Burlesque Plays and Poems :: THE Knight of the Burning Pestle .

THE Knight of the Burning Pestle .

Henry Morley

——?——

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

The Prologue.
Then a Citizen.
The Citizen's Wife, and Ralph, her man, sitting below amidst the spectators.
A rich Merchant.
Jasper, his apprentice.
Master Humphrey, a friend to the Merchant.
Luce, the Merchant's daughter.
Mistress Merry-thought, Jasper's mother.
Michael, a second son of Mistress Merry-thought.
Old Mr. Merry-thought.
A Squire.
A Dwarf.
A Tapster.
A Boy that danceth and singeth.
An Host.
A Barber.
Two Knights.
A Captain.
A Sergeant.
Soldiers.

Enter Prologue.

From all that's near the court, from all that's great

Within the compass of the city walls,

We now have brought our scene.

Enter Citizen.

Cit. Hold your peace, good-man boy.

Pro. What do you mean, sir?

Cit. That you have no good meaning: these seven years there hath been plays at this house, I have observed it, you have still girds at citizens; and now you call your play "The London Merchant." Down with your title, boy, down with your title.

Pro. Are you a member of the noble city?

Cit. I am.

Pro. And a freeman?

Cit. Yea, and a grocer.

Pro. So, grocer, then by your sweet favour, we intend no abuse to the city.

Cit. No, sir, yes, sir, if you were not resolved to play the jacks, what need you study for new subjects, purposely to abuse your betters? Why could not you be contented, as well as others, with the legend of Whittington, or the Life and Death of Sir Thomas Gresham? with the building of the Royal Exchange? or the story of Queen Eleanor, with the rearing of London Bridge upon woolsacks?

Pro. You seem to be an understanding man; what would you have us do, sir?

Cit. Why, present something notably in honour of the commons of the city.

Pro. Why, what do you say to the Life and Death of fat Drake, or the repairing of Fleet privies?

Cit. I do not like that; but I will have a citizen, and he shall be of my own trade.

Pro. Oh, you should have told us your mind a month since, our play is ready to begin now.

Cit. 'Tis all one for that, I will have a grocer, and he shall do admirable things.

Pro. What will you have him do?

Cit. Marry I will have him——

Wife. Husband, husband! [Wife below.

Ralph. Peace, mistress. [Ralph below.

Wife. Hold thy peace, Ralph, I know what I do, I warrant ye. Husband, husband!

Cit. What sayest thou, cony?

Wife. Let him kill a lion with a pestle, husband; let him kill a lion with a pestle.

Cit. So he shall, I'll have him kill a lion with a pestle.

Wife. Husband, shall I come up, husband?

Cit. Ay, cony. Ralph, help your mistress up this way: pray, gentlemen, make her a little room; I pray you, sir, lend me your hand to help up my wife; I thank you, sir, so.

Wife. By your leave, gentlemen all, I'm something troublesome, I'm a stranger here, I was ne'er at one of these plays, as they say, before; but I should have seen "Jane Shore" once; and my husband hath promised me anytime this twelvemonth, to carry me to the "Bold Beauchamps," but in truth he did not; I pray you bear with me.

Cit. Boy, let my wife and I have a couple of stools, and then begin, and let the grocer do rare things.

Pro. But, sir, we have never a boy to play him, every one hath a part already.

Wife. Husband, husband, for God's sake let Ralph play him; beshrew me if I do not think he will go beyond them all.

Cit. Well remembered wife; come up, Ralph; I'll tell you, gentlemen, let them but lend him a suit of reparrel, and necessaries, and by Gad, if any of them all blow wind in the tail on him, I'll be hanged.

Wife. I pray you, youth, let him have a suit of reparrel: I'll be sworn, gentlemen, my husband tells you true, he will act you sometimes at our house, that all the neighbours cry out on him: he will fetch you up a couraging part so in the garret, that we are all as feared I warrant you, that we quake again. We fear our children with him, if they be never so unruly, do but cry "Ralph comes, Ralph comes" to them, and they'll be as quiet as lambs. Hold up thy head, Ralph, show the gentlemen what thou canst do; speak a huffing part, I warrant you the gentlemen will accept of it.

Cit. Do, Ralph, do.

Ralph. By heaven (methinks) it were an easy leap

To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon,

Or dive into the bottom of the sea,

Where never fathom line touched any ground,

And pluck drowned honour from the lake of hell.

Cit. How say you, gentlemen, is it not as I told you?

Wife. Nay, gentlemen, he hath played before, my husband says, "Musidorus," before the wardens of our company.

Cit. Ay, and he should have played "Jeronimo" with a shoemaker for a wager.

Pro. He shall have a suit of apparel, if he will go in.

Cit. In, Ralph, in, Ralph, and set out the grocers in their kind, if thou lovest me.

Wife. I warrant our Ralph will look finely when he's dressed.

Pro. But what will you have it called?

Cit. "The Grocer's Honour."

Pro. Methinks "The Knight of the Burning Pestle" were better.

Wife. I'll be sworn, husband, that's as good a name as can be.

Cit. Let it be so, begin, begin; my wife and I will sit down.

Pro. I pray you do.

Cit. What stately music have you? Have you shawns?

Pro. Shawns? No.

Cit. No? I'm a thief if my mind did not give me so. Ralph plays a stately part, and he must needs have shawns: I'll be at the charge of them myself rather than we'll be without them.

Pro. So you are like to be.

Cit. Why and so I will be, there's two shillings, let's have the waits of Southwark, they are as rare fellows as any are in England; and that will fetch them all o'er the water with a vengeance, as if they were mad.

Pro. You shall have them; will you sit down, then?

Cit. Ay, come, wife.

Wife. Sit you, merry all gentlemen, I'm bold to sit amongst you for my ease.

Pro. From all that's near the Court, from all that's great

Within the compass of the city walls,

We now have brought our scene. Fly far from hence

All private taxes, all immodest phrases,

Whatever may but show like vicious,

For wicked mirth never true pleasure brings,

But honest minds are pleased with honest things.

Thus much for that we do. But for Ralph's part you must answer for't yourself.

Cit. Take you no care for Ralph, he'll discharge himself, I warrant you.

Wife. I'faith, gentlemen, I'll give my word for Ralph.

ACT I.—Scene I.

Enter Merchant and Jasper his man.

Merch. Sirrah, I'll make you know you are my prentice,

And whom my charitable love redeem'd

Even from the fall of fortune; gave thee heat

And growth, to be what now thou art; new cast thee,

Adding the trust of all I have at home,

In foreign staples, or upon the sea,

To thy direction; tied the good opinions

Both of myself and friends to thy endeavours,—

So fair were thy beginnings. But with these,

As I remember, you had never charge

To love your master's daughter, and even then,

When I had found a wealthy husband for her,

I take it, sir, you had not; but, however,

I'll break the neck of that commission,

And make you know you're but a merchant's factor.

Jasp. Sir, I do lib'rally confess I'm yours,

Bound both by love and duty to your service:

In which my labour hath been all my profit.

I have not lost in bargain, nor delighted

To wear your honest gains upon my back,

Nor have I giv'n a pension to my blood,

Or lavishly in play consum'd your stock.

These, and the miseries that do attend them,

I dare with innocence proclaim are strangers

To all my temperate actions; for your daughter,

If there be any love to my deservings

Borne by her virtuous self, I cannot stop it:

Nor am I able to refrain her wishes.

She's private to herself, and best of knowledge

Whom she will make so happy as to sigh for.

Besides, I cannot think you mean to match her

Unto a fellow of so lame a presence,

One that hath little left of nature in him.

Merch. 'Tis very well, sir, I can tell your wisdom

How all this shall be cured.

Jasp. Your care becomes you.

Merch. And thus it shall be, sir; I here discharge you

My house and service. Take your liberty,

And when I want a son I'll send for you. [Exit.

Jasp. These be the fair rewards of them that love,

Oh you that live in freedom never prove

The travail of a mind led by desire.

Enter Luce.

Luce. Why how now, friend, struck with my father's thunder?

Jasp. Struck, and struck dead, unless the remedy

Be full of speed and virtue; I am now,

What I expected long, no more your father's.

Luce. But mine.

Jasp. But yours, and only yours I am,

That's all I have to keep me from the statute;

You dare be constant still?

Luce. O fear me not.

In this I dare be better than a woman.

Nor shall his anger nor his offers move me,

Were they both equal to a prince's power.

Jasp. You know my rival?

Luce. Yes, and love him dearly,

E'en as I love an ague, or foul weather;

I prithee, Jasper, fear him not.

Jasp. Oh no,

I do not mean to do him so much kindness.

But to our own desires: you know the plot

We both agreed on.

Luce. Yes, and will perform

My part exactly.

Jasp. I desire no more,

Farewell, and keep my heart, 'tis yours.

Luce. I take it,

He must do miracles, makes me forsake it. [Exeunt.

Cit. Fie upon 'em, little infidels, what a matter's here now?
Well, I'll be hang'd for a half-penny, if there be not some abomination knavery in this play; well, let 'em look to it, Ralph must come, and if there be any tricks a-brewing——

Wife. Let 'em brew and bake too, husband, a God's name. Ralph will find all out I warrant you, and they were older than they are. I pray, my pretty youth, is Ralph ready?

Boy. He will be presently.

Wife. Now I pray you make my commendations unto him, and withal, carry him this stick of liquorice; tell him his mistress sent it him, and bid him bite a piece, 'twill open his pipes the better, say.

Enter Merchant and Master Humphrey.

Merch. Come, sir, she's yours, upon my faith she's yours,

You have my hand; for other idle lets,

Between your hopes and her, thus with a wind

They're scattered, and no more. My wanton prentice,

That like a bladder blew himself with love,

I have let out, and sent him to discover

New masters yet unknown.

Hum. I thank you, sir,

Indeed I thank you, sir; and ere I stir,

It shall be known, however you do deem,

I am of gentle blood, and gentle seem.

Merch. Oh, sir, I know it certain.

Hum. Sir, my friend,

Although, as writers say, all things have end,

And that we call a pudding, hath his two,

Oh let it not seem strange, I pray to you,

If in this bloody simile, I put

My love, more endless than frail things or gut.

Wife. Husband, I prithee, sweet lamb, tell me one thing, but tell me truly. Stay, youths, I beseech you, till I question my husband.

Cit. What is it, mouse?

Wife. Sirrah, didst thou ever see a prettier child? how it behaves itself, I warrant you: and speaks and looks, and perts up the head? I pray you brother, with your favour, were you never one of Mr. Muncaster's scholars?

Cit. Chicken, I prithee heartily contain thyself, the childer are pretty childer, but when Ralph comes, lamb!

Wife. Ay, when Ralph comes, cony! Well, my youth, you may proceed.

Merch. Well, sir, you know my love, and rest, I hope,

Assured of my consent; get but my daughter's,

And wed her when you please; you must be bold,

And clap in close unto her; come, I know

You've language good enough to win a wench.

Wife. A toity tyrant, hath been an old stringer in his days,

I warrant him.

Hum. I take your gentle offer, and withal

Yield love again for love reciprocal.

Mar. What, Luce, within there?

Enter Luce.

Luce. .mleft10 Called you, sir?

Merch. I did;

Give entertainment to this gentleman;

And see you be not froward: to her, sir, [Exit.

My presence will but be an eyesore to you.

Hum. Fair mistress Luce, how do you, are you well?

Give me your hand, and then I pray you tell,

How doth your little sister, and your brother,

And whether you love me or any other?

Luce. Sir, these are quickly answered.

Hum. So they are,

Where women are not cruel; but how far

Is it now distant from the place we are in,

Unto that blessed place, your father's warren.

Luce. What makes you think of that, sir?

Hum. E'en that face,

For stealing rabbits whilome in that place,

God Cupid, or the keeper, I know not whether,

Unto my cost and charges brought you thither,

And there began——

Luce. Your game, sir.

Hum. Let no game,

Or anything that tendeth to the same,

Be evermore remembered, thou fair killer,

For whom I sate me down and brake my tiller.

Wife. There's a kind gentleman, I warrant you. When will you do as much for me, George?

Luce. Beshrew me, sir, I'm sorry for your losses,

But as the proverb says, I cannot cry;

I would you had not seen me.

Hum. So would I,

Unless you had more maw to do me good.

Luce. Why, cannot this strange passion be withstood?

Send for a constable, and raise the town.

Hum. Oh no, my valiant love will batter down

Millions of constables, and put to flight

E'en that great watch of Midsummer Day at night.

Luce. Beshrew me, sir, 'twere good I yielded then,

Weak women cannot hope, where valiant men

Have no resistance.

Hum. Yield then, I am full

Of pity, though I say it, and can pull

Out of my pocket thus a pair of gloves.

Look, Luce, look, the dog's tooth, nor the doves

Are not so white as these; and sweet they be,

And whipt about with silk, as you may see.

If you desire the price, shoot from your eye

A beam to this place, and you shall espy

F. S., which is to say, my sweetest honey,

They cost me three-and-twopence, and no money.

Luce. Well, sir, I take them kindly, and I thank you; what

What would you more?

Hum. Nothing.

Luce. Why then, farewell.

Hum. Nor so, nor so, for, lady, I must tell,

Before we part, for what we met together,

God grant me time, and patience, and fair weather.

Luce. Speak and declare your mind in terms so brief.

Hum. I shall; then first and foremost, for relief

I call to you, if that you can afford it,

I care not at what price, for on my word it

Shall be repaid again, although it cost me

More than I'll speak of now, for love hath tost me

In furious blanket like a tennis-ball,

And now I rise aloft, and now I fall.

Luce. Alas, good gentleman, alas the day.

Hum. I thank you heartily, and as I say,

Thus do I still continue without rest,

I' th' morning like a man, at night a beast,

Roaring and bellowing mine own disquiet,

That much I fear, forsaking of my diet,

Will bring me presently to that quandary,

I shall bid all adieu.

Luce. Now, by St. Mary

That were great pity.

Hum. So it were, beshrew me,

Then ease me, lusty Luce, and pity shew me.

Luce. Why, sir, you know my will is nothing worth

Without my father's grant; get his consent,

And then you may with full assurance try me.

Hum. The worshipful your sire will not deny me,

For I have ask'd him, and he hath replied,

Sweet Master Humphrey, Luce shall be thy bride.

Luce. Sweet Master Humphrey, then I am content.

Hum. And so am I, in truth.

Luce. Yet take me with you.

There is another clause must be annext,

And this it is I swore, and will perform it,

No man shall ever joy me as his wife,

But he that stole me hence. If you dare venture,

I'm yours; you need not fear, my father loves you,

If not, farewell, for ever.

Hum. Stay, nymph, stay,

I have a double gelding, coloured bay,

Sprung by his father from Barbarian kind,

Another for myself, though somewhat blind,

Yet true as trusty tree.

Luce. I'm satisfied,

And so I give my hand; our course must lie

Through Waltham Forest, where I have a friend

Will entertain us; so farewell, Sir Humphrey, [Exit Luce.

And think upon your business.

Hum. Though I die,

I am resolv'd to venture life and limb, [Exit Hum.

For one so young, so fair, so kind, so trim.

Wife. By my faith and troth, George, and as I am virtuous, it is e'en the kindest young man that ever trod on shoe-leather; well, go thy ways, if thou hast her not, 'tis not thy fault i'faith.

Cit. I prithee, mouse, be patient, a shall have her, or I'll make some of 'em smoke for't.

Wife. That's my good lamb, George; fie, this stinking tobacco kills me, would there were none in England. Now I pray, gentlemen, what good does this stinking tobacco do you? nothing; I warrant you make chimnies o' your faces. Oh, husband, husband, now, now there's Ralph, there's Ralph!

Enter Ralph, like a grocer in his shop, with two prentices, reading "Palmerin of England."

Cit. Peace, fool, let Ralph alone; hark you, Ralph, do not strain yourself too much at the first. Peace, begin, Ralph.

Ralph. Then Palmerin and Trineus, snatching their lances from their dwarfs, and clasping their helmets, galloped amain after the giant, and Palmerin having gotten a sight of him, came posting amain, saying, "Stay, traitorous thief, for thou mayst not so carry away her that is worth the greatest lord in the world;" and, with these words, gave him a blow on the shoulder, that he struck him beside his elephant; and Trineus coming to the knight that had Agricola behind him, set him soon beside his horse, with his neck broken in the fall, so that the princess, getting out of the throng, between joy and grief said, "All happy knight, the mirror of all such as follow arms, now may I be well assured of the love thou bearest me." I wonder why the kings do not raise an army of fourteen or fifteen hundred thousand men, as big as the army that the Prince of Portigo brought against Rosicler, and destroy these giants; they do much hurt to wandering damsels that go in quest of their knights.

Wife. Faith, husband, and Ralph says true, for they say the King of Portugal cannot sit at his meat but the giants and the ettins will come and snatch it from him.

Cit. Hold thy tongue; on, Ralph.

Ralph. And certainly those knights are much to be commended who, neglecting their possessions, wander with a squire and a dwarf through the deserts to relieve poor ladies.

Wife. Ay, by my faith are they, Ralph, let 'em say what they will, they are indeed; our knights neglect their possessions well enough, but they do not the rest.

Ralph. There are no such courteous and fair well-spoken knights in this age; they will call one the son of a sea-cook that Palmerin of England would have called fair sir; and one that Rosicler would have called right beautiful damsel they will call old witch.

Wife. I'll be sworn will they, Ralph; they have called me so an hundred times about a scurvy pipe of tobacco.

Ralph. But what brave spirit could be content to sit in his shop, with a flapet of wood, and a blue apron before him, selling Methridatam and Dragons' Water to visited houses, that might pursue feats of arms, and through his noble achievements procure such a famous history to be written of his heroic prowess?

Cit. Well said, Ralph; some more of those words, Ralph.

Wife. They go finely, by my troth.

Ralph. Why should I not then pursue this course, both for the credit of myself and our company? for amongst all the worthy books of achievements, I do not call to mind that I yet read of a grocer errant: I will be the said knight. Have you heard of any that hath wandered unfurnished of his squire and dwarf? My elder prentice Tim shall be my trusty squire, and little George my dwarf. Hence, my blue apron! Yet, in remembrance of my former trade, upon my shield shall be portrayed a burning pestle, and I will be called the Knight of the Burning Pestle.

Wife. Nay, I dare swear thou wilt not forget thy old trade, thou wert ever meek. Ralph! Tim!

Tim. Anon.

Ralph. My beloved squire, and George my dwarf, I charge you that from henceforth you never call me by any other name but the Right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle; and that you never call any female by the name of a woman or wench, but fair lady, if she have her desires; if not, distressed damsel; that you call all forests and heaths, deserts; and all horses, palfreys.

Wife. This is very fine: faith, do the gentlemen like Ralph, think you, husband?

Cit. Ay, I warrant thee, the players would give all the shoes in their shop for him.

Ralph. My beloved Squire Tim, stand out. Admit this were a desert, and over it a knight errant pricking, and I should bid you inquire of his intents, what would you say?

Tim. Sir, my master sent me to know whither you are riding?

Ralph. No, thus: Fair sir, the Right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle, commanded me to inquire upon what adventure you are bound, whether to relieve some distressed damsel or otherwise.

Cit. Dunder blockhead cannot remember.

Wife. I'faith, and Ralph told him on't before; all the gentlemen heard him; did he not, gentlemen, did not Ralph tell him on't?

George. Right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle, here is a distressed damsel to have a halfpenny-worth of pepper.

Wife. That's a good boy, see, the little boy can hit it; by my troth it's a fine child.

Ralph. Relieve her with all courteous language; now shut up shop: no more my prentice, but my trusty squire and dwarf, I must bespeak my shield, and arming pestle.

Cit. Go thy ways, Ralph, as I am a true man, thou art the best on 'em all.

Wife. Ralph! Ralph!

Ralph. What say you, mistress?

Wife. I prithee come again quickly, sweet Ralph.

Ralph. By-and-by. [Exit Ralph.

Enter Jasper and his mother Mistress Merry-thought.

Mist. Mer. Give thee my blessing? No, I'll never give thee my blessing, I'll see thee hang'd first; it shall ne'er be said I gave thee my blessing. Thou art thy father's own son, of the blood of the Merry-thoughts; I may curse the time that e'er I knew thy father, he hath spent all his own, and mine too, and when I tell him of it, he laughs and dances and sings, and cries "A merry heart lives long-a." And thou art a wast-thrift, and art run away from thy master, that lov'd thee well, and art come to me, and I have laid up a little for my younger son Michael, and thou thinkest to bezle that, but thou shalt never be able to do it. Come hither, Michael, come Michael, down on thy knees, thou shalt have my blessing.

Enter Michael.

Mich. I pray you, mother, pray to God to bless me.

Mist. Mer. God bless thee; but Jasper shall never have my blessing, he shall be hang'd first, shall he not, Michael? how sayest thou?

Mich. Yes forsooth, mother, and grace of God.

Mist. Mer. That's a good boy.

Wife. I'faith, it's a fine spoken child.

Jasp. Mother, though you forget a parent's love,

I must preserve the duty of a child.

I ran not from my master, nor return

To have your stock maintain my idleness.

Wife. Ungracious child I warrant him, hark how he chops logic with his mother; thou hadst best tell her she lies, do, tell her she lies.

Cit. If he were my son, I would hang him up by the heels, and flea him, and salt him, humpty halter-sack.

Jasp. My coming only is to beg your love,

Which I must ever, though I never gain it;

And howsoever you esteem of me,

There is no drop of blood hid in these veins,

But I remember well belongs to you,

That brought me forth, and would be glad for you

To rip them all again, and let it out.

Mist. Mer. I'faith I had sorrow enough for thee, God knows; but I'll hamper thee well enough: get thee in, thou vagabond, get thee in, and learn of thy brother Michael.

Old Mer. [within.] "Nose, nose, jolly red nose,

And who gave thee this jolly red nose?"

Mist. Mer. Hark, my husband he's singing and hoiting,

And I'm fain to cark and care, and all little enough.

Husband, Charles, Charles Merry-thought!

Enter Old Merry-thought.

Old Mer. "Nutmegs and ginger, cinnamon and cloves,

And they gave me this jolly red nose."

Mist. Mer. If you would consider your estate, you would have little list to sing, I wis.

Old Mer. It should never be considered, while it were an estate, if I thought it would spoil my singing.

Mist. Mer. But how wilt thou do, Charles? Thou art an old man, and thou canst not work, and thou hast not forty shillings left, and thou eatest good meat, and drinkest good drink, and laughest?

Old Mer. And will do.

Mist. Mer. But how wilt thou come by it, Charles?

Old Mer. How? Why how have I done hitherto these forty years? I never came into my dining-room, but at eleven and six o'clock I found excellent meat and drink o' th' table. My clothes were never worn out, but next morning a tailor brought me a new suit, and without question it will be so ever! Use makes perfectness; if all should fail, it is but a little straining myself extraordinary, and laugh myself to death.

Wife. It's a foolish old man this: is not he, George?

Cit. Yes, honey.

Wife. Give me a penny i' th' purse while I live, George.

Cit. Ay, by'r lady, honey hold thee there.

Mist. Mer. Well, Charles, you promised to provide for Jasper, and I have laid up for Michael. I pray you pay Jasper his portion, he's come home, and he shall not consume Michael's stock; he says his master turned him away, but I promise you truly, I think he ran away.

Wife. No indeed, Mistress Merry-thought, though he be a notable gallows, yet I'll assure you his master did turn him away, even in this place, 'twas i'faith within this half-hour, about his daughter; my husband was by.

Cit. Hang him, rogue, he served him well enough: love his master's daughter! By my troth, honey, if there were a thousand boys, thou wouldst spoil them all, with taking their parts; let his mother alone with him.

Wife. Ay, George, but yet truth is truth.

Old Mer. Where is Jasper? He's welcome, however, call him in, he shall have his portion; is he merry?

Mist. Mer. Ay, foul chive him, he is too merry. Jasper! Michael!

Enter Jasper and Michael.

Old Mer. Welcome, Jasper, though thou runn'st away, welcome! God bless thee! It is thy mother's mind thou should'st receive thy portion; thou hast been abroad, and I hope hast learnt experience enough to govern it. Thou art of sufficient years. Hold thy hand: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, there is ten shillings for thee; thrust thyself into the world with that, and take some settled course. If fortune cross thee, thou hast a retiring place; come home to me, I have twenty shillings left. Be a good husband, that is, wear ordinary clothes, eat the best meat, and drink the best drink; be merry, and give to the poor, and believe me, thou hast no end of thy goods.

Jasp. Long may you live free from all thought of ill,

And long have cause to be thus merry still.

But, father?

Old Mer. No more words, Jasper, get thee gone, thou hast my blessing, thy father's spirit upon thee. Farewell, Jasper.

"But yet, or e'er you part (oh cruel),

Kiss me, kiss me, sweeting,

Mine own dear jewel."

So, now begone, no words. [Exit Jasper.

Mist. Mer. So, Michael, now get thee gone too.

Mich. Yes forsooth, mother, but I'll have my father's blessing first.

Mist. Mer. No, Michael, 'tis no matter for his blessing; thou hast my blessing. Begone; I'll fetch my money and jewels and follow thee: I'll stay no longer with him I warrant thee. Truly, Charles, I'll be gone too.

Old Mer. What? You will not.

Mist. Mer. Yes indeed will I.

Old Mer. "Heyho, farewell, Nan,

I'll never trust wench more again, if I can."

Mist. Mer. You shall not think (when all your own is gone) to spend that I have been scraping up for Michael.

Old Mer. Farewell, good wife, I expect it not, all I have to do in this world is to be merry; which I shall, if the ground be not taken from me; and if it be,

"When earth and seas from me are reft,

The skies aloft for me are left." [Exeunt.

[Boy dances. Music.

Finis Actus Primi.

Wife. I'll be sworn he's a merry old gentleman for all that. Hark, hark, husband, hark, fiddles, fiddles; now surely they go finely. They say 'tis present death for these fiddlers to tune their rebecks before the great Turk's grace, is't not, George? But look, look, here's a youth dances; now, good youth, do a turn o' the toe. Sweetheart, i'faith I'll have Ralph come and do some of his gambols: he'll ride the wild mare, gentlemen, 'twould do your hearts good to see him: I thank you, kind youth, pray bid Ralph come.

Cit. Peace, conie. Sirrah, you scurvy boy, bid the players send Ralph, or an' they do not I'll tear some of their periwigs beside their heads; this is all riff-raff.

ACT II.—Scene I.

Enter Merchant and Humphrey.

Merch. And how faith? how goes it now, son Humphrey?

Hum. Right worshipful and my beloved friend,

And father dear, this matter's at an end.

Merch. 'Tis well, it should be so, I'm glad the girl

Is found so tractable.

Hum. Nay, she must whirl

From hence (and you must wink: for so I say,

The story tells), to-morrow before day.

Wife. George, dost thou think in thy conscience now 'twill be a match? tell me but what thou thinkest, sweet rogue, thou seest the poor gentleman (dear heart) how it labours and throbs I warrant you, to be at rest: I'll go move the father for't.

Cit. No, no, I prithee sit still, honeysuckle, thou'lt spoil all; if he deny him, I'll bring half a dozen good fellows myself, and in the shutting of an evening knock it up, and there's an end.

Wife. I'll buss thee for that i'faith, boy; well, George, well, you have been a wag in your days I warrant you; but God forgive you, and I do with all my heart.

Merch. How was it, son? you told me that to-morrow before daybreak, you must convey her hence.

Hum. I must, I must, and thus it is agreed,

Your daughter rides upon a brown bay steed,

I on a sorrel, which I bought of Brian,

The honest host of the Red Roaring Lion,

In Waltham situate: then if you may,

Consent in seemly sort, lest by delay,

The fatal sisters come, and do the office,

And then you'll sing another song.

Merch. Alas,

Why should you be thus full of grief to me,

That do as willing as yourself agree

To anything, so it be good and fair?

Then steal her when you will, if such a pleasure

Content you both, I'll sleep and never see it,

To make your joys more full: but tell me why

You may not here perform your marriage?

Wife. God's blessing o' thy soul, old man, i'faith thou art loath to part true hearts: I see a has her, George, and I'm glad on't; well, go thy ways, Humphrey, for a fair-spoken man. I believe thou hast not a fellow within the walls of London; an' I should say the suburbs too, I should not lie. Why dost not thou rejoice with me, George?

Cit. If I could but see Ralph again, I were as merry as mine host i'faith.

Hum. The cause you seem to ask, I thus declare;

Help me, O Muses nine: your daughter sware

A foolish oath, the more it was the pity:

Yet no one but myself within this city

Shall dare to say so, but a bold defiance

Shall meet him, were he of the noble science.

And yet she sware, and yet why did she swear?

Truly I cannot tell, unless it were

For her own ease; for sure sometimes an oath,

Being sworn thereafter, is like cordial broth:

And this it was she swore, never to marry,

But such a one whose mighty arm could carry

(As meaning me, for I am such a one)

Her bodily away through stick and stone,

Till both of us arrive, at her request,

Some ten miles off in the wide Waltham ForÉst.

Merch. If this be all, you shall not need to fear

Any denial in your love; proceed,

I'll neither follow nor repent the deed.

Hum. Good night, twenty good nights, and twenty more,

And twenty more good nights: that makes threescore. [Exeunt.

Enter Mistress Merry-thought and her son Michael.

Mist. Mer. Come, Michael, art thou not weary, boy?

Mich. No, forsooth, mother, not I.

Mist. Mer. Where be we now, child?

Mich. Indeed forsooth, mother, I cannot tell, unless we be at Mile End. Is not all the world Mile End, mother?

Mist. Mer. No, Michael, not all the world, boy; but I can assure thee, Michael, Mile End is a goodly matter. There has been a pitched field, my child, between the naughty Spaniels and the Englishmen; and the Spaniels ran away, Michael, and the Englishmen followed. My neighbour Coxstone was there, boy, and killed them all with a birding-piece.

Mich. Mother, forsooth.

Mist. Mer. What says my white boy?

Mich. Shall not my father go with us too?

Mist. Mer. No, Michael, let thy father go snick-up, he shall never come between a pair of sheets with me again while he lives: let him stay at home and sing for his supper, boy. Come, child, sit down, and I'll show my boy fine knacks indeed; look here, Michael, here's a ring, and here's a brooch, and here's a bracelet, and here's two rings more, and here's money, and gold by th' eye, my boy.

Mich. Shall I have all this, mother?

Mist. Mer. Ay, Michael, thou shalt have all, Michael.

Cit. How lik'st thou this, wench?

Wife. I cannot tell, I would have Ralph, George; I'll see no more else indeed la: and I pray you let the youths understand so much by word of mouth, for I will tell you truly, I'm afraid o' my boy. Come, come, George, let's be merry and wise, the child's a fatherless child, and say they should put him into a strait pair of gaskins, 'twere worse than knot-grass, he would never grow after it.

Enter Ralph, Squire, and Dwarf.

Cit. Here's Ralph, here's Ralph.

Wife. How do you, Ralph? You are welcome, Ralph, as I may say, it's a good boy, hold up thy head, and be not afraid, we are thy friends, Ralph. The gentlemen will praise thee, Ralph, if thou play'st thy part with audacity; begin, Ralph a God's name.

Ralph. My trusty squire, unlace my helm, give me my hat; where are we, or what desert might this be?

Dwarf. Mirror of knighthood, this is, as I take it, the perilous Waltham down, in whose bottom stands the enchanted valley.

Mist. Mer. Oh, Michael, we are betrayed, we are betrayed, here be giants; fly, boy; fly, boy; fly!

[Exeunt Mother and Michael.

Ralph. Lace on my helm again; what noise is this?

A gentle lady flying the embrace

Of some uncourteous knight: I will relieve her.

Go, squire, and say, the knight that wears this pestle

In honour of all ladies, swears revenge

Upon that recreant coward that pursues her;

Go, comfort her, and that same gentle squire

That bears her company.

Squire. I go, brave knight.

Ralph. My trusty dwarf and friend, reach me my shield,

And hold it while I swear, first by my knighthood,

Then by the soul of Amadis de Gaul,

My famous ancestor, then by my sword,

The beauteous Brionella girt about me,

By this bright burning pestle, of mine honour

The living trophy, and by all respect

Due to distressed damsels, here I vow

Never to end the quest of this fair lady,

And that forsaken squire, till by my valour

I gain their liberty.

Dwarf. Heaven bless the knight

That thus relieves poor errant gentlewomen. [Exit.

Wife. Ay marry, Ralph, this has some savour in it, I would see the proudest of them all offer to carry his books after him. But, George, I will not have him go away so soon, I shall be sick if he go away, that I shall; call Ralph again, George, call Ralph again: I prithee, sweetheart, let him come fight before me, and let's have some drums and trumpets, and let him kill all that comes near him, an' thou lov'st me, George.

Cit. Peace a little, bird, he shall kill them all, an' they were twenty more on 'em than there are.

Enter Jasper.

Jasp. Now, Fortune (if thou be'st not only ill),

Show me thy better face, and bring about

Thy desperate wheel, that I may climb at length

And stand; this is our place of meeting,

If love have any constancy. Oh age

Where only wealthy men are counted happy:

How shall I please thee? how deserve thy smiles,

When I am only rich in misery?

My father's blessing, and this little coin

Is my inheritance. A strong revenue!

From earth thou art, and unto earth I give thee.

There grow and multiply, whilst fresher air

Breeds me a fresher fortune. How, illusion! [Spies the casket.

What, hath the devil coined himself before me?

'Tis metal good, it rings well, I am waking,

And taking too I hope; now God's dear blessing

Upon his heart that left it here, 'tis mine;

These pearls, I take it, were not left for swine. [Exit.

Wife. I do not like this unthrifty youth should embezzle away the money; the poor gentlewoman his mother will have a heavy heart for it, God knows.

Cit. And reason good, sweetheart.

Wife. But let him go, I'll tell Ralph a tale in's ear, shall fetch him again with a wanion, I warrant him, if he be above ground; and besides, George, here be a number of sufficient gentlemen can witness, and myself, and yourself, and the musicians, if we be called in question; but here comes Ralph, George; thou shalt hear him speak, as he were an Emperal.

Enter Ralph and Dwarf.

Ralph. Comes not Sir Squire again?

Dwarf. Right courteous knight,

Your squire doth come, and with him comes the lady

Fair, and the squire of damsels, as I take it.

Enter Mistress Merry-thought, Michael, and Squire.

Ralph. Madam, if any service or devoir

Of a poor errant knight may right your wrongs,

Command it. I am prest to give you succour,

For to that holy end I bear my armour.

Mist. Mer. Alas, sir, I am a poor gentlewoman, and I have lost my money in this forest.

Ralph. Desert, you would say, lady, and not lost

Whilst I have sword and lance; dry up your tears,

Which ill befit the beauty of that face,

And tell the story, if I may request it,

Of your disastrous fortune.

Mist. Mer. Out alas, I left a thousand pound, a thousand pound, e'en all the money I had laid up for this youth, upon the sight of your mastership. You looked so grim, and as I may say it, saving your presence, more like a giant than a mortal man.

Ralph. I am as you are, lady, so are they

All mortal; but why weeps this gentle squire?

Mist. Mer. Has he not cause to weep do you think,
when he has lost his inheritance?

Ralph. Young hope of valour, weep not, I am here

That will confound thy foe, and pay it dear

Upon his coward head, that dare deny

DistressÉd squires and ladies equity.

I have but one horse, upon which shall ride

This lady fair behind me, and before

This courteous squire, fortune will give us more

Upon our next adventure; fairly speed

Beside us squire and dwarf, to do us need. [Exeunt.

Cit. Did not I tell you, Nell, what your man would do? by the faith of my body, wench, for clean action and good delivery, they may all cast their caps at him.

Wife. And so they may i'faith, for I dare speak it boldly, the twelve companies of London cannot match him, timber for timber. Well, George, an' he be not inveigled by some of these paltry players, I ha' much marvel; but, George, we ha' done our parts, if the boy have any grace to be thankful.

Cit. Yes, I warrant you, duckling.

Enter Humphrey and Luce.

Hum. Good Mistress Luce, however I in fault am

For your lame horse, you're welcome unto Waltham!

But which way now to go, or what to say

I know not truly, till it be broad day.

Luce. O fear not, Master Humphrey, I am guide

For this place good enough.

Hum. Then up and ride,

Or if it please you, walk for your repose,

Or sit, or if you will, go pluck a rose:

Either of which shall be indifferent

To your good friend and Humphrey, whose consent

Is so entangled ever to your will,

As the poor harmless horse is to the mill.

Luce. Faith and you say the word, we'll e'en sit down,

And take a nap.

Hum. 'Tis better in the town,

Where we may nap together; for believe me,

To sleep without a match would mickle grieve me.

Luce. You're merry, Master Humphrey.

Hum. So I am,

And have been ever merry from my dam.

Luce. Your nurse had the less labour.

Hum. Faith it may be,

Unless it were by chance I did bewray me.

Enter Jasper.

Jasp. Luce, dear friend Luce.

Luce. Here, Jasper.

Jasp. You are mine.

Hum. If it be so, my friend, you use me fine:

What do you think I am?

Jasp. An arrant noddy.

Hum. A word of obloquy; now by my body,

I'll tell thy master, for I know thee well.

Jasp. Nay, an' you be so forward for to tell,

Take that, and that, and tell him, sir, I gave it: [Beats him.

And say I paid you well.

Hum. O, sir, I have it,

And do confess the payment, pray be quiet.

Jasp. Go, get you to your night-cap and the diet,

To cure your beaten bones.

Luce. Alas, poor Humphrey,

Get thee some wholesome broth with sage and cumfry:

A little oil of roses, and a feather

To 'noint thy back withal.

Hum. When I came hither,

Would I had gone to Paris with John Dory.

Luce. Farewell, my pretty numps, I'm very sorry

I cannot bear thee company.

Hum. Farewell,

The devil's dam was ne'er so bang'd in hell. [Exeunt.

Manet Humphrey.

Wife. This young Jasper will prove me another things, a my conscience, and he may be suffered; George, dost not see, George, how a swaggers, and flies at the very heads a folks as he were a dragon; well, if I do not do his lesson for wronging the poor gentleman, I am no true woman; his friends that brought him up might have been better occupied, I wis, than have taught him these fegaries: he's e'en in the highway to the gallows, God bless him.

Cit. You're too bitter, cony, the young man may do well enough for all this.

Wife. Come hither, Master Humphrey, has he hurt you? Now beshrew his fingers for't; here, sweetheart, here's some green ginger for thee, now beshrew my heart, but a has peppernel in's head, as big as a pullet's egg; alas, sweet lamb, how thy temples beat; take the peace on him, sweetheart, take the peace on him.

Enter a Boy.

Cit. No, no, you talk like a foolish woman; I'll ha' Ralph fight with him, and swinge him up well-favour'dly. Sirrah boy, come hither, let Ralph come in and fight with Jasper.

Wife. Ay, and beat him well, he's an unhappy boy.

Boy. Sir, you must pardon us, the plot of our play lies contrary, and 'twill hazard the spoiling of our play.

Cit. Plot me no plots, I'll ha' Ralph come out; I'll make your house too hot for you else.

Boy. Why, sir, he shall; but if anything fall out of order, the gentlemen must pardon us.

Cit. Go your ways, goodman boy, I'll hold him a penny he shall have his belly full of fighting now. Ho, here comes Ralph; no more.

Enter Ralph, Mistress Merry-thought, Michael, Squire, and Dwarf.

Ralph. What knight is that, squire? Ask him if he keep

The passage bound by love of lady fair,

Or else but prickant.

Hum. Sir, I am no knight,

But a poor gentleman, that this same night,

Had stolen from me, upon yonder green,

My lovely wife, and suffered (to be seen

Yet extant on my shoulders) such a greeting,

That whilst I live, I shall think of that meeting.

Wife. Ay, Ralph, he beat him unmercifully, Ralph, an' thou spar'st him, Ralph, I would thou wert hang'd.

Cit. No more, wife, no more.

Ralph. Where is the caitiff wretch hath done this deed?

Lady, your pardon, that I may proceed

Upon the quest of this injurious knight.

And thou, fair squire, repute me not the worse,

In leaving the great 'venture of the purse

And the rich casket, till some better leisure.

Enter Jasper and Luce.

Hum. Here comes the broker hath purloined my treasure.

Ralph. Go, squire, and tell him I am here,

An errant knight at arms, to crave delivery

Of that fair lady to her own knight's arms.

If he deny, bid him take choice of ground,

And so defy him.

Squire. From the knight that bears

The golden pestle, I defy thee, knight,

Unless thou make fair restitution

Of that bright lady.

Jasp. Tell the knight that sent thee

He is an ass, and I will keep the wench,

And knock his head-piece.

Ralph. Knight, thou art but dead,

If thou recall not thy uncourteous terms.

Wife. Break his pate, Ralph; break his pate, Ralph, soundly.

Jasp. Come, knight, I'm ready for you, now your pestle

[Snatches away his pestle.

Shall try what temper, sir, your mortar's of;

With that he stood upright in his stirrups,

And gave the knight of the calves-skin such a knock,

That he forsook his horse, and down he fell,

And then he leaped upon him, and plucking off his helmet——

Hum. Nay, an' my noble knight be down so soon,

Though I can scarcely go, I needs must run——

[Exit Humphrey and Ralph.

Wife. Run, Ralph; run, Ralph; run for thy life, boy; Jasper comes, Jasper comes!

Jasp. Come, Luce, we must have other arms for you.

Humphrey and Golden Pestle, both adieu. [Exeunt.

Wife. Sure the devil, God bless us, is in this springald; why, George, didst ever see such a fire-drake? I am afraid my boy's miscarried; if he be, though he were Master Merry-thought's son a thousand times, if there be any law in England, I'll make some of them smart for't.

Cit. No, no, I have found out the matter, sweetheart. Jasper is enchanted as sure as we are here, he is enchanted; he could no more have stood in Ralph's hands than I can stand in my Lord Mayor's; I'll have a ring to discover all enchantments, and Ralph shall beat him yet. Be no more vexed, for it shall be so.

Enter Ralph, Squire, Dwarf, Mistress Merry-thought, and Michael.

Wife. Oh, husband, here's Ralph again; stay, Ralph, let me speak with thee; how dost thou, Ralph? Art thou not shrewdly hurt? The foul great lunges laid unmercifully on thee! There's some sugar-candy for thee; proceed, thou shalt have another bout with him.

Cit. If Ralph had him at the fencing-school, if he did not make a puppy of him, and drive him up and down the school, he should ne'er come in my shop more.

Mist. Mer. Truly, Master Knight of the Burning Pestle, I am weary.

Mich. Indeed la mother, and I'm very hungry.

Ralph. Take comfort, gentle dame, and your fair squire.

For in this desert there must needs be placed

Many strong castles, held by courteous knights,

And till I bring you safe to one of those

I swear by this my order ne'er to leave you.

Wife. Well said, Ralph: George, Ralph was ever comfortable, was he not?

Cit. Yes, duck.

Wife. I shall ne'er forget him. When we had lost our child, you know it was strayed almost alone to Puddle Wharf, and the criers were abroad for it, and there it had drowned itself but for a sculler, Ralph was the most comfortablest to me: "Peace mistress," says he, "let it go, I'll get you another as good." Did he not, George? Did he not say so?

Cit. Yes indeed did he, mouse.

Dwarf. I would we had a mess of pottage and a pot of drink, squire, and were going to bed.

Squire. Why, we are at Waltham town's end, and that's the Bell Inn.

Dwarf. Take courage, valiant knight, damsel, and squire,

I have discovered, not a stone's cast off,

An ancient castle held by the old knight

Of the most holy order of the Bell,

Who gives to all knights errant entertain;

There plenty is of food, and all prepar'd

By the white hands of his own lady dear.

He hath three squires that welcome all his guests:

The first, high Chamberlino, who will see

Our beds prepared, and bring us snowy sheets;

The second hight Tapstero, who will see

Our pots full fillÉd, and no froth therein;

The third, a gentle squire Ostlero hight,

Who will our palfries slick with wisps of straw,

And in the manger put them oats enough,

And never grease their teeth with candle-snuff.

Wife. That same dwarf's a pretty boy, but the squire's a grout-nold.

Ralph. Knock at the gates, my squire, with stately lance.

Enter Tapster.

Tap. Who's there, you're welcome, gentlemen; will you see a room?

Dwarf. Right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle, this is the squire Tapstero.

Ralph. Fair squire Tapstero, I a wandering knight,

Hight of the Burning Pestle, in the quest

Of this fair lady's casket and wrought purse,

Losing myself in this vast wilderness,

Am to this castle well by fortune brought,

Where hearing of the goodly entertain

Your knight of holy order of the Bell,

Gives to all damsels, and all errant knights,

I thought to knock, and now am bold to enter.

Tapst. An't please you see a chamber, you are very welcome. [Exeunt.

Wife. George, I would have something done, and I cannot tell what it is.

Cit. What is it, Nell?

Wife. Why, George, shall Ralph beat nobody again? Prithee, sweetheart, let him.

Cit. So he shall, Nell, and if I join with him, we'll knock them all.

Enter Humphrey and Merchant.

Wife. O George, here's Master Humphrey again now, that lost Mistress Luce, and Mistress Luce's father. Master Humphrey will do somebody's errand I warrant him.

Hum. Father, it's true in arms I ne'er shall clasp her,

For she is stol'n away by your man Jasper.

Wife. I thought he would tell him.

Mer. Unhappy that I am to lose my child:

Now I begin to think on Jasper's words,

Who oft hath urg'd to me thy foolishness;

Why didst thou let her go? thou lov'st her not,

That wouldst bring home thy life, and not bring her.

Hum. Father, forgive me, I shall tell you true,

Look on my shoulders, they are black and blue,

Whilst to and fro fair Luce and I were winding,

He came and basted me with a hedge binding.

Mer. Get men and horses straight, we will be there

Within this hour; you know the place again?

Hum. I know the place where he my loins did swaddle,

I'll get six horses, and to each a saddle.

Mer. Mean time I will go talk with Jasper's father. [Exeunt.

Wife. George, what wilt thou lay with me now, that Master Humphrey has not Mistress Luce yet; speak, George, what wilt thou lay with me?

Cit. No, Nell, I warrant thee, Jasper is at Puckeridge with her by this.

Wife. Nay, George, you must consider Mistress Luce's feet are tender, and besides, 'tis dark, and I promise you truly, I do not see how he should get out of Waltham Forest with her yet.

Cit. Nay, honey, what wilt thou lay with me that Ralph has her not yet?

Wife. I will not lay against Ralph, honny, because I have not spoken with him: but look, George, peace, here comes the merry old gentleman again.

Enter Old Merry-thought.

Old Mer. "When it was grown to dark midnight,

And all were fast asleep,

In came Margaret's grimly ghost,

And stood at William's feet."

I have money, and meat, and drink beforehand, till to-morrow at noon, why should I be sad? Methinks I have half a dozen jovial spirits within me, "I am three merry men, and three merry men." To what end should any man be sad in this world? Give me a man that when he goes to hanging cries "Troul the black bowl to me;" and a woman that will sing a catch in her travail. I have seen a man come by my door with a serious face, in a black cloak, without a hatband, carrying his head as if he look'd for pins in the street. I have look'd out of my window half a year after, and have spied that man's head upon London Bridge. 'Tis vile! Never trust a tailor that does not sing at his work, his mind is of nothing but filching.

Wife. Mark this, George, 'tis worth noting: Godfrey, my tailor, you know, never sings, and he had fourteen yards to make this gown: and I'll be sworn, Mistress Penistone, the draper's wife, had one made with twelve.

Old Mer. "'Tis mirth that fills the veins with blood,

More than wine, or sleep, or food,

Let each man keep his heart at ease,

No man dies of that disease!

He that would his body keep

From diseases, must not weep,

But whoever laughs and sings,

Never he his body brings

Into fevers, gouts, or rhumes,

Or lingringly his lungs consumes;

Or meets with achÉs in the bone,

Or catarrhs, or griping stone:

But contented lives by aye,

The more he laughs, the more he may."

Wife. Look, George. How say'st thou by this, George? Is't not a fine old man? Now God's blessing a thy sweet lips. When wilt thou be so merry, George? Faith, thou art the frowningst little thing, when thou art angry, in a country.

Enter Merchant.

Cit. Peace, coney; thou shalt see him took down too, I warrant thee. Here's Luce's father come now.

Old Mer. "As you came from Walsingham,

From the Holy Land,

There met you not with my true love

By the way as you came?"

Merch. Oh, Master Merry-thought! my daughter's gone!

This mirth becomes you not, my daughter's gone!

Old Mer. "Why an' if she be, what care I?

Or let her come, or go, or tarry."

Merch. Mock not my misery, it is your son

(Whom I have made my own, when all forsook him),

Has stol'n my only joy, my child, away.

Old Mer. "He set her on a milk-white steed,

And himself upon a gray,

He never turned his face again,

But he bore her quite away."

Merch. Unworthy of the kindness I have shown

To thee and thine; too late, I well perceive

Thou art consenting to my daughter's loss.

Old Mer. Your daughter? what a stir's here wi' y'r daughter?

Let her go, think no more on her, but sing loud. If both my

sons were on the gallows I would sing,

"Down, down, down: they fall

Down, and arise they never shall."

Merch. Oh, might but I behold her once again,

And she once more embrace her aged sire.

Old Mer. Fie, how scurvily this goes:

"And she once more embrace her aged sire?"

You'll make a dog on her, will ye; she cares much for her aged

sire, I warrant you.

"She cares not for her daddy, nor

She cares not for her mammy,

For she is, she is, she is my

Lord of Low-gaves lassie."

Merch. For this thy scorn I will pursue

That son of thine to death.

Old Merch. Do, and when you ha' killed him,

"Give him flowers enow, Palmer, give him flowers enow,

Give him red and white, blue, green, and yellow."

Merch. I'll fetch my daughter.

Old Mer. I'll hear no more o' your daughter, it spoils my mirth.

Merch. I say I'll fetch my daughter.

Old Mer. "Was never man for lady's sake, down, down,

Tormented as I, Sir Guy? de derry down,

For Lucy's sake, that lady bright, down, down,

As ever man beheld with eye? de derry down."

Merch. I'll be revenged, by heaven! [Exeunt.

Finis Actus Secundi. [Music.

Wife. How dost thou like this, George?

Cit. Why this is well, dovey; but if Ralph were hot once, thou shouldst see more.

Wife. The fiddlers go again, husband.

Cit. Ay, Nell, but this is scurvy music; I gave the young gallows money, and I think he has not got me the waits of Southwark. If I hear 'em not anon, I'll twing him by the ears. You musicians, play Baloo.

Wife. No, good George, let's have LachrymÆ.

Cit. Why this is it, bird.

Wife. Is't? All the better, George; now, sweet lamb, what story is that painted upon the cloth? the Confutation of Saint Paul?

Cit. No, lamb, that's Ralph and Lucrece.

Wife. Ralph and Lucrece? Which Ralph? our Ralph?

Cit. No, mouse, that was a Tartarian.

Wife. A Tartarian? well, I would the fiddlers had done, that we might see our Ralph again.

ACT III.—Scene I.

Enter Jasper and Luce.

Jasp. Come, my dear dear, though we have lost our way

We have not lost ourselves. Are you not weary

With this night's wand'ring, broken from your rest?

And frighted with the terror that attends

The darkness of this wild unpeopled place?

Luce. No, my best friend, I cannot either fear

Or entertain a weary thought, whilst you

(The end of all my full desires) stand by me.

Let them that lose their hopes, and live to languish

Amongst the number of forsaken lovers,

Tell the long weary steps and number Time,

Start at a shadow, and shrink up their blood,

Whilst I (possessed with all content and quiet)

Thus take my pretty love, and thus embrace him.

Jasp. You've caught me, Luce, so fast, that whilst I live

I shall become your faithful prisoner,

And wear these chains for ever. Come, sit down,

And rest your body, too too delicate

For these disturbances; so, will you sleep?

Come, do not be more able than you are,

I know you are not skilful in these watches,

For women are no soldiers; be not nice,

But take it, sleep, I say.

Luce. I cannot sleep,

Indeed I cannot, friend.

Jasp. Why then we'll sing,

And try how that will work upon our senses.

Luce. I'll sing, or say, or anything but sleep.

Jasp. Come, little mermaid, rob me of my heart

With that enchanting voice.

Luce. You mock me, Jasper.

Song.

Jasp. Tell me, dearest, what is love?

Luce. 'Tis a lightning from above,

'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire,

'Tis a boy they call Desire.

'Tis a smile

Doth beguile

Jasp. The poor hearts of men that prove.

Tell me more, are women true?

Luce. Some love change, and so do you.

Jasp. Are they fair, and never kind?

Luce. Yes, when men turn with the wind.

Jasp. Are they froward?

Luce. Ever toward

Those that love, to love anew.

Jasp. Dissemble it no more, I see the god

Of heavy sleep, lays on his heavy mace

Upon your eyelids.

Luce. I am very heavy.

Jasp. Sleep, sleep, and quiet rest crown thy sweet thoughts:

Keep from her fair blood all distempers, startings,

Horrors and fearful shapes: let all her dreams

Be joys and chaste delights, embraces, wishes,

And such new pleasures as the ravish'd soul

Gives to the senses. So, my charms have took.

Keep her, ye Powers Divine, whilst I contemplate

Upon the wealth and beauty of her mind.

She's only fair, and constant, only kind,

And only to thee, Jasper. O my joys!

Whither will you transport me? let not fulness

Of my poor buried hopes come up together,

And over-charge my spirits; I am weak.

Some say (however ill) the sea and women

Are govern'd by the moon, both ebb and flow,

Both full of changes: yet to them that know,

And truly judge, these but opinions are,

And heresies to bring on pleasing war

Between our tempers, that without these were

Both void of after-love, and present fear;

Which are the best of Cupid. O thou child!

Bred from despair, I dare not entertain thee,

Having a love without the faults of women,

And greater in her perfect goods than men;

Which to make good, and please myself the stronger,

Though certainly I'm certain of her love,

I'll try her, that the world and memory

May sing to after-times her constancy.

Luce, Luce, awake!

Luce. Why do you fright me, friend,

With those distempered looks? what makes your sword

Drawn in your hand? who hath offended you?

I prithee, Jasper, sleep, thou'rt wild with watching.

Jasp. Come, make your way to Heav'n, and bid the world,

With all the villanies that stick upon it,

Farewell; you're for another life.

Luce. Oh, Jasper,

How have my tender years committed evil,

Especially against the man I love,

Thus to be cropt untimely?

Jasp. Foolish girl,

Canst thou imagine I could love his daughter

That flung me from my fortune into nothing?

DischargÉd me his service, shut the doors

Upon my poverty, and scorn'd my prayers,

Sending me, like a boat without a mast,

To sink or swim? Come, by this hand you die,

I must have life and blood, to satisfy

Your father's wrongs.

Wife. Away, George, away, raise the watch at Ludgate, and bring a mittimus from the justice for this desperate villain. Now, I charge you, gentlemen, see the King's peace kept. O my heart, what a varlet's this, to offer manslaughter upon the harmless gentlewoman?

Cit. I warrant thee, sweetheart, we'll have him hampered.

Luce. Oh, Jasper! be not cruel,

If thou wilt kill me, smile, and do it quickly,

And let not many deaths appear before me.

I am a woman made of fear and love,

A weak, weak woman, kill not with thy eyes,

They shoot me through and through. Strike, I am ready,

And dying, still I love thee.

Enter Merchant, Humphrey, and his Men.

Merch. Where abouts?

Jasp. No more of this, now to myself again.

Hum. There, there he stands with sword, like martial knight,

Drawn in his hand, therefore beware the fight

You that are wise; for were I good Sir Bevis,

I would not stay his coming, by your leaves.

Merch. Sirrah, restore my daughter.

Jasp. Sirrah, no.

Merch. Upon him then.

Wife. So, down with him, down with him, down with him!

Cut him i'the leg, boys, cut him i'the leg!

Merch. Come your ways, minion, I'll provide a cage for you,

you're grown so tame. Horse her away.

Hum. Truly I am glad your forces have the day. [Exeunt.

Manet Jasper.

Jasp. They're gone, and I am hurt; my love is lost,

Never to get again. Oh, me unhappy!

Bleed, bleed and die——I cannot; oh, my folly!

Thou hast betrayed me; hope, where art thou fled?

Tell me, if thou be'st anywhere remaining.

Shall I but see my love again? Oh, no!

She will not deign to look upon her butcher,

Nor is it fit she should; yet I must venture.

Oh chance, or fortune, or whate'er thou art

That men adore for powerful, hear my cry,

And let me loving live, or losing die. [Exit.

Wife. Is he gone, George?

Cit. Ay, coney.

Wife. Marry, and let him go, sweetheart, by the faith a my body, a has put me into such a fright, that I tremble (as they say) as 'twere an aspin leaf. Look a my little finger, George, how it shakes: now, in truth, every member of my body is the worse for't.

Cit. Come, hug in mine arms, sweet mouse, he shall not fright thee any more; alas, mine own dear heart, how it quivers.

Enter Mistress Merry-thought, Ralph, Michael, Squire, Dwarf, Host, and a Tapster.

Wife. O Ralph, how dost thou, Ralph? How hast thou slept to-night? Has the knight used thee well?

Cit. Peace, Nell, let Ralph alone.

Tap. Master, the reckoning is not paid.

Ralph. Right courteous Knight, who for the orders' sake

Which thou hast ta'en, hang'st out the holy Bell,

As I this flaming pestle bear about,

We render thanks to your puissant self,

Your beauteous lady, and your gentle squires,

For thus refreshing of our wearied limbs,

Stiffened with hard achievements in wild desert.

Tap. Sir, there is twelve shillings to pay.

Ralph. Thou merry squire Tapstero, thanks to thee

For comforting our souls with double jug,

And if adventurous fortune prick thee forth,

Thou jovial squire, to follow feats of arms,

Take heed thou tender ev'ry lady's cause,

Ev'ry true knight, and ev'ry damsel fair,

But spill the blood of treacherous Saracens,

And false enchanters, that with magic spells

Have done to death full many a noble knight.

Host. Thou valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle, give ear to me: there is twelve shillings to pay, and as I am a true knight, I will not bate a penny.

Wife. George, I prithee tell me, must Ralph pay twelve shillings now?

Cit. No, Nell, no, nothing; but the old knight is merry with Ralph.

Wife. O, is't nothing else? Ralph will be as merry as he.

Host. Fair knight, I thank you for your noble offer; therefore, gentle knight, twelve shillings you must pay, or I must cap you.

Wife. Look, George, did not I tell thee as much? The knight of the Bell is in earnest. Ralph shall not be beholding to him; give him his money, George, and let him go snick-up.

Cit. Cap Ralph? No; hold your hand, Sir Knight of the Bell, there's your money. Have you anything to say to Ralph now? Cap Ralph?

Wife. I would you should know it, Ralph has friends that will not suffer him to be capt for ten times so much, and ten times to the end of that. Now take thy course, Ralph.

Mist. Mer. Come, Michael, thou and I will go home to thy father, he hath enough left to keep us a day or two, and we'll set fellows abroad to cry our purse and casket. Shall we, Michael?

Mich. Ay, I pray mother, in truth my feet are full of chilblains with travelling.

Wife. Faith and those chilblains are a foul trouble. Mistress Merry-thought, when your youth comes home let him rub all the soles of his feet and his heels and his ankles with a mouse-skin; or if none of you can catch a mouse, when he goes to bed let him roll his feet in the warm embers, and I warrant you he shall be well, and you may make him put his fingers between his toes and smell to them, it's very sovereign for his head if he be costive.

Mist. Mer. Master Knight of the Burning Pestle, my son Michael and I bid you farewell; I thank your worship heartily for your kindness.

Ralph. Farewell, fair lady, and your tender squire.

If pricking through these deserts, I do hear

Of any trait'rous knight, who, through his guile

Hath light upon your casket and your purse,

I will despoil him of them and restore them.

Mist. Mer. I thank your worship.

[Exit with Michael.

Ralph. Dwarf, bear my shield; squire, elevate my lance,

And now farewell, you knight of holy Bell.

Cit. Ay, ay, Ralph, all is paid.

Ralph. But yet before I go, speak, worthy knight,

If aught you do of sad adventures know,

Where errant knight may through his prowess win

Eternal fame, and free some gentle souls

From endless bonds of steel and lingring pain.

Host. Sirrah, go to Nick the Barber, and bid him prepare

himself, as I told you before, quickly.

Tap. I am gone, sir. [Exit Tapster.

Host. Sir Knight, this wilderness affordeth none

But the great venture, where full many a knight

Hath tried his prowess, and come off with shame,

And where I would not have you lose your life,

Against no man, but furious fiend of hell.

Ralph. Speak on, Sir Knight, tell what he is, and where:

For here I vow upon my blazing badge,

Never to lose a day in quietness;

But bread and water will I only eat,

And the green herb and rock shall be my couch,

Till I have quell'd that man, or beast, or fiend,

That works such damage to all errant knights.

Host. Not far from hence, near to a craggy cliff

At the north end of this distressÉd town,

There doth stand a lowly house

Ruggedly builded, and in it a cave,

In which an ugly giant now doth dwell,

YclepÉd Barbaroso: in his hand

He shakes a naked lance of purest steel,

With sleeves turned up, and he before him wears

A motley garment, to preserve his clothes

From blood of those knights which he massacres,

And ladies gent: without his door doth hang

A copper bason, on a prickant spear;

At which, no sooner gentle knights can knock,

But the shrill sound fierce Barbaroso hears,

And rushing forth, brings in the errant knight,

And sets him down in an enchanted chair:

Then with an engine, which he hath prepar'd

With forty teeth, he claws his courtly crown,

Next makes him wink, and underneath his chin

He plants a brazen piece of mighty bore,

And knocks his bullets round about his cheeks,

Whilst with his fingers, and an instrument

With which he snaps his hair off, he doth fill

The wretch's ears with a most hideous noise.

Thus every knight adventurer he doth trim,

And now no creature dares encounter him.

Ralph. In God's name, I will fight with him, kind sir.

Go but before me to this dismal cave

Where this huge giant Barbaroso dwells,

And by that virtue that brave Rosiclere,

That wicked brood of ugly giants slew,

And Palmerin Frannarco overthrew:

I doubt not but to curb this traitor foul,

And to the devil send his guilty soul.

Host. Brave sprighted knight, thus far I will perform

This your request, I'll bring you within sight

Of this most loathsome place, inhabited

By a more loathsome man: but dare not stay,

For his main force swoops all he sees away.

Ralph. Saint George! set on, before march squire and page. [Exeunt.

Wife. George, dost think Ralph will confound the giant?

Cit. I hold my cap to a farthing he does. Why, Nell, I saw him wrestle with the great Dutchman, and hurl him.

Wife. Faith and that Dutchman was a goodly man, if all things were answerable to his bigness. And yet they say there was a Scottishman higher than he, and that they two on a night met, and saw one another for nothing.

Cit. Nay, by your leave, Nell, Ninivie was better.

Wife. Ninivie, O that was the story of Joan and the Wall, was it not, George?

Cit. Yes, lamb.

Enter Mistress Merry-thought.

Wife. Look, George, here comes Mistress Merry-thought again, and I would have Ralph come and fight with the giant. I tell you true, I long to see't.

Cit. Good Mistress Merry-thought, be gone, I pray you for my sake; I pray you forbear a little, you shall have audience presently: I have a little business.

Wife. Mistress Merry-thought, if it please you to refrain your passion a little, till Ralph have dispatched the giant out of the way, we shall think ourselves much bound to thank you. I thank you, good Mistress Merry-thought. [Exit Mistress Merry-thought.

Enter a Boy.

Cit. Boy, come hither, send away Ralph and this master giant quickly.

Boy. In good faith, sir, we cannot; you'll utterly spoil our play, and make it to be hissed, and it cost money; you will not suffer us to go on with our plots. I pray, gentlemen, rule him.

Cit. Let him come now and dispatch this, and I'll trouble you no more.

Boy. Will you give me your hand of that?

Wife. Give him thy hand, George, do, and I'll kiss him; I warrant thee the youth means plainly.

Boy. I'll send him to you presently. [Exit Boy.

Wife. I thank you, little youth; faith the child hath a sweet breath. George, but I think it be troubled with the worms; Carduus Benedictus and mare's milk were the only thing in the world for it. Oh, Ralph's here, George! God send thee good luck, Ralph!

Enter Ralph, Host, Squire and Dwarf.

Host. Puissant knight, yonder his mansion is,

Lo, where the spear and copper bason are,

Behold the string on which hangs many a tooth,

Drawn from the gentle jaw of wandering knights;

I dare not stay to sound, he will appear. [Exit Host.

Ralph. O faint not, heart: Susan, my lady dear,

The cobbler's maid in Milk Street, for whose sake

I take these arms, O let the thought of thee

Carry thy knight through all adventurous deed,

And in the honour of thy beauteous self,

May I destroy this monster Barbaroso.

Knock, squire, upon the bason till it break

With the shrill strokes, or till the giant speak.

Enter Barbaroso.

Wife. O George, the giant, the giant! Now, Ralph, for thy life!

Bar. What fond unknowing wight is this, that dares

So rudely knock at Barbaroso's cell,

Where no man comes, but leaves his fleece behind?

Ralph. I, traitorous caitiff, who am sent by fate

To punish all the sad enormities

Thou hast committed against ladies gent,

And errant knights, traitor to God and men.

Prepare thyself, this is the dismal hour

Appointed for thee to give strict account

Of all thy beastly treacherous villanies.

Bar. Foolhardy knight, full soon thou shalt aby

This fond reproach, thy body will I bang, [He takes down his pole.

And lo, upon that string thy teeth shall hang;

Prepare thyself, for dead soon shalt thou be.

Ralph. Saint George for me! [They fight.

Bar. Gargantua for me!

Wife. To him, Ralph, to him: hold up the giant, set out thy leg before, Ralph!

Cit. Falsify a blow, Ralph, falsify a blow; the giant lies open on the left side.

Wife. Bear't off, bear't off still; there, boy. Oh, Ralph's almost down, Ralph's almost down!

Ralph. Susan, inspire me, now have up again.

Wife. Up, up, up, up, up, so, Ralph; down with him, down with him, Ralph!

Cit. Fetch him over the hip, boy.

Wife. There, boy; kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, Ralph!

Cit. No, Ralph, get all out of him first.

Ralph. Presumptuous man, see to what desperate end

Thy treachery hath brought thee; the just gods,

Who never prosper those that do despise them,

For all the villanies which thou hast done

To knights and ladies, now have paid thee home

By my stiff arm, a knight adventurous.

But say, vile wretch, before I send thy soul

To sad Avernus, whither it must go,

What captives hold'st thou in thy sable cave?

Bar. Go in and free them all, thou hast the day.

Ralph. Go, squire and dwarf, search in this dreadful cave,

And free the wretched prisoners from their bonds.

[Exeunt Squire and Dwarf.

Bar. I crave for mercy as thou art a knight,

And scorn'st to spill the blood of those that beg.

Ralph. Thou showest no mercy, nor shalt thou have any;

Prepare thyself, for thou shalt surely die.

Enter Squire, leading one winking, with a bason under his chin.

Squire. Behold, brave knight, here is one prisoner,

Whom this wild man hath used as you see.

Wife. This is the wisest word I hear the squire speak.

Ralph. Speak what thou art, and how thou hast been us'd,

That I may give him condign punishment.

1st Knight. I am a knight that took my journey post

Northward from London, and in courteous wise,

This giant train'd me to his loathsome den,

Under pretence of killing of the itch,

And all my body with a powder strew'd,

That smarts and stings; and cut away my beard,

And my curl'd locks wherein were ribands ty'd,

And with a water washt my tender eyes

(Whilst up and down about me still he skipt),

Whose virtue is, that till my eyes be wip'd

With a dry cloth, for this my foul disgrace,

I shall not dare to look a dog i' th' face.

Wife. Alas, poor knight. Relieve him, Ralph; relieve poor knights whilst you live.

Ralph. My trusty squire, convey him to the town,

Where he may find relief; adieu, fair knight. [Exit Knight.

Enter Dwarf, leading one with a patch over his nose.

Dwarf. Puissant Knight of the Burning Pestle hight,

See here another wretch, whom this foul beast

Hath scotch'd and scor'd in this inhuman wise.

Ralph. Speak me thy name, and eke thy place of birth,

And what hath been thy usage in this cave.

2nd Knight. I am a knight, Sir Partle is my name,

And by my birth I am a Londoner,

Free by my copy, but my ancestors

Were Frenchmen all; and riding hard this way,

Upon a trotting horse, my bones did ache,

And I, faint knight, to ease my weary limbs,

Light at this cave, when straight this furious fiend,

With sharpest instrument of purest steel,

Did cut the gristle of my nose away,

And in the place this velvet plaster stands.

Relieve me, gentle knight, out of his hands.

Wife. Good Ralph, relieve Sir Partle, and send him away, for in truth his breath stinks.

Ralph. Convey him straight after the other knight. Sir Partle, fare you well.

3rd Knight. Kind sir, good night. [Exit.

[Cries within.

Man. Deliver us!

Wom. Deliver us!

Wife. Hark, George, what a woful cry there is. I think some one is ill there.

Man. Deliver us!

Wom. Deliver us!

Ralph. What ghastly noise is this? Speak, Barbaroso,

Or by this blazing steel thy head goes off.

Bar. Prisoners of mine, whom I in diet keep.

Send lower down into the cave,

And in a tub that's heated smoking hot,

There may they find them, and deliver them.

Ralph. Run, squire and dwarf, deliver them with speed.

[Exeunt Squire and Dwarf.

Wife. But will not Ralph kill this giant? Surely I am afraid if he let him go he will do as much hurt as ever he did.

Cit. Not so, mouse, neither, if he could convert him.

Wife. Ay, George, if he could convert him; but a giant is not so soon converted as one of us ordinary people. There's a pretty tale of a witch, that had the devil's mark about her, God bless us, that had a giant to her son, that was call'd Lob-lie-by-the-fire. Didst never hear it, George?

Enter Squire leading a man with a glass of lotion in his hand, and the Dwarf leading a woman, with diet bread and drink.

Cit. Peace, Nell, here come the prisoners.

Dwarf. Here be these pined wretches, manful knight,

That for these six weeks have not seen a wight.

Ralph. Deliver what you are, and how you came

To this sad cave, and what your usage was?

Man. I am an errant knight that followed arms,

With spear and shield, and in my tender years

I strucken was with Cupid's fiery shaft,

And fell in love with this my lady dear,

And stole her from her friends in Turnball Street,

And bore her up and down from town to town,

Where we did eat and drink, and music hear;

Till at the length at this unhappy town

We did arrive, and coming to this cave,

This beast us caught, and put us in a tub,

Where we this two months sweat, and should have done

Another month if you had not relieved us.

Wom. This bread and water hath our diet been,

Together with a rib cut from a neck

Of burned mutton; hard hath been our fare.

Release us from this ugly giant's snare.

Man. This hath been all the food we have receiv'd;

But only twice a day, for novelty,

He gave a spoonful of this hearty broth [Pulls out a syringe.

To each of us, through this same slender quill.

Ralph. From this infernal monster you shall go,

That useth knights and gentle ladies so.

Convey them hence. [Exeunt Man and Woman.

Cit. Mouse, I can tell thee, the gentlemen like Ralph.

Wife. Ay, George, I see it well enough. Gentlemen, I thank you all heartily for gracing my man Ralph, and I promise you, you shall see him oftener.

Bar. Mercy, great knight, I do recant my ill,

And henceforth never gentle blood will spill.

Ralph. I give thee mercy, but yet thou shalt swear

Upon my burning pestle to perform

Thy promise utter'd.

Bar. I swear and kiss.

Ralph. Depart then, and amend.

Come, squire and dwarf, the sun grows towards his set,

And we have many more adventures yet. [Exeunt.

Cit. Now Ralph is in this humour, I know he would ha' beaten all the boys in the house, if they had been set on him.

Wife. Ay, George, but it is well as it is. I warrant you the gentlemen do consider what it is to overthrow a giant. But look, George, here comes Mistress Merry-thought, and her son Michael. Now you are welcome, Mistress Merry-thought; now Ralph has done, you may go on.

Enter Mistress Merry-thought and Michael.

Mist. Mer. Mick, my boy.

Mick. Ay forsooth, mother.

Mist. Mer. Be merry, Mick, we are at home now, where I warrant you, you shall find the house flung out of the windows. Hark! hey dogs, hey, this is the old world i'faith with my husband. I'll get in among them, I'll play them such lesson, that they shall have little list to come scraping hither again. Why, Master Merry-thought, husband, Charles Merry-thought!

Old Mer. [within.] "If you will sing and dance and laugh,

And holloa, and laugh again;

And then cry, there boys, there; why then,

One, two, three, and four,

We shall be merry within this hour."

Mist. Mer. Why, Charles, do you not know your own natural wife? I say, open the door, and turn me out those mangy companions; 'tis more than time that they were fellow like with you. You are a gentleman, Charles, and an old man, and father of two children; and I myself, though I say it, by my mother's side, niece to a worshipful gentleman, and a conductor; he has been three times in his Majesty's service at Chester, and is now the fourth time, God bless him, and his charge upon his journey.

Old Mer. "Go from my window, love, go;

Go from my window, my dear,

The wind and the rain will drive you back again,

You cannot be lodgÉd here."

Hark you, Mistress Merry-thought, you that walk upon adventures, and forsake your husband because he sings with never a penny in his purse; what, shall I think myself the worse? Faith no, I'll be merry. You come not here, here's none but lads of mettle, lives of a hundred years and upwards; care never drunk their bloods, nor want made them warble,

"Heigh-ho, my heart is heavy."

Mist. Mer. Why, Master Merry-thought, what am I that you should laugh me to scorn thus abruptly? Am I not your fellow-feeler, as we may say, in all our miseries? your comforter in health and sickness? Have I not brought you children? Are they not like you, Charles? Look upon thine own image, hard-hearted man; and yet for all this——

Old Mer. [within.] "Begone, begone, my juggy, my puggy,

Begone, my love, my dear;

The weather is warm,

'Twill do thee no harm,

Thou canst not be lodged here."

Be merry, boys, some light music, and more wine.

Wife. He's not in earnest, I hope, George, is he?

Cit. What if he be, sweetheart?

Wife. Marry if he be, George, I'll make bold to tell him he's an ingrant old man to use his wife so scurvily.

Cit. What, how does he use her, honey?

Wife. Marry come up, Sir Sauce-box; I think you'll take his part, will you not? Lord, how hot are you grown; you are a fine man, an' you had a fine dog, it becomes you sweetly.

Cit. Nay, prithee Nell, chide not; for as I am an honest man, and a true Christian grocer, I do not like his doings.

Wife. I cry you mercy then, George; you know we are all frail, and full of infirmities. D'ye hear, Master Merry-thought, may I crave a word with you?

Old Mer. [within.] Strike up lively, lads.

Wife. I had not thought in truth, Master Merry-thought, that a man of your age and discretion, as I may say, being a gentleman, and therefore known by your gentle conditions, could have used so little respect to the weakness of his wife; for your wife is your own flesh, the staff of your age, your yoke-fellow, with whose help you draw through the mire of this transitory world. Nay, she is your own rib. And again——

Old Mer. "I come not hither for thee to teach,

I have no pulpit for thee to preach,

As thou art a lady gay."

Wife. Marry with a vengeance! I am heartily sorry for the poor gentlewoman; but if I were thy wife, i'faith, gray beard, i'faith——

Cit. I prithee, sweet honeysuckle, be content.

Wife. Give me such words that am a gentlewoman born, hang him, hoary rascal! Get me some drink, George, I am almost molten with fretting. Now beshrew his knave's heart for it.

Old Mer. Play me a light lavalto. Come, be frolic, fill the good fellows wine.

Mist. Mer. Why, Master Merry-thought, are you disposed to make me wait here. You'll open, I hope; I'll fetch them that shall open else.

Old Mer. Good woman, if you will sing, I'll give you something, if not——

Song.

You are no love for me, Marget,

I am no love for you.

Come aloft, boys, aloft.

Mist. Mer. Now a churl's fist in your teeth, sir. Come, Mick, we'll not trouble him, a shall not ding us i' th' teeth with his bread and his broth, that he shall not. Come, boy, I'll provide for thee, I warrant thee. We'll go to Master Venterwels the merchant; I'll get his letter to mine host of the Bell in Waltham, there I'll place thee with the tapster; will not that do well for thee, Mick? And let me alone for that old rascally knave, your father; I'll use him in his kind, I warrant ye.

Wife. Come, George, where's the beer?

Cit. Here, love.

Wife. This old fumigating fellow will not out of my mind yet. Gentlemen, I'll begin to you all, I desire more of your acquaintance, with all my heart. Fill the gentlemen some beer, George.

ACT IV.—Scene I.

Boy danceth.

Wife. Look, George, the little boy's come again; methinks he looks something like the Prince of Orange, in his long stocking, if he had a little harness about his neck. George, I will have him dance Fading; Fading is a fine jig, I'll assure you, gentlemen. Begin, brother; now a capers, sweetheart; now a turn a th' toe, and then tumble. Cannot you tumble, youth?

Boy. No, indeed, forsooth.

Wife. Nor eat fire?

Boy. Neither.

Wife. Why, then I thank you heartily; there's two pence to buy you points withal.

Enter Jasper and Boy.

Jasp. There, boy, deliver this. But do it well.

Hast thou provided me four lusty fellows,

Able to carry me? And art thou perfect

In all thy business?

Boy. Sir, you need not fear,

I have my lesson here, and cannot miss it:

The men are ready for you, and what else

Pertains to this employment.

Jasp. There, my boy,

Take it, but buy no land.

Boy. Faith, sir, 'twere rare

To see so young a purchaser. I fly,

And on my wings carry your destiny. [Exit.

Jasp. Go, and be happy. Now my latest hope

Forsake me not, but fling thy anchor out,

And let it hold. Stand fixt, thou rolling stone,

Till I possess my dearest. Hear me, all

You Powers, that rule in men, celestial. [Exit.

Wife. Go thy ways, thou art as crooked a sprig as ever grew in London. I warrant him he'll come to some naughty end or other; for his looks say no less. Besides, his father (you know, George) is none of the best; you heard him take me up like a gill flirt, and sing bad songs upon me. But i'faith, if I live, George——

Cit. Let me alone, sweetheart, I have a trick in my head shall lodge him in the Arches for one year, and make him sing Peccavi, ere I leave him, and yet he shall never know who hurt him neither.

Wife. Do, my good George, do.

Cit. What shall we have Ralph do now, boy?

Boy. You shall have what you will, sir.

Cit. Why so, sir, go and fetch me him then, and let the Sophy of Persia come and christen him a child.

Boy. Believe me, sir, that will not do so well; 'tis stale, it has been had before at the Red Bull.

Wife. George, let Ralph travel over great hills, and let him be weary, and come to the King of Cracovia's house, covered with black velvet, and there let the king's daughter stand in her window all in beaten gold, combing her golden locks with a comb of ivory, and let her spy Ralph, and fall in love with him, and come down to him, and carry him into her father's house, and then let Ralph talk with her.

Cit. Well said, Nell, it shall be so. Boy, let's ha't done quickly.

Boy. Sir, if you will imagine all this to be done already, you shall hear them talk together. But we cannot present a house covered with black velvet, and a lady in beaten gold.

Cit. Sir Boy, let's ha't as you can then.

Boy. Besides, it will show ill-favouredly to have a grocer's prentice to court a king's daughter.

Cit. Will it so, sir? You are well read in histories: I pray you what was Sir Dagonet? Was not he prentice to a grocer in London? Read the play of the "Four Prentices of London," where they toss their pikes so. I pray you fetch him in, sir; fetch him in.

Boy. It shall be done, it is not our fault, gentlemen. [Exit.

Wife. Now we shall see fine doings, I warrant thee, George. Oh, here they come; how prettily the King of Cracovia's daughter is drest.

Enter Ralph and the Lady, Squire and Dwarf.

Cit. Ay, Nell, it is the fashion of that country, I warrant thee.

Lady. Welcome, Sir Knight, unto my father's court,

King of Moldavia, unto me Pompiona,

His daughter dear. But sure you do not like

Your entertainment, that will stay with us

No longer but a night.

Ralph. Damsel right fair,

I am on many sad adventures bound,

That call me forth into the wilderness.

Besides, my horse's back is something gall'd,

Which will enforce me ride a sober pace.

But many thanks, fair lady, be to you,

For using errant knight with courtesy.

Lady. But say, brave knight, what is your name and birth?

Ralph. My name is Ralph. I am an Englishman,

As true as steel, a hearty Englishman,

And prentice to a grocer in the Strand,

By deed indent, of which I have one part:

But fortune calling me to follow arms,

On me this holy order I did take,

Of Burning Pestle, which in all men's eyes

I bear, confounding ladies' enemies.

Lady. Oft have I heard of your brave countrymen,

And fertile soil, and store of wholesome food;

My father oft will tell me of a drink

In England found, and Nipitato call'd,

Which driveth all the sorrow from your hearts.

Ralph. Lady, 'tis true, you need not lay your lips

To better Nipitato than there is.

Lady. And of a wildfowl he will often speak,

Which powdered beef and mustard called is:

For there have been great wars 'twixt us and you;

But truly, Ralph, it was not long of me.

Tell me then, Ralph, could you contented be

To wear a lady's favour in your shield?

Ralph. I am a knight of a religious order,

And will not wear a favour of a lady

That trusts in Antichrist, and false traditions.

Cit. Well said, Ralph, convert her if thou canst.

Ralph. Besides, I have a lady of my own

In merry England; for whose virtuous sake

I took these arms, and Susan is her name,

A cobbler's maid in Milk Street, whom I vow

Ne'er to forsake, whilst life and pestle last.

Lady. Happy that cobbling dame, whoe'er she be,

That for her own (dear Ralph) hath gotten thee.

Unhappy I, that ne'er shall see the day

To see thee more, that bear'st my heart away.

Ralph. Lady, farewell; I must needs take my leave.

Lady. Hard-hearted Ralph, that ladies dost deceive.

Cit. Hark thee, Ralph, there's money for thee; give something in the King of Cracovia's house; be not beholding to him.

Ralph. Lady, before I go, I must remember

Your father's officers, who, truth to tell,

Have been about me very diligent:

Hold up thy snowy hand, thou princely maid.

There's twelve pence for your father's chamberlain,

And there's another shilling for his cook,

For, by my troth, the goose was roasted well.

And twelve pence for your father's horse-keeper,

For 'nointing my horse back; and for his butter,

There is another shilling; to the maid

That wash'd my boot-hose, there's an English groat,

And two pence to the boy that wip'd my boots.

And last, fair lady, there is for your self

Three pence to buy you pins at Bumbo Fair.

Lady. Full many thanks, and I will keep them safe

Till all the heads be off, for thy sake, Ralph.

Ralph. Advance, my squire and dwarf, I cannot stay.

Lady. Thou kill'st my heart in parting thus away. [Exeunt.

Wife. I commend Ralph yet, that he will not stoop to a Cracovian; there's properer women in London than any are there, I wis. But here comes Master Humphrey and his love again; now, George.

Cit. Ay, bird, peace.

Enter Merchant, Humphrey, Luce, and Boy.

Merch. Go, get you up, I will not be entreated.

And, gossip mine, I'll keep you sure hereafter

From gadding out again with boys and unthrifts;

Come, they are women's tears, I know your fashion.

Go, sirrah, lock her in, and keep the key [Exeunt Luce and Boy.

Safe as your life. Now, my son Humphrey,

You may both rest assurÉd of my love

In this, and reap your own desire.

Humph. I see this love you speak of, through your daughter,

Although the hole be little, and hereafter

Will yield the like in all I may or can,

Fitting a Christian and a gentleman.

Merch. I do believe you, my good son, and thank you,

For 'twere an impudence to think you flattered.

Humph. It were indeed, but shall I tell you why,

I have been beaten twice about the lie.

Merch. Well, son, no more of compliment; my daughter

Is yours again: appoint the time and take her.

We'll have no stealing for it, I myself

And some few of our friends will see you married.

Humph. I would you would i'faith, for be it known

I ever was afraid to lie alone.

Merch. Some three days hence, then.

Humph. Three days, let me see,

'Tis somewhat of the most, yet I agree,

Because I mean against the 'pointed day,

To visit all my friends in new array.

Enter Servant.

Serv. Sir, there's a gentlewoman without would speak with your worship.

Merch. What is she?

Serv. Sir, I asked her not.

Merch. Bid her come in.

Enter Mistress Merry-thought and Michael.

Mist. Mer. Peace be to your worship, I come as a poor suitor to you, sir, in the behalf of this child.

Merch. Are you not wife to Merry-thought?

Mist. Mer. Yes truly, would I had ne'er seen his eyes, he has undone me and himself, and his children, and there he lives at home and sings and hoits, and revels among his drunken companions; but I warrant you, where to get a penny to put bread in his mouth, he knows not. And therefore if it like your worship, I would entreat your letter to the honest host of the Bell in Waltham, that I may place my child under the protection of his tapster, in some settled course of life.

Merch. I'm glad the Heav'ns have heard my prayers. Thy husband,

When I was ripe in sorrows, laughed at me;

Thy son, like an unthankful wretch, I having

Redeem'd him from his fall, and made him mine,

To show his love again, first stole my daughter:

Then wrong'd this gentleman, and last of all

Gave me that grief, had almost brought me down

Unto my grave, had not a stronger hand

Reliev'd my sorrows. Go, and weep as I did,

And be unpitied, for here I profess

An everlasting hate to all thy name.

Mist. Mer. Will you so, sir, how say you by that? Come, Mick, let him keep his wind to cool his pottage; we'll go to thy nurse's, Mick, she knits silk stockings, boy; and we'll knit too, boy, and be beholding to none of them all.

[Exeunt Michael and Mother.

Enter a Boy with a letter.

Boy. Sir, I take it you are the master of this house.

Merch. How then, boy?

Boy. Then to yourself, sir, comes this letter.

Merch. From whom, my pretty boy?

Boy. From him that was your servant, but no more

Shall that name ever be, for he is dead.

Grief of your purchas'd anger broke his heart;

I saw him die, and from his hand receiv'd

This paper, with a charge to bring it hither;

Read it, and satisfy yourself in all.

Letter.

Merch. Sir, that I have wronged your love I must confess, in which I have purchas'd to myself, besides mine own undoing, the ill opinion of my friends; let not your anger, good sir, outlive me, but suffer me to rest in peace with your forgiveness; let my body (if a dying man may so much prevail with you) be brought to your daughter, that she may know my hot flames are now buried, and withal receive a testimony of the zeal I bore her virtue. Farewell for ever, and be ever happy.—Jasper.

God's hand is great in this. I do forgive him,

Yet am I glad he's quiet, where I hope

He will not bite again. Boy, bring the body,

And let him have his will, if that be all.

Boy. 'Tis here without, sir.

Merch. So, sir, if you please

You may conduct it in, I do not fear it.

Humph. I'll be your usher, boy, for though I say it,

He ow'd me something once, and well did pay it. [Exeunt.

Enter Luce alone.

Luce. If there be any punishment inflicted

Upon the miserable, more than yet I feel,

Let it together seize me, and at once

Press down my soul; I cannot bear the pain

Of these delaying tortures. Thou that art

The end of all, and the sweet rest of all,

Come, come, O Death, and bring me to thy peace,

And blot out all the memory I nourish

Both of my father and my cruel friend.

O wretched maid, still living to be wretched,

To be a say to Fortune in her changes,

And grow to number times and woes together.

How happy had I been, if being born

My grave had been my cradle?

Enter Servant.

Serv. By your leave,

Young mistress, here's a boy hath brought a coffin,

What a would say I know not; but your father

Charg'd me to give you notice. Here they come.

Enter two bearing a coffin, Jasper in it.

Luce. For me I hope 'tis come, and 'tis most welcome.

Boy. Fair mistress, let me not add greater grief

To that great store you have already; Jasper

(That whilst he liv'd was yours, now's dead,

And here inclos'd) commanded me to bring

His body hither, and to crave a tear

From those fair eyes, though he deserv'd not pity,

To deck his funeral, for so he bid me

Tell her for whom he died.

Luce. He shall have many. [Exeunt Coffin-Carrier and Boy.

Good friends, depart a little, whilst I take

My leave of this dead man, that once I lov'd:

Hold, yet a little, life, and then I give thee

To thy first Heav'nly Being. O my friend!

Hast thou deceiv'd me thus, and got before me?

I shall not long be after, but believe me,

Thou wert too cruel, Jasper, 'gainst thyself,

In punishing the fault I could have pardon'd,

With so untimely death; thou didst not wrong me,

But ever wert most kind, most true, most loving:

And I the most unkind, most false, most cruel.

Didst thou but ask a tear? I'll give thee all,

Even all my eyes can pour down, all my sighs,

And all myself, before thou goest from me.

These are but sparing rites; but if thy soul

Be yet about this place, and can behold

And see what I prepare to deck thee with,

It shall go up, borne on the wings of peace,

And satisfied. First will I sing thy dirge,

Then kiss thy pale lips, and then die, myself,

And fill one coffin, and one grave together.

Song.

Come you whose loves are dead,

And whilst I sing,

Weep and wring

Every hand, and every head

Bind with cypress and sad yew;

Ribbons black and candles blue,

For him that was of men most true.

Come with heavy moaning,

And on his grave

Let him have

Sacrifice of sighs and groaning;

Let him have fair flowers enow,

White and purple, green and yellow,

For him that was of men most true.

Thou sable cloth, sad cover of my joys,

I lift thee up, and thus I meet with death.

Jasp. And thus you meet the living.

Luce. Save me, Heav'n!

Jasp. Nay, do not fly me, fair, I am no spirit;

Look better on me, do you know me yet?

Luce. O thou dear shadow of my friend!

Jasp. Dear substance,

I swear I am no shadow; feel my hand,

It is the same it was: I am your Jasper,

Your Jasper that's yet living, and yet loving;

Pardon my rash attempt, my foolish proof

I put in practice of your constancy.

For sooner should my sword have drunk my blood,

And set my soul at liberty, than drawn

The least drop from that body, for which boldness

Doom me to anything; if death, I take it

And willingly.

Luce. This death I'll give you for it:

So, now I'm satisfied; you are no spirit;

But my own truest, truest, truest friend,

Why do you come thus to me?

Jasp. First, to see you,

Then to convey you hence.

Luce. It cannot be,

For I am lock'd up here, and watch'd at all hours,

That 'tis impossible for me to 'scape.

Jasp. Nothing more possible: within this coffin

Do you convey yourself; let me alone,

I have the wits of twenty men about me,

Only I crave the shelter of your closet

A little, and then fear me not; creep in

That they may presently convey you hence.

Fear nothing, dearest love, I'll be your second;

Lie close, so, all goes well yet. Boy!

Boy. At hand, sir.

Jasp. Convey away the coffin, and be wary.

Boy. 'Tis done already.

Jasp. Now must I go conjure. [Exit.

Enter Merchant.

Merch. Boy, boy!

Boy. Your servant, sir.

Merch. Do me this kindness, boy; hold, here's a crown: before thou bury the body of this fellow, carry it to his old merry father, and salute him from me, and bid him sing: he hath cause.

Boy. I will, sir.

Merch. And then bring me word what tune he is in,

And have another crown; but do it truly.

I've fitted him a bargain, now, will vex him.

Boy. God bless your worship's health, sir.

Merch. Farewell, boy. [Exeunt.

Enter Master Merry-thought.

Wife. Ah, Old Merry-thought, art thou there again? Let's hear some of thy songs.

Old Mer. "Who can sing a merrier note

Than he that cannot change a groat?"

Not a denier left, and yet my heart leaps; I do wonder yet, as old as I am, that any man will follow a trade, or serve, that may sing and laugh, and walk the streets. My wife and both my sons are I know not where; I have nothing left, nor know I how to come by meat to supper, yet am I merry still; for I know I shall find it upon the table at six o'clock; therefore, hang thought.

"I would not be a serving-man

To carry the cloak-bag still,

Nor would I be a falconer

The greedy hawks to fill;

But I would be in a good house,

And have a good master too;

But I would eat and drink of the best,

And no work would I do."

This is it that keeps life and soul together, mirth. This is the philosopher's stone that they write so much on, that keeps a man ever young.

Enter a Boy.

Boy. Sir, they say they know all your money is gone, and they will trust you for no more drink.

Old Mer. Will they not? Let 'em choose. The best is, I have mirth at home, and need not send abroad for that. Let them keep their drink to themselves.

"For Jillian of Berry, she dwells on a hill,

And she hath good beer and ale to sell,

And of good fellows she thinks no ill,

And thither will we go now, now, now, and

thither will we go now.

And when you have made a little stay,

You need not know what is to pay,

But kiss your hostess and go your way.

And thither, &c."

Enter another Boy.

2nd Boy. Sir, I can get no bread for supper.

Old Mer. Hang bread and supper, let's preserve our mirth,

and we shall never feel hunger, I'll warrant you; let's have a

catch. Boy, follow me; come sing this catch:

"Ho, ho, nobody at home,

Meat, nor drink, nor money ha' we none;

Fill the pot, Eedy,

Never more need I."

So, boys, enough, follow me; let's change our place, and we

shall laugh afresh. [Exeunt.

Wife. Let him go, George, a shall not have any countenance from us, not a good word from any i' th' company, if I may strike stroke in't.

Cit. No more a sha'not, love; but, Nell, I will have Ralph do a very notable matter now, to the eternal honour and glory of all grocers. Sirrah, you there, boy, can none of you hear?

Boy. Sir, your pleasure.

Cit. Let Ralph come out on May-day in the morning, and speak upon a conduit with all his scarfs about him, and his feathers, and his rings, and his knacks.

Boy. Why, sir, you do not think of our plot, what will become of that, then?

Cit. Why, sir, I care not what become on't. I'll have him come out, or I'll fetch him out myself, I'll have something done in honour of the city; besides, he hath been long enough upon adventures. Bring him out quickly, for I come amongst you——

Boy. Well, sir, he shall come out; but if our play miscarry, sir, you are like to pay for't.

[Exit.

Cit. Bring him away, then.

Wife. This will be brave, i'faith. George, shall not he dance the morrice, too, for the credit of the Strand?

Cit. No, sweetheart, it will be too much for the boy. Oh, there he is, Nell; he's reasonable well in reparel, but he has not rings enough.

Enter Ralph.

Ralph. "London, to thee I do present the merry month of May",

Let each true subject be content to hear me what I say:

For from the top of conduit head, as plainly may appear,

I will both tell my name to you, and wherefore I came here.

My name is Ralph, by due descent, though not ignoble I,

Yet far inferior to the flock of gracious grocery.

And by the common counsel of my fellows in the Strand,

With gilded staff, and crossed scarf, the May lord here I stand.

Rejoice, O English hearts, rejoice; rejoice, O lovers dear;

Rejoice, O city, town, and country; rejoice eke every shire;

For now the fragrant flowers do spring and sprout in seemly sort,

The little birds do sit and sing, the lambs do make fine sport;

And now the birchin tree doth bud that makes the schoolboy cry,

The morrice rings while hobby-horse doth foot it featuously:

The lords and ladies now abroad, for their disport and play,

Do kiss sometimes upon the grass, and sometimes in the hay.

Now butter with a leaf of sage is good to purge the blood,

Fly Venus and Phlebotomy, for they are neither good.

Now little fish on tender stone begin to cast their bellies,

And sluggish snail, that erst were mew'd, do creep out of their shellies.

The rumbling rivers now do warm, for little boys to paddle,

The sturdy steed now goes to grass, and up they hang his saddle.

The heavy hart, the blowing buck, the rascal and the pricket,

Are now among the yeoman's pease, and leave the fearful thicket.

And be like them, O you, I say, of this same noble town,

And lift aloft your velvet heads, and slipping of your gown,

With bells on legs, and napkins clean unto your shoulders ty'd,

With scarfs and garters as you please, and Hey for our town! cry'd.

March out and show your willing minds, by twenty and by twenty,

To Hogsdon, or to Newington, where ale and cakes are plenty.

And let it ne'er be said for shame, that we the youths of London,

Lay thrumming of our caps at home, and left our custom undone.

Up then I say, both young and old, both man and maid a-maying,

With drums and guns that bounce aloud, and merry tabor playing.

Which to prolong, God save our king, and send his country peace,

And root out treason from the land; and so, my friends, I cease.

ACT V.—Scene I.

Enter Merchant, solus.

Merch. I will have no great store of company at the wedding: a couple of neighbours and their wives; and we will have a capon in stewed broth, with marrow, and a good piece of beef, stuck with rosemary.

Enter Jasper, with his face mealed.

Jasp. Forbear thy pains, fond man, it is too late.

Merch. Heav'n bless me! Jasper!

Jasp. Ay, I am his ghost,

Whom thou hast injur'd for his constant love:

Fond worldly wretch, who dost not understand

In death that true hearts cannot parted be.

First know, thy daughter is quite borne away

On wings of angels, through the liquid air

Too far out of thy reach, and never more

Shalt thou behold her face: but she and I

Will in another world enjoy our loves,

Where neither father's anger, poverty,

Nor any cross that troubles earthly men,

Shall make us sever our united hearts.

And never shalt thou sit, or be alone

In any place, but I will visit thee

With ghastly looks, and put into thy mind

The great offences which thou didst to me.

When thou art at thy table with thy friends,

Merry in heart, and fill'd with swelling wine,

I'll come in midst of all thy pride and mirth,

Invisible to all men but thyself,

And whisper such a sad tale in thine ear,

Shall make thee let the cup fall from thy hand,

And stand as mute and pale as death itself.

Merch. Forgive me, Jasper! Oh! what might I do,

Tell me, to satisfy thy troubled ghost?

Jasp. There is no means, too late thou think'st on this.

Merch. But tell me what were best for me to do?

Jasp. Repent thy deed, and satisfy my father,

And beat fond Humphrey out of thy doors. [Exit Jasper.

Enter Humphrey.

Wife. Look, George, his very ghost would have folks beaten.

Humph. Father, my bride is gone, fair Mistress Luce.

My soul's the font of vengeance, mischief's sluice.

Merch. Hence, fool, out of my sight, with thy fond passion

Thou hast undone me.

Humph. Hold, my father dear,

For Luce thy daughter's sake, that had no peer.

Merch. Thy father, fool? There's some blows more, begone. [Beats him.

Jasper, I hope thy ghost be well appeased

To see thy will perform'd; now will I go

To satisfy thy father for thy wrongs. [Exit.

Humph. What shall I do? I have been beaten twice,

And Mistress Luce is gone. Help me, device:

Since my true love is gone, I never more,

Whilst I do live, upon the sky will pore;

But in the dark will wear out my shoe-soles

In passion, in Saint Faith's Church under Paul's. [Exit.

Wife. George, call Ralph hither; if you love me, call Ralph hither. I have the bravest thing for him to do, George; prithee call him quickly.

Cit. Ralph, why Ralph, boy!

Enter Ralph.

Ralph. Here, sir.

Cit. Come hither, Ralph, come to thy mistress, boy.

Wife. Ralph, I would have thee call all the youths together in battle-ray, with drums, and guns, and flags, and march to Mile End in pompous fashion, and there exhort your soldiers to be merry and wise, and to keep their beards from burning, Ralph; and then skirmish, and let your flags fly, and cry, Kill, kill, kill! My husband shall lend you his jerkin, Ralph, and there's a scarf; for the rest, the house shall furnish you, and we'll pay for't: do it bravely, Ralph, and think before whom you perform, and what person you represent.

Ralph. I warrant you, mistress, if I do it not, for the honour of the city, and the credit of my master, let me never hope for freedom.

Wife. 'Tis well spoken i'faith; go thy ways, thou art a spark indeed.

Cit. Ralph, double your files bravely, Ralph.

Ralph. I warrant you, sir. [Exit Ralph.

Cit. Let him look narrowly to his service, I shall take him else; I was there myself a pike-man once, in the hottest of the day, wench; had my feather shot sheer away, the fringe of my pike burnt off with powder, my pate broken with a scouring-stick, and yet I thank God I am here. [Drum within.

Wife. Hark, George, the drums!

Cit. Ran, tan, tan, tan, ran tan. Oh, wench, an' thou hadst but seen little Ned of Aldgate, drum Ned, how he made it roar again, and laid on like a tyrant, and then struck softly till the Ward came up, and then thundered again, and together we go: "Sa, sa, sa," bounce quoth the guns; "Courage, my hearts," quoth the captains; "Saint George," quoth the pike-men; and withal here they lay, and there they lay; and yet for all this I am here, wench.

Wife. Be thankful for it, George, for indeed 'tis wonderful.

Enter Ralph and his Company, with drums and colours.

Ralph. March fair, my hearts; lieutenant, beat the rear up; ancient, let your colours fly; but have a great care of the butchers' hooks at Whitechapel, they have been the death of many a fair ancient. Open your files, that I may take a view both of your persons and munition. Sergeant, call a muster.

Serg. A stand. William Hamerton, pewterer.

Ham. Here, Captain.

Ralph. A croslet and a Spanish pike; 'tis well, can you shake it with a terror?

Ham. I hope so, captain.

Ralph. Charge upon me—'tis with the weakest. Put more strength, William Hamerton, more strength. As you were again; proceed, sergeant.

Serg. George Green-goose, poulterer.

Green. Here.

Ralph. Let me see your piece, neighbour Green-goose. When was she shot in?

Green. An' like you, master captain, I made a shot even now, partly to scour her, and partly for audacity.

Ralph. It should seem so, certainly, for her breath is yet inflamed; besides, there is a main fault in the touch-hole, it stinketh. And I tell you, moreover, and believe it, ten such touch-holes would poison the army; get you a feather, neighbour, get you a feather, sweet oil and paper, and your piece may do well enough yet. Where's your powder?

Green. Here.

Ralph. What, in a paper? As I am a soldier and a gentleman, it craves a martial court: you ought to die for't. Where's your horn? Answer me to that.

Green. An't like you, sir, I was oblivious.

Ralph. It likes me not it should be so; 'tis a shame for you, and a scandal to all our neighbours, being a man of worth and estimation, to leave your horn behind you: I am afraid 'twill breed example. But let me tell you no more on't; stand till I view you all. What's become o' th' nose of your flask?

1st Sold. Indeed, la' captain, 'twas blown away with powder.

Ralph. Put on a new one at the city's charge. Where's the flint of this piece?

2nd Sold. The drummer took it out to light tobacco.

Ralph. 'Tis a fault, my friend; put it in again. You want a nose, and you a flint; sergeant, take a note on't, for I mean to stop it in their pay. Remove and march; soft and fair, gentlemen, soft and fair: double your files; as you were; faces about. Now you with the sodden face, keep in there: look to your match, sirrah, it will be in your fellow's flask anon. So make a crescent now, advance your pikes, stand and give ear. Gentlemen, countrymen, friends, and my fellow-soldiers, I have brought you this day from the shop of security and the counters of content, to measure out in these furious fields honour by the ell and prowess by the pound. Let it not, O let it not, I say, be told hereafter, the noble issue of this city fainted; but bear yourselves in this fair action like men, valiant men, and free men. Fear not the face of the enemy, nor the noise of the guns; for believe me, brethren, the rude rumbling of a brewer's car is more terrible, of which you have a daily experience: neither let the stink of powder offend you, since a more valiant stink is always with you. To a resolved mind his home is everywhere. I speak not this to take away the hope of your return; for you shall see (I do not doubt it), and that very shortly, your loving wives again, and your sweet children, whose care doth bear you company in baskets. Remember, then, whose cause you have in hand, and like a sort of true-born scavengers, scour me this famous realm of enemies. I have no more to say but this: Stand to your tacklings, lads, and show to the world you can as well brandish a sword as shake an apron. Saint George, and on, my hearts!

Omnes. Saint George, Saint George! [Exeunt.

Wife. 'Twas well done, Ralph; I'll send thee a cold capon a field, and a bottle of March beer; and, it may be, come myself to see thee.

Cit. Nell, the boy hath deceived me much; I did not think it had been in him. He has perform'd such a matter, wench, that, if I live, next year I'll have him Captain of the Gallifoist, or I'll want my will.

Enter Old Merry-thought.

Old Mer. Yet, I thank God, I break not a wrinkle more than I had; not a stoop, boys. Care, live with cats, I defy thee! My heart is as sound as an oak; and tho' I want drink to wet my whistle, I can sing,

"Come no more there, boys; come no more there:

For we shall never, whilst we live, come any more there."

Enter a Boy with a coffin.

Boy. God save you, sir.

Old Mer. It's a brave boy. Canst thou sing?

Boy. Yes, sir, I can sing, but 'tis not so necessary at this time.

Old Mer. "Sing we, and chaunt it,

Whilst love doth grant it."

Boy. Sir, sir, if you knew what I have brought you, you would have little list to sing.

Old Mer. "Oh, the Mimon round,

Full long I have thee sought,

And now I have thee found,

And what hast thou here brought?"

Boy. A coffin, sir, and your dead son Jasper in it.

Old Mer. Dead!

"Why farewell he:

Thou wast a bonny boy,

And I did love thee."

Enter Jasper.

Jasp. Then I pray you, sir, do so still.

Old Mer. Jasper's ghost!

"Thou art welcome from Stygian-lake so soon,

Declare to me what wondrous things

In Pluto's Court are done."

Jasp. By my troth, sir, I ne'er came there, 'tis too hot for me, sir.

Old Mer. A merry ghost, a very merry ghost.

"And where is your true love? Oh, where is yours?"

Jasp. Marry look you, sir. [Heaves up the coffin.

Old Mer. Ah ha! Art thou good at that i'faith?

"With hey trixie terlerie-whiskin,

The world it runs on wheels;

When the young man's frisking

Up goes the maiden's heels."

Mistress Merry-thought and Michael within.

Mist. Mer. What, Mr. Merry-thought, will you not let's in?

What do you think shall become of us?

Old Mer. What voice is that that calleth at our door?

Mist. Mer. You know me well enough, I am sure I have not been such a stranger to you.

Old Mer. "And some they whistled, and some they sung,

Hey down, down:

And some did loudly say,

Ever as the Lord Barnet's horn blew,

Away, Musgrave, away."

Mist. Mer. You will not have us starve here, will you, Master

Merry-thought?

Jasp. Nay, good sir, be persuaded, she is my mother. If her offences have been great against you, let your own love remember she is yours, and so forgive her.

Luce. Good Master Merry-thought, let me entreat you, I will not be denied.

Mist. Mer. Why, Master Merry-thought, will you be a vext thing still?

Old Mer. Woman, I take you to my love again, but you shall sing before you enter; therefore despatch your song, and so come in.

Mist. Mer. Well, you must have your will when all's done. Michael, what song canst thou sing, boy?

Mich. I can sing none forsooth but "A Lady's Daughter of Paris," properly.

Mist. Mer. [song.] "It was a lady's daughter," &c.

Old Mer. Come, you're welcome home again.

"If such danger be in playing,

And jest must to earnest turn,

You shall go no more a-maying"——

Merch. [within.] Are you within, Sir Master Merry-thought?

Jasp. It is my master's voice, good sir; go hold him in talk whilst we convey ourselves into some inward room.

Old Mer. What are you? Are you merry? You must be very merry if you enter.

Merch. I am, sir.

Old Mer. Sing, then.

Merch. Nay, good sir, open to me.

Old Mer. Sing, I say, or by the merry heart you come not in.

Merch. Well, sir, I'll sing.

"Fortune my foe," &c.

Old Mer. You are welcome, sir, you are welcome: you see your entertainment, pray you be merry.

Merch. Oh, Master Merry-thought, I'm come to ask you

Forgiveness for the wrongs I offered you,

And your most virtuous son; they're infinite,

Yet my contrition shall be more than they.

I do confess my hardness broke his heart,

For which just Heav'n hath given me punishment

More than my age can carry; his wand'ring sprite,

Not yet at rest, pursues me everywhere,

Crying, I'll haunt thee for thy cruelty.

My daughter she is gone, I know not how.

Taken invisible, and whether living,

Or in grave, 'tis yet uncertain to me.

Oh, Master Merry-thought, these are the weights

Will sink me to my grave. Forgive me, sir.

Old Mer. Why, sir, I do forgive you, and be merry.

And if the wag in's lifetime play'd the knave,

Can you forgive him too?

Merch. With all my heart, sir.

Old Mer. Speak it again, and heartily.

Merch. I do, sir.

Now by my soul I do.

Old Mer. "With that came out his paramour,

She was as white as the lily flower,

Hey troul, troly loly.

With that came out her own dear knight,

He was as true as ever did fight," &c.

Enter Luce and Jasper.

Sir, if you will forgive 'em, clap their hands together, there's no more to be said i' th' matter.

Merch. I do, I do!

Cit. I do not like this. Peace, boys, hear me one of you, everybody's part is come to an end but Ralph's, and he's left out.

Boy. 'Tis long of yourself, sir, we have nothing to do with his part.

Cit. Ralph, come away, make on him as you have done of the rest, boys, come.

Wife. Now, good husband, let him come out and die.

Cit. He shall, Nell; Ralph, come away quickly and die, boy.

Boy. 'Twill be very unfit he should die, sir, upon no occasion, and in a comedy too.

Cit. Take you no care for that, Sir Boy; is not his part at an end, think you, when he's dead? Come away, Ralph.

Enter Ralph with a forked arrow through his head.

Ralph. When I was mortal, this my costive corps

Did lap up figs and raisins in the Strand,

Where sitting, I espy'd a lovely dame,

Whose master wrought with lingel and with awl,

And underground he vampÉd many a boot.

Straight did her love prick forth me, tender sprig,

To follow feats of arms in warlike wise,

Through Waltham Desert; where I did perform

Many achievements, and did lay on ground

Huge Barbaroso, that insulting giant,

And all his captives soon set at liberty.

Then honour prick'd me from my native soil

Into Moldavia, where I gain'd the love

Of Pompiana, his beloved daughter;

But yet prov'd constant to the black-thumbed maid

Susan, and scornÉd Pompiana's love.

Yet liberal I was, and gave her pins,

And money for her father's officers.

I then returnÉd home, and thrust myself

In action, and by all men chosen was

The Lord of May, where I did flourish it,

With scarfs and rings, and posie in my hand.

After this action I preferrÉd was,

And chosen City Captain at Mile End,

With hat and feather, and with leading staff,

And train'd my men, and brought them all off clean,

Save one man that berayed him with the noise.

But all these things I, Ralph, did undertake,

Only for my belovÉd Susan's sake.

Then coming home, and sitting in my shop

With apron blue, Death came unto my stall

To cheapen aquavitÆ, but ere I

Could take the bottle down, and fill a taste,

Death caught a pound of pepper in his hand,

And sprinkled all my face and body o'er,

And in an instant vanishÉd away.

Cit. 'Tis a pretty fiction, i'faith.

Ralph. Then took I up my bow and shaft in hand,

And walkÉd in Moorfields to cool myself,

But there grim cruel Death met me again,

And shot his forkÉd arrow through my head.

And now I faint; therefore be warn'd by me,

My fellows every one, of forkÉd heads.

Farewell, all you good boys in merry London,

Ne'er shall we more upon Shrove Tuesday meet,

And pluck down houses of iniquity.

My pain increaseth: I shall never more

When clubs are cried be brisk upon my legs,

Nor daub a satin gown with rotten eggs.

Set up a stake, oh never more I shall;

I die! Fly, fly, my soul, to Grocers Hall! Oh, oh, oh, &c.

Wife. Well said, Ralph, do your obeisance to the gentlemen, and go your ways. Well said, Ralph. [Exit Ralph.

Old Mer. Methinks all we, thus kindly and unexpectedly reconciled, should not part without a song.

Merch. A good motion.

Old Mer. Strike up, then.

Song.

Better music ne'er was known,

Than a quire of hearts in one.

Let each other, that hath been

Troubled with the gall or spleen,

Learn of us to keep his brow

Smooth and plain, as yours are now.

Sing though before the hour of dying,

He shall rise, and then be crying

Heyho, 'tis nought but mirth

That keeps the body from the earth. [Exeunt omnes.

EPILOGUS.

Cit. Come, Nell, shall we go? The play's done.

Wife. Nay, by my faith, George, I have more manners than so, I'll speak to these gentlemen first. I thank you all, gentlemen, for your patience and countenance to Ralph, a poor fatherless child, and if I may see you at my house, it should go hard but I would have a pottle of wine, and a pipe of tobacco for you, for truly I hope you like the youth, but I would be glad to know the truth. I refer it to your own discretions, whether you will applaud him or no, for I will wink, and whilst, you shall do what you will.—I thank you with all my heart: God give you good night. Come, George.

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