A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Xi Part 47

STAINES. Yes, if it please your worship.

BUB. Well, Gervase, be a good servant, and you shall find me a dutiful master; and because you have been a gentleman, I will entertain you for my tutor in behaviour. Conduct me to my palace.

[_Exeunt omnes._

_Enter_ GERALDINE, _as in his study, reading_.

GERA. _As little children love to play with fire, And will not leave till they themselves do burn; So did I fondly dally with desire, Until love's flame grew hot; I could not turn, Nor well avoid, but sigh, and sob, and mourn, As children do, when as they feel the pain, Till tender mothers kiss them whole again._ Fie! what unsavoury stuff is this! but she, Whose mature judgment can distinguish things, Will thus conceit: tales, that are harshest told, Have smoothest meanings, and to speak are bold.

It is the first-born sonnet of my brain; Why[157] suck'd a white leaf from my black-lipp'd pen So sad employment?

_Enter_ WILL RASH _and_ LONGFIELD.

Yet the dry paper drinks it up as deep, As if it flow'd from Petrarch's cunning quill.

W. RASH. How now! what have we here? a sonnet and a satire, coupled together like my lady's dog and her monkey?

_As little children, &c._

GERA. Prythee, away: by the deepest oath that can be sworn, thou shalt not read it; by our friendship I conjure thee! prythee, let go.

W. RASH. Now, in the name of Cupid, what want'st thou? a pigeon, a dove, a mate, a turtle? Dost thou love fowl, ha?

_O no; she's fairer thrice than is the queen,_ _Who beauteous Venus called is by name._

Prythee, let me know what she is thou lovest, that I may shun her if I should chance to meet her.

LONG. Why, I'll tell you, sir, what she is, if you do not know.

W. RASH. No, not I, I protest.

LONG. Why, 'tis your sister.

W. RASH. How! my sister?

LONG. Yes, your eldest sister.

W. RASH. Now G.o.d bless the man: he had better choose a wench that has been bred and born in an alley: her tongue is a perpetual motion; thought is not so swift as it is; and, for pride, the woman that had her ruff poked by the devil is but a puritan to her.[158] Thou couldst never have fastened thy affection on a worse subject; she'll flout faster than a court waiting-woman in progress[159]; any man that comes in the way of honesty does she set her mark upon, that is, a villanous jest; for she is a kind of poetess, and will make ballads upon the calves of your legs. I prythee, let her alone, she'll never make a good wife for any man, unless it be a leather-dresser; for perhaps he in time may turn her.

GERA. Thou hast a privilege to utter this: But, by my life, my own blood could not 'scape A chastis.e.m.e.nt for thus profaning her Whose virtues sit above men's calumnies.

Had mine own brother spoke thus liberally,[160]

My fury should have taught him better manners.

LONG. No more words, as you fear a challenge.

W. RASH. I may tell thee in thine ear, I am glad to hear what I do; I pray G.o.d send her no worse husband, nor he no worse wife.

Do you hear, love, will you take your cloak and rapier, And walk abroad into some wholesome air?

I do much fear thy infection: good counsel, I see, will do no good on thee; but pursue the end, And to thy thoughts I'll prove a faithful friend. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ SPENDALL, NAN TICKLEMAN, SWEATMAN, PURSENET, _and a_ DRAWER.

SPEND. Here's a s.p.a.cious room to walk in: sirrah, set down the candle, and fetch us a quart of ipocras[161], and so we'll part.

SWEAT. Nay, faith, son, we'll have a pottle; let's ne'er be covetous in our young days.

SPEND. A pottle, sirrah; do you hear?

DRAWER. Yes, sir, you shall.

SPEND. How now, wench! how dost?

TICKLE. Faith, I am somewhat sick; yet I should be well enough if I had a new gown.

SPEND. Why, here's my hand; within these three days thou shalt have one.

SWEAT. And will you, son, remember me for a new forepart? by my troth, my old one is worn so bare, I am ashamed anybody should see't.

SPEND. Why, did I ever fail of my promise?

SWEAT. No, in sincerity, didst thou not.

_Enter_ DRAWER.

DRAWER. Here's a cup of rich ipocras. [_Exit._

SPEND. Here, sister, mother, and Master Pursenet: nay, good sir, be not so dejected; for, by this wine, to-morrow I will send you stuff for a new suit, and as much as shall line you a cloak clean through.

PURSE. I thank you, and shall study to deserve----

SPEND. Here, boy, fill, and hang that curmudgeon, that's good for n.o.body but himself.

PURSE. Heroicly spoken, by this candle! 'tis pity thou wert not made a lord.

SPEND. A lord? by this light, I do not think but to be Lord Mayor of London before I die, and have three pageants carried before me, besides a ship and an unicorn. 'Prentices may pray for that time; for whenever it happens, I will make another Shrove Tuesday[162] for them.

_Enter_ DRAWER.

DRAWER. Young Master Rash has sent you a quart of Malaga[163].

SPEND. Master Rash! zounds! how does he know that I am here?

DRAWER. Nay, I know not, sir.

SPEND. Know not! it comes through you and your rascally glib-tongued companions. 'Tis my master's son: a fine gentleman he is, and a boon companion: I must go see him.

[_Exit_ SPENDALL.

SWEAT. Boy, fill us a cup of your malaga, we'll drink to Master Spendall in his absence: there's not a finer spirit of a citizen within the walls. Here, Master Pursenet, you shall pledge him.