SCENE I.-The Old Jewry. A Hall in KITELY'S House.Enter KITELY, CASH, and DOWNRIGHT.Kit.Thomas, come hither.There lies a note within upon my desk;Here take my key: it is no matter neither.—-Where is the boy?Cash. Within, sir, in the warehouse.Kit.Let him tell over straight that Spanish gold,And weigh it, with the pieces of eight. Do youSee the delivery of those silver stuffsTo Master Lucar: tell him, if he will,He shall have the grograns, at the rate I told him,And I. will meet him on the Exchange anon.Cash. Good, sir. [Exit.Kit. Do you see that fellow, brother Downright?Dow. Ay, what of him?Kit. He is a jewel, brother.I took him of a child up at my door,And christen'd him, gave him mine own name, Thomas:Since bred him at the Hospital; where provingA toward imp, I call'd him home, and taught himSo much, as I have made him my cashier,And giv'n him, who had none, a surname, Cash:And find him in his place so full of faith,That I durst trust my life into his hands.Dow.So would not I in any bastard's, brother,As it is like he is, although I knewMyself his father. But you said you had somewhatTo tell me, gentle brother: what is't, what is't?Kit.Faith, I am very loath to utter it,As fearing it may hurt your patience:But that I know your judgment is of strength,Against the nearness of affection—-Dow.What need this circumstance? pray you, be direct.Kit.I will not say how much I do ascribeUnto your friendship, nor in what regardI hold your love; but let my past behaviour,And usage of your sister, [both] confirmHow well I have been affected to your—-Dow.You are too tedious; come to the matter, the matter.Kit.Then, without further ceremony, thus.My brother Wellbred, sir, I know not how,Of late is much declined in what he was,And greatly alter'd in his disposition.When he came first to lodge here in my house,Ne'er trust me if I were not proud of him:Methought he bare himself in such a fashion,So full of man, and sweetness in his carriage,And what was chief, it shew'd not borrow'd in him,But all he did became him as his own,And seem'd as perfect, proper, and possest,As breath with life, or colour with the blood.But now, his course is so irregular,So loose, affected, and deprived of grace,And he himself withal so far fallen offFrom that first place, as scarce no note remains,To tell men's judgments where he lately stood.He's grown a stranger to all due respect,Forgetful of his friends; and not contentTo stale himself in all societies,He makes my house here common as a mart,A theatre, a public receptacleFor giddy humour, and deceased riot;And here, as in a tavern or a stews,He and his wild associates spend their hours,In repetition of lascivious jests,Swear, leap, drink, dance, and revel night by night,Control my servants; and, indeed, what not?Dow. 'Sdeins, I know not what I should say to him, in the wholeworld! He values me at a crack'd three-farthings, for aught I see.It will never out of the flesh that's bred in the bone. I havetold him enough, one would think, if that would serve; but counselto him is as good as a shoulder of mutton to a sick horse. Well!he knows what to trust to, for George: let him spend, and spend,and domineer, till his heart ake; an he think to be relieved byme, when he is got into one O' your city pounds, the counters, hehas the wrong sow by the ear, i'faith; and claps his dish at thewrong man's door: I'll lay my hand on my halfpenny, ere I partwith it to fetch him out, I'll assure him.'Kit. Nay, good brother, let it not trouble you thus.Dow. 'Sdeath! he mads me; I could eat my very spur leathers foranger! But, why are you so tame? why do you not speak to him, andtell him how he disquiets your house?Kit.O, there are divers reasons to dissuade me.But, would yourself vouchsafe to travail in it(Though but with plain and easy circumstance),It would both come much better to his sense,And savour less of stomach, or of passion.You are his elder brother, and that titleBoth gives and warrants your authority,Which, by your presence seconded, must breedA kind of duty in him, and regard:Whereas, if I should intimate the least,It would but add contempt to his neglect,Heap worse on ill, make up a pile of hatred,That in the rearing would come tottering down,And in the ruin bury all our love.Nay, more than this, brother; if I should speak,He would be ready, from his heat of humour,And overflowing of the vapour in him,To blow the ears of his familiarsWith the false breath of telling what disgraces,And low disparagement's, I had put upon him.Whilst they, sir, to relieve him in the fable,Make their loose comments upon every word,Gesture, or look, I use; mock me all over,From my flat cap unto my shining shoes;And, out of their impetuous rioting phant'sies,Beget some slander that shall dwell with me.And what would that be, think you? marry, this:They would give out, because my wife is fair,Myself but lately married; and my sister '.Here sojourning a virgin in my house,That I were jealous I—-nay, as sure as death,That they would say: and, how that I had quarrell'd,My brother purposely, thereby to findAn apt pretext to banish them my house.Dow. Mass, perhaps so; they're like enough to do it.Kit.Brother, they would, believe it; so should I,Like one of these penurious quack-salvers,But set the bills up to mine own disgrace,And try experiments upon myself;Lend scorn and envy opportunityTo stab my reputation and good name—Enter Master MATHEW struggling with BOBADILL.Mat. I will speak to him.Bob. Speak to him! away! By the foot of Pharaoh, you shall not! youshall not do him that grace.—The time of day to you, gentleman O'the house. Is master Wellbred stirring?Dow. How then? what should he do?Bob. Gentleman of the house, it is to you: is he within, sir?Kit. He came not to his lodging to-night, sir, I assure you.Dow. Why, do you hear? you!Bob.The gentleman citizen hath satisfied me;I'll talk to no scavenger. [Exeunt Bob. and Mat.Dow. How! scavenger! stay, sir, stay!Kit. Nay, brother Downright.Dow. 'Heart! stand you away, an you love me.Kit. You shall not follow him now, I pray you, brother, good faithyou shall not; I will overrule you.Dow. Ha! scavenger! well, go to, I say little: but, by this goodday (God forgive me I should swear), if I put it up so, say I amthe rankest cow that ever pist. 'Sdeins, an I swallow this, I'llne'er draw my sword in the sight of Fleet-street again while Ilive; I'll sit in a barn with madge-howlet, and catch mice first.Scavenger! heart!—and I'll go near to fill that huge tumbrel-slopof yours with somewhat, an I have good luck: your Garagantua breechcannot carry it away so.Kit. Oh, do not fret yourself thus: never think on't.Dow. These are my brother's consorts, these! these are hiscamerades, his walking mates! he's a gallant, cavaliero too,right hangman cut! Let me not live, an I could not find in my heartto swinge the whole gang of 'em, one after another, and begin withhim first. I am grieved it should be said he is my brother, andtake these courses: Well, as he brews, so shall he drink, forGeorge, again. Yet he shall hear on't, and that tightly too, an Ilive, i'faith.Kit.But, brother, let your reprehension, then,Run in an easy current, not o'er highCarried with rashness, or devouring choler;But rather use the soft persuading way,Whose powers will work more gently, and composeThe imperfect thoughts you labour to reclaim;More winning, than enforcing the consent.Dow. Ay, ay, let me alone for that, I warrant you.Kit.How now! [Bell rings.] Oh, the bell rings to breakfast.Brother, I pray you go in, and bear my wife company till I come;I'll but give order for some despatch of business to my servants.[Exit Downright. Enter COB, with his tankard.Kit.What, Cob! our maids will have you by the back, i'faith, forcoming so late this morning.Cob.Perhaps so, sir; take heed somebody have not them by the belly,for walking so late in the evening. [Exit.Kit.Well; yet my troubled spirit's somewhat eased,Though not reposed in that securityAs I could wish: but I must be content,Howe'er I set a face on't to the world.Would I had lost this finger at a venture,So Wellbred had ne'er lodged within my house.Why't cannot be, where there is such resortOf wanton gallants, and young revellers,That any woman should be honest long.Is't like, that factious beauty will preserveThe public weal of chastity unshaken,When such strong motives muster, and make headAgainst her single peace? No, no: beware.When mutual appetite doth meet to treat,And spirits of one kind and qualityCome once to parley in the pride of blood,It is no slow conspiracy that follows.Well, to be plain, if I but thought the timeHad answer'd their affections, all the worldShould not persuade me but I were a cuckold.Marry, I hope they have not got that start;For opportunity hath balk'd them yet,And shall do still, while I have eyes and earsTo attend the impositions of my heart.My presence shall be as an iron bar,'Twixt the conspiring motions of desire:Yea, every look or glance mine eye ejectsShall check occasion, as one doth his slave,When he forgets the limits of prescription.Enter Dame KITELY and BRIDGET.Dame K. Sister Bridget, pray you fetch down the rose-water,above in the closet.—-[Exit Bridget.Sweet-heart, will you come in to breakfast?Kit. An she have overheard me now!—-Dame K. I pray thee, good muss, we stay for you.Kit. By heaven, I would not for a thousand angels.Dame K. What ail you, sweet-heart? are you not well? speak, goodmuss.Kit. Troth my head akes extremely on a sudden.Dame K. [putting her hand to his forehead.] O, the Lord!Kit. How now! What?Dame K. Alas, how it burns! Muss, keep you warm; good truth it isthis new disease. There's a number are troubled withal. For love'ssake, sweetheart, come in, out of the air.Kit.How simple, and how subtle are her answers!A new disease, and many troubled with it?Why true; she heard me, all the world to nothing.Dame K. I pray thee, good sweet-heart, come in; the air will do youharm, in troth.Kit. The air! she has me in the wind.—Sweet-heart, I'll come toyou presently; 'twill away, I hope.Dame K. Pray Heaven it do. [Exit.Kit.A new disease! I. know not, new or old,But it may well be call'd poor mortals' plague;For, like a pestilence, it doth infectThe houses of the brain. First it beginsSolely to work upon the phantasy,Filling her seat with such pestiferous air,As soon corrupts the judgment; and from thence,Sends like contagion to the memory:Still each to other giving the infection.Which as a subtle vapour spreads itselfConfusedly through every sensive part,Till not a thought or motion in the mindBe free from the black poison of suspect.Ah! but what misery is it to know this?Or, knowing it, to want the mind's erectionIn such extremes? Well, I will once more strive,In spite of this black cloud, myself to be,And shake the fever off that thus shakes me. [Exit.
SCENE II.—-Moorfields.Enter BRAINWORM disguised like a maimed Soldier.Brai. 'Slid, I cannot choose but laugh to see myself translatedthus, from a poor creature to a creator; for now must I create anintolerable sort of lies, or my present profession loses the grace:and yet the lie, to a man of my coat, is as ominous a fruit as thefico. O, sir, it holds for good polity ever, to have that outwardlyin vilest estimation, that inwardly is most dear to us: so much formy borrowed shape. Well, the troth is, my old master intends tofollow my young master, dry-foot, over Moorfields to London, thismorning; now, I knowing of this hunting-match, or rather conspiracy,and to insinuate with my young master (for so must we that are bluewaiters, and men of hope and service do, or perhaps we may wearmotley at the year's end, and who wears motley, you know), have gotme afore in this disguise, determining here to lie in ambuscado,and intercept him in the mid-way. If I can but get his cloke, hispurse, and his hat, nay, any thing to cut him off, that is, to stayhis journey, Veni, vidi, vici, I may say with captain Caesar, I ammade for ever, i'faith. Well, now I must practise to get the truegarb of one of these lance-knights, my arm here, and my—Odso! myyoung master, and his cousin, master Stephen, as I am truecounterfeit man of war, and no soldier!Enter E. KNOWELL and STEPHEN.E. Know. So, sir! and how then, coz?Step. 'Sfoot! I have lost my purse, I think.E. Know. How! lost your purse? where? when had you it?Step. I cannot tell; stay.Brai. 'Slid, I am afraid they will know me: would I could get bythem!E. Know. What, have you it?Step. No; I think I was bewitched, I— [Cries.E. Know. Nay, do not weep the loss: hang it, let it go.Step. Oh, it's here: No, an it had been lost, I had not cared, butfor a jet ring mistress Mary sent me.E. Know. A jet ring! O the poesie, the poesie?Step. Fine, i'faith.Though Fancy sleep,My love is deep.Meaning, that though I did not fancy her, yet she loved me dearly.E. Know. Most excellent!Step. And then I sent her another, and my poesie was,The deeper the sweeter,I'll be judg'd by St. Peter.E. Know. How, by St. Peter? I do not conceive that.Step. Marry, St. Peter, to make up the metre.E. Know. Well, there the saint was your good patron, he help'd youat your need; thank him, thank him.Brai. I cannot take leave on 'em so; I will venture, come whatwill. [Comes forward.] Gentlemen, please you change a few crownsfor a very excellent blade here? I am a poor gentleman, a soldier,one that, in the better state of my fortunes, scorned so mean arefuge; but now it is the humour of necessity to have it so. Youseem to be gentlemen well affected to martial men, else I shouldrather die with silence, than live with shame: however, vouchsafeto remember it is my want speaks, not myself; this condition agreesnot with my spirit—E. Know. Where hast thou served?Brai. May it please you, sir, in all the late wars of Bohemia,Hungary, Dalmatia, Poland, where not, sir? I have been a poorservitor by sea and land any time this fourteen years, and followedthe fortunes of the best commanders in Christendom. I was twice,shot at the taking of Aleppo, once at the relief of Vienna; I havebeen at Marseilles, Naples, and the Adriatic gulf, agentleman-slave in the gallies, thrice; where I was mostdangerously shot in the head, through both the thighs; and yet,being thus maimed, I am void of maintenance, nothing left me but myscars, the noted marks of my resolution.Step. How will you sell this rapier, friend?Brai. Generous sir, I refer it to your own judgment; you are agentleman, give me what you please.Step. True, I am a gentleman, I know that, friend; but what though!I pray you say, what would you ask?Brai. I assure you, the blade may become the side or thigh of thebest prince in Europe.E. Know. Ay, with a velvet scabbard, I think.Step. Nay, an't be mine, it shall have a velvet scapbard, coz,that's flat; I'd not wear it, as it is, an you would give me anangel,Brai. At your worship's pleasure, sir; nay, 'tis a most pureToledo.Step. I had rather it were a Spaniard. But tell me, what shall Igive you for it? An it had a silver hiltE. Know. Come, come, you shall not buy it: hold, there's ashilling, fellow; take thy rapier.Step. Why, but I will buy it now, because you say so; and there'sanother shilling, fellow; I scorn to be out-bidden. What, shall Iwalk with a cudgel, like Higginbottom, and may have a rapier formoney.E. Know. You may buy one in the city.Step. Tut! I'll buy this i' the field, so I will: I have a mindto't, because 'tis a field rapier. Tell me your lowest price.E. Know. You shall not buy it, I. say.Step. By this money, but I will, though I give more than 'tisworth.E. Know. Come away, you are a fool.Step. Friend, I am a fool, that's granted; but I'll have it, forthat word's sake. Follow me for your money.Brai. At your service, sir.[Exeunt.
SCENE III.—-Another Part of Moorfields.Enter KNOWELL.Know.I cannot lose the thought yet of this letter,Sent to my son; nor leave t' admire the changeOf manners, and the breeding of our youthWithin the kingdom, since myself was one—-When I was young, he lived not in the stewsDurst have conceived a scorn, and utter'd it,On a gray head; age was authorityAgainst a buffoon, and a man had thenA certain reverence paid unto his years,That had none due unto his life: so muchThe sanctity of some prevail'd for others.But now we all are fallen; youth, from their fear,And age, from that which bred it, good example.Nay, would ourselves were not the first, even parents,That did destroy the hopes in our own children;Or they not learn'd our vices in their cradles,And suck'd in our ill customs with their milk;Ere all their teeth be born, or they can speak,We make their palates cunning; the first wordsWe form their tongues with, are licentious jests:Can it call whore? cry bastard? O, then, kiss it!A witty child! can't swear? the father's darling!Give it two plums. Nay, rather than't shall learnNo bawdy song, the mother herself will teach it!—-But this is in the infancy, the daysOf the long coat; when it puts on the breeches,It will put off all this: Ay, it is like,When it is gone into the bone already!No, no; this dye goes deeper than the coat,Or shirt, or skin; it stains into the liver,And heart, in some; and, rather than it should not,Note what we fathers do! look how we live!What mistresses we keep! at what expense,In our sons' eyes! where they may handle our gifts,Hear our lascivious courtships, see our dalliance,Taste of the same provoking meats with us,To ruin of our states! Nay, when our ownPortion is fled, to prey on the remainder,We call them into fellowship of vice;Bait 'em with the young chamber-maid, to seal,And teach 'em all bad ways to buy affliction.This is one path: but there are millions more,In which we spoil our own, with leading them.Well, I thank heaven, I never yet was heThat travell'd with my son, before sixteen,To shew him the Venetian courtezans;Nor read the grammar of cheating I had made,To my sharp boy, at twelve; repeating stillThe rule, Get money; still, get money, boy;No matter by what means; money will doMore, boy, than my lord's letter. Neither have IDrest snails or mushrooms curiously before him,Perfumed my sauces, and taught him how to make them;Preceding still, with my gray gluttony,At all the ord'naries, and only fear'dHis palate should degenerate, not his manners.These are the trade of fathers now; however,My son, I hope, hath met within my thresholdNone of these household precedents, which are strong,And swift, to rape youth to their precipice.But let the house at home be ne'er so cleanSwept, or kept sweet from filth, nay dust and cobwebs,If he will live abroad with his companions,In dung and leystals, it is worth a fear;Nor is the danger of conversing lessThan all that I have mention'd of example.Enter BRAIN WORM, disguised as before.Brai. My master! nay, faith, have at you; I am flesh'd now, I havesped so well. [Aside.] Worshipful sir, I beseech you, respect theestate of a poor soldier; lam ashamed of this base course oflife,—God's my comfort—but extremity provokes me to't: whatremedy?Know. I have not for you, now.Brai. By the faith I bear unto truth, gentleman, it is no ordinarycustom in me, but only to preserve manhood. I protest to you, a manI have been: a man I may be, by your sweet bounty.Know. Pray thee, good friend, be satisfied.Brai. Good sir, by that hand, you may do the part of a kindgentleman, in lending a poor soldier the price of two cans of beer,a matter of small value: the king of heaven shall pay you, and Ishall rest thankful: Sweet worship—Know. Nay, an you be so importunateBrai. Oh, tender sir! need will have its course: I was not made tothis vile use. Well, the edge of the enemy could not have abated meso much: it's hard when a man hath served in his prince's cause,and be thus. [Weeps.] Honourable worship, let me derive a smallpiece of silver from you, it shall not be given in the course oftime. By this good ground, I was fain to pawn my rapier last nightfor a poor supper; I had suck'd the hilts long before, am a paganelse: Sweet honour—Know.Believe me, I am taken with some wonder,To think a fellow of thy outward presence,Should, in the frame and fashion of his mind,Be so degenerate, and sordid-base.Art thou a man? and sham'st thou not to beg,To practise such a servile kind of life?Why, were thy education ne'er so mean,Having thy limbs, a thousand fairer coursesOffer themselves to thy election.Either the wars might still supply thy wants,Or service of some virtuous gentleman,Or honest labour; nay, what can I name,But would become thee better than to beg:But men of thy condition feed on sloth,As cloth the beetle on the dung she breeds in;Nor caring how the metal of your mindsIs eaten with the rust of idleness.Now, afore me, whate'er he be, that shouldRelieve a person of thy quality,While thou insist'st in this loose desperate course,I would esteem the sin not thine, but his.Brai. Faith, sir, I would gladly find some other course, if so—-Know.Ay,You'd gladly find it, but you will not seek it.Brai. Alas, sir, where should a man seek? in the wars; there's noascent by desert in these days; but—and for service, would itwere as soon purchased, as wished for! the air's my comfort.—-[Sighs.]—-l know what I would say.Know. What's thy name?Brai. Please you, Fitz-Sword, sir.Know. Fitz-Sword!Say that a man should entertain thee now,Wouldst thou be honest, humble, just, and true?Brai. Sir, by the place and honour of a soldier—-Know. Nay, nay, I like not these affected oaths; speak plainly,man, what think'st thou of my words?Brai. Nothing, sir, but wish my fortunes were as happy as myservice should be honest.Know.Well, follow me; I'll prove thee, if thy deedsWill carry a proportion to thy words. [Exit.Brai. Yes, sir, straight; I'll but garter my hose. Oh that my bellywere hoop'd now, for I am ready to burst with laughing! never wasbottle or bagpipe fuller. 'Slid, was there ever seen a fox in yearsto betray himself thus! now shall I be possest of all his counsels;and, by that conduit, my young master. Well, he is resolved toprove my honesty; faith, and I'm resolved to prove his patience:Oh, I shall abuse him intolerably. This small piece of service willbring him clean out of love with the soldier for ever. He willnever come within the sign of it, the sight of a cassock, or amusket-rest again. He will hate the musters at Mile-end for it, tohis dying day. It's no matter, let the world think me a badcounterfeit, if I cannot give him the slip at an instant: why, thisis better than to have staid his journey: well, I'll follow him.Oh, how I long to be employed![Exit.
SCENE I.-The Old Jewry. A Room in the Windmill Tavern.Enter Master MATHEW, WELLBRED, and BOBADILL.
Mat. Yes, faith, sir, we were at your lodging to seek you too.Wel; Oh, I came not there to-night.Bob. Your brother delivered us as much.Wel. Who, my brother Downright?Bob. He. Mr. Wellbred, I know not in what kind you hold me; but letme say to you this: as sure as honour, I esteem it So much out ofthe sunshine of reputation, to throw the least beam of regard uponsuch a—Wel. Sir, I must hear no ill words of my brother.Bob. I protest to you, as I have a thing to be saved about me, Inever saw any gentlemanlike part—Wel. Good captain, faces about to some other discourse.Bob. With your leave, sir, an there were no more men living uponth' face of the earth, I should not fancy him, by St. George!Mat. Troth, nor I; he is of a rustical cut, I know not how: he dothnot carry himself like a gentleman of fashion.Wel. Oh, master Mathew, that's a grace peculiar but to a few, quosaequus amavit Jupiter.Mat. I understand you, sir.Wel. No question, you do,—or do you not, sir.Enter E. KNOWELL and Master STEPHEN.Ned Knowell! by my soul, welcome: how dost thou, sweet spirit, mygenius? 'Slid, I shall love Apollo and the mad Thespian girls thebetter, while I live, for this, my dear Fury; now, I see there'ssome love in thee. Sirrah, these be the two I writ to thee of: nay,what a drowsy humour is this now! why dost thou not speak?E. Know. Oh, you are a fine gallant; you sent me a rare letter.Wel. Why, was't not rare?E. Know. Yes, I'll be sworn, I was ne'er guilty of reading thelike; match it in all Pliny, or Symmachus's epistles, and I'll havemy judgment burn'd in the ear for a rogue: make much of thy vein,for it is inimitable. But I marle what camel it was, that had thecarriage of it; for, doubtless, he was no ordinary beast thatbrought it.Wel. Why?E. Know. Why, say'st thou! why, dost thou think that any reasonablecreature, especially in the morning, the sober time of the day too,could have mistaken my father for me?Wel. 'Slid, you jest, I hope.E. Know. Indeed, the best use we can turn it to, is to make a jeston't; now: but I'll assure you, my father had the full view of yourflourishing style some hour before I saw it.Wel. What a dull slave was this! but, sirrah, what said he to it,i'faith?E. Know. Nay, I know not what he said; but I have a shrewd guesswhat he thought.Wel. What, what?E. Know. Marry, that thou art some strange, dissolute young fellow,and I—a grain or two better, for keeping thee company.Wel. Tut! that thought is like the moon in her last quarter, 'twillchange shortly: but, sirrah, I pray thee be acquainted with my twohang-by's here; thou wilt take exceeding pleasure in them if thouhear'st 'em once go; my wind-instruments; I'll wind them up—Butwhat strange piece of silence is this, the sign of the Dumb Man?E. Know. Oh, sir, a kinsman of mine, one that may make your musicthe fuller, an he please; he has his humour, sir.Wel. Oh, what is't, what is't?E. Know. Nay, I'll neither do your judgment nor his folly thatwrong, as to prepare your apprehension: I'll leave him to the mercyof your search; if you can take him, so!Wel. Well, captain Bobadill, master Mathew, pray you know thisgentleman here; he is a friend of mine, and one that will deserveyour affection. I know not your name, sir, [to Stephen.] but Ishall be glad of any occasion to render me more familiar to you.Step. My name is master Stephen, sir; I am this gentleman's owncousin, sir; his father is mine uncle, sir: I am somewhatmelancholy, but you shall command me, sir, in whatsoever isincident to a gentleman.Bob. Sir, I must tell you this, I am no general man; but for masterWellbred's sake, (you may embrace it at what height of favour youplease,) I do communicate with you, and conceive you to be agentleman of some parts; I love few words.E. Know. And I fewer, sir; I have scarce enough to thank you.Mat. But are you, indeed, sir, so given to it?Step. Ay, truly, sir, I am mightily given to melancholy.Mat. Oh, it's your only fine humour, sir: your true melancholybreeds your perfect fine wit, sir. I am melancholy myself, divertimes, sir, and then do I no more but take pen and paper,presently, and overflow you half a score, or a dozen of sonnets ata sitting.E. Know. Sure he utters them then by the gross. [Aside.Step. Truly, sir, and I love such things out of measure.E. Know. I'faith, better than in measure, I'll undertake.Mat. Why, I pray you, sir, make use of my study, it's at yourservice.Step. I thank you, sir, I shall be bold I warrant you; have you astool there to be melancholy upon?Mat. That I have, sir, and some papers there of mine own doing, atidle hours, that you'll say there's some sparks of wit in 'em, whenyou see them,Wel. Would the sparks would kindle once, and become a fire amongstthem! I might see self-love burnt for her heresy. [Aside.Step. Cousin, is it well? am I melancholy enough?E. Know, Oh ay, excellent.Wel. Captain Bobadill, why muse you so?E. Know. He is melancholy too.Bob. Faith, sir, I was thinking of a most honourable piece ofservice, was performed to-morrow, being St. Mark's day, shall besome ten years now.E. Know. In what place, captain?Bob. Why, at the beleaguering of Strigonium, where, in less thantwo hours, seven hundred resolute gentlemen, as any were in Europe,lost their lives upon the breach. I'll tell you, gentlemen, it wasthe first, but the best leaguer that ever I beheld with these eyes,except the taking in of—what do you call it?—last year, by theGenoways; but that, of all other, was the most fatal and dangerousexploit that ever I was ranged in, since I first bore arms beforethe face of the enemy, as I am a gentleman and a soldier!Step. So! I had as lief as an angel I could swear as well as thatgentleman.E. Know. Then, you were a servitor at both, it seems; atStrigonium, and what do you call't?Bob. O lord, sir! By St. George, I was the first man that enteredthe breach; and had I not effected it with resolution, I had beenslain if I had had a million of lives.E. Know. 'Twas pity you had not ten; a cat's and your own, i'faith.But, was it possible?Mat. Pray you mark this discourse, sir.Step. So I do.Bob. I assure' you, upon my reputation, 'tis true, and you shallconfess.E. Know. You must bring me to the rack, first. [Aside.Bob. Observe me judicially, sweet sir; they had planted me threedemi-culverins just in the mouth of the breach; now, sir, as wewere to give on, their master-gunner (a man of no mean skill andmark, you must think,) confronts me with his linstock, ready togive fire; I, spying his intendment, discharged my petronel in hisbosom, and with these single arms, my poor rapier, ran violentlyupon the Moors that guarded the ordnance, and put them pell-mell,to the sword.Wel. To the sword! To the rapier, captain.E. Know. Oh, it was a good figure observed, sir: but did you allthis, captain, without hurting your blade?Bob. Without any impeach O' the earth: you shall perceive, sir.[Shews his rapier.] It is the most fortunate weapon that ever ridon poor gentleman's thigh. Shall I tell you, sir? You talk ofMorglay, Excalibur, Durindana, or so; tut! I lend no credit to thatis fabled of 'em: I know the virtue of mine own, and therefore Idare the boldlier maintain it.Step. I marle whether it be a Toledo or no.Bob. A most perfect Toledo, I assure you, sir. Step. I have acountryman of his here.Mat. Pray you, let's see, sir; yes, faith, it is.Bob. This a Toledo! Pish!Step. Why do you pish, captain?Bob. A Fleming, by heaven! I'll buy them for a guilder a-piece. AnI would have a thousand of them.E. Know. How say you, cousin? I told you thus much.Wel. Where bought you it, master Stephen?Step. Of a scurvy rogue soldier: a hundred of lice go with him! Heswore it was a Toledo.Bob. A poor provant rapier, no better.Mat. Mass, I think it be indeed, now I look on't better.E. Know. Nay, the longer you look on't, the worse. Put it up, putit up.Step. Well, I will put it up; but by—I have forgot the captain'soath, I thought to have sword! by it,—an e'er I meet him—Wel. O, it is past help now, sir; you must have patience.Step. Whoreson, coney-hatching rascal! I could eat the very hiltsfor anger.E. Know. A sign of good digestion; you have an ostrich stomach,Cousin.Step. A stomach! would I had him here, you should see an I had astomach.Wel. It's better as it is.—Come, gentlemen, shall we go?Enter BRAINWORM, disguised as before.E. Know. A miracle, cousin; look here, look here!Step. Oh—'Od's lid. By your leave, do you know me, sir?Brai. Ay, sir, I know you by sight.Step. You sold me a rapier, did you not?Brai. Yes, marry did I, sir.Step. You said it was a Toledo, ha?Brai. True, I did so.Step. But it is none.Brai. No, sir, I confess it; it is none.Step. Do you confess it? Gentlemen, bear witness, he has confestit:—'Od's will, an you had not confest it.===E. Know. Oh, cousin, forbear, forbear! Step. Nay, I have done,cousin.Wel. Why, you have done like a gentleman; he has confest it, whatwould you more?Step. Yet, by his leave, he is a rascal, under his favour, do yousee.E. Know. Ay, by his leave, he is, and under favour: a pretty pieceof civility! Sirrah, how dost thou like him?Wel. Oh, it's a most precious fool, make much on him: I can comparehim to nothing more happily than a drum; for every one may playupon him.E. Know. No, no, a child's whistle were far the fitter.Brai. Shall I intreat a word with you?E. Know. With me, sir? you have not another Toledo to sell, haveyou?Brai. You are conceited, sir: Your name is Master Knowell, as Itake it?E. Know. You are in the right; you mean not to proceed in thecatechism, do you?Brai. No, sir; I am none of that coat.E. Know. Of as bare a coat, though: well, say, sir.Brai. [taking E. Know. aside.] Faith, sir, I am but servant to thedrum extraordinary, and indeed, this smoky varnish being washedoff, and three or four patches removed, I appear your worship's inreversion, after the decease of your good father, Brainworm.E. Know. Brainworm'! 'Slight, what breath of a conjurer hath blownthee hither in this shape?Brai. The breath of your letter, sir, this morning; the same thatblew you to the Windmill, and your father after you.E. Know. My father!Brai. Nay, never start, 'tis true; he has followed you over thefields by the foot, as you would do a hare in the snow.E. Know. Sirrah Wellbred, what shall we do, sirrah? my father iscome over after me.Wel. Thy father! Where is he?Brai. At justice Clement's house, in Coleman-street, where he butstays my return; and then—Wel. Who's this? Brainworm!Brai. The same, sir.Wel. Why how, in the name of wit, com'st thou transmuted thus?Brai. Faith, a device, a device; nay, for the love of reason,gentlemen, and avoiding the danger, stand not here; withdraw, andI'll tell you all.Wel. But art thou sure he will stay thy return?Brai. Do I live, sir? what a question is that!Wel. We'll prorogue his expectation, then, a little: Brainworm,thou shalt go with us.—Come on, gentlemen.==-Nay, I pray thee,sweet Ned, droop not; 'heart, an our wits be so wretchedly dull,that one old plodding brain can outstrip us all, would we were e'enprest to make porters of, and serve out the remnant of our days inThames-street, or at Custom-house key, in a civil war against thecarmen!Brai. Amen, amen, amen, say I. [Exeunt.
SCENE II—-The Old Jewry. KITELY'S Warehouse.Enter KITELY and CASH.Kit. What says he, Thomas? did you speak with him?Cash. He will expect you, sir, within this half hour.Kit. Has he the money ready, can you tell?Cash. Yes, sir, the money was brought in last night.Kit.O, that is well; fetch me my cloak, my cloak!—- [Exit Cash.Stay, let me see, an hour to go and come;Ay, that will be the least; and then 'twill beAn hour before I can dispatch with him,Or very near; well, I will say two hours.Two hours! ha! things never dreamt of yet,May be contrived, ay, and effected too,In two hours' absence; well, I will not go.Two hours! No, fleering Opportunity,I will not give your subtilty that scope.Who will not judge him worthy to be robb'd,That sets his doors wide open to a thief,And shews the felon where his treasure lies?Again, what earthly spirit but will attemptTo taste the fruit of beauty's golden tree,When leaden sleep seals up the dragon's eyes?I will not go. Business, go by for once.No, beauty, no; you are of too good caract,To be left so, without a guard, or open,Your lustre, too, 'll inflame at any distance,Draw courtship to you, as a jet doth straws;Put motion in a stone, strike fire from ice,Nay, make a porter leap you with his burden.You must be then kept up, close, and well watch'd,For, give you opportunity, no quick-sandDevours or swallows swifter! He that lendsHis wife, if she be fair, or time or place,Compels her to be false. I will not go!The dangers are too many;—-and then the dressingIs a most main attractive! Our great headsWithin this city never were in safetySince our wives wore these little caps: I'll change 'em;I'll change 'em straight in mine: mine shall no moreWear three-piled acorns, to make my horns ake.Nor will I go; I am resolved for that.Re-enter CASH with a cloak.Carry in my cloak again. Yet stay. Yet do, too:I will defer going, on all occasions.Cash.Sir, Snare, your scrivener, will be there with the bonds.Kit.That's true: fool on me! I had clean forgot it;I must go. What's a clock?Cash. Exchange-time, sir.Kit.'Heart, then will Wellbred presently be here too,With one or other of his loose consorts.I am a knave, if I know what to say,What course to take, or which way to resolve.My brain, methinks, is like an hour-glass,Wherein my imaginations run like sands,Filling up time; but then are turn'd and turn'd:So that I know not what to stay upon,And less, to put in act.—-It shall be so.Nay, I dare build upon his secrecy,He knows not to deceive me.—-Thomas!Cash. Sir.Kit.Yet now I have bethought me too, I will not.—-Thomas, is Cob within?Cash. I think he be, sir.Kit.But he'll prate too, there is no speech of him.No, there were no man on the earth to Thomas,If I durst trust him; there is all the doubt.But should he have a clink in him, I were gone.Lost in my fame for ever, talk for th' Exchange!The manner he hath stood with, till this present,Doth promise no such change: what should I fear then?Well, come what will, I'll tempt my fortune once.Thomas—-you may deceive me, but, I hope—-Your love to me is more—-Cash. Sir, if a servant'sDuty, with faith, may be call'd love, you areMore than in hope, you are possess'd of it.Kit.I thank you heartily, Thomas: give me your hand:With all my heart, good Thomas. I have, Thomas,A secret to impart unto you—-but,When once you have it, I must seal your lips up;So far I tell you, Thomas.Cash. Sir, for that—-Kit.Nay, hear me out. Think I esteem you, Thomas,When I will let you in thus to my private.It is a thing sits nearer to my crest,Than thou art 'ware of, Thomas; if thou should'stReveal it, but—-Cash. How, I reveal it?Kit. Nay,I do not think thou would'st; but if thou should'st,'Twere a great weakness.Cash. A great treachery:Give it no other name.Kit. Thou wilt not do't, then?Cash.Sir, if I do, mankind disclaim me ever!Kit.He will not swear, he has some reservation,Some conceal'd purpose, and close meaning sure;Else, being urg'd so much, how should he chooseBut lend an oath to all this protestation?He's no precisian, that I'm certain of,Nor rigid Roman Catholic: he'll playAt fayles, and tick-tack; I have heard him swear.What should I think of it? urge him again,And by some other way! I will do so.Well, Thomas, thou hast sworn not to disclose:—-Yes, you did swear?Cash.Not yet, sir, but I will,Please you—-Kit.No, Thomas, I dare take thy word,But, if thou wilt swear, do as thou think'st; good;I am resolv'd without It; at thy pleasure.Cash.By my soul's safety then, sir, I protest,My tongue shall ne'er take knowledge of a wordDeliver'd me in nature of your trust.Kit.It is too much; these ceremonies need not:I know thy faith to be as firm as rock.Thomas, come hither, near; we cannot beToo private in this business. So it is,—-Now he has sworn, I dare the safelier venture. [Aside.I have of late, by divers observations—-But whether his oath can bind him, yea, or no,Being not taken lawfully? ha! say you?I will ask council ere I do proceed:—— [Aside.Thomas, it will be now too long to stay,I'll spy some fitter time soon, or to-morrow.Cash. Sir, at your pleasure.Kit. I will think:-and, Thomas,I pray you search the books 'gainst my return,For the receipts 'twixt me and Traps.Cash. I will, sir.Kit.And hear you, if your mistress's brother, Wellbred,Chance to bring hither any gentleman,Ere I come back, let one straight bring me word.Cash. Very well, sir.Kit.To the Exchange, do you hear?Or here in Coleman-street, to justice Clement's.Forget it not, nor be not out of the way.Cash. I will not, sir.Kit. I pray you have a care on't.Or, whether he come or no, if any other,Stranger, or else; fail not to send me word.Cash. I shall not, sir.Kit. Be it your special businessNow to remember it.Cash. Sir, I warrant you.Kit.But, Thomas, this is not the secret, Thomas,I told you of.Cash. No, sir; I do suppose it.Kit. Believe me, it is not.Cash. Sir, I do believe you.Kit.By heaven it is not, that's enough: but, Thomas,I would not you should utter it, do you see,To any creature living; yet I care not.Well, I must hence. Thomas, conceive thus much;It was a trial of you, when I meantSo deep a secret to you, I mean not this,But that I have to tell you; this is nothing, this.But, Thomas, keep this from my wife, I charge you,Lock'd up in silence, midnight, buried here.—-No greater hell than to be slave to fear. [Exit.Cash.Lock'd up in silence, midnight, buried here!Whence should this flood of passion, trow, take head? ha!Best dream no longer of this running humour,For fear I sink; the violence of the streamAlready hath transported me so far,That I can feel no ground at all: but soft—-Oh, 'tis our water-bearer: somewhat has crost him now.Enter COB, hastily.