for these two impudents!

     Die.

     Well Gentleman, I think your name’s Leandro.

     Lea.

     It is indeed, sir,
     Gra’-mercy letter, thou hadst never known else.

     Die.

     I have dandled ye, and kist ye and plaid with ye
     A hundred, and a hundred times, and danc’d ye,
     And swong ye in my Bell-ropes, ye lov’d swinging.

     Lop.

     A sweet Boy.

     Lea.

     Sweet lying knaves. 
     What would these doe for thousands?

     Lop.

     A wondrous sweet Boy then it was, see now
     Time that consumes us, shoots him up still sweeter. 
     How do’s the noble Gentleman? how fares he? 
     When shall we see him? when will he bless his Country?

     Lea.

     O, very shortly, Sir, till his return
     He has sent me over to your charge.

     Lop.

     And welcome,
     Nay, you shall know you are welcome to your friend, sir.

     Lea.

     And to my Study, Sir, which must be the Law. 
     To further which, he would entreat your care
     To plant me in the favour of some man
     That’s expert in that knowledge:  for his pains
     I have three hundred Duckets more:  For my Diet,
     Enough, Sir, to defray me:  which I am charged
     To take still, as I use it, from your custodie,
     I have the mony ready, and I am weary.

     Lop.

     Sit down, sit down, and once more ye are most welcome,
     The Law you have hit upon most happily,
     Here is a Master in that art, Bartolus,
     A neighbour by, to him I will prefer ye,
     A learned man, and my most loving neighbour,
     I’le doe ye faithful service, Sir.

     Die.

     He’s an Ass,
     And so wee’ll use him; he shall be a Lawyer.

     Lop.

     But if ever he recover this mony again—­before, Diego,
     And get some pretty pittance:  my Pupill’s hungry.

     Lea.

     Pray ye Sir, unlade me.

     Lop.

Page 4

     I’le refresh ye Sir;
     When ye want, you know your Exchequer.

     Lea.

     If all this get me but access, I am happy.

     Lop.

     Come, I am tender of ye.

     Lea.

     I’le go with ye. 
     To have this fort betray’d these fools must fleece me.

[Exeunt.

     SCENA II.

     Enter Bartolus, and Amaranta.

     Bar.

     My Amaranta, a retir’d sweet life,
     Private and close, and still, and houswifely,
     Becomes a Wife, sets off the grace of woman. 
     At home to be believ’d both young, and handsome,
     As Lilies that are cas’d in crystall Glasses,
     Makes up the wonder:  shew it abroad ’tis stale,
     And still the more eyes cheapen it ’tis more slubber’d,
     And what need windowes open to inviting? 
     Or evening Tarrasses, to take opinions? 
     When the most wholsome air (my wife) blows inward,
     When good thoughts are the noblest Companions,
     And old chast stories, wife, the best discourses;
     But why do I talk thus, that know thy nature?

     Ama.

     You know your own disease:  distrust, and jealousie,
     And those two, give these Lessons, not good meaning,
     What trial is there of my honestie,
     When I am mew’d at home? to what end Husband,
     Serves all the vertuous thoughts, and chast behaviours
     Without their uses?  Then they are known most excellent
     When by their contraries they are set off, and burnish’d. 
     If ye both hold me fair, and chast, and vertuous,
     Let me goe fearless out, and win that greatness: 
     These seeds grow not in shades, and conceal’d places: 
     Set ’em i’th’ heat of all, then they rise glorious.

     Bar.

     Peace, ye are too loud.

     Ama.

    You are too covetous. 
     If that be rank’d a vertue, you have a rich one. 
     Set me (like other Lawyers wives) off handsomely,
     Attended as I ought, and as they have it,
     My Coach, my people, and my handsome women,
     My will in honest things.

     Bar.

     Peace Amaranta.

     Ama.

     They have content, rich clothes, and that secures ’em,
     Binds, to their carefull husbands, their observance,
     They are merry, ride abroad, meet, laugh.

     Bar.

     Thou shalt too.

     Ama.

      And freely may converse with proper Gentlemen,
     Suffer temptations daily to their honour.

     Enter Woman-Mo[o]re.

     Bar.

     You are now too far again:  thou shalt have any thing,
     Let me but lay up for a handsome Office,
     And then my Amaranta—­

Page 5

     Ama.

     Here’s a thing now,
     Ye place as pleasure to me:  all my retinue,
     My Chamber-maid, my Kitchin-maid, my friend,
     And what she fails in, I must doe my self. 
     A foyle to set my Beauty off, I thank ye,
     You will place the Devil next for a Companion.

     Bar.

     No more such words, good wife,
     What would you have, Maid?

     Moor.

     Master Curate, and the Sexton, and a stranger, sir,
     Attend to speak with your worship.

     Bar.

     A stranger?

     Ama.

     You had best to be jealous of the man you know not.

     Bar.

     ’Pray thee no more of that.

     Ama.

     ’Pray ye goe out to ’em,
     That will be safest for ye, I am well here,
     I only love your peace, and serve like a slave for it.

     Bar.

No, no, thou shalt not; ’tis some honest Client,
Rich, and litigious, the Curate has brought to me,
Pre’thee goe in (my Duck) I’le but speak to ’em,
And return instantly.

Ama.

I am commanded,
One day you will know my sufferance.—­

[Exit.

Bar.

And reward it. 
So, so, fast bind, fast find; Come in my neighbours,
My loving neighbours pray ye come in, ye are welcome.

Enter Lopez, Leandro, and Diego.

Lop.

     Bless your good reverence.

     Bar.

     Good-day, good Master Curate,
     And neighbour Diego, welcom:  what’s your business? 
     And ’pray ye be short (good friends) the time is pretious,
     Welcom, good Sir.

     Lop.

     To be short then with your Mastership,
     (For I know your several hours are full of business)
     We have brought ye this young-man, of honest parents,
     And of an honest face.

     Bar.

     It seems so, Neighbours,
     But to what end?

     Lop.

     To be your Pupil, Sir,
     Your Servant, if you please.

     Lea.

     I have travell’d far, Sir,
     To seek a worthy man.

     Bar.

     Alas, good Gentleman,
     I am a poor man, and a private too,
     Unfit to keep a Servant of your Reckoning;
     My house a little Cottage, and scarce able
     To hold my self, and those poor few live under it;
     Besides, you must not blame me Gentlemen,
     If I were able to receive a Servant,
     To be a little scrupulous of his dealing,
     For in these times—­

     Lop.

     ’Pray let me answer that, sir,
     Here is five hundred Duckets, to secure him,
     He cannot want, Sir, to make good his credit,
     Good gold, and coin.

Page 6

     Bar.

     And that’s an honest pledge;
     Yet sure, that needs not, for his face, and carriage,
     Seem to declare an in-bred honesty.

     Lea.

     And (for I have a ripe mind to the Law, sir,
     In which I understand you live a Master)
     The least poor corner in your house, poor Bed, sir,
     (Let me not seem intruding to your worship)
     With some Books to instruct me, and your counsel,
     Shall I rest most content with:  other Acquaintance
     Than your grave presence, and the grounds of Law
     I dare not covet, nor I will not seek, sir,
     For surely mine own nature desires privacy. 
     Next, for your monthly pains (to shew my thanks,)
     I do proportion out some twenty Duckets;
     As I grow riper, more:  three hundred now, sir,
     To shew my love to learning, and my Master,
     My diet I’le defray too, without trouble.

     Lop.

     Note but his mind to learning.

     Bar.

     I do strangely, yes, and I like it too, thanks to his mony.

     Die.

     Would he would live with me, and learn to dig too.

     Lop.

     A wondrous modest man, sir.

     Bar.

     So it seems,
     His dear love to his Studie must be nourish’d,
     Neighbour, he’s like to prove.

     Lop.

     With your good counsel,
     And with your diligence, as you will ply him;
     His Parents, when they know your care—­

     Bar.

     Come hither.

     Die.

     An honester young man, your worship ne’re kept,
     But he is so bashfull—­

     Bar.

     O I like him better. 
     Say I should undertake ye, which indeed, sir,
     Will be no little straitness to my living,
     Considering my Affairs, and my small house, sir,
     For I see some promises that pull me to ye;
     Could you content your self, at first thus meanly,
     To lie hard, in an out-part of my house, sir? 
     For I have not many Lodgings to allow ye;
     And studie should be still remote from company;
     A little fire sometimes too, to refresh ye;
     A Student must be frugal:  sometimes Lights too,
     According to your labour.

     Lea.

     Any thing, Sir,
     That’s dry, and wholsome:  I am no bred-wanton.

     Bar.

     Then I receive you:  but I must desire ye
     To keep within your confines.

     Lea.

     Ever Sir,
     There’s the Gold, and ever be your servant,
     Take it and give me Books:  may I but prove, sir,
     According to my wish, and these shall multiply.

     Lop.

Page 7

     Do, study hard, pray ye take him in, and settle him,
     He’s only fit for you; Shew him his Cell, sir.

     Die.

     Take a good heart; and when ye are a cunning Lawyer,
     I’le sell my Bells, and you shall prove it lawfull.

     Ba.

Come, sir, with me:  neighbours I thank your diligence.

Lop.

I’le come sometimes, and crack a case with ye.

Bar.

Welcome—­

[Exit.

Lop.

Here’s mony got with ease:  here, spend that jovially,
And pray for the fool, the Founder.

Die.

Many more fools
I heartily pray may follow his example,
Lawyers, or Lubbers, or of what condition,
And many such sweet friends in Nova Hispania.

     Lop.

     It will do well; let ’em but send their monys,
     Come from what quarter of the world, I care not,
     I’le know ’em instantly; nay I’le be kin to ’em;
     I cannot miss a man, that sends me mony: 
     Let him law there, long as his Duckets last, Boy,
     I’le grace him, and prefer him.

     Die.

     I’le turn Trade, Master, and now live by the living,
     Let the dead stink, ’tis a poor stinking Trade.

     Lop.

     If the young fool now
     Should chance to chop upon his fair Wife, Diego?

     Die.

     And handle her Case, Master, that’s a law point,
     A point would make him start, and put on his Spectacles,
     A hidden point, were worth the canvassing.

     Lop.

     Now surely, surely, I should love him, Diego,
     And love him heartily:  nay, I should love my self,
     Or any thing that had but that good fortune,
     For to say truth, the Lawyer is a dog-bolt,
     An arrant worm:  and though I call him worshipfull,
     I wish him a canoniz’d Cuckold, Diego,
     Now, if my youth do dub him—­

     Die.

     He is too demure, Sir.

     Lop.

     If he do sting her home.

     Dieg.

     There’s no such matter,
     The woman was not born to so much blessedness,
     He has no heat:  study consumes his oyl, Master.

     Lop.

     Let’s leave it to the will of Fate, and presently
     Over a cup of lustie Sack, let’s prophesie. 
     I am like a man that dreamt he was an Emperour,
     Come Diego, hope, and whilst he lasts, we’ll lay it on. [Ex.

     SCENA III.

     Enter Jamy, Milanes, Arsenio.

     Jam.

     Angelo, Milanes, did you see this wonder?

     Mil.

     Yes, yes.

Page 8

     Jam.

     And you Arsenio?

     Ars.

     Yes he’s gone, Sir,
     Strangely disguis’d, he’s set upon his voyage. 
     Love guide his thoughts:  he’s a brave honest fellow. 
     Sit close Don Lawyer, O that arrant knave now,
     How he will stink, will smoak again, will burst! 
     He’s the most arrant Beast.

     Mil.

     He may be more beast.

     Jam.

     Let him bear six, and six, that all may blaze him,
     The villany he has sowed into my Brother,
     And from his State, the Revenue he has reach’d at: 
     Pay him, my good Leandro, take my prayers.

     Ars.

     And all our wishes plough with his fine white heifer.

     Jam.

     Mark him (my dear friend) for a famous Cuckold,
     Let it out-live his Books, his pains, and hear me,
     The more he seeks to smother it with Justice,

     Enter a Servant.

     Let it blaze out the more:  what news Andrea?

     Andr.

     News I am loth to tell ye:  but I am charg’d, sir,
     Your Brother layes a strict command upon ye,
     No more to know his house, upon your danger,
     I am sorry, Sir.

     Jam.

     Faith never be:  I am glad on’t,
     He keeps the house of pride, and foolery: 
     I mean to shun it:  so return my Answer,
     ’Twill shortly spew him out; Come, let’s be merry,
     And lay our heads together, carefully
     How we may help our friend; and let’s lodge near him,
     Be still at hand:  I would not for my patrimony,
     But he should crown his Lawyer, a learned Monster;
     Come, let’s away, I am stark mad till I see him.

[Exeunt.

     SCENA IV.

     Enter Bartolus, and Amaranta.

     Amar.

     Why will ye bring men in, and yet be jealous? 
     Why will ye lodge a young man, a man able,
     And yet repine?

     Bar.

     He shall not trouble thee, sweet,
     A modest poor slight thing, did I not tell thee
     He was only given to the Book, and for that
     How Royally he paies? finds his own meat too.

     Amar.

     I will not have him here:  I know your courses,
     And what fits you will fall into of madness.

     Bar.

     ’Faith, I will not, Wife.

     Amar.

     I will not try ye.

     Bar.

     He comes not near thee:  shall not dare to tread
     Within thy Lodgings:  in an old out-Room
     Where Logs, and Coles were laid.

     Amar.

     Now ye lay fire; fire to consume your quiet.

Page 9

     Bar.

     Didst thou know him,
     Thou wouldst think as I do:  he disquiet thee? 
     Thou mayst wear him next thy heart, and yet not warm him. 
     His mind (poor man) ‘s o’th’ Law, how to live after,
     And not on lewdness:  on my Conscience
     He knows not how to look upon a Woman
     More than by reading what Sex she is.

     Amar.

     I do not like it, Sir.

     Bar.

     Do’st thou not see (Fool)
     What presents he sends hourly in his gratefulness? 
     What delicate meats?

     Amar.

     You had best trust him at your Table,
     Do, and repent it, do.

     Bar.

     If thou be’st willing,
     By my troth, I think he might come, he’s so modest,
     He never speaks:  there’s part of that he gave me,
     He’ll eat but half a dozen bits, and rise immediately,
     Even as he eats, he studies:  he’ll not disquiet thee,
     Do as thou pleasest, Wife.

     Amar.

     What means this Wood-cock?

     [Knock within.

     Bar.

     Retire, Sweet, there’s one knocks:  come in, your business.

     Enter Servant.

     Ser.

     My Lord, Don Henrique, would entreat ye, Sir,
     To come immediately, and speak with him,
     He has business of some moment.

Bar.

I’le attend him,
I must be gone:  I pre’thee think the best, Wife,
At my return, I’le tell thee more, good morrow;
Sir, keep ye close, and study hard:  an hour hence
I’le read a new Case to ye.—­

[Exit.

[Leandro within.]

Lean.

I’le be ready.

Amar.

So many hundred Duckets, to ly scurvily? 
And learn the pelting Law? this sounds but slenderly,
But very poorly:  I would see this fellow,
Very fain see him, how he looks:  I will find
To what end, and what study:  there’s the place: 
I’le go o’th’ other side, and take my Fortune. 
I think there is a window.

[Exit.

Enter Leandro.

Lean.

He’s gone out
Now, if I could but see her:  she is not this way: 
How nastily he keeps his house! my Chamber,
If I continue long, will choak me up,
It is so damp:  I shall be mortified
For any woma[n], if I stay a month here: 
I’le in, and strike my Lute, that sound may call her.

[Exit.

Lute and Song.

1.

Dearest do not you delay me, Since thou knowest I must be gone; Wind and Tide ’tis thought doth stay me, But ’tis wind that must be blown From that breath, whose native smell Indian Odours far excel.

     2.

Page 10

     Oh then speak thou fairest fair,
     Kill not him that vows to serve thee,
     But perfume this neighbouring Air;
     Else dull silence sure will starve me: 
       ’Tis a word that’s quickly spoken,
       Which being restrained a heart is broken
.

     Enter Amaranta.

     Amar.

     He keeps very close:  Lord, how I long to see him! 
     A Lute strook handsomely, a voice too; I’le hear that: 
     These Verses are no Law, they sound too sweetly,
     Now I am more desirous.

     [Leandro peeping.

     Lean.

     ’Tis she certain.

     Amar.

     What’s that that peeps?

     Lean.

     O admirable face!

     Amar.

     Sure ’tis the man.

     Lean.

     I will go out a little.

     Amar.

     He looks not like a fool, his face is noble: 
     How still he stands!

     Lean.

     I am strucken dumb with wonder,
     Sure all the Excellence of Earth dwells here.

Amar.

How pale he looks! yet, how his eyes like torches,
Fling their beams round:  how manly his face shews! 
He comes on:  surely he will speak:  he is made most handsomly: 
This is no Clerk behaviour; now I have seen ye,
I’le take my time:  Husband, ye have brought home tinder.

[Exit.

Lean.

Sure she has transform’d me,
I had forgot my tongue clean,
I never saw a face yet, but this rare one,
But I was able boldly to encounter it,
And speak my mind, my lips were lockt up here. 
This is divine, and only serv’d with reverence;
O most fair cover of a hand far fairer,
Thou blessed Innocence, that guards that whiteness,
Live next my heart.  I am glad I have got a relick,

[A noise within]

A relick when I pray to it, may work wonders. 
Hark, there’s some noise:  I must retire again. 
This blessed Apparition makes me happy;
I’le suffer, and I’le sacrifice my substance,
But I’le enjoy:  now softly to my Kennel.

[Exit.

Actus Tertius.  Scena Prima.

Enter Henrique, and Bartolus.

Hen.

     You know my cause sufficiently?

     Bar.

     I do Sir.

     Hen.

      And though it will impair my honesty,
     And strike deep at my Credit, yet, my Bartolus,
     There being no other evasion left to free me
     From the vexation of my spightful Brother,
     That most insultingly raigns over me,
     I must and will go forward.

     Bar.

Page 11

     Do, my Lord,
     And look not after credit, we shall cure that,
     Your bended honesty we shall set right, Sir,
     We Surgeons of the Law do desperate Cures, Sir,
     And you shall see how heartily I’le handle it: 
     Mark how I’le knock it home:  be of good chear, Sir,
     You give good Fees, and those beget good Causes,
     The Prerogative of your Crowns will carry the matter,
     (Carry it sheer) the Assistant sits to morrow,
     And he’s your friend, your monyed men love naturally,
     And as your loves are clear, so are your Causes.

     Hen.

     He shall not want for that.

     Bar.

     No, no, he must not,
     Line your Cause warmly, Sir, the times are Aguish,
     That holds a Plea in heart; hang the penurious,
     Their Causes (like their purses) have poor Issues.

     Hen.

     That way, I was ever bountiful.

     Bar.

     ’Tis true, Sir,
     That makes ye fear’d, forces the Snakes to kneel to ye,
     Live full of mony, and supply the Lawyer,
     And take your choice of what mans lands you please, Sir,
     What pleasures, or what profits; what revenges,
     They are all your own:  I must have witnesses
     Enough, and ready.

     Hen.

     You shall not want, my Bartolus.

     Bar.

     Substantial fearless souls, that will swear suddenly,
     That will swear any thing.

     Hen.

     They shall swear truth too.

     Bar.

That’s no great matter:  for variety They may swear truth, else ’tis not much look’d after:  I will serve Process, presently, and strongly, Upon your Brother, and Octavio, Jacintha, and the Boy; provide your proofs, Sir, And set ’em fairly off, be sure of Witnesses, Though they cost mony, want no store of witnesses, I have seen a handsome Cause so foully lost, Sir, So beastly cast away for want of Witnesses.

     Hen.

     There shall want nothing.

     Bar.

     Then be gone, be provident,
     Send to the Judge a secret way:  you have me,
     And let him understand the heart.

     Hen.

     I shall, Sir.

     Bar.

     And feel the pulses strongly beat, I’le study,
     And at my hour, but mark me, go, be happy,
     Go and believe i’th’ Law.

     Hen.

     I hope ’twill help me.

[Exeunt.

     SCENA II.

     Enter Lopez, Diego, and four Parishioners and Singers.

     Lop.

Page 12

     Ne’re talk to me, I will not stay amongst ye,
     Debaush’d and ignorant lazie knaves I found ye,
     And fools I leave ye.  I have taught these twenty years,
     Preacht spoon-meat to ye, that a Child might swallow,
     Yet ye are Block-heads still:  what should I say to ye? 
     Ye have neither faith, nor mony left to save ye,
     Am I a fit companion for such Beggers?

     1.

     If the Shepheard will suffer the sheep to be scab’d, Sir—­

     Lop.

     No, no ye are rotten.

     Die.

     Would they were, for my sake.

     Lap.

     I have Nointed ye, and Tarr’d ye with my Doctrine,
     And yet the Murren sticks to ye, yet ye are Mangy,
     I will avoid ye.

     2.

     Pray ye, Sir, be not angry,
     In the pride of your new Cassock, do not part with us,
     We do acknowledge ye are a careful Curate,
     And one that seldom troubles us with Sermons,
     A short slice of a Reading serves us, Sir,
     We do acknowledge ye a quiet Teacher,
     Before you’ll vex your Audience, you’ll sleep with ’em,
     And that’s a loving thing.

     3.

     We grant ye, Sir,
     The only benefactor to our Bowling,
     To all our merry Sports the first provoker,
     And at our Feasts, we know there is no reason,
     But you that edifie us most, should eat most.

     Lop.

     I will not stay for all this, ye shall know me
     A man born to a more beseeming fortune
     Than ringing all-in, to a rout of Dunces.

     4.

     We will increase your Tithes, you shall have Eggs too,
     Though they may prove most dangerous to our Issues.

     1.

     I am a Smith; yet thus far out of my love,
     You shall have the tenth Horse I prick, to pray for,
     I am sure I prick five hundred in a year, Sir.

     2.

     I am a Cook, a man of a dri’d Conscience,
     Yet thus far I relent:  you shall have tith Pottage.

     3.

     Your stipend shall be rais’d too, good Neighbour Diego.

     Die.

     Would ye have me speak for ye?  I am more angry,
     Ten times more vex’d, not to be pacified: 
     No, there be other places for poor Sextons,
     Places of profit, Friends, fine stirring places,
     And people that know how to use our Offices,
     Know what they were made for:  I speak for such Capons? 
     Ye shall find the Key o’th’ Church
     Under the door, Neighbours,
     You may go in, and drive away the Dawes.

     Lop.

Page 13

     My Surpless, with one sleeve, you shall find there,
     For to that dearth of Linnen you have driven me;
     And the old Cutwork Cope, that hangs by Geometry: 
     ’Pray ye turn ’em carefully, they are very tender;
     The remnant of the Books, lie where they did, Neighbours,
     Half puft away with the Church-wardens pipings,
     Such smoaky zeals they have against hard places. 
     The Poor-mans Box is there too:  if ye find any thing
     Beside the Posie, and that half rub’d out too,
     For fear it should awake too much charity,
     Give it to pious uses, that is, spend it.

     Die.

     The Bell-ropes, they are strong enough to hang ye,
     So we bequeath ye to your destiny.

     1.

     ’Pray ye be not so hasty.

     Die.

     I’le speak a proud word to ye,
     Would ye have us stay?

     2..

     We do most heartily pray ye.

     3..

     I’le draw as mighty drink, Sir.

     Lop.

     A strong motive,
     The stronger still, the more ye come unto me.
     3..  And I’le send for my Daughter.

     Lop.

     This may stir too: 
     The Maiden is of age, and must be edified.

     4..

     You shall have any thing:  lose our learned Vicar? 
     And our most constant friend; honest dear Diego?

     Die.

     Yet all this will not do:  I’le tell ye, Neighbours,
     And tell ye true, if ye will have us stay,
     If you will have the comforts of our companies,
     You shall be bound to do us right in these points,
     You shall be bound, and this the obligation,
     Dye when ’tis fit, that we may have fit duties,
     And do not seek to draw out our undoings,
     Marry try’d Women, that are free, and fruitful,
     Get Children in abundance, for your Christnings,
     Or suffer to be got, ’tis equal justice.

     Lop.

     Let Weddings, Christnings, Churchings, Funerals,
     And merry Gossippings go round, go round still,
     Round as a Pig, that we may find the profit.

     Die.

     And let your old men fall sick handsomely,
     And dye immediately, their Sons may shoot up: 
     Let Women dye o’th’ Sullens too, ’tis natural,
     But be sure their Daughters be of age first,
     That they may stock us still:  your queazie young Wives
     That perish undeliver’d, I am vext with,
     And vext abundantly, it much concerns me,
     There’s a Child’s Burial lost, look that be mended.

     Lop.

     Let ’em be brought to Bed, then dye when they please. 
     These things considered, Country-men, and sworn to.

Page 14

     2.

     All these, and all our Sports again, and Gambols.

     3.

     We must dye, and we must live, and we’ll be merry,
     Every man shall be rich by one another.

     2.

     We are here to morrow and gone to day, for my part
     If getting Children can befriend my Neighbours,
     I’le labour hard but I’le fill your Font, Sir.

     1.

     I have a Mother now, and an old Father,
     They are as sure your own, within these two months—­

     4.

     My Sister must be pray’d for too, she is desperate,
     Desperate in love.

     Die.

     Keep desperate men far from her,
     Then ’twill go hard:  do you see how melancholy? 
     Do you mark the man? do you profess ye love him? 
     And would do any thing to stay his fury? 
     And are ye unprovided to refresh him,
     To make him know your loves? fie Neighbours.

     2.

     We’ll do any thing. 
     We have brought Musick to appease his spirit,
     And the best Song we’ll give him.

     Die.

     ’Pray ye sit down, Sir,
     They know their duties now, and they stand ready
     To tender their best mirth.

     Lop.

     ’Tis well, proceed Neighbours,
     I am glad I have brought ye to understand good manners,
     Ye had Puritan hearts a-while, spurn’d at all pastimes,
     But I see some hope now.

     Die.

     We are set, proceed Neighbours.

     SONG.

     1

Let the Bells ring, and let the Boys sing, The young Lasses skip and play, Let the Cups go round, till round goes the ground, Our Learned old Vicar will stay.

     2

Let the Pig turn merrily, merrily ah, And let the fat Goose swim, For verily, verily, verily ah, Our Vicar this day shall be trim.

     3

The stewed Cock shall Crow, Cock-a-loodle-loo, A loud Cock-a-loodle shall he Crow; The Duck and the Drake, shall swim in a lake Of Onions and Claret below.

     4

Our Wives shall be neat, to bring in our meat; To thee our most noble adviser, Our pains shall be great, and Bottles shall sweat, And we our selves will be wiser.

     5

We’ll labour and swinck, we’ll kiss and we’ll drink, And Tithes shall come thicker and thicker; We’ll fall to our Plow, and get Children enough, And thou shalt be learned old Vicar.

     Enter Arsenio and Milanes.

     Ars.

     What ails this Priest? how highly the thing takes it!

     Mil.

     Lord how it looks! has he not bought some Prebend?
     Leandro’s mony makes the Rascal merry,
     Merry at heart; he spies us.

Page 15

     Lop.

     Be gone Neighbours,
     Here are some Gentlemen:  be gone good Neighbours,
     Be gone, and labour to redeem my favour,
     No more words, but be gone:  these two are Gentlemen,
     No company for crusty-handed fellows.

     Die.

     We will stay for a year or two, and try ye.

     Lop.

     Fill all your hearts with joy, we will stay with ye,
     Be gone, no more; I take your pastimes graciously.

[Exeunt Parishioners.

     Would ye with me, my friends?

     Ars.

     We would look upon ye,
     For me thinks ye look lovely.

     Lop.

     Ye have no Letters? 
     Nor any kind Remembrances?

     Mil.

     Remembrances?

     Lop.

     From Nova Hispania, or some part remote, Sir,
     You look like Travel’d men:  may be some old friends
     That happily I have forgot; some Signiours
     In China or Cataya; some Companions—­

     Die.

     In the Moguls Court, or else-where.

     Ars.

     They are mad sure.

     Lop.

     Ye came not from Peru? do they look, Diego,
     As if they had some mystery about ’em? 
     Another Don Alonzo now?

     Die.

     I marry,
     And so much mony, Sir, from one you know not,
     Let it be who it will.

     Lop.

They have gracious favours.  Would ye be private? Mil.  There’s no need on’t, Sir, We come to bring ye a Remembrance from a Merchant.

     Lop.

     ’Tis very well, ’tis like I know him.

     Ars.

      No, Sir,
     I do not think ye do.

     Lop.

      A new mistake, Diego,
     Let’s carry it decently.

     Ars.

     We come to tell ye,
     You have received great sums from a young Factor
     They call Leandro, that has rob’d his Master,
     Rob’d him, and run away.

     Die.

     Let’s keep close, Master;
     This news comes from a cold Country.

     Lop.

     By my faith it freezes.

     Mil.

     Is not this true? do you shrink now good-man Curat? 
     Do I not touch ye?

     Lop.

     We have a hundred Duckets
     Yet left, we do beseech ye, Sir—­

     Mil.

     You’ll hang both.

     Lop.

     One may suffice.

     Die.

     I will not hang alone, Master,
     I had the least part, you shall hang the highest. 
     Plague o’ this Tiveria, and the Letter,
     The Devil sent it post, to pepper us,
     From Nova Hispania, we shall hang at home now.

Page 16

     Ars.

     I see ye are penitent, and I have compassion: 
     Ye are secure both; do but what we charge ye,
     Ye shall have more gold too, and he shall give it,
     Yet ne’re indanger ye.

     Lop.

     Command us, Master,
     Command us presently, and see how nimbly—­

     Die.

     And if we do not handsomely endeavour—­

     Ars.

     Go home, and till ye hear more, keep private,
     Till we appear again, no words, Vicar,
     There’s something added.

     Mil.

     For you too.

     Lop.

     We are ready.

     Mil.

     Go and expect us hourly, if ye falter,
     Though ye had twenty lives—­

     Die.

     We are fit to lose ’em.

     Lop.

     ’Tis most expedient that we should hang both.

     Die.

     If we be hang’d, we cannot blame our fortune.

     Mil.

     Farewel, and be your own friends.

     Lop.

     We expect ye.—­

[Exeunt.

     SCENA III.

     Enter Octavio, Jacintha, and Ascanio.

     Octa.

     We cited to the Court!

     {_A Bar, Table-book, 2 Chairs, and Paper, standish set out.

     Jac.

     It is my wonder.

     Octa.

     But not our fear, Jacintha; wealthy men,
     That have Estates to lose; whose conscious thoughts
     Are full of inward guilt, may shake with horrour
     To have their Actions sifted, or appear
     Before the Judge.  But we that know our selves
     As innocent, as poor, that have no Fleece
     On which the Talons of the griping Law
     Can take sure hold, may smile with scorn on all
     That can be urg’d against us.

     Jac.

     I am confident
     There is no man so covetous, that desires
     To ravish our wants from us, and less hope
     There can be so much Justice left on earth,
     (T[h]ough sued, and call’d upon) to ease us of
     The burthen of our wrongs.

     Octa.

     What thinks Ascanio
     Should we be call’d in question, or accus’d
     Unjustly, what would you do to redeem us
     From tyrannous oppression?

     Asc.

     I could pray
     To him that ever has an open ear,
     To hear the innocent, and right their wrongs;
     Nay, by my troth, I think I could out-plead
     An Advocate, and sweat as much as he
     Do’s for a double Fee, ere you should suffer
     In an honest cause.

     Enter Jamie and Bartolus.

Page 17

     Octa.

     Happy simplicitie!

     Jac.

     My dearest and my best one, Don Jamie.

     Octa.

     And the Advocate, that caus’d us to be summon’d.

     Asc.

     My Lord is mov’d, I see it in his looks,
     And that man, in the Gown, in my opinion
     Looks like a proguing Knave.

     Jac.

     Peace, give them leave.

     Jam.

     Serve me with Process?

     Bar.

     My Lord, you are not lawless.

     Jam.

     Nor thou honest;
     One, that not long since was the buckram Scribe,
     That would run on mens errands for an Asper,
     And from such baseness, having rais’d a Stock
     To bribe the covetous Judge, call’d to the Bar. 
     So poor in practice too, that you would plead
     A needy Clyents Cause, for a starv’d Hen,
     Or half a little Loin of Veal, though fly-blown,
     And these, the greatest Fees you could arrive at
     For just proceedings; but since you turn’d Rascal—­

     Bar.

     Good words, my Lord.

     Jam.

     And grew my Brothers Bawd,
     In all his vitious courses, soothing him
     In his dishonest practises, you are grown
     The rich, and eminent Knave, in the Devils name,
     What am I cited for?

     Bar.

     You shall know anon,
     And then too late repent this bitter language,
     Or I’ll miss of my ends.

     Jam.

     Were’t not in Court,
     I would beat that fat of thine, rais’d by the food
     Snatch’d from poor Clyents mouths, into a jelly: 
     I would (my man of Law) but I am patient,
     And would obey the Judge.

     Bar.

     ’Tis your best course: 
     Would every enemy I have would beat me,
     I would wish no better Action.

     Octa.

     ’Save your Lordship.

     Asc.

     My humble service.

     Jam.

     My good Boy, how dost thou? 
     Why art thou call’d into the Court?

     Enter Assistant, Henrique, Officer, and Witnesses.

     Asc.

     I know not,
     But ’tis my Lord the Assistants pleasure
     I should attend here.

     Jam.

     He will soon resolve us.

     Offi.

     Make way there for the Judge.

     Jam.

     How? my kind Brother? 
     Nay then ’tis rank:  there is some villany towards.

     Assist.

     This Sessions purchas’d at your suit, Don Henrique,
     Hath brought us hither, to hear and determine
     Of what you can prefer.

Page 18

     Hen.

     I do beseech
     The honourable Court, I may be heard
     In my Advocate.

     Assist.

     ’Tis granted.

     Bar.

     Humh, humh.

     Jam.

     That Preface,
     If left out in a Lawyer, spoils the Cause,
     Though ne’re so good, and honest.

     Bar.

     If I stood here,
     To plead in the defence of an ill man,
     (Most equal Judge) or to accuse the innocent
     (To both which, I profess my self a stranger)
     It would be requisite I should deck my Language
     With Tropes and Figures, and all flourishes
     That grace a Rhetorician, ’tis confess’d
     Adulterate Metals need the Gold-smiths Art,
     To set ’em off; what in it self is perfect
     Contemns a borrowed gloss:  this Lord (my Client)
     Whose honest cause, when ’tis related truly,
     Will challenge justice, finding in his Conscience
     A tender scruple of a fault long since
     By him committed, thinks it not sufficient
     To be absolv’d of’t by his Confessor,
     If that in open Court he publish not
     What was so long conceal’d.

     Jam.

     To what tends this?

     Bar.

     In his young years (it is no miracle
     That youth, and heat of blood, should mix together)
     He look’d upon this woman, on whose face
     The ruines yet remain, of excellent form,
     He look’d on her, and lov’d her.

     Jac.

     You good Angels,
     What an impudence is this?

     Bar.

     And us’d all means
     Of Service, Courtship, Presents, that might win her
     To be at his devotion:  but in vain;
     Her Maiden Fort, impregnable held out,
     Until he promis’d Marriage; and before
     These Witnesses a solemn Contract pass’d
     To take her as his Wife.

     Assist.

     Give them their Oath.

     Jam.

     They are incompetent Witnesses, his own Creatures,
     And will swear any thing for half a Royal.

     Offi.

     Silence.

     Assist.

     Proceed.

     Bar.

     Upon this strong assurance
     He did enjoy his wishes to the full,
     Which satisfied, and then with eyes of Judgement
     (Hood-wink’d with Lust before) considering duly
     The inequality of the Match, he being
     Nobly descended, and allyed, but she
     Without a name, or Family, secretly
     He purchas’d a Divorce, to disanul
     His former Contract, Marrying openly
     The Lady Violante.

     Jac.

Page 19

     As you sit here
     The Deputy of the great King, who is
     The Substitute of that impartial Judge,
     With whom, or wealth, or titles prevail nothing,
     Grant to a much wrong’d Widow, or a Wife
     Your patience, with liberty to speak
     In her own Cause, and let me face to face
     To this bad man, deliver what he is: 
     And if my wrongs, with his ingratitude ballanc’d,
     Move not compassion, let me die unpitied;
     His Tears, his Oaths, his Perjuries, I pass o’re;
     To think of them is a disease; but death
     Should I repeat them.  I dare not deny,
     (For Innocence cannot justifie what’s false)
     But all the Advocate hath alledged concerning
     His falshood, and my shame, in my consent,
     To be most true:  But now I turn to thee,
     To thee Don Henrique, and if impious Acts
     Have left thee blood enough to make a blush,
     I’le paint it on thy cheeks.  Was not the wrong
     Sufficient to defeat me of mine honour,
     To leave me full of sorrow, as of want,
     The witness of thy lust left in my womb,
     To testifie thy falshood, and my shame? 
     But now so many years I had conceal’d
     Thy most inhumane wickedness, and won
     This Gentleman, to hide it from the world,
     To Father what was thine (for yet by Heaven,
     Though in the City he pass’d for my husband,
     He never knew me as his wife.)

     Assist.

     ’Tis strange: 
     Give him an Oath.

     Oct.

     I gladly swear, and truly.

     Jac.

     After all this (I say) when I had born
     These wrongs, with Saint-like patience, saw another
     Freely enjoy, what was (in Justice) mine,
     Yet still so tender of thy rest and quiet,
     I never would divulge it, to disturb
     Thy peace at home; yet thou most barbarous,
     To be so careless of me, and my fame,
     (For all respect of thine in the first step
     To thy base lust, was lost) in open Court
     To publish my disgrace? and on record,
     To write me up an easie-yielding wanton? 
     I think can find no precedent:  In my extreams,
     One comfort yet is left, that though the Law
     Divorce me from thy bed, and made free way
     To the unjust embraces of another,
     It cannot yet deny that this thy Son
     (Look up Ascanio since it is come out)
     Is thy legitimate heir.

     Jam.

     Confederacie! 
     A trick (my Lord) to cheat me; e’re you give
     Your Sentence, grant me hearing.

     Assist.

     New Chimera’s?

     Jam.

     I am (my Lord) since he is without Issue,
     Or hope of any, his undoubted heir,
     And this forg’d by the Advocate, to defeat me
     Of what the laws of Spain confer upon me,
     A meer Imposture, and conspiracie
     Against my future fortunes.

Page 20

     Assist.

     You are too bold. 
     Speak to the cause Don Henrique.

     Hen.

     I confess,
     (Though the acknowledgment must wound mine honour,)
     That all the Court hath heard touching this Cause,
     (Or with me, or against me) is most true: 
     The later part my Brother urg’d, excepted: 
     For what I now doe, is not out of Spleen
     (As he pretends) but from remorse of conscience
     And to repair the wrong that I have done
     To this poor woman:  And I beseech your Lordship
     To think I have not so far lost my reason,
     To bring into my familie, to succeed me,
     The stranger—­Issue of anothers Bed,
     By proof, this is my Son, I challenge him,
     Accept him, and acknowledge him, and desire
     By a definitive Sentence of the Court,
     He may be so recorded, and full power
     To me, to take him home.

     Jac.

     A second rape
     To the poor remnant of content that’s left me,
     If this be granted:  and all my former wrongs
     Were but beginnings to my miseries,
     But this the height of all:  rather than part
     With my Ascanio, I’le deny my oath,
     Profess my self a Strumpet, and endure
     What punishment soe’re the Court decrees
     Against a wretch that hath forsworn her self,
     Or plai’d the impudent whore.

     Assist.

This tastes of passion, And that must not divert the course of Justice; Don Henrique, take your Son, with this condition You give him maintenance, as becomes his birth, And ’twill stand with your honour to doe something For this wronged woman:  I will compel nothing, But leave it to your will.  Break up the Court:  It is in vain to move me; my doom’s pass’d, And cannot be revok’d.—­

[Exit.

Hen.

There’s your reward.

Bar.

More causes, and such Fees.  Now to my Wife,
I have too long been absent:  Health to your Lordship.

[Exit.

Asc.

You all look strangely, and I fear believe
This unexpected fortune makes me proud,
Indeed it do’s not:  I shall ever pay you
The duty of a son, and honour you
Next to my Father:  good my Lord, for yet
I dare not call you, uncle, be not sad,
I never shall forget those noble favours
You did me being a stranger, and if ever
I live to be the master of a fortune,
You shall command it.

     Jam.

     Since it was determin’d
     I should be cozen’d, I am glad the profit
     Shall fall on thee, I am too tough to melt,
     But something I will do.

     Hen.

’Pray you take leave
Of your steward (gentle Brother) the good husband
That takes up all for you.

Page 21

Jam.

Very well, mock on,
It is your turn:  I may have mine—­

[Exit.

Oct.

But do not
Forget us, dear Ascanio.

Asc.

Do not fear it,
I every day will see you:  every hour
Remember you in my prayers.

Oct.

My grief’s too great
To be expressed in words—­

[Exit.

Hen.

Take that and leave us,

[gives mony to Jacinta.

Leave us without reply, nay come back sirrah
And study to forget such things as these
As are not worth the knowledge.

     [Asca. offers to follow.

     Asc.

     O good Sir,
     These are bad principles—­

     Hen.

     Such as you must learn
     Now you are mine, for wealth and poverty
     Can hold no friendship:  and what is my will
     You must observe and do, though good or ill.

[Exeunt.

     SCENA IV.

     Enter Bartolus.

     Bar.

     Where is my wife? ’fore heaven, I have done wonders,
     Done mighty things to day, my Amaranta,
     My heart rejoyces at my wealthy Gleanings,
     A rich litigious Lord I love to follow,
     A Lord that builds his happiness on brawlings,
     O ’tis a blessed thing to have rich Clyents,
     Why, wife I say, how fares my studious Pupil? 
     Hard at it still? ye are too violent,
     All things must have their rests, they will not last else,
     Come out and breathe. [Leandro within.

     Lean.

     I do beseech you pardon me,
     I am deeply in a sweet point Sir.

     Bar.

     I’le instruct ye: 

     Enter Amaranta.

     I say take breath, seek health first, then your study. 
     O my sweet soul, I have brought thee golden birds home,
     Birds in abundance:  I have done strange wonders: 
     There’s more a hatching too.

     Am.

     Have ye done, good husband? 
     Then ’tis a good day spent.

     Bar.

     Good enough chicken,
     I have spread the nets o’th’ law, to catch rich booties,
     And they come fluttering in:  how do’s my Pupil? 
     My modest thing, hast thou yet spoken to him?

     Am.

     As I past by his chamber I might see him,
     But he is so bookish.

     Bar.

     And so bashfull too,
     I’ faith he is, before he will speak, he will starve there.

     Am.

     I pitie him a little.

     Bar.

     So do I too.

     Am.

     And if he please to take the air o’th’ gardens,
     Or walk i’th’ inward rooms, so he molest not—­

Page 22

     Bar.

     He shall not trouble thee, he dare not speak to thee.

     Enter Moor, with Chesse-board.

     Bring out the Chesse-board,—­come let’s have a game wife,
     I’le try your masterie, you say you are cunning.

     Am.

     As learned as ye are, Sir, I shall beat ye.

     Enter Leandro.

     Bar.

     Here he steals out, put him not out of countenance,
     Prethee look another way, he will be gone else
     Walk and refresh your self, I’ll be with you presently.

     Lean.

     I’le take the air a little. [Play at chess.

     Bar.

     ’Twill be healthfull.

     Am.

     Will ye be there? then here?  I’le spare ye that man.

     Lea.

     Would I were so near too, and a mate fitting.

     Am.

     What think ye, Sir, to this I have at your Knight now.

     Bar.

     ’Twas subtilly play’d:  your Queen lies at my service. 
     Prethee look off, he is ready to pop in again,
     Look off I say, do’st thou not see how he blushes?

     Am.

     I do not blast him.

     Lean.

     But ye do, and burn too,
     What killing looks she steals!

     Bar.

     I have you now close,
     Now for a Mate.

     Lean.

     You are a blessed man that may so have her. 
     Oh that I might play with her—­

     [knock within.

     Bar.

     Who’s there?  I come, you cannot scape me now wife. 
     I come, I come.

     [knock.

     Lean.

     Most blessed hand that calls him.

     Bar.

     Play quickly wife.

     Am.

     ’Pray ye give leave to think, Sir.

     Enter Moor.

     Moor.

     An honest neighbour that dwells hard by, Sir,
     Would fain speak with your worship about business.

     Lean.

     The devil blow him off.

     Bar.

     Play.

     Am.

     I will study: 
     For if you beat me thus, you will still laugh at me—­[knock.

     Bar.

     He knocks again; I cannot stay. Leandro,
     ’Pray thee come near.

     Lean.

     I am well, Sir, here.

     Bar.

     Come hither: 
     Be not afraid, but come.

     Am.

     Here’s none will bite, Sir.

     Lean.

     God forbid Lady.

Page 23

     Am.

     ’Pray come nearer.

     Lean.

     Yes forsooth.

     Bar.

     ’Prethee observe these men:  just as they stand here,
     And see this Lady do not alter ’em,
     And be not partial, Pupil.

Lean.

No indeed Sir.

Bar.

Let her not move a pawn, I’le come back presently,
Nay you shall know I am a Conquerour. 
Have an eye Pupil—­

[Exit.

Am.

Can ye play at Chess Sir?

Lean.

A little, Lady.

Am.

     But you cannot tell me
     How to avoid this Mate, and win the Game too;
     H’as noble eyes:  ye dare not friend me so far.

     Lean.

     I dare do any thing that’s in mans power Lady,
     To be a friend to such a noble beauty.

     Am.

     This is no Lawyers language:  I pray ye tell me,
     Whither may I remove, Ye see I am set round,
     To avoid my husband?

     Lean.

     I shall tell ye happily,
     But happily you will not be instructed.

     Am.

     Yes, and thank ye too, shall I move this man?

     Lean.

     Those are unseemly:  move one can serve ye,
     Can honour ye, can love ye.

     Am.

     ’Pray ye tell quickly,
     He will return, and then.

     Lean.

     I’le tell ye instantly,
     Move me, and I will move any way to serve ye,
     Move your heart this way, Lady.

     Am.

     How?

     Lean.

     ’Pray ye hear me. 
     Behold the sport of love, when he is imperious,
     Behold the slave of love.

     Am.

     Move my Queen this way? 
     Sure, he’s some worthy man:  then if he hedge me,
     Or here to open him.

     Lean.

     Do but behold me,
     If there be pity in you, do but view me,
     But view the misery I have undertaken
     For you, the povertie.

     Am.

     He will come presently. 
     Now play your best Sir, though I lose this Rook here,
     Yet I get libertie.

     Lean.

     I’le seise your fair hand,
     And warm it with a hundred, hundred kisses. 
     The God of love warm your desires but equal,
     That shall play my game now.

     Am.

     What do you mean Sir? 
     Why do you stop me?

     Lean.

     That ye may intend me. 
     The time has blest us both:  love bids us use it. 
     I am a Gentleman nobly descended,
     Young to invite your love, rich to maintain it. 
     I bring a whole heart to ye, thus I give it,
     And to those burning altars thus I offer,
     And thus, divine lips, where perpetual Spring grows—­

Page 24

     Am.

     Take that, ye are too saucy.

     Lean.

     How, proud Lady? 
     Strike my deserts?

     Am.

     I was to blame.

     Enter

     Bartolus.

     Bar.

     What wife, there? 
     Heaven keep my house from thieves.

     Lean.

     I am wretched: 
     Opened, discovered, lost to my wishes. 
     I shall be whooted at.

     Bar.

     What noise was this, wife? 
     Why dost thou smile?

     Lean.

     This proud thing will betray me.
     Bar.  Why these lie here? what angry, dear?

     Am.

     No, Sir,
     Only a chance, your pupil said he plaid well,
     And so indeed he do’s:  he undertook for ye,
     Because I would not sit so long time idle,
     I made my liberty, avoided your mate,
     And he again as cunningly endangered me,
     Indeed he put me strangely to it.  When presently
     Hearing you come, & having broke his ambush too,
     Having the second time brought off my Queen fair,
     I rose o’th’ sudden smilingly to shew ye,
     My apron caught the Chesse-board, and the men,
     And there the noise was.

     Bar.

     Thou art grown a Master,
     For all this I shall beat ye.

     Lean.

     Or I, Lawyer,
     For now I love her more, ’twas a neat answer,
     And by it hangs a mighty hope, I thank her,
     She gave my pate a sound knock that it rings yet,
     But you shall have a sounder if I live lawyer,
     My heart akes yet, I would not be in that fear—­

     Bar.

     I am glad ye are a gamester, Sir, sometimes
     For recreation we two shall fight hard at it.

     Am.

     He will prove too hard for me.

     Lean.

     I hope he shall do,
     But your Chess-board is too hard for my head, line that, good Lady.

     Bar.

     I have been attoning two most wrangling neighbours,
     They had no mony, therefore I made even. 
     Come, let’s go in and eat, truly I am hungry.

     Lean.

     I have eaten already, I must intreat your pardon.

     Bar.

     Do as ye please, we shall expect ye at supper. 
     He has got a little heart, now it seems handsomly.

     Am.

     You’l get no little head, if I do not look to ye.

     Lean.

     If ever I do catch thee again thou vanity—­

     Am.

     I was to blame to be so rash, I am sorry—­

[Exeunt.

     Actus Quartus.  Scena Prima.

Page 25

     Enter Don Henrique, Violante, Ascanio.

     H[en].

     Hear but my reasons.

     Viol.

     O my patience, hear ’em! 
     Can cunning falshood colour an excuse
     With any seeming shape of borrowed truth? 
     Extenuate this wofull wrong, not error?

     Hen.

     You gave consent that, to defeat my brother
     I should take any course.

     Vio.

     But not to make
     The cure more loathsom than the foul disease: 
     Was’t not enough you took me to your bed,
     Tir’d with loose dalliance, and with emptie veins,
     All those abilities spent before and wasted,
     That could confer the name of mother on me? 
     But that (to perfect my account of sorrow
     For my long barr[en]ness) you must heighten it
     By shewing to my face, that you were fruitfull
     Hug’d in the base embraces of another? 
     If Solitude that dwelt beneath my roof,
     And want of children was a torment to me,
     What end of my vexation to behold
     A bastard to upbraid me with my wants? 
     And hear the name of father paid to ye,
     Yet know my self no mother,
     What can I say?

     Hen.

     Shall I confess my fault and ask your pardon? 
     Will that content ye?

     Vio.

     If it could make void,
     What is confirm’d in Court:  no, no, Don Henrique,
     You shall know that I find my self abus’d,
     And adde to that, I have a womans anger,
     And while I look upon this Basilisk,
     Whose envious eyes have blasted all my comforts
     Rest confident I’le study my dark ends,
     And not your pleasures.

     Asc.

     Noble Lady, hear me,
     Not as my Fathers son, but as your servant,
     Vouchsafe to hear me, for such in my duty,
     I ever will appear:  and far be it from
     My poor ambition, ever to look on you,
     But with that reverence, which a slave stands bound
     To pay a worthy Mistris:  I have heard
     That Dames of highest place, nay Queens themselves
     Disdain not to be serv’d by such as are
     Of meanest Birth:  and I shall be most happie,
     To be emploi’d when you please to command me
     Even in the coursest office, as your Page,
     I can wait on your trencher, fill your wine,
     Carry your pantofles, and be sometimes bless’d
     In all humilitie to touch your feet: 
     Or if that you esteem that too much grace,
     I can run by your Coach:  observe your looks,
     And hope to gain a fortune by my service,
     With your good favour, which now, as a Son,
     I dare not challenge.

     Vio.

     As a Son?

     Asc.

Page 26

     Forgive me,
     I will forget the name, let it be death
     For me to call you Mother.

     Vio.

     Still upbraided?

     Hen.  No way left to appease you?

     Vio.

     None:  now hear me: 
     Hear what I vow before the face of Heaven,
     And if I break it, all plagues in this life,
     And those that after death are fear’d fall, on me,
     While that this Bastard staies under my roof,
     Look for no peace at home, for I renounce
     All Offices of a wife.

     Hen.

     What am I faln to?

     Vio.

     I will not eat, nor sleep with you, and those hours,
     Which I should spend in prayers for your health,
     Shall be emploi’d in Curses.

     Hen.

     Terrible.

     Vio.

     All the day long, I’le be as tedious to you
     As lingring fevers, and I’le watch the nights,
     To ring aloud your shame, and break your sleeps. 
     Or if you do but slumber, I’le appear
     In the shape of all my wrongs, and like a fury
     Fright you to madness, and if all this fail
     To work out my revenge, I have friends and kinsmen,
     That will not sit down tame with the disgrace
     That’s offer’d to our noble familie
     In what I suffer.

     Hen.

     How am I divided
     Between the duties I owe as a Husband,
     And pietie of a Parent?

     Asc.

     I am taught Sir
     By the instinct of nature that obedience
     Which bids me to prefer your peace of mind,
     Before those pleasures that are dearest to me,
     Be wholly hers (my Lord) I quit all parts,
     That I may challenge:  may you grow old together,
     And no distaste e’re find you, and before
     The Characters of age are printed on you
     May you see many Images of your selves,
     Though I, like some false glass, that’s never look’d in,
     Am cast aside, and broken; from this hour
     (Unless invited, which I dare not hope for)
     I never will set my forbidden feet
     Over your threshold:  only give me leave
     Though cast off to the world to mention you
     In my devotions, ’tis all I sue for
     And so I take my last leave.

     Hen.

     Though I am
     Devoted to a wife, nay almost sold
     A slave to serve her pleasures, yet I cannot
     So part with all humanity, but I must
     Shew something of a Father:  thou shalt not goe
     Unfurnish’d and unfriended too:  take that
     To guard thee from necessities; may thy goodness
     Meet many favours, and thine innocence
     Deserve to be the heir of greater fortunes,
     Than thou wer’t born to.  Scorn me not Violante,

Page 27

     This banishment is a kind of civil death,
     And now, as it were at his funeral
     To shed a tear or two, is not unmanly,
     And so farewel for ever:  one word more,
     Though I must never see thee (my Ascanio)
     When this is spent (for so the Judge decreed)
     Send to me for supply:  are you pleas’d now?

     Vio.

     Yes:  I have cause:  to see you howl and blubber
     At the parting of my torment, and your shame. 
     ’Tis well:  proceed:  supply his wants:  doe doe: 
     Let the great dower I brought serve to maintain
     Your Bastards riots:  send my Clothes and Jewels,
     To your old acquaintance, your dear dame his Mother. 
     Now you begin to melt, I know ’twill follow.

     Hen.

     Is all I doe misconstru’d?

     Viol.

     I will take
     A course to right my self, a speeding one: 
     By the bless’d Saints, I will; if I prove cruel,
     The shame to see thy foolish pity, taught me
     To lose my natural softness, keep off from me,
     Thy flatteries are infectious, and I’le flee thee
     As I would doe a Leper.

     Hen.

     Let not fury
     Transport you so:  you know I am your Creature,
     All love, but to your self, with him, hath left me. 
     I’le joyn with you in any thing.

     Viol.

     In vain,
     I’le take mine own waies, and will have no partners.

     Hen.

     I will not cross you.

     Viol.

     Do not, they shall find
     That to a Woman of her hopes beguil’d
     A Viper trod on, or an Aspick’s mild.

[Exeunt.

     SCENA II.

     Enter Lopez, Milanes, Arsenio.

     Lop.

     Sits the game there?  I have you by mine order,
     I love Leandro for’t.

     Mil.

     But you must shew it
     In lending him your help, to gain him means
     And opportunity.

     Lop.

     He shall want nothing,
     I know my Advocate to a hair, and what
     Will fetch him from his Prayers, if he use any,
     I am honyed with the project:  I would have him horn’d
     For a most precious Beast.

     Ars.

But you lose time.

Lop.

I am gone, instruct you Diego, you will find him
A sharp and subtle Knave, give him but hints
And he will amplifie.  See all things ready,
I’le fetch him with a vengeance—­

[Exit.

Ars.

If he fail now,
We’ll give him over too.

Mil.

Tush, he is flesh’d. 
And knows what vein to strike for his own credit.

Page 28

     Ars.

     All things are ready.

     Mil.

     Then we shall have a merry Scene, ne’re fear it.

[Exeunt.

     SCENA III.

     Enter Amaranta, with a note, and Moor.

     Amar.

     Is thy Master gone out?

     Moor.

     Even now, the Curate fetch’d him,
     About a serious business as it seem’d,
     For he snatch’d up his Cloak, and brush’d his Hat straight,
     Set his Band handsomely, and out he gallop’d.

     Amar.

     ’Tis well, ’tis very well, he went out, Egla,
     As luckily, as one would say, go Husband,
     He was call’d by providence:  fling this short Paper
     Into Leandro’s Cell, and waken him,
     He is monstrous vexed, and musty, at my Chess-play;
     But this shall supple him, when he has read it: 
     Take your own Recreation for two hours,
     And hinder nothing.

     Moor.

     If I do, I’ll hang for’t.

[Exeunt.

     SCENA IV.

     Enter Octavio, Jacintha.

     Octa.

     If that you lov’d Ascanio for himself,
     And not your private ends, you rather should
     Bless the fair opportunity, that restores him
     To his Birth-right, and the Honours he was born to,
     Than grieve at his good Fortune.

     Jac.

     Grieve, Octavio
     I would resign my Essence, that he were
     As happy as my love could fashion him,
     Though every blessing that should fall on him,
     Might prove a curse to me:  my sorrow springs
     Out of my fear and doubt he is not safe. 
     I am acquainted with Don Henrique’s nature,
     And I have heard too much the fiery temper
     Of Madam Violante:  can you think
     That she, that almost is at war with Heaven
     For being barren, will with equal eyes
     Behold a Son of mine?

     Octa.

     His Father’s care,
     That for the want of Issue, took him home,
     (Though with the forfeiture of his own fame)
     Will look unto his safety.

     Jac.

     Step-mothers
     Have many eyes, to find a way to mischief,
     Though blind to goodness.

     Enter Jamie and Ascanio.

     Octa.

     Here comes Don Jamie,
     And with him our Ascanio.

     Jam.

     Good youth leave me,
     I know thou art forbid my company,
     And only to be seen with me, will call on
     Thy Fathers anger.

     [Asc.]

     Sir, if that to serve you
     Could lose me any thing (as indeed it cannot)
     I still would follow you.  Alas I was born
     To do you hurt, but not to help my self,
     I was, for some particular end, took home,
     But am cast off again.

Page 29

     Jam.

     Is’t possible?

     Asc.

     The Lady, whom my Father calls his Wife,
     Abhors my sight, is sick of me, and forc’d him
     To turn me out of doors.

     Jac.

     By my best hopes
     I thank her cruelty, for it comes near
     A saving Charity.

     Asc.

     I am only happy
     That yet I can relieve you, ’pray you share: 
     My Father’s wondrous kind, and promises
     That I should be supplied:  but sure the Lady
     Is a malicious Woman, and I fear
     Means me no good.

     Enter Servant.

     Jam.

     I am turn’d a stone with wonder,
     And know not what to think.

     Ser.

     From my Lady,
     Your private ear, and this—­

     Jam.

New Miracles?

Ser.

She says, if you dare make your self a Fortune,
She will propose the means; my Lord Don Henrique
Is now from home, and she alone expects you,
If you dare trust her, so, if not despair of
A second offer.

[Exit.

Jam.

Though there were an Ambush
Laid for my life, I’le on and sound this secret. 
Retire thee, my Ascanio, with thy Mother: 
But stir not forth, some great design’s on foot,
Fall what can fall, if e’re the Sun be set
I see you not, give me for dead.

     Asc.

     We will expect you,
     And those bless’d Angels, that love goodness, guard you.

[Exeunt.

     SCENA V.

     Enter Lopez and Bartolus.

     Bar.

     Is’t possible he should be rich?

     Lop.

     Most possible,
     He hath been long, though he had but little gettings,
     Drawing together, Sir.

     Bar.

     Accounted a poor Sexton,
     Honest poor Diego.

     Lop.

     I assure ye, a close Fellow,
     Both close, and scraping, and that fills the Bags, Sir.

     Bar.

     A notable good fellow too?

     Lop.

     Sometimes, Sir,
     When he hop’d to drink a man into a Surfeit,
     That he might gain by his Grave.

     Bar.

     So many thousands?

     Lop.

     Heaven knows what.

     Bar.

     ’Tis strange,
     ’Tis very strange; but we see by endeavour,
     And honest labour—­

     Lop.

Milo, by continuance Grew from a silly Calf (with your worships reverence) To carry a Bull, from a penny, to a pound, Sir, And from a pound, to many:  ’tis the progress.

     Bar.

Page 30

     Ye say true, but he lov’d to feed well also,
     And that me-thinks—­

     Lop.

     From another mans Trencher, Sir,
     And there he found it season’d with small charge: 
     There he would play the Tyrant, and would devour ye
     More than the Graves he made; at home he liv’d
     Like a Camelion, suckt th’ Air of misery,

     [Table out, Standish, Paper, Stools.

     And grew fat by the Brewis of an Egg-shell,
     Would smell a Cooks-shop, and go home and surfeit. 
     And be a month in fasting out that Fever.

     Bar.

     These are good Symptoms:  do’s he lye so sick say ye?

     Lop.

     Oh, very sick.

     Bar.

     And chosen me Executor?

     Lop.

     Only your Worship.

     Bar.

     No hope of his amendment?

     Lop.

     None, that we find.

     Bar.

     He hath no Kinsmen neither?

     Lop.

     ’Truth, very few,

     Bar.

     His mind will be the quieter. 
     What Doctors has he?

     Lop.

     There’s none, Sir, he believes in.

     Bar.

     They are but needless things, in such extremities. 
     Who draws the good mans Will?

     Lop.

     Marry that do I, Sir,
     And to my grief.

     Bar.

     Grief will do little now, Sir,
     Draw it to your comfort, Friend, and as I counsel ye,
     An honest man, but such men live not always: 
     Who are about him?

     Lop.

     Many, now he is passing,
     That would pretend to his love, yes, and some Gentlemen
     That would fain counsel him, and be of his Kindred;
     Rich men can want no Heirs, Sir.

     Bar.

     They do ill,
     Indeed they do, to trouble him; very ill, Sir. 
     But we shall take a care.

     Enter Diego, in a Bed, Milanes, Arsenio, and Parishioners.

     Lop.

     Will ye come near, Sir? 
     ’Pray ye bring him out; now ye may see in what state: 
     Give him fresh Air.

     Bar.

     I am sorry, Neighbour Diego,
     To find ye in so weak a state.

     Die.

     Ye are welcome,
     But I am fleeting, Sir.

     Bar.

     Me-thinks he looks well,
     His colour fresh, and strong, his eyes are chearful.

     Lop.

     A glimmering before death, ’tis nothing else, Sir,
     Do you see how he fumbles with the Sheet? do ye note that?

Page 31

     Die.

     My learned Sir, ’pray ye sit:  I am bold to send for ye,
     To take a care of what I leave.

     Lop.

     Do ye hear that?

     Ars.

     Play the Knave finely.

     Die.

     So I will, I warrant ye,
     And carefully.

     Bar.

     ’Pray ye do not trouble him,
     You see he’s weak and has a wandring fancy.

     Die.

     My honest Neighbours, weep not, I must leave ye,
     I cannot always bear ye company,
     We must drop still, there is no remedy: 
     ’Pray ye Master Curate, will ye write my Testament,
     And write it largely it may be remembred,
     And be witness to my Legacies, good Gentlemen;
     Your Worship I do make my full Executor,
     You are a man of wit and understanding: 
     Give me a cup of Wine to raise my Spirits,
     For I speak low:  I would before these Neighbours
     Have ye to swear, Sir, that you will see it executed,
     And what I give let equally be rendred
     For my souls health.

     Bar.

     I vow it truly, Neighbours,
     Let not that trouble ye, before all these,
     Once more I give my Oath.

     Die.

     Then set me higher,
     And pray ye come near me all.

     Lop.

     We are ready for ye.

     Mil.

     Now spur the Ass, and get our friend time.

     Die.

     First then,
     After I have given my body to the worms,
     (For they must be serv’d first, they are seldom cozen’d.)

     Lop.

     Remember your Parish, Neighbour.

     Die.

     You speak truly,
     I do remember it, a lewd vile Parish,
     And pray it may be mended:  To the poor of it,
     (Which is to all the Parish) I give nothing,
     For nothing, unto nothing, is most natural,
     Yet leave as much space, as will build an Hospital,
     Their Children may pray for me.

     Bar.

     What do you give to it?

     Die.

     Set down two thousand Duckets.

     Bar.

     ’Tis a good gift,
     And will be long remembred.

     Die.

     To your worship,
     (Because you must take pains to see all finish’d)
     I give two thousand more, it may be three, Sir,
     A poor gratuity for your pains-taking.

     Bar.

     These are large sums.

     Lop.

     Nothing to him that has ’em.

     Die.

     To my old Master Vicar, I give five hundred,
     (Five hundred and five hundred are too few, Sir)
     But there be more to serve.

Page 32

     Bar.

     This fellow coins sure.

     Die.

     Give me some more drink.  Pray ye buy Books, buy Books,
     You have a learned head, stuff it with Libraries,
     And understand ’em, when ye have done, ’tis Justice. 
     Run not the Parish mad with Controversies,
     Nor preach Abstinence to longing Women,
     ’Twill burge the bottoms of their Consciences: 
     I would give the Church new Organs, but I prophesie
     The Church-wardens would quickly pipe ’em out o’th’ Parish,
     Two hundred Duckets more to mend the Chancel,
     And to paint true Orthographie, as many,
     They write Sunt with a C, which is abominable,
     ’Pray you set that down; to poor Maidens Marriages.

     Lop.

     I that’s well thought of, what’s your will in that point? 
     A meritorious thing.

     Bar.

     No end of this Will?

     Die.

     I give per annum two hundred Ells of Lockram,
     That there be no strait dealings in their Linnens,
     But the Sails cut according to their Burthens. 
     To all Bell-ringers, I bequeath new Ropes,
     And let them use ’em at their own discretions.

     Ars.

     You may remember us.

     Die.

     I do good Gentlemen,
     And I bequeath you both good careful Surgions,
     A Legacy, you have need of, more than mony,
     I know you want good Diets, and good Lotions,
     And in your pleasures, good take heed.

     Lop.

     He raves now,
     But ’twill be quickly off.

     Die.

     I do bequeath ye
     Commodities of Pins, Brown-papers, Pack-threads,
     Rost Pork, and Puddings, Ginger-bread, and Jews-trumps,
     Of penny Pipes, and mouldy Pepper, take ’em,
     Take ’em even where you please and be cozen’d with ’em,
     I should bequeath ye Executions also,
     But those I’le leave to th’ Law.

     Lop.

     Now he grows temperate.

     Bar.

     You will give no more?

     Die.

     I am loth to give more from ye,
     Because I know you will have a care to execute. 
     Only, to pious uses, Sir, a little.

     Bar.

     If he be worth all these, I am made for ever.

     Die.

     I give to fatal Dames, that spin mens threads out,
     And poor distressed Damsels, that are militant
     As members of our own Afflictions,
     A hundred Crowns to buy warm Tubs to work in,
     I give five hundred pounds to buy a Church-yard,
     A spacious Church-yard, to lay Thieves and Knaves in,
     Rich men and honest men take all the room up.

Page 33

     Lop.

     Are ye not weary?

     Die.

     Never of well-doing.

     Bar.

     These are mad Legacies.

     Die.

     They were got as madly;
     My Sheep, and Oxen, and my moveables,
     My Plate, and Jewels, and five hundred Acres;
     I have no heirs.

     Bar.

     This cannot be, ’tis monstrous.

     Die.

     Three Ships at Sea too.

     Bar.

     You have made me full Executor?

     Die.

     Full, full, and total, would I had more to give ye,
     But these may serve an honest mind.

     Bar.

     Ye say true,
     A very honest mind, and make it rich too;
     Rich, wondrous rich, but where shall I raise these moneys,
     About your house?  I see no such great promises;
     Where shall I find these sums?

     Die.

     Even where you please, Sir,
     You are wise and provident, and know business,
     Ev’n raise ’em where you shall think good, I am reasonable.

     Bar.

     Think good? will that raise thousands? 
     What do you make me?

     Die.

     You have sworn to see it done, that’s all my comfort.

     Bar.

     Where I please? this is pack’d sure to disgrace me.

     Die.

     Ye are just, and honest, and I know you will do it,
     Ev’n where you please, for you know where the wealth is.

     Bar.

     I am abused, betrayed, I am laugh’d at, scorn’d,
     Baffl’d, and boared, it seems.

     Ars.

     No, no, ye are fooled.

     Lop.

     Most finely fooled, and handsomely, and neatly,
     Such cunning Masters must be fool’d sometimes, Sir,
     And have their Worships noses wiped, ’tis healthful,
     We are but quit:  you fool us of our moneys
     In every Cause, in every Quiddit wipe us.

     Die.

     Ha, ha, ha, ha, some more drink, for my heart, Gentlemen. 
     This merry Lawyer—­ha, ha, ha, ha, this Scholar—­
     I think this fit will cure me:  this Executor—­
     I shall laugh out my Lungs.

     Bar.

     This is derision above sufferance, villany
     Plotted and set against me.

     Die.

     Faith ’tis Knavery,
     In troth I must confess, thou art fool’d indeed, Lawyer.

     Mil.

     Did you think, had this man been rich—­

     Bar.

     ’Tis well, Sir.

     Mil.

     He would have chosen such a Wolf, a Canker,
     A Maggot-pate, to be his whole Executor?

Page 34

     Lop.

     A Lawyer, that entangles all mens honesties,
     And lives like a Spider in a Cobweb lurking,
     And catching at all Flies, that pass his pit-falls? 
     Puts powder to all States, to make ’em caper? 
     Would he trust you?  Do you deserve?

     Die.

     I find, Gentlemen,
     This Cataplasm of a well cozen’d Lawyer
     Laid to my stomach, lenifies my Feaver,
     Methinks I could eat now, and walk a little.

     Bar.

     I am asham’d to feel how flat I am cheated,
     How grossly, and maliciously made a May-game,
     A damned trick; my Wife, my Wife, some Rascal: 
     My Credit, and my Wife, some lustful Villain,
     Some Bawd, some Rogue.

     Ars.

     Some crafty Fool has found ye: 
     This ’tis, Sir, to teach ye to be too busie,
     To covet all the gains, and all the rumours,
     To have a stirring Oare in all mens actions.

     Lop.

     We did this, but to vex your fine officiousness.

     Bar.

     Good yield ye, and good thank ye:  I am fooled, Gentlemen;
     The Lawyer is an Ass, I do confess it,
     A weak dull shallow Ass:  good even to your Worships: 
     Vicar, remember Vicar, Rascal, remember,
     Thou notable rich Rascal.

     Die.

I do remember, Sir,
’Pray ye stay a little, I have ev’n two Legacies
To make your mouth up, Sir.

Bar.

Remember Varlets,
Quake and remember, Rogues;
I have brine for your Buttocks.

[Exit.

Lop.

Oh how he frets, and fumes now like a Dunghil!

Die.

His gall contains fine stuff now to make poysons,
Rare damned stuff.

     Ars.

     Let’s after him, and still vex him,
     And take my Friend off:  by this time he has prosper’d,
     He cannot lose this dear time:  ’tis impossible.

     Mil.

     Well Diego, thou hast done.

     Lop.

     Hast done it daintily.

     Mil.

     And shalt be as well paid, Boy—­

     Ars.

     Go, let’s crucifie him.

[Exeunt.

     SCENA VI.

     Enter Amaranta, Leandro.

     Lean.

     I have told ye all my story, and how desperately.

     Ama.

     I do believe:  let’s walk on, time is pretious,
     Not to be spent in words, here no more wooing,
     The open Air’s an enemy to Lovers,
     Do as I tell ye.

     Lean.

     I’le do any thing,
     I am so over-[joy’d], I’le fly to serve ye.

     Am.

Page 35

     Take your joy moderately, as it is ministred,
     And as the cause invites:  that man’s a fool
     That at the sight o’th’ Bond, dances and leaps,
     Then is the true joy, when the mony comes.

     Lean.

     You cannot now deny me.

     Ama.  Nay, you know not,
     Women have crotchets, and strange fits.

     Lean.

     You shall not.

     Ama.

     Hold ye to that and swear it confidently,
     Then I shall make a scruple to deny ye: 
     ’Pray ye let’s step in, and see a friend of mine,
     The weather’s sharp:  we’ll stay but half an hour,
     We may be miss’d else:  a private fine house ’tis, Sir,
     And we may find many good welcomes.

     Lean.

     Do Lady,
     Do happy Lady.

     Ama.

     All your mind’s of doing,
     You must be modester.

     Lean.

     I will be any thing.

[Exeunt.

     SCENA VII.

     Enter Bartolus.

     Bar.

     Open the doors, and give me room to chafe in
     Mine own room, and my liberty:  why Maid there,
     Open I say, and do not anger me,
     I am subject to much fury:  when, ye Dish-clout? 
     When do ye come? asleep ye lazie Hell-hound? 
     Nothing intended, but your ease, and eating? 
     No body here? why Wife, why Wife? why Jewel? 
     No tongue to answer me? pre’thee, good Pupil,
     Dispense a little with thy careful study,
     And step to th’ door, and let me in; nor he neither? 
     Ha! not at’s study? nor asleep? nor no body? 
     I’le make ye hear:  the house of ignorance,
     No sound inhabits here:  I have a Key yet
     That commands all:  I fear I am Metamorphiz’d.

     Enter Lopez, Arsenio, Milanes, Diego.

     Lop.

     He keeps his fury still, and may do mischief.

     Mil.

     He shall be hang’d first, we’ll be sticklers there, boys.

     Die.

     The hundred thousand Dreams now, that possess him
     Of jealousie, and of revenge, and frailtie,
     Of drawing Bills against us, and Petitions.

     Lop.

     And casting what his credit shall recover.

     Mil.

     Let him cast till his Maw come up, we care not. 
     You shall be still secured. [A great noise within.

     Die.

     We’ll pay him home then;
     Hark what a noise he keeps within!

     Lop.

     Certain
     H’as set his Chimneys o’ fire, or the Devil roars there.

     Die.

The Codixes o’th’ Law are broke loose, Gentlemen.

Page 36

Ars.

He’s fighting sure.

Die
I’le tell ye that immediately—­

[Exit.

Mil.

Or doing some strange out-rage on himself.

Ars.

Hang him, he dares not be so valiant.

Enter

     Diego.

     Die.

     There’s no body at home, and he chafes like a Lyon,
     And stinks withal. [Noise still.
     Lop.  No body?

     Die.

     Not a Creature,
     Nothing within, but he and his Law-tempest,
     The Ladles, Dishes, Kettles, how they flie all! 
     And how the Glasses through the Rooms!

     Enter Bartolus.

     Ars.

     My friend sure
     Has got her out, and now he has made an end on’t.

     Lop.

     See where the Sea comes? how it foams, and brustles? 
     The great Leviathan o’th’ Law, how it tumbles?

     Bar.

     Made every way an Ass? abus’d on all sides? 
     And from all quarters, people come to laugh at me? 
     Rise like a Comet, to be wonder’d at? 
     A horrid Comet, for Boys tongues, and Ballads? 
     I will run from my wits.

     Enter Amaranta, Leandro.

     Ars.

     Do, do, good Lawyer,
     And from thy mony too, then thou wilt be quiet.

     Mil.

     Here she comes home:  now mark the salutations;
     How like an Ass my friend goes?

     Ars.

     She has pull’d his ears down.

     Bar.

     Now, what sweet voyage? to what Garden, Lady? 
     Or to what Cousins house?

     Ama.

     Is this my welcome? 
     I cannot go to Church, but thus I am scandal’d,
     Use no devotion for my soul, but Gentlemen—­

     Bar.

     To Church?

     Amar.

     Yes, and ye keep sweet youths to wait upon me,
     Sweet bred-up youths, to be a credit to me. 
     There’s your delight again, pray take him to ye,
     He never comes near me more to debase me.

     Bar.

     How’s this? how’s this? good wife, how, has he wrong’d ye?

     Ama.

I was fain to drive him like a sheep before me, I blush to think how people fleer’d, and scorn’d me.  Others have handsome men, that know behaviour, Place, and observance:  this silly thing knows nothing, Cannot tell ten; let every Rascal justle me, And still I push’d him on as he had been coming. Bar.  Ha! did ye push him on? is he so stupid?

     Ama.

     When others were attentive to the Priest,
     Good devout Gentleman, then fell he fast,
     Fast, sound asleep:  then first began the Bag-pipes,
     The several stops on’s nose made a rare musick,
     A rare and loud, and those plaid many an Anthem. 
     Put out of that, he fell straight into dreaming.

Page 37

     Ars.

     As cunning, as she is sweet; I like this carriage.

     Bar.

     What did he then?

     Ama.

     Why then he talked in his Sleep too,
     Nay, I’le divulge your moral vertues (sheeps-face)
     And talk’d aloud, that every ear was fixt to him: 
     Did not I suffer (do you think) in this time? 
     Talk of your bawling Law, of appellations
     Of Declarations, and Excommunications: 
     Warrants, and Executions:  and such Devils
     That drove all the Gentlemen out o’th’ Church, by hurryes,
     With execrable oaths, they would never come there again. 
     Thus am I served and man’d.

     Lean.

     I pray ye forgive me,
     I must confess I am not fit to wait upon ye: 
     Alas, I was brought up—­

     Ama.

     To be an Asse,
     A Lawyers Asse, to carry Books, and Buckrams.

     Bar.

     But what did you at Church?

     Lop.

     At Church, did you ask her? 
     Do you hear Gentlemen, do you mark that question? 
     Because you are half an Heretick your self, Sir,
     Would ye breed her too? this shall to the Inquisition,
     A pious Gentlewoman reproved for praying? 
     I’le see this filed, and you shall hear further, Sir.

     Ars.

     Ye have an ill heart.

     Lop.

     It shall be found out, Gentlemen,
     There be those youths will search it.

     Die.

     You are warm Signiour,
     But a Faggot will warm ye better:  we are witnesses.

     Lop.

     Enough to hang him, do not doubt.

     Mil.

     Nay certain,
     I do believe h’as rather no Religion.

     Lop.

     That must be known too, because she goes to Church, Sir?
     O monstrum infirme ingens!

     Die.

     Let him go on, Sir,
     His wealth will build a Nunnery, a fair one,
     And this good Lady, when he is hang’d and rotten,
     May there be Abbess.

     Bar.

     You are cozen’d, honest Gentlemen,
     I do not forbid the use but the form, mark me.

     Lop.

     Form? what do you make of form?

     Bar.

     They will undo me,
     Swear, as I oft have done, and so betray me;
     I must make fair way, and hereafter, Wife,
     You are welcome home, and henceforth take your pleasure,
     Go when ye shall think fit, I will not hinder ye,
     My eyes are open now, and I see my errour,
     My shame, as great as that, but I must hide it. 
     The whole conveyance now I smell, but Basta,
     Another time must serve:  you see us friends, now
     Heartily friends, and no more chiding, Gentlemen,
     I have been too foolish, I confess, no more words,
     No more, sweet Wife.

Page 38

     Ama.

     You know my easie nature.

     Bar.

Go get ye in:  you see she has been angry: 
Forbear her sight a while and time will pacify;
And learn to be more bold.

Lean.

I would I could,
I will do all I am able.

[Exit.

Bar.

Do Leandro,
We will not part, but friends of all hands.

Lop.

Well said,
Now ye are reasonable, we can look on ye.

     Bar.

     Ye have jerkt me:  but for all that I forgive ye,
     Forgive ye heartily, and do invite ye
     To morrow to a Breakfast, I make but seldom,
     But now we will be merry.

     Ars.

     Now ye are friendly,
     Your doggedness and niggardize flung from ye. 
     And now we will come to ye.

     Bar.

     Give me your hands, all;
     You shall be welcome heartily.

Lop.

We will be,
For we’ll eat hard.

Bar.

The harder, the more welcome,
And till the morning farewell; I have business.

[Exit.

Mil.

Farewel good bountiful Bartolus, ’tis a brave wench,
A suddain witty thief, and worth all service: 
Go we’ll all go, and crucifie the Lawyer.

Die.

I’le clap four tire of teeth into my mouth more
But I will grind his substance.

     Ars.

     Well Leandro,
     Thou hast had a strange Voyage, but I hope
     Thou rid’st now in safe harbour.

     Mil.

     Let’s go drink, Friends,
     And laugh aloud at all our merry may-games.

     Lop.

     A match, a match, ’twill whet our stomachs better.

[Exeunt.

     Actus Quintus.  Scena Prima.

     Enter Violante and Servant.

     Ser.

     Madam, he’s come. [Chair and stools out.

     Viol.

     ’Tis well, how did he look,
     When he knew from whom you were sent? was he not startled? 
     Or confident? or fearful?

     Ser.

     As appear’d
     Like one that knew his fortune at the worst,
     And car’d not what could follow.

     Viol.

     ’Tis the better,
     Reach me a Chair:  so, bring him in, be careful
     That none disturb us:  I will try his temper,
     And if I find him apt for my employments,

     Enter Jamie, Servant.

     I’le work him to my ends; if not, I shall
     Find other Engines.

     Ser.

     There’s my Lady.

     Viol.

     Leave us.

Page 39

     Jam.

     You sent for me?

     Viol.

     I did, and do’s the favour,
     Your present state considered and my power,
     Deserve no greater Ceremony?

     Jam.

     Ceremonie? 
     I use to pay that where I owe a duty,
     Not to my Brothers wife:  I cannot fawn,
     If you expect it from me, you are cozen’d,
     And so farewel.

     Viol.

     He bears up still; I like it. 
     Pray you a word.

     Jam.

     Yes, I will give you hearing
     On equal terms, and sit by you as a friend,
     But not stand as a Sutor:  Now your pleasure?

     Viol.

     You are very bold.

     Jam.

     ’Tis fit:  since you are proud,
     I was not made to feed that foolish humour,
     With flattery and observance.

     Viol.

     Yet, with your favour,
     A little form joyn’d with respect to her,
     That can add to your wants, or free you from ’em
     (Nay raise you to a fate, beyond your hopes)
     Might well become your wisdom.

     Jam.

     It would rather
     Write me a Fool, should I but only think
     That any good to me could flow from you,
     Whom for so many years I have found and prov’d
     My greatest Enemy:  I am still the same,
     My wants have not transform’d me:  I dare tell you,
     To your new cerus’d face, what I have spoken
     Freely behind your back, what I think of you,
     You are the proudest thing, and have the least
     Reason to be so that I ever read of. 
     In stature you are a Giantess:  and your Tailor
     Takes measure of you with a Jacobs Staff,
     Or he can never reach you, this by the way
     For your large size:  now, in a word or two,
     To treat of your Complexion were decorum: 
     You are so far from fair, I doubt your Mother
     Was too familiar with the Moor that serv’d her,
     Your Limbs and Features I pass briefly over,
     As things not worth description; and come roundly
     To your Soul, if you have any; for ’tis doubtful.
     Viol.  I laugh at this, proceed.

     Jam.

     This Soul I speak of,
     Or rather Salt to keep this heap of flesh
     From being a walking stench, like a large Inn,
     Stands open for the entertainment of
     All impious practices:  but there’s no Corner
     An honest thought can take up:  and as it were not
     Sufficient in your self to comprehend
     All wicked plots, you have taught the Fool, my Brother,
     By your contagion, almost to put off
     The nature of the man, and turn’d him Devil,
     Because he should be like you, and I hope
     Will march to Hell together: 

Page 40

I have spoken,
     And if the Limning you in your true Colours
     Can make the Painter gracious, I stand ready
     For my reward, or if my words distaste you,
     I weigh it not, for though your Grooms were ready
     To cut my Throat for’t, be assur’d I cannot
     Use other Language.

     Viol.

     You think you have said now,
     Like a brave fellow:  in this Womans War
     You ever have been train’d:  spoke big, but suffer’d
     Like a tame Ass; and when most spur’d and gall’d
     Were never Master of the Spleen or Spirit,
     That could raise up the anger of a man,
     And force it into action.

     Jam.

     Yes, vile Creature,
     Wer’t thou a subject worthy of my Sword,
     Or that thy death, this moment, could call home
     My banish’d hopes, thou now wer’t dead; dead, woman;
     But being as thou art, it is sufficient
     I scorn thee, and contemn thee.

     Viol.

     This shews nobly,
     I must confess it:  I am taken with it,
     For had you kneel’d and whin’d and shew’d a base
     And low dejected mind, I had despis’d you. 
     This bravery (in your adverse fortune) conquers
     And do’s command me, and upon the suddain
     I feel a kind of pity, growing in me,
     For your misfortunes, pity some say’s the Parent,
     Of future love, and I repent my part
     So far in what you have suffered, that I could
     (But you are cold) do something to repair
     What your base Brother (such Jamie I think him)
     Hath brought to ruine.

     Jam.

     Ha?

     Viol.

     Be not amaz’d,
     Our injuries are equal in his Bastard,
     You are familiar with what I groan for,
     And though the name of Husband holds a tye
     Beyond a Brother, I, a poor weak Woman,
     Am sensible, and tender of a wrong,
     And to revenge it would break through all lets,
     That durst oppose me.

     Jam.

     Is it possible?

     Viol.

     By this kiss:  start not:  thus much, as a stranger
     You may take from me; but, if you were pleas’d,
     I should select you as a bosom friend,
     I would print ’em thus, and thus.

     Jam.

     Keep off.

     Viol.

     Come near,
     Near into the Cabinet of my Counsels: 
     Simplicity and patience dwell with Fools,
     And let them bear those burthens, which wise men
     Boldly shake off; be mine and joyn with me,
     And when that I have rais’d you to a fortune,
     (Do not deny your self the happy means)
     You’ll look on me with more judicious eyes
     And swear I am most fair.

     Jam.

Page 41

     What would this Woman? 
     The purpose of these words? speak not in riddles,
     And when I understand, what you would counsel,
     My answer shall be suddain.

     Viol.

     Thus then Jamie,
     The objects of our fury are the same,
     For young Ascanio, whom you Snake-like hug’d
     (Frozen with wants to death) in your warm bosom,
     Lives to supplant you in your certain hopes,
     And kills in me all comfort.

     Jam.

     Now ’tis plain,
     I apprehend you:  and were he remov’d—­

     Viol.

     You, once again, were the undoubted heir.

     Jam.

     ’Tis not to be deny’d; I was ice before,
     But now ye have fir’d me.—­

     Viol.

     I’le add fuel to it,
     And by a nearer cut, do you but steer
     As I direct you, wee’l bring our Bark into
     The Port of happiness.

     Jam.

     How?

     Viol.

     By Henriques death: 
     But you’l say he’s your Brother; in great fortunes
     (Which are epitomes of States and Kingdoms)
     The politick brook no Rivals.

     Jam.

     Excellent! 
     For sure I think out of a scrupulous fear,
     To feed in expectation, when I may
     (Dispensing but a little with my conscience)
     Come into full possession, would not argue
     One that desir’d to thrive.

     Viol.

     Now you speak like
     A man that knows the World.

     Jam.

I needs must learn That have so good a Tutress:  and what think you, (Don Henrique and Ascanio cut off) That none may live, that shall desire to trace us In our black paths, if that Octavio His foster Father, and the sad Jacinta, (Faith pitie her, and free her from her Sorrows) Should fall companions with ’em?  When we are red With murther, let us often bath in blood, The colour will be scarlet.

     Viol.

     And that’s glorious,
     And will protect the fact.

     Jam.

     Suppose this done: 
     (If undiscovered) we may get for mony,
     (As that you know buyes any thing in Rome)
     A dispensation.

     Viol.

     And be married?

     Jam.

     True. 
     Or if it be known, truss up our Gold and Jewels,
     And fly to some free State, and there with scorn—­

     Viol.

     Laugh at the laws of Spain
     ’Twere admirable.

     Jam.

     We shall beget rare children.  I am rapt with
     The meer imagination.—­

     Viol.

Page 42

     Shall it be done?

     Jam.

     Shall? ’tis too tedious:  furnish me with means
     To hire the instruments, and to your self
     Say it is done already:  I will shew you,
     E’re the Sun set, how much you have wrought upon me,
     Your province is only to use some means,
     To send my Brother to the Grove that’s neighbour
     To the west Port of th’ City; leave the rest
     To my own practice; I have talk’d too long,
     But now will doe:  this kiss, with my Confession,
     To work a fell revenge:  a man’s a fool,
     If not instructed in a Womans School.

[Exeunt.

     SCENA II.

     Enter Bartolus, Algazeirs, and a Paratour.

     The Table set out and stools.

     Bar.

     You are well enough disguiz’d, furnish the Table,
     Make no shew what ye are, till I discover: 
     Not a soul knows ye here:  be quick and diligent,
     These youths I have invited to a Breakfast,
     But what the Sawce will be, I am of opinion
     I shall take off the edges of their Appetites,
     And grease their gums for eating heartily
     This month or two, they have plaid their prizes with me,
     And with their several flurts they have lighted dangerously,
     But sure I shall be quit:  I hear ’em coming. 
     Go off and wait the bringing in your service,
     And do it handsomely:  you know where to have it.

     Enter Milanes, Arsenio, Lopez, Diego.

     Welcom i’ Faith.

     Ars.

     That’s well said, honest Lawyer.

     Lop.

     Said like a neighbour.

     Bar.

     Welcom all:  all over,
     And let’s be merry.

     Mil.

     To that end we came Sir,
     An hour of freedome’s worth an age of juglings.

     Die.

     I am come too Sir, to specifie my Stomach
     A poor reteiner to your worships bountie.

     Bar.

     And thou shalt have it fill’d my merry Diego,
     My liberal, and my bonny bounteous Diego,
     Even fill’d till it groan again.

     Die.

     Let it have fair play,
     And if it founder then.—­

     Bar.

     I’le tell ye neighbours,
     Though I were angry yesterday with ye all,
     And very angry, for methought ye bob’d me.

     Lop.

     No, no, by no means.

     Bar.

     No, when I considered
     It was a jest, and carried off so quaintly,
     It made me merry:  very merry, Gentlemen,
     I do confess I could not sleep to think on’t,
     The mirth so tickled me, I could not slumber.

Page 43

     Lop.

     Good mirth do’s work so:  honest mirth,
     Now, should we have meant in earnest—­

     Bar.

     You say true neighbour.

     Lop.

     It might have bred such a distast and sowrness,
     Such fond imaginations in your Brains, Sir,
     For things thrust home in earnest.—­

     Bar.

     Very certain,
     But I know ye all for merry waggs, and ere long
     You shall know me too in another fashion,
     Though y’are pamper’d, ye shall bear part o’th’ burthen.

     Enter Amaranta, and Leandro.

     Come wife; Come bid ’em welcom; Come my Jewel: 
     And Pupil, you shall come too; ne’re hang backward,
     Come, come the woman’s pleas’d, her anger’s over,
     Come, be not bashfull.

     Am.

     What do’s he prepare here? 
     Sure there’s no meat i’th’ house, at least not drest,
     Do’s he mean to mock ’em? or some new bred crotchet
     Come o’re his brains; I do not like his kindness: 
     But silence best becomes me:  if he mean foul play,
     Sure they are enough to right themselves, and let ’em,
     I’le sit by, so they beat him not to powder.

     Bar.

     Bring in the meat there, ha?  Sit down dear neighbour,
     A little meat needs little Complement,
     Sit down I say.

     Am.

     What do you mean by this Sir?

     Bar.

     Convey away their weapons handsomely.

     Am.

     You know there’s none i’th’ house to answer ye,
     But the poor Girle; you know there’s no meat neither.

     Bar.

     Peace and be quiet; I shall make you smoak else,
     There’s men and meat enough, set it down formally.

     Enter Algazeirs, with dishes.

     Am.

     I fear some lewd trick, yet I dare not speak on’t.

     Bar.

     I have no dainties for ye Gentlemen,
     Nor loads of meat, to make the room smell of ’em. 
     Only a dish to every man I have dedicated,
     And if I have pleas’d his appetite.

     Lop.

     O, a Capon,
     A Bird of grace, and be thy will, I honour it.

     Die.

     For me some fortie pound of lovely Beef,
     Plac’d in a mediterranean sea of Brewis.

     Bar.

     Fall to, fall to, that we may drink and laugh after,
     Wait diligently knaves.

     Mil.

     What rare bit’s this? 
     An execution! bless me!

     Bar.

     Nay take it to ye,
     There’s no avoiding it, ’tis somewhat tough Sir,
     But a good stomach will endure it easily,
     The sum is but a thousand duckets Sir.

Page 44

     Ars.

     A Capias from my Surgeon, and my Silk-man!

     Bar.

     Your carefull makers, but they have mar’d your diet. 
     Stir not, your Swords are gone:  there’s no avoiding me,
     And these are Algazeirs, do you hear that passing bell?

     Lop.

     A strong Citation, bless me!

     Bar.

     Out with your Beads, Curate,
     The Devil’s in your dish:  bell, book, and Candle.

     Lop.

     A warrant to appear before the Judges! 
     I must needs rise, and turn to th’ wall.

     Bar.

     Ye need not,
     Your fear I hope will make ye find your Breeches.

     All.

     We are betrai’d.

     Bar.

     Invited do not wrong me,
     Fall to, good Guests, you have diligent men about ye,
     Ye shall want nothing that may persecute ye,
     These will not see ye start; Have I now found ye? 
     Have I requited ye?  You fool’d the Lawyer,
     And thought it meritorious to abuse him,
     A thick ram-headed knave:  you rid, you spur’d him,
     And glorified your wits, the more ye wronged him;
     Within this hour ye shall have all your Creditours,
     A second dish of new debts, come upon ye,
     And new invitements to the whip, Don Diego,
     And Excommunications for the learned Curate,
     A Masque of all your furies shall dance to ye.

     Ars.

     You dare not use us thus?

     Bar.

     You shall be bob’d, Gentlemen,
     Stir, and as I have a life, ye goe to prison,
     To prison, without pitie instantly,
     Before ye speak another word to prison. 
     I have a better Guard without, that waits;
     Do you see this man, Don Curate? ’tis a Paratour
     That comes to tell ye a delightfull story
     Of an old whore ye have, and then to teach ye
     What is the penaltie; Laugh at me now Sir,
     What Legacie would ye bequeath me now,
     (And pay it on the nail?) to fly my fury?

     Lop.

     O gentle Sir.

     Bar.

     Do’st thou hope I will be gentle,
     Thou foolish unconsiderate Curate?

     Lop.

     Let me goe Sir.

     Bar.

     I’le see thee hang first.

     Lop.

     And as I am a true Vicar,
     Hark in your ear, hark softly—­

     Bar.

     No, no bribery. 
     I’le have my swindge upon thee; Sirra?  Rascal? 
     You Lenten Chaps, you that lay sick, and mockt me,
     Mockt me abominably, abused me lewdly,
     I’le make thee sick at heart, before I leave thee,
     And groan, and dye indeed,

Page 45

and be worth nothing,
     Not worth a blessing, nor a Bell to knell for thee,
     A sheet to cover thee, but that thou Stealest,
     Stealest from the Merchant, and the Ring he was buried with
     Stealest from his Grave, do you smell me now?

     Die.

     Have mercy on me!

     Bar.

     No Psalm of mercy shall hold me from hanging thee. 
     How do ye like your Breakfast? ’tis but short, Gentlemen,
     But sweet and healthfull; Your punishment, and yours, Sir,
     For some near reasons that concern my Credit,
     I will take to my self.

     Am.

     Doe Sir, and spare not: 
     I have been too good a wife, and too obedient,
     But since ye dare provoke me to be foolish—­

     Lea.

     She has, yes, and too worthie of your usage,
     Before the world I justifie her goodness,
     And turn that man, that dares but taint her vertues,
     To my Swords point; that lying man, that base man,
     Turn him, but face to face, that I may know him.

     Bar.

     What have I here?

     Lea.

     A Gentleman, a free man,
     One that made trial of this Ladies constancie,
     And found it strong as fate; leave off your fooling,
     For if you follow this course, you will be Chronicled.

     Enter Jamy and Assistant.

     For a devil, whilst a Saint she is mentioned,
     You know my name indeed; I am now no Lawyer.

     Die.

     Some comfort now, I hope, or else would I were hanged up. 
     And yet the Judge, he makes me sweat.

     Bar.

     What news now?

     Jam.

     I will justifie upon my life and credit
     What you have heard, for truth, and will make proof of.

     Assist.

     I will be ready at the appointed hour there,
     And so I leave ye.

     Bar.

     Stay I beseech your worship,
     And do but hear me.

     Jam.

     Good Sir, intend this business,
     And let this bawling fool, no more words lawyer,
     And no more angers, for I guess your reasons,
     This Gentleman, I’le justifie in all places,
     And that fair Ladies worth; let who dare cross it. 
     The Plot was cast by me, to make thee jealous,
     But not to wrong your wife, she is fair and vertuous.

     Die.

     Take us to mercy too, we beseech your honour,
     We shall be justified the way of all flesh else.

     Jam.

     No more talk, nor no more dissention lawyer,
     I know your anger, ’tis a vain and slight one,
     For if you doe, I’le lay your whole life open,
     A life that all the world shall—­I’le bring witness,
     And rip before a Judge the ulcerous villanies,
     You know I know ye, and I can bring witness.

Page 46

     Bar.

     Nay good Sir, noble Sir.

     Jam.

     Be at peace then presently,
     Immediatley take honest and fair truce
     With your good wife, and shake hands with that Gentleman;
     H’as honour’d ye too much, and doe it cheerfully.

     Lop
     Take us along, for Heaven sake too.

     Bar.

     I am friends,
     There is no remedie, I must put up all,
     And like my neighbours rub it out by th’ shoulders,
     And perfect friends; Leandro now I thank ye,
     And there’s my hand, I have no more grudge to ye,
     But I am too mean henceforward for your Companie.

     Lea.

     I shall not trouble ye.

     Ars.

     We will be friends too.

     Mil.

     Nay Lawyer, you shall not fright us farther,
     For all your devils we will bolt.

     Bar.

     I grant ye,
     The Gentleman’s your Bail, and thank his coming,
     Did not he know me too well, you should smart for’t;
     Goe all in peace, but when ye fool next, Gentlemen,
     Come not to me to Breakfast.

     Die.

     I’le be bak’d first.

     Bar.

     And pray ye remember, when ye are bold and merry,
     The Lawyers Banquet, and the Sawce he gave ye.

     Jam.

     Come:  goe along; I have employment for ye,
     Employment for your lewd brains too, to cool ye,
     For all, for every one.

     All.

     We are all your Servants.

     Die.

     All, all for any thing, from this day forward
     I’le hate all Breakfasts, and depend on dinners.

     Jam.

     I am glad you come off fair.

     Lea.

     The fair has blest me.

[Exeunt.

     SCENA III.

     Enter Octavi[o], Jacinta, [Ascanio].

     Oct.

     This is the place, but why we are appointed
     By Don Jamie to stay here, is a depth
     I cannot sound.

     Asc.

     Believ’t he is too noble
     To purpose any thing but for our good. 
     Had I assurance of a thousand lives,
     And with them perpetuitie of pleasure,
     And should lose all, if he prov’d only false,
     Yet I durst run the hazard.

     Jac.

     ’Tis our comfort,
     We cannot be more wretched than we are,
     And death concludes all misery.

     Oct.

     Undiscovered

     Enter Henrique, Jamie.

     We must attend him.

     Asc.

     Our stay is not long. 
     With him Don Henrique?

Page 47

     Jac.

     Now I fear;
     Be silent.

     Hen.

     Why dost thou follow me?

     Jam.

     To save your life,
     A plot is laid for’t, all my wrongs forgot,
     I have a Brothers Love.

     Hen.

     But thy false self
     I fear no enemy.

     Jam.

     You have no friend,
     But what breathes in me:  If you move a step
     Beyond this ground you tread on, you are lost.

     Hen.

     ’Tis by thy practice then:  I am sent hither
     To meet her, that prefers my life and safetie
     Before her own.

     Jam.

     That you should be abus’d thus
     With weak credulitie!  She for whose sake
     You have forgot we had one noble Father,
     Or that one Mother bare us, for whose love
     You brake a contract to which heaven was witness,
     To satisfie whose pride and wilfull humour
     You have expos’d a sweet and hopefull Son
     To all the miseries that want can bring him,
     And such a Son, though you are most obdurate,
     To give whom entertainment Savages
     Would quit their Caves themselves, to keep him from
     Bleak cold and hunger:  This dissembling woman,
     This Idol, whom you worship, all your love
     And service trod under her feet, designs you
     To fill a grave, or dead to lye a prey
     For Wolves and Vulturs.

     Hen.

     ’Tis false; I defie thee,
     And stand upon my Guard.

     Enter Leandro, Milanes, Arsenio, Bart, Lopez, Diego,
     Octavio, Jacinta, Ascanio, and Servants.

     Jam.

     Alas, ’tis weak: 
     Come on, since you will teach me to be cruel,
     By having no faith in me, take your fortune,
     Bring the rest forth, and bind them fast.

     Oct.

     My Lord.

     Asc.

     In what have we offended?

     Jam.

     I am deaf,
     And following my will, I do not stand
     Accomptable to reason:  See her Ring
     (The first pledge of your love, and service to her)
     Deliver’d as a Warrant for your death: 
     These Bags of gold you gave up to her trust,
     (The use of which you did deny your self)
     Bestow’d on me, and with a prodigal hand,
     Whom she pick’d forth to be the Architect
     Of her most bloudy building; and to fee
     These Instruments, to bring Materials
     To raise it up, she bad me spare no cost,
     And (as a surplusage) offer’d her self
     To be at my devotion.

     Hen.

     O accurs’d!

     Jam.

Page 48

     But be incredulous still; think this my plot;
     Fashion excuses to your self, and swear
     That she is innocent, that she doats on ye;
     Believe this, as a fearfull Dream, and that
     You lie not at my mercy, which in this
     I will shew only:  She her self shall give
     The dreadfull Sentence, to remove all scruple
     Who ’tis that sends you to the other world.

     Enter Violante.

     Appears my Violante? speak (my dearest)
     Do’s not the object please you?

     Viol.

     More than if
     All treasure that’s above the earth, with that,
     That lyes conceal’d in both the Indian Mines,
     Were laid down at my feet:  O bold Jamy,
     Thou only canst deserve me.

     Jam.

     I am forward,
     And (as you easily may perceive,) I sleep not
     On your commands.

     Enter Assistant, and Officers.

     Viol.

     But yet they live:  I look’d
     To find them dead.

     Jam.

     That was deferr’d, that you
     Might triumph in their misery, and have the power
     To say they are not.

     Viol.

     ’Twas well thought upon: 
     This kiss, and all the pleasures of my Bed
     This night, shall thank thee.

     Hen.

     Monster!

     Viol.

     You Sir, that
     Would have me Mother Bastards, being unable
     To honour me with one Child of mine own,
     That underneath my roof, kept your cast-Strumpet,
     And out of my Revenues would maintain
     Her riotous issue:  now you find what ’tis
     To tempt a woman:  with as little feeling
     As I turn off a slave, that is unfit
     To doe me service; or a horse, or dog
     That have out-liv’d their use, I shake thee off,
     To make thy peace with heaven.

     Hen.

     I do deserve this,
     And never truly felt before, what sorrow
     Attends on wilfull dotage.

     Viol.

     For you, Mistris,
     That had the pleasure of his youth before me,
     And triumph’d in the fruit that you had by him,
     But that I think, to have the Bastard strangled
     Before thy face, and thou with speed to follow
     The way he leads thee, is sufficient torture,
     I would cut off thy nose, put out thine eyes,
     And set my foot on these bewitching lips,
     That had the start of mine:  but as thou art,
     Goe to the grave unpitied.

     Assist.

     Who would believe
     Such rage could be in woman?

     Viol.

     For this fellow,
     He is not worth my knowledge.

     Jam.

Page 49

     Let him live then,
     Since you esteem him innocent.

     Viol.

     No Jamy,
     He shall make up the mess:  now strike together,
     And let them fall so.

     Assist.

     Unheard of crueltie! 
     I can endure no longer:  seise on her.

     Viol.

     Am I betrai’d? 
     Is this thy faith, Jamy?

     Jam.

     Could your desires
     Challenge performance of a deed so horrid? 
     Or, though that you had sold your self to hell,
     I should make up the bargain?  Live (dear Brother)
     Live long, and happy:  I forgive you freely;
     To have done you this service, is to me
     A fair Inheritance:  and how e’re harsh language
     (Call’d on by your rough usage) pass’d my lips,
     In my heart I ever lov’d you:  all my labours
     Were but to shew, how much your love was cozen’d,
     When it beheld it self in this false Glass,
     That did abuse you; and I am so far
     From envying young Ascanio his good fortune,
     That if your State were mine, I would adopt him,
     These are the Murtherers my noble friends,
     Which (to make trial of her bloudy purpose)
     I won, to come disguis’d thus.

     Hen.

     I am too full
     Of grief, and shame to speak:  but what I’le doe,
     Shall to the world proclaim my penitence;
     And howsoever I have liv’d, I’le die
     A much chang’d man.

     Jam.

     Were it but possible
     You could make satisfaction to this woman,
     Our joyes were perfect.

     Hen.

     That’s my only comfort,
     That it is in my power:  I ne’re was married
     To this bad woman, though I doted on her,
     But daily did defer it, still expecting
     When grief would kill Jacintha.

     Assist.

     All is come out,
     And finds a fair success:  take her Don Henrique,
     And once again embrace your Son.

     Hen.

     Most gladly.

     Assist.

     Your Brother hath deserv’d all.

     Hen.

     And shall share
     The moitie of my State.

     Assist.

     I have heard, advocate,
     What an ill Instrument you have been to him,
     From this time strengthen him with honest counsels,
     As you’le deserve my pardon.

     Bar.

     I’le change my Copy: 
     But I am punish’d, for I fear I have had
     A smart blow, though unseen.

     Assist.

Page 50

     Curate, and Sexton,
     I have heard of you too, let me hear no more,
     And what’s past, is forgotten; For this woman,
     Though her intent were bloody, yet our Law
     Calls it not death:  yet that her punishment
     May deter others from such bad attempts,
     The dowry she brought with her, shall be emploi’d
     To build a Nunnery, where she shall spend
     The remnant of her life.

     Viol.

     Since I have miss’d my ends,
     I scorn what can fall on me.

     Assist.

The strict discipline Of the Church, will teach you better thoughts.  And Signiors, You that are Batchelours, if you ever marry, In Bartolus you may behold the issue Of Covetousness and Jealousie; and of dotage, And falshood in Don Henrique:  keep a mean then; For be assured, that weak man meets all ill, That gives himself up to a womans will.

[Exeunt.

* * * * *

     Prologue.

To tell ye (Gentlemen,) we have a Play, A new one too, and that ’tis launch’d to day, The Name ye know, that’s nothing to my Story; To tell ye, ’tis familiar, void of Glory, Of State, of Bitterness:  of wit you’ll say, For that is now held wit, that tends that way, Which we avoid:  To tell ye too ’tis merry, And meant to make ye pleasant, and not weary:  The Stream that guides ye, easie to attend:  To tell ye that ’tis good, is to no end, If you believe not.  Nay, to goe thus far, To swear it, if you swear against, is war.  To assure you any thing, unless you see, And so conceive, is vanity in me; Therefore I leave it to it self, and pray Like a good Bark, it may work out to day, And stem all doubts; ’twas built for such a proof, And we hope highly:  if she lye aloof For her own vantage, to give wind at will, Why let her work, only be you but still, And sweet opinion’d, and we are bound to say, You are worthy Judges, and you crown the Play.

* * * * *

     Epilogue.

The Play is done, yet our Suit never ends, Still when you part, you would still part our friends, Our noblest friends; if ought have faln amiss, O let it be sufficient, that it is, And you have pardon’d it.  In Buildings great All the whole Body cannot be so neat, But something may be mended; Those are fair, And worthy love, that may destroy, but spare.

APPENDIX

     Ad Janum

     Take Comfort Janus, never feare thy head
     Which to the quick belongs, not to the dead
     Thy wife did lye with one, thou being dead drunke
     Thou are not Cuckold though shee bee a Punke.

Tis not the state nor soveraintie of Jove could draw thy pure affections from my love nor is there Venus in the Skyes could from thy looks with draw my greedy eyes.

THE SPANISH CURATE.

Page 51

     A = First Folio; B = Second Folio.

p. 60, ll. 3-41.  Omitted in A. l. 42.  A omits] and. l. 46.  A] heirs.

     p. 61,
     l. 38.  A] Encreasing by.
     l. 39.  B misprints] Vialante.

     p. 63,
     l. 17.  A] base and abject.

p. 64, l. 2.  A] Or modestie. l. 18.  B misprints] whow. l. 31.  A] wish that it.

     p. 65,
     l. 17.  A] By this example.
     l. 25.  A] or of my.

     p. 66,
     l. 8.  A] of mine own.
     l. 26.  A] Mirth, and Seek.

     p. 68,
     l. 2.  A] have you.

     p. 70,
     l. 28.  A] provoking it call.

     p. 73,
     l. 13.  A] To me, of, that misery against my will.

     p. 74,
     l. 33.  A omits] as.

p. 75, l. 18.  A gives this line to Lean. l. 31.  A adds] exit lea. and gives ll. 32 and 33 to Ars.

     l. 34.  A omits] Exeunt Mil.  Ars.

     p. 76,
     l. 29. A comma has been substituted for a full-stop
     after
weathers.

     p. 77,
     l. 25.  A] look out it.
     l. 39.  A] has.

p. 79, l. 3.  A] often-times. l. 15.  B prints] Dig. l. 28.  A omits] to. ll. 33 and 34.  A gives these lines to Lea.

     p. 80,
     l. 22.  B misprints] yesterdy.

     p. 82,
     l. 9.  A] still and the.
     l. 16.  A] jealousies.

     p. 83,
     l. 3.  B] More.

     p. 84,
     l. 15.  A] Gentleman.

     p. 86,
     l. 8.  A] be a kin.
     l. 10.  A] ’long.

     p. 87,
     l. 19.  A] am both to.
     l. 23.  A] ’Faith.

     p. 88,
     l. 6.  A] Y’faith.
     l. 26.  A] ye might.

p. 89, l. 4.  A adds] Enter Amaranta. l. 18.  B misprints] woman. ll. 21-34.  Omitted in A.

     p. 90,
     l. 22.  A] lock upon me.

p. 92, l. 25.  A adds stage direction] Two chaires set out. l. 28.  A omits] are. p. 93, l. 10.  A] porrage. l. 23.  A] gymitrie.

     p. 94,
     l. 27.  A] abed.
     l. 34.  A] I will.

     pp. 95 and 96.
     l. 11 A omits the Song.

p. 96, l. 11.  A adds stage direction] The Bar & Book ready on a Table. l. 18.  A omits] Exeunt Parishioners. l. 26.  A] may he some.

     p. 98,
     l. 6.  A omits] and.
     l. 22.  B misprints] Tough.

     p. 99,
     l. 4.  A] proaguing.

     p. 100,
     l. 9.  A] ’Tis Sessions.
     l. 16.  A] hunch, hunch.

     p. 101,
     l. 8.  A] at her.
     l. 21.  A] Had winck’d.

     p. 102,
     l. 29.  A adds stage direction] Chess-boord and
     men set ready.

Page 52

p. 104, l. 10.  A omits] Exit. l. 27.  A] That rakes. l. 35.  A] Jam. (char.). l. 37.  A omits stage direction. l. 40.  A omits stage direction.

     p. 105,
     l. 18.  A gives this line to Lean.

p. 106, l. 11.  A] ’Pre. l. 13.  A omits stage direction. l. 16.  A] ’Would.

     p. 107,
     l. 32.  A] and I thank.

     p. 109,
     l. 1.  A] anger.
     l. 2.  A] Why none, Sir.

p. 110, l. 3.  B misprints] Hne. l. 17.  B misprints] barrneness. l. 34.  A] hath blasted.

     p. 111,
     l. 12.  A] pontafles.

     p. 113,
     l. 5.  A adds stage direction] Bed ready wine,
     table Standish & Paper.

     p. 114,
     l. 9.  A] If ye.

     p. 115,
     l. 29.  A and B] Ars.

     p. 116,
     l. 25.  A omits] for.

     p. 117,
     l. 3.  A adds stage direction] Diego
     ready in Bed, wine, cup.

     p. 118,
     l. 14.  A adds stage direction] Bed thrust out.

     p. 120,
     l. 1.  A] Nor preach not Abstinence.
     l. 2.  A] budge.

     p. 122,
     l. 15.  A prints Doe you deserve as
     the beginning of Die’s speech
.

p. 123, l. 16.  A. prints stage direction] Pewter ready for noyse. l. 19.  B misprints] joyn’d.

     p. 124,
     l. 10.  A] ’pre’thee.

     p. 125,
     l. 9.  A] brussels.
     l. 34.  A] fleere.

     p. 126,
     l. 39.  A] has.

p. 129, l. 3.  A] I doe owe dutie. l. 19.  A adds stage direction] A Table ready covered with Cloath Napkins Salt Trenchers and Bread. l. 27.  A] cerviz’d.
p. 132, l. 7.  A omits] wee’l. l. 12.  A adds stage direction] Dishes covered with papers in each ready.
p. 134, l. 11.  A has Bar written in the margin, not printed, in the copy collated. l. 36.  A] least none drest.

     p. 137,
     l. 9.  A] concernes.
     l. 27.  A] gives this line to Lea.

     p. 138,
      l. 16.  A] Has.

     p. 139,
      l. 5.  B misprints] Octavia ...  Arsenio.

     p. 143,
      l. 24.  A] deserv’d well.