A Select Collection of Old English Plays Part 118

WID. I wonder at nothing so much as Master Jolly's mirth to-day!

Where lies his part of the jest? Cosened or refused by all, not a fish that stays in's net.

JOLLY. No; what's this? [JOLLY _hugs_ WANTON.] Show me a fairer in all your streams. Nor is this my single joy, who am pleased to find you may be cosened; rejoice to see you may be brought to lie with a man for a jest. Let me alone to fit you with a trick too.

CARE. Faith, it must be some new trick; for thou art so beaten at the old one, 'twill neither please thee nor her; besides, I mean to teach her that myself.

PLEA. I shall never be perfectly quiet in my mind till I see somebody as angry as myself: yet I have some consolation, when I think on the wise plot that killed the coachman. How the plague, red cross, and halbert has cut their fingers that designed it!

their anger will be perfect. Secret says they are coming, and that the Lady Loveall has given 'em the alarm.

_Enter_ SAD _and_ CONSTANT.

WILD. And see where the parties come!--storms and tempests in their minds! their looks are daggers.

PLEA. Servant, what, you're melancholy, and full of wonder! I see you have met the news.

SAD. Yes, madam; we have heard a report that will concern both your judgment and your honour.

PLEA. Alas, sir! we're innocent; 'tis mere predestination.

CON. All weddings, Master Sad, you know, go by chance, like hanging.

PLEA. And, I thank my stars, I have 'scaped hanging. To ha' been his bride had been both.

CON. This is not like the promise you made us yesterday.

WID. Why, truly, servant, I scarce know what I do yet. The fright of the plague had so possessed my mind with fear, that I could think and dream of nothing last night but of a tall black man that came and kissed me in my sleep, and slapped his whip in mine ears. 'Twas a saucy ghost, not unlike my coachman that's dead, and accused you of having a hand in his murder, and vowed to haunt me till I was married. I told my niece the dream.

PLEA. Nay, the ghost sighed, and accused Secret and Master Sad of making him away. Confess, faith, had you a hand in that b.l.o.o.d.y jest?

WID. Fie, servant! Could you be so cruel as to join with my woman against me?

CON. 'Tis well, ladies. Why a pox do you look at me? This was your subtle plot; a pox on your clerk's wit! You said the jest would beget a comedy when 'twas known, and so I believe 'twill.

SAD. Madam, I find you have discovered our design, whose chief end was to prevent this mischief, which I doubt not but you'll both live to repent your share of, before you have done travelling to the Epsoms, Bourbonne,[278] and the Spaws, to cure those travelled diseases these knights-errant have with curiosity sought out for you. 'Tis true, they are mischiefs that dwell in pleasant countries, yet those roses have their thorns; and I doubt not but these gentlemen's wit may sting as well as please sometime; and you may find it harder to satisfy their travelled experience than to have suffered our home-bred ignorance.

CARE. Hark, if he be not fallen into a fit of his cousin! these names of places he has stolen out of her receipt-book: amongst all whose diseases find me any so dangerous, troublesome, or incurable as a fool; a lean, pale, sighing, coughing fool, that's rich and poor both; being born to an estate, without a mind or heart capable to use it; of a nature so miserable, he grudges himself meat; nay, they say, he eats his meals twice: a fellow whose breath smells of yesterday's dinner, and stinks as if he had eat all our suppers over again. I would advise you, Master Sad, to sleep with your mouth open to air it, or get the brewer to tun it. Foh! an empty justice, that stinks of the lees and casks, and belches Littleton and Plowden's cases! Dost thou think any woman, that has wit or honour, would kiss that bung-hole? By this light, his head and belly look as blue and lank as French rabbits or stale poultry! Alas, sir! my lady would have a husband to rejoice with; no green-tailed lecturer, to stand sentry at his bedside, while his nasty soul scours through him, sneaking out at the back-door! These, sir, are diseases which neither the Spaw or Bath can cure: your garters and willow are a more certain remedy.

CON. Well, sir, I find our plot's betrayed, and we have patience left. 'Tis that d.a.m.ned captain has informed.

SAD. Yet 'tis one comfort, madam, that you have missed that man of war, that knight of Finsbury. His dowager, with ale and switches, would ha' bred a ballad.

PLEA. Faith, sir, you see what a difficulty it is in this age for a woman to live honest, though she have a proper man for her husband; therefore, it behoves us to consider whom we choose.

JOLLY. The lady has reason: for, being allowed but one, who would choose such weasels as we see daily married? that are all head and tail, crooked, dirty, sordid vermin, predestined for cuckolds, painted snails, with houses on their backs, and horns as big as Dutch cows! Would any woman marry such? Nay, can any woman be honest that let's such hodmandods crawl o'er her virgin breast and belly, or suffer 'em to leave their slimy paths upon their bodies only for jointures? Out! 'tis mercenary and base!

The generous heart has only the laws of nature and kindness in her view, and when she will oblige, Friend is all the ties that Nature seeks; who can both bear and excuse those kind crimes.

And, I believe, one as poor as the despised captain and neglected courtier may make a woman as happy in a friendship as Master Sad, who has as many faults as we have debts: one whose father had no more credit with Nature than ours had with Fortune; whose soul wears rags as well as the captain's body.

SAD. Nay, then, I'll laugh; for I perceive y' are angrier than we. Alas! h' has lost both ventures--Wanton and the widow.

JOLLY. Both; and neither so unlucky as to be thy wife. Thy face is hanged with blacks already: we may see the bells toll in thy eyes. A bride and a wedding-shirt, a s.e.xton and a winding-sheet.

A scrivener to draw up jointures, a parson to make thy will, man.

By this light, he's as chap-fallen as if he had lain under the table all night.

CARE. Faith, Master Sad, he's parlously in the right. Ne'er think of marrying in this dull clime. Wedlock's a trade you'll ne'er go through with. Wives draw bills upon sight, and 'twill not be for your credit to protest them. Rather follow my counsel, and marry _ la Venetiano_, for a night and away; a pistole jointure does it: then, 'tis but repenting in the morning, and leave your woman and the sin both i' th' bed. But if you play the fool, like your friends, and marry in serious earnest, you may repent it too, as they do; but where's the remedy?

[_This is spoken a little aside._

WID. What was't you said, sir? Do you repent?

CARE. By this hand, widow, I don't know: but we have pursued a jest a great way. Parson, are you sure we are married?

PAR. Yes, I warrant you, for their escaping.

CARE. Their escaping! Fool, thou mistakest me; there's no fear of that! But I would fain know if there be no way for me to get out of this noose? no hole to hide a man's head in from this wedlock?

PAR. Not any, but what I presume she'll show you anon.

CARE. Hum! now do I feel all my fears flowing in upon me. Wanton and Mistress Pleasant both grow dangerously handsome. A thousand graces in each I never observed before. Now, just now, when I must not taste, I begin to long for some of their plums.

WID. Is this serious, sir!

CARE. Yes, truly, widow, sadly serious. Is there no way to get three or four mouthfuls of kisses from the parson's wife?

WID. This is sad, sir, upon my wedding-day, to despise me for such a common thing.

SAD. As sad as I could wish. This is a jest makes me laugh.--Common! No, madam, that's too bitter; she's forest only, where the royal chase is as free as fair.

WAN. Were not you a widow to-day?

SAD. Yes, faith, girl, and as foolish a one as ever coach jumbled out of joint.

WAN. Stay, then, till to-morrow, and tell me the difference betwixt us.

SAD. I hope thou'lt prove a she-prophet. Could I live to see thee turn honest wife, and she the wanton widow!

WAN. I cannot but laugh, to see how easy it is to lose or win the opinion of the world. A little custom heals all; or else what's the difference betwixt a married widow and one of us? Can any woman be pure, or worth the serious sighing of a generous heart, that has had above one hand laid upon her? Is there place to write above one lover's name with honour in her heart? 'Tis indeed for one a royal palace; but if it admits of more, an hospital or an inn at best, as well as ours: only off from the road and less frequented.

PLEA. Shrewdly urged.

WAN. And though the sins of my family threw me into want, and made me subject to the treachery of that broken faith, to whose perjury I owe all my crimes, yet still I can distinguish betwixt that folly and this honour, which must tell you: _He or she, that would be thought twice so, was never once a lover._

CON. Parson, thou art fitted! a wh.o.r.e and apothegms! What sport will she make us under a tree with a salad and sayings in the summer!

WILD. Come, Wanton, no fury; you see my aunt's angry.

WAN. So am I, sir, and yet can calmly reason this truth. Married widows, though chaste to the law and custom, yet their second Hymens make that, which was but dyeing in the first husband's bed, a stain in the second's sheets; where all their kindness and repeated embraces want their value, because they're sullied, and have lost their l.u.s.tre.

SAD. By this light, I'll go to school to Wanton; she has opened my eyes, and I begin to believe I have 'scaped miraculously. By this hand, wench, I was within an inch of being married to this danger; for what can we call these second submissions, but a tolerated lawful mercenariness which though it be a rude and harsh expression, yet your carriage deserves it?