With me gentlemen?

Onely a few neighbourly and friendly words sir.

Oh you are most friendly welcome good Mr. Gilbert G [...]lawire, and Mr. Walter Chamlet I take yee to be.

The same sir at your service.

Your fathers both were my good neighbours indeed; worthy and well reputed members of the City while they lived: but that may be read upon the Hospitall walls, and gates; it is enough for me to say they lov'd me: Sanson Touchwood! and I were a wretch if I should not honour their memory in their hap­py succession: Agen gentlemen you are welcome.

Yet you may be pleas'd sir to remember, though our fathers were both loving friends to you, yet they were sometimes at odds one with another.

True, true, ever at odds: They were the common talke of the towne for a paire of wranglers; still at strife for one trifle or other: they were at law logger-heads together, in one match that held 'em tugging tone the tother by the purse-strings a matter of nine yeares, and all for a matter of nothing. They cours'd one another from Court to Court, and through every Court Tempo­rall and Spirituall; and held one an other play till they lost a thousand pound a man to the Lawyers, and till it was very suffici­ently ad judged that your father was one foole, and your father was another foole. And so againe gentlemen you are welcome: now your businesse.

You may now be pleas'd sir to remember that our fathers grew friends at last.

Heaven forbid else.

And note the cause, the ground of their reconciliation, which was upon the love, betwixt me and this gentlemans sister. My fathers Sonne married his fathers Daughter, and our two fa­thers grew friends, and wise men agen.

To the poynt good gentlemen, yet you are welcome.

Troth sir the poynt is this: You know (and the towne has tane sufficient notice of it) that there has been a long con­tention betwixt you and old Mr. Striker your neighbour—

Ha?

And the cause or ground of your quarrell (for ought any [Page] body knowes but your selves) may be as triviall, as that which was derided in our fathers.

Are you there with me?

And great hopes there are, and wagers laid by your friends on both sides, that you two will be friends.

Ile hold you an hundred pounds o' that.

Nay, more, that Mr. Striker will bee willing to give his Grand-child to your Son, so you'l give your consent.

And your comming is to perswade that, is it not? if it be so, speake; deale plainely with me gentlemen, whilst yet you are welcome.

Insooth it is so, we come to negotiate the match for your sonne, and your friendship with old Mr. Striker.

You are not welcome.

But when you weigh the reasons, and consider the perfect love of the yong paire, and how the world will praise your re­conciliation, and blesse the providence, that made their loves the meanes to worke their parents charity.

Againe you are not welcome.

But our fathers lov'd their children.

Your fathers were a couple of doting fooles, and you a paire of sawcy knaves; now you are not welcome: and more then so, get you out of my doores.

Will you sir, by your wilfulnesse, cast away your sonne?

My sonne? no sonne of mine, I have cast him off already for casting an eye upon the daughter of mine enemy: let him goe, let him packe; let him perish: he comes not within these doores, and you, that are his fine spoken spokes-men, get you off o' my ground I charge you.

We are gone sir: onely but wishing you Mr. Touchwood to remember that your sonne's your sonne.

Indeffinitely not sir, untill hee does not onely renounce all interest in the love of that baggage; but doe some extraordi­nary mischiefe in that family to right me for the trespasse hee has [Page] done; and so win my good opinion, till which bee done a daily curse of mine hee shall not misse; and so you may informe him.

What an uncharitable wretch is this?

The touchiest peece of Touchwood that e're I met withall.

I fear'd we should inflame him.

All the comfort is, his sonne may yet out-live him.

Act 1. Scene 2.

BUt the danger is, his father may dis-inherit him

He cannot be so devillish; here comes his sonne, a gentleman of so sweet a disposition, and so contrary to his crab­bed Sire, that a man who never heard of his mothers vertue might wonder who got him for him.

Not at all I assure you, Sam is his fathers nowne sonne: for the old man you see, is gentle enough, till he be incens'd; and the sonne being mov'd, is as fiery as the father.

But he is very s [...]dome and slowly mov'd; his father often and o' the suddaine.

I prethee would'st thou have greene wood take fire as soone as that which is old and sere?

He is deepe in thought.

Over head and eares in his Mrs. contemplation.

How now Sam, whither away?

[Page]

Yes, yes; your father has told us the way.

Ha you had conference with him? ha yee? speake.

Marry sir ha we, and I thinke to purpose.

Ha you wonne ought upon him to my advantage?

Pray doe not trifle with me; tell me briefly.

A most uncharitable and unnaturall sentence.

Oh friend you▪are too violent.

Be not so passionate.

The Ballet taught you that.

Let me entreate your friendship.

And me your pardon.

Act 1. Scene 3.

YOu will not assault me in mine owne house? I hope you will not; nor urge me beyond my patience with your borroughing attempts▪ good sir Hugh Mony-lacks I hope you will not.

Private conference! a new coyn'd word for borrowing of money; I tell you, your very face, your countenance (though it be gloss'd with Knight-hood) lookes so borrowingly, that the best words you give me are as dreadfull as Stand and deliver, and there I thinke I was w'ye. I am plaine w'ye sir, old Will Striker I.

My father Striker, I am bold to call you.

Your father! no, I desire no such neare acquaintaince with you, good sir Hugh Mony-lacks: you are a Knight and a noble gentleman, I am but an Esquire and out of debt; and there I think I was w'ye againe▪

I shall be with you anon, when you have tal' [...]d your selfe out of breath.

'Tis true, I had the honour to be your Worships father in law when time was, that your Knight-hood married and Lady­fied a poore daughter of mine: but yet she had five thousand pounds in her purse if you please to remember it; and as I remember you had then foureteene hundred a yeare: But where is it now? and where is my daughter now? poore abus'd Innocent; your rio­tousnesse abroad, and her long night watches at home shortned her dayes, and cast her into her grave—And 'twas not long before all your estate was buried too; and there I was w'ye againe I take it: but that could not fetch her againe.

Nor mourn'd more justly, it is your onely wearing; you have just none other: nor have had meanes to purchase better any time these seaven yeares as I take it▪ By which meanes you have got the name of the mourning Knight; and there I am sure I was w'ye.

Sir, if you will not be pleas'd to heare my desires to you, let me depart without your derision.

Even when you please, and whither you please good sir Hugh Mony-lacks: my house shall bee no enchanted Castle to detaine your Knight-errandship from your adventures. I hope [Page] your errand hither was but for your dinner; and so farre forth (and especially at your going forth) you are welcome. Your daughter I doe keepe, and will for her poore mothers sake; (that was my daughter) peace be with her—she shall be no more a trouble to you; nor be your child any longer: I have made her mine; I will adopt [...]er into mine owne name, and make her a Striker; she shall be no more a Mony-lack [...], and if shee please me well in matching with a husband, I know what I will doe for her.

I thanke you sir.

Doe you thanke me sir, I assure you you neede not; for I meane so to order her estate, and bind it up in that trust that you shall never finger a farthing on't: am I w'ye sir?

I cannot chuse but thanke you though in behalfe of my child.

Call her your child agen, or let mee but heare that you suffer her to aske you a bare blessing, ile send her after you upon adventures sir Knight▪ and who shall give a portion with her then? or what can she hope from a father that groanes under the weight of a Knight-hood for want of meanes to support it?

I▪ shall finde meanes to live without your trouble hereafter.

You may, you may; you have a wit sir Hugh, and a pro­jective one; what, have you some new project a foot now, to out- [...]oe that of the Hand-barrowes? what call you 'em the Sedams? oh cry you mercy, cry you mercy; I heard you had put in for a share at the Asparagud Ga den: or that at least you have a P [...]sion thence; to be their Gather guest and bring 'em custome, [...]nd that you play the fly of the new Inne-there; and sip with all companies: am I w'ye there sir?

You may be when you please sir; I can command the best entertainement there for your mony.

In good time sir.

In the meane time sir, I had no mind to begge nor bor­row of you, and though you will not▪ give me leave to call you father, nor my daughter my daughter, yet I thought it might be­come my care to advertise you (that have taken the care of her from me) of a danger that will much afflict you, if it bee not [Page] carefully prevented.

How's this?

You have an adversary—

But one that I know, the rascall my neighbour Touchwood.

There I am w'ye sir, I am inform'd that his onely sonne is an earnest Suitor to your Daughter: (I must not call her mine)

How's that?

That there is a deepe secret love betwixt 'em; and that they have had many private meetings: and a stolne match very likely to be made if you prevent it not.

Can this be true?

Give me but a peece from you, and if by due examination you find it not so, ile never see your face agen till you send for me.

To be rid of you take it.

I am gone sir, and yet I thinke i'me w'ye.

Is the Divell become a match-broker? what, who with­in there: what?

Annabell? what Friswood?

Act 1.Scene 4.

HEere sir, I am here forsooth.

Are you so forsooth? but where's your Mistris forsooth?

Listning is good sometimes; I heard their talke, and am glad on't.

Where is your Mrs. I say?

My Mrs. Annabell, forsooth, my young Mrs?

What other Mrs. hast thou but the Divells Dam her selfe, your old Mrs.? and her I aske not for; good Mrs. Flibber de'Jibb with the French fly-flap o' your coxecombe.

Is the old man mad troe?

I aske for Annabell.

Blesse me! how doe you looke?

Where's Annabell I say? fetch her me quickly, least I bast her out of your old Whit-leather hide.

How youthfull you are growne? she is not farre to fetch sir; you know you commanded her to her chamber, and not to [Page] appeare in sight, till her debauch'd father was gone out o'the house.

And is not he gone now forsooth? why call you her not?

I warrant hee has told you some tale on her. That lewd Knight, now he has undone himselfe by his unthrifty practises, begins to practise the undoing of his daughter too! is it not so forsooth? has he not put some wickednesse into your head to set you against her?

I never knew thee a Witch till now.

Ha, ha, ha; I warrant hee told you that your adversary Touchwoods sonne, and my Mistris Annabell are in love league together.

Marry did he; and I will know the truth.

Ha, ha, ha.

Dar'st thou laugh at me?

No, no; but I laugh at the poore Knights officiousnes, in hope of some great reward for the gullery that I put upon him: ha, ha, ha. Good sir a little patience, and I will tell! you. Ha, ha, ha—'twas I that devised it for a lye, and told it him in hope that his telling of it to you, would provoke you to beate him out o'the house; for reporting a thing that had no probability or re­semblance of a truth in it.

Is it but so?

Sir I have beene your creature this thirty yeares, downe lying and uprising; (as you know) and you should beleeve mee, you had me in my old Mistresses dayes——

I, thou wast a handsome young wench then; now thou art old.

Yet not so wondrous old as to be sung in a Ballet for't, or to have beene able ere Ad [...]m wore beard to have crept into Eves bed, as I did into my Mistresses. (Heaven pardon you, as I doe with all my heart.)

What in thy fooleries now?

Nor so old neither but you are content to make a sorry shift with me still; as your abilities will serve you—

Come, come; thou art not old.

Nay that's not it that troubles me: but that I, that serv'd you before your daughter was borne; I meane your daughter that [Page] was mother to this daughter which now you have made your daughter; that I that saw the birth, the marriage, and the death of your daughter; and have had the governance of this her daugh­ter ever since, till now she is marriageable; and have all this while beene as plyant as a twig about you, and as true as the sheath to your steele as we say, that I should now be mist [...]usted to connive at an il match for her, for whom my chiefest care has bin from the Cradle? there's the unkindnesse.

Enough, enough; Fid▪ I beleeve there is no such matter.

I thought you had knowne me—

I doe, I doe; I prethee good Fid be quiet, it was a witty tricke of thee to mocke the poore Knight withall: but a poxe on him, he cost me a peece for his newes; there's another for thee: but the best is he hath tyed himselfe by it, never to trouble mee more; I have that into my bargaine.

And you would tye me so too; would you?

Not so Fid, not so: but looke to my Girle, and thus farre marke me. If ever I find that young Touchwood, the sonne of that miscreant, whose hatred I would not lose for all the good neigh­bor-hood in the Parish; if ever J say, he and your charge doe but looke upon one another, ile turne her and you both out o' doores: there J will be w'ye, looke to't.

Agreed sir; agreed.

Looke to't J say, J must abroad, my anger is not over yet: I would I could meete my adversary to scold it out; I shall bee sicke else.

'Twas well I over-heard 'em, my young lovers had bin spoyl'd else: had not I crost the old angry mans purpose before he had met with the young timerous Virgin, she had confest all; and and all had bin dash'd now.

Act 1. Scene 5.

HOw now Fris. is my Grand-father gone out of doore?

Jf he were as safe out o'the world, it were well for you.

Nay say not so good Fris.

Your unlucky father has destroyed all your hopes in Mr. [Page] Sam Touchwood; in discovering your loves (what Divell soever gave him the intelligence) and you must resolve never to see your sweet Sam againe.

I must resolve to dye first: oh.

Ods pitty! how now! why Mrs. why Annabell, why Mrs. Annabell; looke up, looke up I say, and you shall have him spight of your Grand-father and all his workes: what doe you thinke I am an Infidell, to take Mr. Samuels forty peeces? and a Ronlet of old Muskadine for nothing? come be well, and indeed you shall have him.

Oh Sam, sweet Sam—

These love-sicke maides seldome call upon other Saints then their sweet-hearts; looke up I say, your sweet Sam is com­ming.

Ha, where? where is he; why doe you abuse me?

I say he will come presently; looke up I say, forgive me! he comes indeed: my Mr. thought I was a witch, and I now suspect my selfe for one. Oh Mr. Samuel, how came you hither? here he is Mrs. what meane you to come now to undoe her and your selfe too? yet she had dyed and you had not come as you did. Why doe you not looke upon him and be well? get you gone, we are all undone if my Mr. come backe and find you: speake to her quickly, then kisse her and part, you will bee parted for ever else.

How fares my love?

I made you not dye, as you will dye, if you stand pratling till my Mr. returne and take you: for Mr. Samuel, I must tell you Mr. Samuel, he knowes all Mr. Samuel.

What horrible thing must we doe troe? pray let mee see the paper, I hope there is no pistolling nor poisoning in it: though my old Striker come short of the man he was to bee with me, I would be loath to shorten his dayes with the danger of my neck; or making a Bon-fire in Smithfield: pray let me see the paper.

Not untill my departure gentle Friswood.

Is there such horrour in it, that you dare not stand the opening of the paper?

Oh you have made me happy.

[Page]

Thus let us breath that till we meete againe.

Whoope what d'ee meane?

Goe fooles, this sets you both but more on edge.

Farewell,

Farewell.

Scene 1.

SWeet wife content thy selfe.

Yes content my selfe! shall I so? with what, you Iohn Bopeepe? you must be my husband, and I must content my selfe, must I? no sir, 'tis you that must content me, or 'tis your heart must smart for't.

If you could be content with all that I have, or all that I can doe, and expect no further, I then might hope to pacifie you.

All has not done it yet you see, nor have you yet found out the way. Five yeares practice one would thinke were suffi­cient, so long you have had me; and too long it is unlesse I had got a better name by't, to be accounted barren——oh me.

Now 'tis out; zonnes what would you have me doe? where's the defect think you? is it not probable that you may be defective as well as I?

That I may bee defective! I defie thee, Lubber; I defie thee and all that say so, thou fribling fumbler thou; I would some honest sufficient man might be Judge betwixt us whether I bee defective.

Act 2. Scene 2.

How now, alwaies wrangling?

Defective quoth a—

What's the matter Land-lord?

Doe I looke like a thing defective?

Land-Lady—

Oh fearefull!

Mrs. Brittle-ware what's the matter?

You shall be Judge Sir Hugh, whether I bee defective; you have lyen here Sir Hugh these three yeares, have beene our constant lodger off and on as wee say; and can you thinke mee defective?

You will not be impudent?

Good▪ Mr. Brittle-ware what's the matter?

The matter is sir she will be content with nothing.

The best wife i'the world! and if you cannot afford her that to content her, you are a most hard-harted husband.

What nothing? would you wish him to afford mee no­thing to content me? I must have something to content me; and something he must find me, or I will make him looke out for't.

Come, come, I know the quarrell; and I know you will never get a child by falling out.

Nor any way else so long as hee is such a jealous beast as hee is.

Oh you must leave your jealousie Mr. Brittleware; that's a maine hindrance

I am not jealous I.

Not, and stare like a mad Oxe upon every man that lookes upon me?

Fye upon him, is he such a beast, to be jealous of his owne wife? if every man were so, it would spoyle the getting of some children in a yeare.

And denies me all things that I have a mind to.

The best is▪ the losse of your longings will not hurt you; unlesse you were with child.

You must not long for every strange thing you see or heare of then.

As true as I live he fribles with mee sir Hugh; I doe but now long for two or three idle things scarce worth the speaking of; and doe you thinke he will grant me one of 'em?

What may they be? he shall grant 'em.

One of my longings is to have a couple of lusty able bodied men, to take me up, one before and another behind, as the new fashion is, and carry mee in a Man-litter into the great bed at Ware.

There's one, and will you deny her this to hinder a child getting?

Then I doe long to see the new ship, and to be on the top of Pauls Steeple when it is new built, but that must not bee yet; nor am I so unreasonable but I can stay the time: in the meane time I long to see a play, and above all playes, The Knight of the burning—what dee' call't.

The Knight of the burning Pestle.

Pestle is it? I thought of another thing, but I would faine see it. They say there's a Grocers boy kills a Gyant in it, and ano­ther little boy that does a Citizens wife thy daintielist——but I would faine see their best Actor doe me; I would so put him too't, they should find another thing in handling of mee I war­rant 'em.

Heyday! so last frost she long'd to ride on one of the Dromedaries over the Thames, when great men were pleas'd to goe over it a foote.

Well, shall I make a convenient motion for you both?

Quickely sweet sir Hugh, I long for that before you name it.

Have you this Spring eaten any Asparagus yet?

Why is that good for a woman that longs to bee with Child?

Of all the Plants, hearbes, rootes, or fruits that grow, it is the most provocative, operative and effective.

Indeed Sir Hugh?

All your best (especially your moderne) Herballists con­clude, that your Asparagus is the onely sweet stirrer that the [Page] earth sends forth, beyond your wild Carrets, Corne- [...]lag, or Gla­diall. Your roots of Standergrasse, or of Satyrion boyld in Goates milke are held good; your Clary or Horminum in divers wayes good, and Dill (especially boyld in Oyle) is also good: but none of these, nor Saffron boyld in wine, your Nuts of Arti­choakes, Rocket, or seeds of Ash-tree (which wee call the Kite keyes) nor thousand such, though all are good, may stand up for perfection with Asparagus.

Doe you say so sir Hugh?

I have it from the opinion of most learned Doctors, rare Physitians, and one that dares call himselfe so.

What Doctor is he, a foole on horse- [...]acke?

Doctor Thou-Lord, you know him well enough.

Yes, we know Doctor Thou-Lord, though he knowes none but Lords and Ladies, or their companions. And a fine conceited Doctor he is, and as humorous I warrant yee; and will Thou and Thee the best Lords that dares be acquainted with him: calls Knights, Iacke, Will, and Tom familiarly; and great Ladies, Gills, and Sluts too, and they crosse him. And for his opinion sake, and your good report sir Hugh, I will have Sparagus every meale all the yeare long, or ile make all fly for't; and doe you looke to't Fribble, for it will bee for your comodity as well as mine.

And sure it is a rare commodity when a Knight is become a Broker for to cry it up so.

And let me have some presently for my next meale, or you cannot imagine how sicke I will be.

But mistake not me▪ nor the commodity we speake of Mrs. Brittle-ware; where would you have it? here in our owne house? fye! the vertue of it is mortified, if it passe the threshold from the ground it growes on. No, you must thither, to the Garden of de­light, where you may have it drest and eaten in the due kind; and there it is so provocative, and so quicke in the hot operation, that none dare eate it, but those that carry their coolers with 'em, pre­sently to delay, or take off the delightfull fury it fills 'em with.

Is there conveniency for that too?

Yes, yes; the house affords you as convenient Couches to retyre to, as the garden has beds for the precious plants to [Page] grow in: that makes the place a pallace of pleasure, and daily resorted and fill'd with Lords and Knights, and their Ladies; Gentlemen and gallants with their Mistresses—

But doe not honest men goe thither with their wives too?

None other; some to their owne costs, and some at other mens.

Why doe we not goe then? or what stay we for, can you tell fumbler?

Nay Mrs. Brittle-ware, not so suddenly; towards the evening will be the fittest season of the day: meane while goe in and fit your selfe for the walke, your husband and I are first for an other busines.

Noble Knight I thanke you, I hope my next longing shall be to bespeake you for a God-father.

You shall not long long for that.

I take your noble word.

She's gone, and now sir Hugh let me tell you, you have not dealt well with me, to put this fagary into her foolish fancy.

Wilt thou be an Asse now? doe not I know how to fetch it out on her againe think'st thou? she shall not goe, and yet be contented too.

I you tell me so

Why thou wilt not be jealous of me now, that has laine in thy house these three yeares, wilt thou? nor thinke me so foo­lish to provoke thee with an injury; that know'st mee and my wayes so well.

I know something by your worship worth the price of a new Pillory.

Why so then; and wil I wrong thee Iack think'st thou, ha? no nor mistrust thee neither: for though thou art a jealous coxcomb over thy wife, and she a touchy thing under thee, yet thou and I Iacke have bin alwaies confident of each other, and have wrought friendly and closely together, as ever Subtle and his Lungs did; and shar'd the profit betwixt us, han't we Iacke: ha?

I thinke we have; and that you have some new device, some stratagem in hand now. Uds me, I now remember, is the party come to towne?

Yes; and my Springe has seaz'd him upon the way: and [Page] here I expect him instantly.

And will he be made a gentleman?

That's his ambition Iacke; and though you now keepe a China-shop, and deale in brittle commodities (pots, glasses, Purslane Dishes, and more trinkets then an Antiquaries study is furnished withal) you must not forget your old trade of Barber Sur­geon, 'tis that must sted us now in our new project.

I warrant you, is he a trim youth?

We must make him one Iacke, 'tis such a squab as thou never sawest; such a lumpe, we may make what we will of him.

Then sure we will make mony of him.

Well said Iacke, Springe has writ mee here his full description.

Act 2. Scene 3.

SLid hee's come already: now Mr. Springe?

I come to present a gentleman to you sir.

How a gentleman? will you abuse me?

He findes your defect already; but be bold sir, he desires to be a Gentleman sir; and (tho' he be but course mettall, yet) he has that about him which with your helpe may quickly make him a cleare Gentleman.

I have foure hundred pounds sir; and I brought it up to towne on purpose to make my selfe a cleare gentleman of it.

It was well brought up; it appeares also that you have had some breeding, though but a Yeomans sonne.

'Tis true, I have a little learning sir, and a little wit, though last night I met with some upon the way at Hammer-Smith that had more: yet I had enough to perceive I was cheated of a matter of seaven pound (almost all the odde mony I had about me) at my Card afore thy Card; a pox take the whole packe on 'em. Sdaggers if ever man that had but a mind to be a Gentleman was so noddy poopt! oh how I could chafe to thinke on't.

Oh but you must not, it becomes not the temper of a Gentleman.

So you told me; then I thanke you friend.

Your small acquaintance sir.

[Page]

I have had more acquaintance where I have found lesse love, and I thanke you agen good small acquaintance: you told me indeed it became not a gentleman to crie for losing his mony; and I told you then, that I should, or would be a gentleman: Whereupon Small acquaintance (because I was resolv'd to play no more) you advis'd me to give over; and you told me you would upon our comming to the City, here bring mee to a Knight, that was a Gentleman-maker, whom I conceive this to be, and here am I, and here's my foure hundred pound, which my man has here drawne up to Towne, and here I meane to quarter it.

But I will see what penniworths you bargaine for first, by your Masterships leave.

Drawne and quarter'd! you have a wit Sir, I find that already.

Yes sir, I have a downe right Country wit, and was coun­ted a pretty sparke at home. Did you never heare of little Tim of Tanton? But I now meane to have a finicall City wit, and a super­finicall Court wit too, before I see mine Vncle.

You may sir.

And be able to jest and jeere among men of judgment: I have a many small jests, petty Johns, as I call 'hem: But I will have a clubbing wit, and a drinking wit; and be able to hold play with the great Poets I: and with dry jests to maule the malli­part'st lesser ones (that hold themselves better than the biggest) out o'the pit of wit I, before I see mine uncle.

You may have all sir, if you quarter your foure hundred pound discreetly: but who is your uncle I pray?

For that you shall pardon me, till I am a Gentleman: But I assure you he is a great gentleman in the City here; and I neither must nor dare see him, till I am one at least: and I will tell you presently how I meane to quarter my money.

They'll quarter that and you too, if I zee not the better to the matter.

Dost thou know the uncle he speaks of?

No, nor cannot learne who it is for my life.

Some great man sure that's asham'd of his kindred: per­haps some Suburbe Justice, that sits o'the skirts o'the City, and lives by't.

[Page]

Well said Iack.

Look you sir, thus had I cast it: Small acquaintance pray doe you note it too: I love your advice, that at first sight of mee (which was but last night) could relieve me from Cheaters.

From some of his owne companions to cheate, you more himselfe.

The first hundred pound to be for the making of mee a gentleman: the second hundred shall be for apparell.

He speaks halfe like a gentleman already.

Right, there's halfe dispos'd of.

The third hundred [...]le spend in pleasure: harke Small acquaintance, we'll have wenches.

What wants he of a gen [...]leman, and goe no further, but save the last hundred.

Oh Small acquaintance, that must walke too: but all for profit to support my gentility hereafter.

As how?

I will be cheated of it.

How?

Nor in grosse, but by retaile, to trye mens severall wits, and so learne to shift for my selfe in time and need be.

Doe you heare this?

Theres a plot now!

I protest I admire him: J never found like Craft in a Yeomans sonne before.

No words on't J beseech you sir; nor name that foolish word Yeomans sonne any more: J came to change my Coppy, and write Gentleman: and to goe the nighest way to worke, my Small acquaintance here tells me, to goe by the Heralds is the farthest way about.

Well sir, we will take the speediest course for you that may be possible.

Timothy Hoyden, sir.

Timothy Hoyden.

But must J bleed sir?

As ranck a Clowne, none disprais'd, as any in Sommerset shire.

His foule ranke blood of Bacon and Pease-porridge must out of you to the last dram.

You will leave me none in my body then, I shall bleed to death, and you go that way to worke.

Feare nothing sir: your blood shalbe taken out by de­grees, and your veines replenish'd with pure blood still, as you loose the puddle.

How must that be done?

I that ich I would heare.

I commend you that you seeke reason: it must bee done by meats and drinkes of costly price; Muscadell caudels, jellies, and cock-broaths. You shall eate nothing but Shrimpe porridge for a fortnight; and now and then a Phesants egge soopt with a Peacocks feather. I that must be the dyet.

Delicate!

This stands to reason indeed.

Then at your going abroad, the first ayre you take shalbe of the Asparagus Garden, and you shall feed plentifully of that.

Of the ayre do you meane?

No of th'Asparagus. And that with a Concoction of Goates milke, shall set you an end, and your blood as high as any Gentlemans lineally descended from the loyns of King Cadwala­der.

Excellent, I like all excellently well, but this bleeding. I could never endure the sight of blood.

That shewes the malignant basenesse of your fathers blood within you▪

I was bewiteh'd I thinke before I was begot, to have a Clowne to my father: yet sit my mother said shee was a Gentle­woman.

Said? What will not Women say?

Nay, small acquaintance, she profest it upon her Death­bed to the Curate and divers others, that she was sister to a Gentle­man here in this City; and commanded mee in her Will, and up­p [...]n her blessing, first to make my selfe a Gentleman of good fa­shion, [Page] and then to goe to the gentleman my uncle.

What gentleman is that?

I must not, nor I wo'not tell you that, till I am a gentle­man my selfe: would you ha' me wrong the will o' the dead? Small acquaintance, I will rather dye a Clowne as I am first.

Be content sir; here's halfe a labour sav'd; you shall bleed but o' one side: the Fathers side onely.

Say you so?

The Mother vaine shall not be prickt.

But when this is done, and your new blood infused into you, you shall most easily learne the manners and behaviour.

The Look, the garbe, the congee—

And all the Complements of an absolute gentleman.

O brave!

By no meanes sir.

I begin to beleeve honestly of the Knight.

Doe you note this skin of his here?

Skin, 'tis a hide sir.

'Tis somewhat thicke and foule indeed sir.

He must have a bath, and that will be more charge.

Tis pitty he should be flead.

I thanke you small acquaintance; pray let me have a bath, what ere it cost me, rather than flea me.

Well sir, this house shall be your lodging, and this the Mr. of it, an excellent Chyrurgeon, and expert in these affaires, shall be your attendant.

My man may attend me too, may he not?

Yes, by all meanes, and see the laying out of your money.

I like that best: sure they are honest men.

Is that your man? what does he weare a Coulter by his side?

No sir, my name is Coulter; I my selfe am a Coulter. [Page] and this is but my Hanger on, as I am my Masters.

Thou maist make a Country gentleman in time, I see that by thy wit.

All my friends will be glad on't.

Come gentlemen, Ile lead you the way.

Act 2. Scene 4.

BVt how can you assure me gentlemen that this is true?

Pray turne not from him sir.

I hope you shall heare well of me.

Amen.

Pray blesse me sir.

Goodnesse of nature.

We'll helpe to set you forward.

Act 2. Scene 5.

'Tis the Rascall.

Perhaps he's casting of his will.

He comes, and so have at him.

Hum, hum, hum, humh.

And ha, ha, ha to thee old puppy.

Sirrah, sirrah, how dar'st thou keepe a sonne that dares but looke upon my Neece? there I am we'yee sir.

Sirrah, and sirrah to thy wither'd jawes, and down that wrinkled throat of thine: how dar'st thou think a sonne of mine dares for displeasing me, look but with foule contempt upon thy loathed issue?

Impudent villaine, I have heard he has seene her.

Has he but seene her? ha, ha, ha, I feare I shall out with it: I would not be forsworne: ile keep't in if I can.

Yes Malipert Jack, I have heard that he has seene her, but better hadst thou pist him gainst the wall, then hee presume to love her: and there I am we'yee sir.

Hast thou but heard he has seene her: I tell thee thou old booby thou; if he had seen, felt, heard, and understood her: nay had he got her with child, and then left her, he were my sonne, and I would cherish him.

Darst thou speak so, thou old Reprobate.

Thou dost not heare me say it is so, though J could wish it were with all my heart, because I thinke it would breake thine.

Hugh, hugh, hugh.

I hope I shall keepe it within the compasse of mine oath; yet there was a touch for him.

Oh thou hel-bred Rascall thou; hugh, hugh,

So, so, up with it, Lungs, Lights, Liver, and all: choake up in a churles name.

Hugh, hugh.

[Page]

I have put him into these fits forty times at least, and not without hope it will thratle him at last——if you do break a gut, or a rib or two, with straining, a rope will be your onely remedy: and so I leave you: by the way you have not heard mee say that I know any thing by your Neece: But what I know Ile keep to my selfe.

And hang thy selfe, I care not what thou know'st, yet thus farre take me we'yee sir.

Not a step, unlesse I were sure I were going to the de­vill, huh, huh: no sir, you shall not trip me: you shall not fetch it out of me: tush, my sonne's my sonne, and keep your neece to yourselfe, huh, and if she has any thing of his you may keep that too huh; and so choake up againe with all my heart, and much good doe it you.

Huh, huh—h [...]m! so he's gon, the villain's gone in hope that he has kild me, when my comfort is he has recover'd mee:

Act 2. Scene 6.

YOu are welcome home sir.

Ha! how's that?

Twill out, and I as fit to tell't you as another.

Out with it then.

He has not laine with her, has he?

You speake as just as Gormans lips.

Sir, if you thinke

The knowledge of a truth of this sad nature

May prejudice your health, by drawing a Cholericke fit into you, you were best to send for your Physitian, your dog-leech Touch­wood, as you cal'd him, to breake your bed of Fleagme, by laughing at you.

What dost thou meane now, I have asked thee twice.

Indeed I knew too much on't: think of a course good sir.

[Page]

Sir that you must not.

Sprecious dost thou must me in mine owne house?

This is lusty.

Hold your peace.

You'll hold your peace?

Yet hold thy peace.

I never was so mated, so astonished.

Thou art not desperate! wilt thou shame thy selfe?

Oh I am sicke.

Be of good cheere, ile send for your Physitian.

Sicke, sicke at heart; let me be had to bed.

Scene 1.

PRay lets agree upon't good wife, you are my wife I take it, and I should have the command, yet I entreate, [Page] and am content you see.

And so would any man I thinke that has such a help and commings in by his wife as you have: tis not your durty Sparagus, your Artichoaks, your Carpes, your Tulips, your Strawberries, can bring you in five hundred pound a yeare, if my helping hand, and braine too were not in the businesse?

Let us agree upon't: and two or three yeares toyle more, while our trade is in request and fashion, will make us purcha­sers. I had once a hope to have bought this Mannor of Marshland for the resemblance it has to the Low Country soyle you came from, to ha' made you a Banke-side Lady. Wee may in time be somewhat. But what did you take yesterday Mat in all, what had you, ha?

Poore pidling doings; some foure and twenty pound.

What did the rich old Merchant spend upon the poore young gentlemans wife in the yellow bed-chamber?

But eight and twenty shillings, and kept the roome al­most two houres, I had no more of him.

And what the Knight with the broken Citizens wife (that goes so Lady like) in the blew bed-chamber.

Almost foure pound.

That was pretty well for two.

But her husband, and a couple of serving-men had a dish of Sparagus, and three bottles of wine, besides the broken meate into one o'the Arbors.

Every thing would live Mat: but here will be great Courtiers and Ladyes to day you say.

Yes they sent last night to bespeake a ten pound dinner, but I halfe feare their comming will keep out some of our more constant, and more profitable customers.

Twill make them the more eager to come another time then Mat. Ha' they paid their reckoning in the Parlour?

Yes, but hutchingly, and are now going away.

Act 3. Scene 2.

O here they are going.

[Page]

I protest Mr. Gardner your wife is too deare: Sixteene shillings for a dish of Sparagus, two bottles of wine, and a little Sugar, I wonder how you can reckon it.

That was your rec [...]oning in all sir; wee make no ac­count of particulars, but all to Mall, as they doe in the Nether­lands.

Your Dutch account Mrs. is too high for us to trouble you any more.

That's as you please sir, a faire day after you:

Who would be troubled with such pinching guests?

I, tis good to misreckon such to be rid of 'hem.

They are ee'n as welcome as the Knight that comes hither alone alwayes, and walkes about the garden here halfe a day together, to feed upon Ladyes lookes, as they passe to and fro; the peeping Knight, whát doe you call him?

O Sir Arnold Cautiou [...].

You may call him Cautious, I never saw five shillings of his money yet.

No, he comes but to feed his eye, as you say, with leering at good faces, and peeping at pretty insteps.

Sir Hugh-Money-lacke, our gather-guest as we call him, sends us no such dull customers: O that good Gentleman I never did any [...]averne, Inne, or new Ordinary give tribute to a more deserving gentleman—oh here come gallants.

Act 3. Scene 3.

Three, and ne're a woman! strange! these are not the Courtiers wee look for.

This is his daily haunt: I warrant thee we find him.

And it shall take, ne're feare it Sam.

By your leave Mr. and Mrs. or rather Lord and Lady of the new plantation here.

Nay Prince and Princesse of the Province of Asparagus.

The Island of two Acres here, more profitable than twice two thousand in the Fens, till the drainers have done there.

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You are pleasant gentlemen: what is your pleasure?

Saw you Sir Arnold Cautious here to day?

Not yet sir.

Ha' you a roome i' your house for us?

Have you any more company to come to you?

Yes, we expect some gentlemen.

Gentlemen did you say?

Yes indeed gentlemen, no gentlewomen I assure you.

Intruth sir all the roomes within are gone.

What they are not gone abroad, are they?

You are alwayes pleasant sir: I meane they are all ta­ken up.

There are some taken up in 'hem, is't not so?

Still you are pleasant sir: they are indeed bespoken for great Courtiers, and Ladyes that are to dine here.

If you will bestow your selves in the garden, and make choise of your Arbour: you shall have the best cheer the house can afford yee, and you are welcome.

Be it so then; lets walke about gentlemen. Pray send us some wine.

And a dish of your Sparagus.

You shall have it gentlemen.

Did you note the wit o'the woman?

I, because we had no wenches we must have no chamber­roome, for feare she disappoynt some that may bring 'hem.

Shee spake of great Courtiers and Ladyes that are to come.

Some good stuffe perhaps.

Why I assure you, right noble, and right vertuous persons, and of both sexes doe frequent the place.

And I assure you, as ignoble and vicious doe pester it too much; and these that respect profit meerely have not the wit, and lesse the vertue to distinguish betwixt the best and the worst, but by their purses.

'Tis enough for them to weed their garden, not their guests: O here comes our collation.

Act 3. Scene 4.

ANd what's the price of this feast boy?

Plaist ill Monsieur.

What a [...]t thou a French-man?

No, I tooke you for one sir, to bargaine for your meate be­fore you eate it, that is not the generous English fashion, you shall know anon sir.

Goe get you gone with your wit, and tell your prodigall fooles so.

Goe, we'll call when we want attendance.

Sam you are too sad; let not your disguise alter you with us: Come here's a health to the Hans in Kelder, and the mother of the boy, if it prove so.

Ile pledge it.

We want Sir Hugh Mony-laok [...] here to discourse the vertues of this precious plant Asparagus, and what wonders it hath wrought in Burgundy, Almaino, Italy, and Languedoc before the herborists had found the skill to plant it here.

What's he to whom weeseeke?

Who mine Vncle, Sir Arnold Cautious; he'll come, ne're doubt him; he seldom misses a day to pry and piere upon the beau­ties that come to walke here.

Tis such a Knightling, Ile but give yee his Character, and and he comes I warrant thee▪ he is an infinite admirer of beauty, and dares not touch a woman: he is aged about fifty, and a▪ batche­lour: he defies wed locke, because he thinkes there is not a mai­den▪head in any marriagable beauty to be found among Wo­men.

Yet you say he is an admirer and hunter after the sight of beauty.

He gets a crick in his neck oft-times with squinting up at windowes and Belconies; and as he walkes the streets, he peepes on both sides at faire breasts and faces, as he were seeking Birds­nests; and followes pretty feet and insteps like a hare tracker.

[Page]

This is still mine Vncle.

And when he sees a Coach of Ladies about to alight, hee makes a stand, in hope to see a delicate legge slip through a lac'd smocke, which if he chance to discover he drivells.

Well, how your plot may hold to my purpose I cannot see: he is the unlikeliest man to have a wench put upon that you can mention.

I grant the attempt is hard, but the higher will be the at­chievement: trust my experience Sam: for as in every instru­ment are all tunes to him that has the skill to find out the stops, so in every man there are all humours to him that can find their faussets, and draw 'hem out to his purpose.

Feare not the plot, as we have cast it, nor the perfor­mance in the Comedy, though against mine owne Naturall Vncle.

Thy unnaturall Vuncle thou would'st say; hee ne're did thee good in's life: Act but thine owne part, and be not out Sam, and feare nothing.

He's somewhat too yong to act a rorer: but what Iads have we seene passe for souldiers?

Act 3. Scene 5.

O here come the great guests.

And these are noble ones indeed; these are Courtiers Clinquant, and no counterfeit stuffe upon 'hem: I know 'hem all, every Lady with her owne husband too: what a vertuous 'honest age is this: and see if thine Vncle bee not at his old game, bopeepe i'the taile of 'hem. Hee shall follow 'hem no fur­ther: Sir Arnold Cautious, Noble Knight you are well en­counter'd.

Good Master Gold wyer, doe you know these Ladies; or be they Ladyes, ha?

Yes, and noble ones, the three Graces of the Court, the Lady Stately, the Lady Handsome, and the Lady peerelesse, doe not you know 'hem?

No not I.

[Page]

How the slave twitters; you look not up at greatnes, you mind too much the worldly things that are beneath you: if you had such a Lady under you, (of your owne I meane) you would mind her.

Oh fie, fie, fie.

Looke no more aft [...]r 'hem, they are gone: besides they are vertuous, and too too great for you: when will you get a convenient wife of your owne, to work out the dry itch of a stale Batchelour?

Goe, goe, you are a wag, I itch not that way.

Will you goe this way with me then, and heare what I wil say to you?

With all my heart, I am free from businesse.

You have a Nephew, whose sister I marryed, a vertuous wife she is, and I love him the better for't; he is a younger bro­ther, and borne to no great fortune: now you are very rich, a Batchelour, and therefore I thinke child lesse—

Introth Mr. Gold-wyer you must pardon mee, I may not stay with you: I had almost forgot a most important busi­nesse.

Ee'n now he had none.

Nay good Sir Arnold Cautious, you know not what Ile say.

I say he is an unthrift, a Squanderer, and must not expect supplyes from me.

He does not, shall not, not to the value of a token: pray stay, and heare me sir; tis no ill ayre to stay in.

I withall my heeart good Mr. Gold-wyer; I like the aire well, and your motion hitherto.

Will you be pleas'd to doe your kinsman the favour to fur­ther him in a match; I mean an honest lawfull marriage match—but with your countenance, and a good word at most.

The most unthankfull office in the world: pray use some other friend in't: indeed I stay too long.

Heare but who it is that he loves, how likely he is to ob­taine, what abundant profit the match may bring him, and the desperate undoing danger he falls into if he be not matched, and then doe your pleasure.

Why what new danger is he towards, more than the old [Page] ill company he was wont to keep?

Oh sir, he is now in league with a companion more dread­full than 'hem all, a fellow that is in part a Poet, and in part a Souldier.

Bounce, bounce.

You have hit upon his name: his name is Bounce, do you know him sir?

Not I, nor desire acquaintance with either of his qua­lities.

He is a gentleman sir, that has been upon some unfortunate late services, that have not answer'd his merit.

And now he is come home to right himselfe, by writing his owne meritorious acts, is he?

Good introth, I wish you would see 'hem, to come over 'hem with a jeere or two; I know you are good at it: They are in an Arbour here close by, drinking to their Muses, and glori­fying one another for eithers excellency in the art most Poe­tically.

Glorifie doe you say? I have heard Poets the most en­vious det ractors of one another of all Creatures, next to the very Beggers.

Abroad perhaps and asunder, but together there's no such amity: You never saw 'hem drinke; pray see 'hem sir, it may take your Nephew off of his Ningle, who hath infected him with Poe­try already: and twenty to one, if he faile in the match, which I was about to mention; he will winne him away to the wars too, and then he may be lost for ever.

Good Mr. Gold-wyer goe you to your company, I am not a man of reckoning amongst such; besides, I seldome drink betwixt meales.

Athis owne cost he meanes.

I commend your temper: you shall not bee in the recko­ning; but I beseech you let me prevaile with you: See, wee are upon hem: save you Gentlemen: I have brought you a noble friend, your uncle; I know he is welcome to you brother Wat; and you I am sure will make him so Mr. Bounce: when you shall heare he is an admirer of Poetry and warre.

Even a farre off I assure yee: I never durst approach near [Page] the fury of either of the fiery qualities.

It is your modesty, not feare that keeps you at distance I imagine.

Poets may imagine any thing: imagination is their wealth, some of 'hem would be but poore else: are you turn'd Poet Nephew?

For my private recreation sir.

What by writing Verses to win some Mistresses to your private recreation: meane you so?

Well said Poet, thou tumblest out old ends as well as the best of 'hem.

Enough, enough; you are the first good Poet that e're I saw weare so good a Countenance: leave it, I would not have a gentleman meddle with Poetry for spoyling of his face: you sel­dome see a Poet look out at a good Visnomy.

Think you so sir?

Yes, and that it is a Poeticall Policy, where the face is naturally good without spot or blemish, to deface it by drinking, or wenching, to get a name by't.

A death deserving scandall.

Hold, hold.

Gentlemen what meane yee?

My blood must not endure it.

[Page]

You have wrong'd us all, and me the most.

Ile find a time to right you, or my selfe.

Now it workes.

But good sir are you not hurt? if you bleed, I bleed with you.

Will you sir stand his friend?

He is catch'd.

How am I bound to you!

Nephew I am yet bound to thee, and shall not rest till I am dis-ingag'd by doing this office for thee: what is she, let me know?

Sir, as we walk you shall know all: ile pay the reckoning within as we passe.

But by the way Nephew, I must bind you from Poetry.

For a Wife you shall sir.

Poetry, though it be of a quite contrary nature, is as pretty a jewell as plaine deal [...]ng, but they that use it forget the Pro­verb.

Act 3. Scene 6.

But Madams will yee dance?

Musicke, play.

By your faire imitation, good my Lords.

But let us walke, the time of day calls hence.

Agreed.

Act 3. Scene 7.

YOu are now welcome to th' Asparagus Garden Land-lady.

I have beene long a comming for all my longings: but now I hope I shall have my belly full on't.

That you shall, feare not.

[Page]

Would I were at it once.

Well, because she desires to bee private, goe in with your wife Mr. Brittleware, take a roome, call for a feast, and satis­fie your wife, and bid the Mrs: of the house to provide for us.

I will sir.

And how doe you feele your selfe Mr. Hoyden after your bleeding, purging, and bathing, the killing of your grosse humors by your spare dyet, and your new infusion of pure blood, by your queint feeding on delicate meates and drinks? how doe you feele your selfe?

Marry I feele that I am hungry, and that my shrimped yet and sippings have almost famished me, and my purse too; slid I dare be sworne, as I am almost a gentleman, that every bit and e­very spoonfull that I have swallowed these ten dayes, has cost me ten shillings at least.

Is it possible that you can consider this, and bee almost a gentleman?

Small acquaintance I doe not lye to you: truth's truth, as well in a Gentleman as a begger, for I am both almost, and per­haps not the first that can write so.

Doe you note how his wit rises?

There's one of my hundred pounds gone that way, all but these twelve pieces.

You see now what a fine hand you have made of your mo­ney, since you got it out of my clutches.

Then there's my apparell, a hundred pound went all in three suits, of which this is the best.

But what doe you thinke of your wit hundred pound?

Marry I thinke that was the best laid out: for by it I have got wit enough to know that I was as cleerely cosen'd of it as heart can wish: o' my soule and conscience, and as I am almost a gentleman, and a man had come to London for nothing else but to be Cheated, hee could not bee more roundlier rid of his money.

Well sir, if you repine at your expences now, that you want no hing but your Belly-full of Sparagus to finish my worke of a gentleman in you; I will, if you please, in lieu of that stuffe up your paunch with Bacon and Bagge-pudding and put you [Page] backe againe as absolute a Clowne a [...] ever you came from plough.

I would he're come to that once.

Take heed how you crosse him.

Nay pray sir bee not angry, (though to the shame of a Gentleman I say it) my teeth doe ee'ne water at the name of the sweet Country dish you spoke of (bacon and bag-pudding) yet I will forbeare it: but you say I shall fill my belly with this new Daintrill that you spake of; these Sparowbills, what doe you call'hem.

You shall have your belly full.

Top full I beseech you.

Humh—

You shall: but I must tell you, I must ha you turn away this grumbling Clowne that followes you: he is as dangerous about you, as your fathers blood was within you, to crosse and hinder your gentility.

True, you said you would help me to a boy no bigger than a Monkey.

And you shall have him, a pretty little knave, you may put him in your pocket.

Yes wusse, to pick's money out if he had it; shortly 'twill come to that bevore't be long.

Coulter you must to the plough again; you are too heavy a clog at the heeles of a gentleman.

I with all my heart, and I con youthanks too.

The Clowne, my fathers heire, will be glad of you.

Have you an elder brother?

You doe not heare me say he is my brother; but the clown my father had a former son, by a former wife, that was no gentle­woman as my mother was, and he is a Clowne all over, and incu­rable, even get you to him, like to like will agree well: here's a Crowne for you, 'twill carry you a foote to Tanton; and so get you gone like a Clowne as you are.

'Tis well you allow me some mon ey yet: we shall have you begge all the way home shortly, when your Cheaters have done we' yee.

How villaine!

Why doe you not correct him sir?

[Page]

Nay why do not you, he dares not? though he could spare his Clowne blood, he dares not venture his Gentleman blood so, nor you yours, tis all too fine I doubt; therefore keepe it, & make much on't: I would be▪ loath a jaile should stay my journey, or by my Cursen soule I would see, what colour the best on't were be­fore I goe. But if I don't your errand to your brother, and tell'n how you doe vlout'n behinde's back, then say Cut's a Curre: And so a vart vor a varewell to the proudest o'yee; and if you be an anger'd, tak't in your angry teeth.

Mon. Ha, ha, ha.

What a rude Rascall 'tis? you are happy that he is gone.

And so am I, he hindred halfe my worke; seven yeares time is too little to make a gentleman of one that can suffer such a Clowne within seven mile of him.

Would hee were beyond Brainford on his way then by this time for me. But you forget the way you were in; you said you would fill my belly; and then fall to practice fine comple­ments and congies to make me a perfect gentleman, and fit to see mine unknowne uncle.

All shall be done.

Act 3. Scene 8.

See if my Surgeon and his wife have not fil'd themselves, and come wiping their lips already.

So shall you presently: now Landlady are you pleasd with your Asparagus?

With the Asparagus I am; and yet but halfe pleas'd nei­ther, as my husband shall very well know.

Well, wee will leave you to talke with him about it: come sir let us into the house.

But halfe pleas'd sweet-heart?

No indeed Iohn Brittleware▪ the Asparagus has done its part; but you have not done your part Iohn; and if you were an honest man Iohn, you would make sir Hughes words good of the Asparagus, and be kinder to me: you are not kinde to your owne wife Iohn in the Asparagus way; you understand me: for ought [Page] I see Pompeons are as good meat for such a hoggish thing as thou art.

Well, when we come at home Beck, I know what I know.

At home, is't come to that? and I know what I know: I know he cannot love his wife enough at home, that won't bee kinde to her abroad: but the best is I know what my next lon­ging shall be.

More longings yet! now out of the unsearchable depth of womans imagination, what may it be?

It beginnes to possesse me already, still more and more: now tis an absolute longing, and I shall be sick till I have it.

May I know it forsooth, tell it that you may have it.

I dare tell it you, but you must never know that I have it.

If you dare tell it.

Dare▪ nay be as jealous as you will: thus it is, I do long to steale out of mine owne house, unknowne to you as other wo­men doe, and their husbands nere the wiser, hither to this s [...]me Sparagus Garden, and meet some friend that will be kind to me.

How, how!

In private; unknowne to you, as I told you; 'tis▪ unpos­sible I shall ever have a child else, and you so jealous over me as you are?

Art thou a woman and speak this?

Art thou a man, five yeares married to me; and aske mee now if I be a woman?

Art thou so full of the Devill to flye out in this manner▪

Why his hornes flye not out of me to fright thee, do they?

Oh for a hell that has not a woman in't?

Act 3. Scene 9.

Look you there Iohn jealousie▪ there's an example before your eyes, if nothing hang i'your sight; there you may see the dif­ference between a sower husband and a sweet natur'd gentleman! good heart! how kindly he kisses her! and how feately she holds up the neb to him! little heart! when will you be so kind to your owne wife Iohn.

Is that his wife thinke you?

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No, no, I know her, tis Mris. Holy-hocke the precise Dra­pers wife▪ oh, how my longing growes stronger in mee: J see what shift soever a woman makes with her husband at home, a friend does best abroad.

Act 3. Scene 10.

Jndeed my Mris. will not take this money, there wants two shillings.

Why is my peece too light▪

Two light for the reckoning Mrs. it comes to two & twen­ty shillings, and this is but twenty.

Vnreasonable; how can she reckon it,

J know what you had sir, and we make no bills:

Well fare the Taverns yet, that though they cosen'd never so much, would downe with it one way or other [...]e and their Iacks, go agen; now tel [...] your Mris. & that wil hinder her somwhat.

Not a jo [...] sir.

Then tell her the Countesse of Copt▪ Hall is comming to be her neighbour againe, and she may decline her trade very dan­gerously.

My Mris. scorns your words sir.

You. Rogue▪

Nay sweet Co [...], make no upror [...] for my reputation [...] sake; here youth there's two shillings more, commend me to your Mi­stresse.

She payes the reckoning it seems.

It seems then he has beene as kind to her another way.

Act 3. Scene 11▪

How is't? J hope you are not wrangling now, but better pleas'd than so.

No, no, sir Hugh, 'tis not the Spa [...]gus can do't, unlesse the man were better:

But may J now be confident that J am almost a gentleman.

Without that confidence you are nothing.

There wants nothing now, but that you learn the rules & rudiments, the principles and instructions for the carriages, con­gies, & complements, which we'll quicly put into you by practice.

And then the spending the little rest of my mony, & J am a cleare gentleman, & may see my uncle.

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Right, right.

And I will write it, and crowd it into as many Bonds as I can a purpose to write gentleman; Timothy Hoyden of Tanton—no, of London, Gentleman: London is a common place for all gentlemen of my ranke, is it not?

Excellent, doe you not marke howfinely he comes on?

But as I hope to live and dye a gentleman Mrs. what shi▪ call, your reckoning was devillish deare▪ s'daggers three pound for a few Cuckoe pintles, they were no better I thinke.

Now you fall backe againe, and derogate from the condi­tion of a gentleman most grosly, to think any thing too deare you cate or drinke.

Poxe on't, I had forgot.

When he has his rules and principles, which must be his next study, he will remember.

Pray let's about it [...].

Now we'll goe; but you forget me Mistresse.

No indeed sir Hugh▪ here's two Peece for last week and this.

Tis well▪ Landlord and Landlady will you goe?

Would you wou'd long to be at home once.

[...] I doe perhaps and to be here againe, and there again; and here, and there▪ and here againe [...] and all at once.

Hey kicksie winsie.

And I doe long to goe to Windsor too, to know if the pro­phesie [...] there, [...] reported here.

How did you heare it goes forsooth?

That all old women shall die, and many young wives shal have Cuckol [...]s to their husbands▪

I heard forsooth that all young wives should dye that were pu [...]e maids when they were marryed.

And none other?

[...] report goes forsooth▪

You speake very comfortably: It may be a long journey to the worlds end yet.

It seems you are not proscribed by the prophesie then?

I thank my destiny.

My first worke when I am compleat gentleman shall bee [Page] to get them a Child, and make 'hem friends.

A most gentlemanly resolution.

And truely the City is much bound to such well affected gentlemen.

Scene 1.

IS it possible that halfe this can be true, that a halfe brother of mine can be made such an asse all over?

Tis all true, as I am a Cursen fellow Mr. Thomas, every word on't: [...] scorne to lye in a sillibub I; what lucke had I to meete you? I never thought to zee you at London.

S'daggers death, it has as good as veez'd me out o'my wits to think on't: was my vathers blood zo quaisome to him, (with a mischiefe to' t) that he must let it out to be a gentleman, because his mother was one (by her owne report:) for our own parts we nother know nor care where hence she coame, nor whi­ther she's gone, but dead she is) she brought my vather a good purse o' mony, and kept another in store it seems, till she could keep't no longer, and then bestow'd it well and wisely upon Chitty vace her zonne, to make him a geantleman, and told him what great house he coame on by her side; for shee was a Striker forzooth, and ga'n directions to vinde an old Uncle of his here in Cuckold-shire, one Mr. Striker: but virst shee bade him put his zelfe into vashion, and bee sure to beare's zelfe like a Gentleman; and he has ta [...]ne a wise course to compasse it, i [...] zeems: I warrant he ha made a voole o' his voure hundred pound by this time.

Ay, and o'his zelfe too, as his Cony catchers ha handled him: And you had zeen't, you would ha' be pist your zelfe vor woe, how they blooded him.

Ah.

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And then how they spurg'd his guts out.

Ah.

A Bots light on 'hem, 'twould ha made a dog zick to zeet how like a scalded pig he look'd.

Ha, ha, ha.

And then how they did veed'ne with a zort of zlip zlaps not all worth a' messe o' milke porredge to make him vine vorsooth.

Ah.

Youle zee zuch an altrication in him as never was zeen in a brother.

But I wo'not zee'n yet as voule a Clowne, as I am, and as vine a gentleman, as he is, I have a tricke i'my skonce to make a yonger brother o'ne.

I that would be zeene now.

I ha't, and 'tis a vine one, I came to London to zeeke the voole my brother, and ha the same directions from our Curate, (to whom my mother told all) that Tim had to vinde his uncle Strikers house, and I ha quir'd it out; and this is it, and thou zhalt zee what I chill doe now: wh'are within.

Act 4. Scene 2.

Who would you speak with.

By your leave vorsooth, I would speake with the Mr. o' the house: I understand his worships name is Mr. Striker.

He is so sir, but he is not in case to buy any cattell at this time.

Nor doe I come to zell'n any; my comming is of a dead bodyes errand vorsooth.

What strange fellow is this troe?

I▪ pray vorsooth, and you bee old enough (as it zeems you be) to remember when my mother was a maid, did you know a zuster of Mr. Strikers that was married into Zummerzet shire?

What was her name I pray?

Her Cursen name was Audry, she zed, and a Striker she as bevore she was married; but my vather made a Hoyden.

Hoyden.

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Yes Hoyden, zo I zay; there be very good vokes o' th name, as you shall well know; I cham one my zelfe, and she neede not be asham'd I wusse o' the kin she coame on, to hugger mugger it as she did to her dying day.

Most wonderfull, but is she dead?

Yes vaith she's dead, and as sumptiously buried, though I zay't, as any yeomans wife within ten mile of Tanton, any time these ten and twenty yeare.

Pray what were you to her?

I tell you, my va [...]her married her; and I should bee her zonne I thinke.

Good heaven, how things will come about!

Coulter keep thy countenance Coulter, ▪ile make [...]' hem be­lieve I am her very naturall zonne, & zee what will come on't.

Ile keepe my countenance, and zet a vace on't too and ne [...]d be.

Your Vncle Striker at this time is very sicke sir, but I will acquaint him with your desire: pray walke into the next▪ roome the while sir.

If he should dye now Coulter, and make me his heire?

I marry Mr. so you might make a better journey on't then the gentleman your brother.

This to me is the greatest wonder of all, that I am pre­sently possess'd of my Mrs. sullen sicknes, which has ee'n drawn him to deaths doore, and my Mistresses unfortunable condition are nothing to this Country Hoydens relation:

Act 4. Scene 3.

O Mr. Touchwood, you are the welcom'st Gentleman that ever could come into so heavy a house.

A stinking one it is I am sure: that nasty carrion thy Mr. is i'my nose already, I think I were best goe no further.

Let not the sadnesse of this place dismay you.

But is he dead already, ha?

Not altogether dead sir

The worse luck; and how does your Mistris? ha, ha, ha, well well I say nothing.

She is in bodily health sir, but very sad and much discon­solate, poore Damsell.

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Not for her Grandsire, is she: if the worst dogge hee keeps howle for him, Ile worry sheepe with mine owne▪ teeth, and trusse for him; but why is she sad, prethee tel me [...] ha▪ ha, ha.

I marvaile at your mirth sir.

I would now give her a new Gowne, to tell me the true cause that I might save mine oath, and rore out my rejoycings: twas a devillish tricke of the Rascalls to bind me by oath never to speake of it, but to those that should tell me of it first. I have such a coyle to keep it in now: Prethee tell me, what has the old Traveller▪ that is now bound for the Low Countries, gi'n thy Mrs. in his will, canst tell?

Alas he is offended with her, she has displeased him in somewhat, that is the maine cause of his mortall sicknesse.

That's my boy, there boy, there, that was a home blow.

She comes not at him sir, nor dares not see him: do you know any thing by her sir?

No, no, no, not I, not I; s'bores I bit my tongue too hard.

If you doe sir, would you would speake a good word for her, that he may dye in charity with her.

The jade jeeres me, Ile stay no longer [...]'the house.

Nay good sir say not so, after so many messages and en­treaties, by all the best o'the parish, and an exhortation made to you by the Minister himselfe: did you vouchsafe to come, and wil you now come short to see my Master, now the Doctors have gi­ven him over, and he is dying?

I confesse 'twas my desire to see that dying that brought me hither: where is he? Ile hold my nose, and have at him.

I hope you wil be friends with him now sir; for he's ee'n a going.

Friends? Ile rather goe with him, and fight it out by the way.

Act 4.Scene▪ 4.

Looke you sir here he is.

What up and in a Chaire?

[Page]

Yes sir; he will not yield by any perswasion to dye in his bed.

Then he may live to be hanged yet▪ for ought I see.

See sir, your neighbour Touchwood comes to be reconciled to you.

You are quite besides the book sir Domine, I have no friends in hell to send to by him: no sir, I come to see him dye, as he liv'd a hatefull miscreant.

Let me pray and beseech you to speake more charitably, or else not to offend the dying man with your presence.

Doe I come to humour him, or you, or my selfe, thinke you: you that take upon you, and doe rather goe about to sooth him up in his sicknesse, then to fright him out of his paine, rather encourage him to live then rid the world of him, and his abho­minations.

Best looke into your selfe Sir: The worlds a stage, on which you both are Actors, and neither to be his owne Judge.

But he has playd many vilde and beastly parts in it, let him goe, I would see his last Exit, and hisse him out of it; harke, the Ravens cry porke for him, and yet he dyes not.

O you are a hard-hearted man.

My heart's not hard enough to breake his, I would it were: where's your kinde hearted Mistris, fetch her, and trye what she can doe.

Huh, huh, huh,

What have you done sir?

So, so, so, so it workes, it workes.

Out snarling Hell-hound my curse upon thee, and thy cur­sed sonne that has undone my Neece and mee: curse upon curse light on yee.

Oh fearefull.

How heartily he prayes; sure he is neare his end.

Pray sir depart, you are too uncharitable.

My sonne undone thy Neece: has he not done her think'st thou? ha, ha, ha.

Huh, huh, huh: Villaine thou knowst what he has done; huh, huh.

I know not whether I know or no; tell me, and Ile tell thee.

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Huh, huh, huh.

Speake English, has he laine with her?

Ha, ha, ha▪

Depusilated, ha, ha, ha.

Be perswaded sir.

In this extremity I doe entreat you that they may marry▪

Huh, huh huh.

Huh, huh, huh.

[Page]

I have not knowne such want of charity.

Vnconscionable wretch, thou hast kild my Mr.

The Devill I have, and his Dam it shall.

Ah hem! I am light at heart agen.

O damn'd old counterfeit.

Well fare your heart old Master.

Oh I could teare that tongue out.

Keep her child too.

Doe, and her next, and fill thy house with bastards.

Ile hold 'hem more legitimate than thy brood.

What meane you gentlemen?

For thou, thy sonne, thy house is all a Bastard.

Beare witnesse, he calls my house a Bastard.

Ha, ha, ha.

Ile make thy house to smoak for't.

Beare witnesse there, he saies he will fire my house.

For neighbour-hood and Charity speak lower.

Tis'petty treason; ile be wi'yee there sir.

And hang thy selfe old scare Crow.

Will you eate a peece of Ginger-bread for your Winde Sir.

Out Witch.

O murder, murder.

Ile lay as many actions on thee as thou hast bones in that Swines foote of thine.

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My Nailes shall right me: Ile teach him to kick a wo­man.

Hold mistris Friswood▪

O Villaine kicke a woman!

Thou laidst this plot to murther me, thou man-killer.

Blood-sucker thou ly'st.

Helpe from above, within, or any whence, in the name of sanctity I conjure you. Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.

Act 4. Scene 5▪

What's the matter? by your leave which is my zick Uncle? are you scuffling for's money before he be dead.

Wee'l part you with a vengeance.

Ha you your Tennants, your Clownes here brought in to butcher me?

Slave they are thine, brought in to spoyle and rob mee; I know 'he [...]n not.

I feare I have conjur'd up fiends indeed, how infernally they looke?

No sir, we come with no zick intendment on neither no­ther zide; but an you be Mr. Striker, we are o'your zide, an't bee to cut all the rest into Pot-hearbs.

No, this is my Mr.

Zay but the word then, and have at 'hem.

Had you your ambuscado for me?

They are a paire of the Sedan Mules I take it.

Moyles sir, wee be no Moyles would you should well know.

We be Cursen folke as good as your zelfe, and get you out o'the house by mine Vncles leave here.

Your Vncle, oh brave.

Orif I baste you not well a fine, and Lamb-skinne your jackets till your bones rattle i'your hides, then zay cha bewrai'd the house I coame on.

Well sir, Ile goe and leave you to your Vncle: rejoyce [Page] sir with your kind red: I hope you wil have more shortly, if your Neece prove fruitful: Come Master Paneridge, will you goe?

With joy for your recovery, and manners to your priva­cy, Right Worshipfull I leave you to talke with' Clowne your Nephew.

Tarry, tarry; as sure as a Club, this Clowne is sent for out of the Country, to soder up his crack'd Neece in Matrimony, and therefore calls him Vncle; I could spoyle the Match, but by my oath I dare not; and therefore Clowne take thy course: come let us goe Mr. Pancridge

And why you my Nephew sir?

And why not I your Nephew; han't she told you, and ha'not I told you as much as the matter's worth, and doe yee meane to vlee from the bargaine?

What new afflictions hourely find me out?

And for your health, I hope sir.

Is't come to this now?

Your project will not hold Mr. Thomas, best zeek your brother Tim, hee has a zertification from the parish, and the Priest too, of all your mothers mind, and you could cosen him on't, and come agen, and uncle this weese gentleman, whether he wooll or no; 'twould be vine i'vaith

Agreed: well sir, vor this time I ha no more to zay t'yee, since you be so budge: but he that made you zave you

Farewell sir, I doe beginne to think there's something in't.

He made me thinke he was your sisters sonne Ia m sure.

Scene 6.

In all I will obey you,

Twill but become my duty.

A good girle.

Sir here's the Knight come againe, that has been here in the time of your sicknesse to have seene you, and my Mistris, but [Page] could not: and left a letter for you once: hee that looks women through so.

Oh▪ Sir Arnold Cautious: did you tell him I was o' the mending hand.

Yes I told him you were so, so.

Give me my Gowne and Cap though, and set mee chari­ly in my sickly chaire; his letter is a treaty of a match betwixt his Nephew and my Neece: goe fetch him up.

In Neece, and be not seene untill I call you: untill you heare me call you, doe you heare?

Could I but catch this Cautious coxecombe Knight now—Ile put faire for't.

Act 4. Scene 7.

Here is the Knight sir.

Speake to the purpose; pray what's his estate?

Hopefull, and handsome! uh, uh, uh.

[Page]

You sir have wealth enough.

Will not your Neece be seene: I faine would see her.

Pray let me see your Neece.

[Page]

Friswood—why Friswood.

Is that her name?

No sir, I call my maid.

A maid; I took her for an old woman.

Ile call her for you sir: Fris—

Uh—alas I cannot last—why comes she not?

You shall heare him.

I ha' not the heart to wrong her; she's too good.

Act. 4. Scene 8

Mr. Goldwire, what's your haste?

You first mov'd me to't.

Oh me; and would you speak for such a man?

I take you at your word, and thanke you sir.

Act 4. Scene 9.

NOw sir have you your rules by heart?

Both Rules and Rudiments I have al ad unguem.

Repeate your Principles.

Principles to be imprinted in the heart of every new made gentleman: To commend none but himselfe: to like no mans wit but his owne: to slight that which he understands not: to send mo­ny, & never look for't agen: to take up upon obligation, & lend out upon affection: to owe much, but pay little▪ to sell land, but buy none: to pawn, but never to redeem agen: to fight for a whore: [Page] to cherish a Bawd, and defie a trades-man.

And can you observe and keepe these rules thinke you?

I hope I can sir, and have begunne pretty well already▪ you see I have spent and lent all my money; and pawn'd all my Cloaths but these a▪ my backe, as I am a cleare gentleman; and for the rest of the rudiments, and the severall carriages and de­portments by garbe, by congy, complement, &c. which are to be attain'd by practice when I come abroad and amongst 'hem, you shall gaine credit by me.

I commend your confidence: now Mr. Springe, and Mr. Brittleware, play you the Complementasters before him a little, for his further instruction: Imagine them a couple of Courtiers scarcely acquainted fall to; and looke that you congy in the new French Bum-trick; here Landlord, take his Cloak and hat to ap­peare more generous.

Bum tricke!

Come meet and begin; play but two or three bouts at most at single Rapier complement, and one or two at Back-sword and you ha done: now observe sir.

Single Rapier, and Back-sword Complement foyle.

Noble Master Fine-wit, the single example of Court-Cere­mony, if my apprehension deale fairely with me.

Sir, how auspiciously have I falne upon the knowledge of you by vertue of the same apprehension.

So, there's one.

Scene 10.

What's here?

Peace, let's see a little more.

As I am a Gentleman, a neate bout and fairely come off o' both sides.

Sir▪ I shall ever blesse the promptnesse of my memory, in being so fortunate to collect the fallacious acquaintance of so compleat a goodnesse.

Sweet sir I shall ever blesse, &c.

Oh you are pleas'd out of that noble worth which can convert all things to the forme and image of its owne perfecti­on [Page] to make your selfe glorious, with that which is miserably im­poverish'd in it selfe.

Good, there's two.

Miserably impoverisht in it selfe—oh sweet.

Sir, you have such a conquering way in humility, that hee shall be sure to come off vanquish'd that offers to contend with you.

This is the noblest of all humanity to peece up the defect of your friend with a glory of your owne.

A plaine hit that: here were three bouts well plaid.

Peece up the defect of your friend with a glory of your owne: most stately fine, as I am a gentleman.

So much for single Rapier: now for your secret wipe at Back-sword.

I that I would see, like the hackling of the Millers leggs: now for a delicate back-blow.

See you yon fellow I held complement with?

Yes sir, a well-spoken gentleman and a lovely.

The arrantst trifle in a Kingdome.

What he is not, is he?

Made onely to make physicke worke: a very lumpe of laughter.

Ha, ha, ha.

You have done well: now you sir.

Doe you note him yonder that past from you?

That gallant sir?

Good.

A very tilting stocke for yong practisers to break their jests on.

Enough.

Good and enough; doe you call this good enough, to abuse one another thus?

Yes, this is qacksword Complement: this wipes off the false praise which the first thrust on: you must bee seene in both, or you are no true garbist else.

J shall soonest hit o'this; for from a whelpe I could give scurvey language.

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Now break in upon 'hem; save you sir Hugh.

O course salutation: save you sir Hugh.

How got you hither gentlemen?

Here we are sir, and have seene part of your practice, your Courtly exercise.

Peace: but how got you in, and a stranger with yee?

He shall betray nothing.

We found faire entrance into the house.

'Sfoot where's my wife then?

If your wife be the gentlewoman o' the house sir, shee's now gone forth in one o' the new Hand-litters: what call yee it, a Sedan.

O Sedana.

He's runne mad with his hornes.

He's runne with my Hat and Cloak by your leave.

He'll come agen, neare doubt him.

You say so small acquaintance▪ but I could ne're see any thing of mine againe, since I came amongst you, if it once got out of my sight: what money have I left troe?

I pray gentlemen which way took she:

Downe towards the Strand I tell you, in a new Litter, with the number one and twenty in the breech on't.

A Litter of one and twenty in her breech: High time to runne.

You see we have our plot in action too, sir Hugh, and it runnes fairely on.

But what a rogue art thou to put such a slur upon thine owne Vncle▪ first to put him on for thy selfe, then you with a Counterfeit tricke to put him off o' that course, to runne despe­rately headlong to breake his owne necke in a match: what a Rogue art thou to use thine uncle thus?

Nay what a wretch were you, if you should crosse your daughter in such a fortune?

Which if I doe, cut my wind-pipe: what the yong ras­call Touchwood is gone into France they say?

I he's safe enough.

Sir Cautious to be catch'd! if I doe not love my daugh­ter the better for her lucky leg stretching▪ I am a villaine, I am taken with such kind of roguery.

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Take heed you have not a crosse plot in that itching pate of yours to spoyle all now.

Then cut my weasond I say.

And I sweare I will, or cut these hands off; I thought good to tell you so, because I know what tricks you have done, & what discoveries you have made for small parcells of ready money.

Hoo poxe, I want no money; now look there comes Mr. Hoyden, salute these gallants.

What without a hat or cloak?

The better for a young beginner.

Sweet sir, I shall ever blesse my auspicious starres, that shin'd me into the falicious acquaintance of so singular goodnes.

Sir you forget your selfe.

Most singular sweet sir, most miserably impoverish't in it selfe.

Good sir forbeare, make not an Idoll of me.

You peece up the defect of your friend with a glory of your owne.

Can you say this gentleman was a Clowne within this fortnight?

Within this fortnight I assure you sir, as rank a Clown o' one side, as ever held Cow to Bull.

Had it beene o' both sides, it had beene miraculous.

Now note me sir: doe you see that fellow I left?

Yes, tis my friend.

The arrantest coxcomb in a Country

How sir?

Made onely to make Physick worke.

You doe not know him sure.

A tilting stocke for young practisers to break jests on: there's a wipe for you at backe sword Complement.

There's another for you sir.

You knock at the wrong doore sir, and I pitty your igno­rance: goe to schoole as I have done, and learn more wit: kick a gentleman.

Act 4. Scene 11.

Here he is and here be all the crue on 'hem, and more.

Here? thou mockst he is not here: sure these be all Lords I thinke.

How now; what's he?

Slid 'tis his Clowne brother he spake of?

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Is't possible? icha made a sweet jaunt after you & have I vound a vine voole o'thee: where's thy voure hundred pound? is that made a voole on too troe: where's the zartificate my mother ga' thee to vinde thine uncle? gi' me that, chill [...]ee what I can doe wi'it.

Away Clowne I know thee not canst thou complement?

Complement lyes, I can complement dagger out o'sheath, an I zet on't.

I hope he'll veeze you, and make your zilken jacket hum: well zed Mr. Thomas to 'hem, and to 'hem all Ile zi [...]e yee.

Mr. Thomas does he call him?

Yes, Mr. Thomas, and what zay you to that; and as good a Mr. as the best o'yee, and you goe to that; for by uds shall jidge me, I think you are all but a company of Cheaterlings; and if you doe not give the voole my brother sartifaction for the wrongs you ha'd one him, and me in him, Ile canvas it out o' the carkas­ses o'zome o'yee, by uds daggers death will I. Draw Coul [...]er, & amongst 'hem.

Hold sir, hold, you shall have satisfaction.

O shall I zoe, put up againe Coulter.

This is a stout roring Clowne.

Where's the Mr. o' the house?

He's runne mad, after his wife, now he should look to his house.

Cha mich a doe to vorbeare beating o'thee yet, my vin­gers doe zo itch at thee.

I understand thee not, as I am a gentleman.

But now I thinke on't Coulter, we'll have all ag [...]ine, & by a quieter way; and teach 'hem to licke hony, catch birds with Chaffe, or go to plow with dogs.

Ha, ha, ha.

Ha, ha, ha; who understands the Barbarian tro?

Uds vish Master they do nothing but jeer to you all this while now.

Doe they jeere, let 'hem jeer & gibe too; ile vetch ones Warrant shall out jeere 'hem all, and he be above ground.

You shall not need sir; go but in till the Mr. of the house comes home, you shall have your desire.

You zay very well sir; zay well is good, but doe well is better. Lets zee what you will doe now.

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Remember we have warn'd you sir Hugh, we must leave you.

Nay I'chill look to you: sirrah come in my hand.

Scene 1.

T [...]s as I tell you Mr. Touchwood; your sonne has lost a faire fortune in the young gentlewoman, and as I con­ceive by your wilfulnes Sir Arnold Cautions licks his lips at her. I assure you; and a sweet lick it is, sixe thousand pound in present portion.

A sweet li [...]k he has indeed if he knew all.

He does know all sir.

If he did, I know what I know; good oath let me not lose thy vertue.

He knowes moreover, that Mr. Strike [...], her grandfa­ther has covenanted to give her two thousand pound more at the birth of his first Child, lawfully begotten on her body.

Ha, ha, ha; but what if her first child prove illegitimate?

That is not to be thought sir.

Yes, and spoken too, if I durst; but good oath let mee not lose thy vertue.

And then he had entred into ten thousand pound bond, to leave her his heire if she survive him.

But he's well recover'd you say.

Very lusty, very lively sir.

Then hang him, he'll never dye; I am a fear'd I must be faine to give him over, I shall never vexe him to death: no, no, I shall never do't.

No sir, I heard himselfe say, that your vexing him has bin his physick, and the best meanes to keep him alive.

Did he say so? Ile teare this match in peeces presently: and see how that will worke on him; ile do't, what's an oath to me, in respect of sending him to the Devill, Ile do't.

I would you could sir, and recover her for your son yet.

Vmh.

Because I love the yong gentleman wel

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Vmh.

Though I assure you the writings are all past, sign'd, seal'd, and delivered; but I have 'hem in my hands yet, and can doe you a pleasure.

Humh.

And came purpos [...]ly to advise you, because I loue your son.

Vmh—what a world of villany lies in the jobber noule of a Lawyer.

Thinke of it sir, and be speedy.

Right learned in the Law, and my sons friend Mr. Tramp­ler, Mr. Ambodexter Trampler, you are a most notorious knave, & and you shall heare on't o'both sides, as you take fees.

Nay, and you be so hot Mr Touchwood I am gone.

I know my course; either I will crack the heart-strings of Striker, in crossing this match, with the crack'd credit of his Neece, or else I will be friends with him, and that will kill him out right: But my oath still troubles me—Oh gentlemen you are welcome.

Act 5. Scene 2.

Ha you heard sir of your sonne yet?

But ha you heard the newes of his young Mistris?

What of sir Cautious being catcht, the wise and wary gentleman, your Vncle, that would not beleeve there could be a marriagable maid, thogh she were justified by a jury of Midwifes, and therefore purpos'd to have dy'd a Batchelour: that he should now bee catch'd with a pipt Nut-shell, and a Maggot in't.

Sure he was strangely wrought to't.

But I wil crosse it and their knaveries, what ere they are.

I hope you will not crosse mine uncle in such a fortune tho.

What to marry a wench?

No, so much wealth sir.

Pray let me use my Christian Liberty, my Conscience pricks me to't, it must be done.

Now what say you sir?

We might ha spar'd this labour: he was resolv'd before we came it seemes to spoyle the marriage.

We could not bee too sure though: wee are now sure e­nough, that our disswasions will spur him on the faster.

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And we are no lesse sure, that sir Hugh Mony-lacks will set his strength to life Sir Cautious off o'the hooks, in hope of a mat­ter of 5. Pound, though [...]e forfeit the obligation of his throat by't.

All the danger is, that Sir Hugh wil be with mine Uncle too soon, & prevent the match before he be too deep ingag'd in't.

For that my letter of instructions, which I have given An­nabell shall prevent him; and Striker keeps Sir Cautious in his house so warily, that untill the intended wedding houre, Sr. Hugh shall not obtaine admittance.

Goe fetch 'hem in, and make the warrant: ha, ha, ha: Gentlemen will you heare a complaint my man tells mee of cer­taine Clownes that desire my warrant to apprehend for notori­ous Cheaters, whom doe you thinke?

I cannot ghesse.

I know none I hope.

Even Sir Hugh Money-lacks, the mourning Knight, and some of his associats.

O'my life it is the roring Clowne, about the new made Gentleman his brother.

Act 5. Scene 3.

What is it you sir, Mr. Strikers Nephew, as I take it, you cald his great worships Vncle lately as I take it, and did your best to tore me out of his house.

Zheart Coulter we be vallen into the Bakers ditch.

And doe you bring your complaints to me sir, ha?

Zet a good vace on't; and veare no colours though.

I am an honest man, and a true man for all that, and I thought you the vittest to make my complaint to because you were the next Justice, to as pestilence a peece of villany as ever you were Master of in all your life: I come but v [...]r justice, and to pay vor what I take, and't be avore hand, here it is, whether it be vor your Clarke or your zelfe, who makes or meddles with it, your man has my complaint in writing, pray let me have your warrant.

You shal, but first tell me, how came it that you cald that Strike [...] uncle.

Vor cause that he is uncle to a voole that I ha' to my brother, and I thought I might be so bold wee'n, and he was not against it at virst, till you were gone, and then he bad me goe zeek better testimony, and so I went and vound my bro­ther Tim, his owne zusters zonne I assure yee.

His Sisters sonne?

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Where he was made such a Tim, as ne're was heard on in To [...]ton, amongst a many Cheaters: by masse here are a couple o' [...].

These were o'the crew.

How now my Masters: sure fellow thou art mistaken.

No sir, I am not mistaken I but I take 'hem I, where I vinde 'hem I: And I charge your justiceship with 'hem I, til they bring out my brother I.

Bring out your brother: why what has your brother done?

Done: nay they have done and undone him amongst 'hem. And I think devour'd him quick too vor he is lost, & no where to be vound.

Doe you know the meaning of any of this gentlemen?

If he were your brother sir, that you found at Sir Hugh Money-lacks lodging, you know we left him in your hands.

We stept in but by chance, & such a youth we found there, & there we left him in your and their hands, that had the managing of him.

Zo you did, but what then did me the rest, but pli'd me, and my man Coulter here with wine, and zack, and some­thing in't, I dare be zwore that laid us a zleep, when we mistru­sted nothing but vaire play: oh speak Coulter, oh.

And then when were vast azleep, they all gave us the zlip, the Knight was gon, and the Squire was gon, & Mr. Tim was gon, but he was made away, without all peraventure; for all the parrell that he wore was left behind: and then—speak Master.

And then the Mr o'the house came home, & made a mon­strous wonderment for the losse of his wife; he could not vinde her he zed. and zo he vaire and vlatly thrust us out o'doores, and is gone a hunting after his wife agen: speak Coulter.

Alas poore Britlew [...]re.

And then we came for your warrant, to vind all these men agen.

And to take 'hem where we vinde 'hem, & these were zome on 'hem, when time was, and pray look to 'hem.

I know not what to make o'this but sure there's some­thing in't: And for these gentlemen ile see them forth-comming.

We thanke you sir.

And I will undertake Sir Hugh Mony-lacks will be at the Bride-house.

And thither will I instantly.

We'll waite upon you sir.

And I chill make bold to wait upon you till I be better zartified.

[Page]

You shall, come on your way, come gentlemen.

Act 5. Scene 4

Be appeas'd and comforted, good Mr. Br [...]tleware, trouble not your head in running after your fate, nor break your weighty braines in seeking wayes after your wives heeles, which are so light by your owne report, they cannot crack an egge.

Her credit yet they may and mine.

Besides your wife is your wife where e're she is abroad as we as at home, yea, lost perhaps as well as found: I am now going to yoke a heifer to a husband, that perhaps wil say so shortly: whi­ther away Mr. Trampler?

Scene 5.

To the wedding house: where I thinke I saw your wife last night Mr. Britleware.

Did you sir, did you [...]

I cannot say directly; but I think 'twas she: does she not call the gentlewoman Aunt that keeps Mr. Strikers house?

Yes Mistris Friswood, she is her Aunt sir.

Scene 6.

Come goe with us and find her.

Pray gentleman stay, for I suppose She's here here's number one and twenty; & this is sure the litter.

What peep y [...]u for; you ought not to do so sir.

By what Commission ought you to carry my wife in a Close stoole under my nose

Tis a close Chayre by your leave: And I pray for­beare, you know not who we carry.

I know the cloaths she weares, and I will see the party.

I know that voyce, & let me see the man; it is my surgeon.

A Surgeon! I took you for a China shop-keeper Master Britleware; these by trades are for some by purposes, and I smell knavery.

And Lawyers cōmonly are the best upon that sent.

Gentlemen this is a man that lay in my house.

A gentleman you would say, or my cost was ill besto'd there.

These are my goods he weares; that was my mothers Gowne, and felloniously he weares it.

Tis all I have to shew for foure hundred pound I laid out in your house; and Sir Hugh put it upon me, and hir'd these men to carry me—Whither was it?

Vp to a lodging in St. Gileses sir.

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Where he promis'd to finish his worke of a gentleman in me, and send me to my Vncle.

O monstrum horendum; a man in womens cloathes.

Tis fellony by the Law.

Has sir Hugh gin me the slip to finish his work in private? it shall all out, I am resolv'd, though I bewray my selfe in't: pray gentlemen assist me with this party to Mr. Justice Strikers, you say my wife is there.

Yes you shall thither.

And there Ile take a course you shal smel knavery enough.

I finde Jam abus'd enough o' conscience: and shall be car­ried to mine Vncle now before my time and not as a gentleman, but as a gentlewoman, which grieves me worst of all.

Hinc illae lachrimae, the youth is sure abus'd indeed.

Oh.

Come leave your crying: And you beasts up with your luggage, and along with us; ile fetch such dri­vers as shall set you on else.

Let us be paid for our labour, and we'll carry him to Bride-well, if you please.

Oh, oh, that ever I was born in this groa [...]g chaire.

Act 5. Scene 7.

It was well I sent for thee Neece, to helpe me decke the Bride here; and that the jealous foole thy husband thinkes thou art gone astray the while; it will be a meanes for thee to take thy liberty another night, and pay him home indeed, when he shall not have the power to mistrust thee: it is the common conditi­on of Cuckolds to mistrust so much afore hand, that when they are Du [...]'d indeed, they have not a glympse of suspition left.

Their hornes hang i [...] their light then; but truely Aunt, for mine owne part, I had rather my husband should be jealous stil then be cur'd in that right kinde; though I confesse the ends of all my longings, and the vexations I have put him to

Scene 8.

Yes, that's a wise wives part.

What's the Bride ready?

Yes sir, she's drest.

I thanke you Mrs. and Ile bring her shortly to bestow mony w'yee in China wares.

She is her self the purest piece of Pur [...] ­lane—that e're had liquid sweet meats lick'd out of it.

And purer too I hope.

Go call h [...]r down.

She's at her private prayers yet sir, she.

When she has done, then hasten her away.

Such Brides doe seldome make their grooms their prey.

Doe you now conclude Sir Arnold you are happy?

Scene 9.

As man can be being so neare a wife.

By your leave gentlemen.

He come? I fear a mischief.

Hold your peace.

Has he not made her Touchwood too?

Can you say so?

Yes, & struck fire too in her tinderbox.

You will not speak thus.

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Will you undoe your daughter?

Goe not away sir Arnold, I must speak wi' yee.

I am not going sir.

Give me your hand o' that; enough. Sir Arnold.

What say you to me sir Hugh?

What does he meane tro?

You must not have my daughter.

No sir Hugh.

Vnlesse you meane to take anothers leavings.

Oh devillish reprobate.

How mean you that?

Here's an impudent villaine.

For these I give a hundred, if you wed her.

To shew my love unto your daughter sir Ile pay't.

Security in hand were good.

Pray lend me sir a hundred Peeces.

I dare not crosse this devill, I must fetch 'hem.

Twill ne're the lesse be my disparagement.

Scene 10.

Amongst the Iewd.

Here sir.

But is here weight and number sir?

Now the fiend stretch thee—you may take my word.

Here I am wi' yee sir.

Scene 11.

How now, what mates breake in upon us here?

So it is sir,

But it may bee

Whats he?

A friend of Wats he brought for company.

He was amongst 'hem too at the cheating exercise, and yonds the Knight himselfe; I know 'hem all I troe.

I ha told you twonty times, and yet because you zay you'll stand my vrend, ile tell you more, she was with child with Tim be­vore my vather married her (she brought him in her belly vrom this [Page] towne here (where they get Children without veare or wit) but vor her money, and's owne credits zake, my vather was well apaid to keep it vor his owne; and no body knew to the Contrary, not Tim himzelfe to this houre.

Then how camst thou to know it?

My vather told it me upon his death-bed, and charg'd me on his blessing, never to open my mouth to man, woman, nor child, zo I told no body but vokes on't.

Wel, hold thy peace, tis an absolute wonder! [...]ow to the wed­ding

Scene 12

Hows this? my bride in mourning habit, & her head inwillow?

What's the meaning of it?

I said she was drest as never Bride was drest.

My habit and my dressing suits my fortune.

Hem, hem.

Oh, oh.

Oh me; why Mistris look up, look up I say.

Clap her cheek, rub her nose.

Sprinkle cold water on her face.

Cut her lace, cut her lace, and bow her forward, so, so, so.

Ile lay my life she quickens now with child.

Oh.

What think you is the matter?

Women how is it with her?

Sir, as with other women in her case.

How's that I pray you. you have bin doing something afore-hand sir.

Twill out, 'twill out,

Have I?

It seems so by the story.

Is she so drest?

Ha, ha, ha.

You may leave laughing, it was your sonne that did it.

I am undone, my house disgrac'd for ever.

Oh my heart.

Oh the hangman.

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Vh, uh, uh, uh.

You knew not where I could be so well fitted.

Vh, uh, uh.

A rot o'your dissembling intrailes, spit 'hem out, you durst not strain your selfe to wind your whistle, your Doctor told you it would spend your spirits, so made me whistle for her

Vh, uh, uh.

And may it last thee to thy lives last houre.

Now let me talke wi'yee, and come you hither sir.

Prethee doe, trye thy Poeticall souldier.

That Clowne come hither too: I feare I am trapt.

Now I am in.

And more then so, for making him away.

What gentleman?

Marry my brother Tim.

You will not tell it now?

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The young Gentleman that sir Hugh had in handling, is in the house, and Master Brittleware with him.

Only we kept em back, till our more serious office were ended.

Pray em in, lets see him.

Sir, will it please you first to see a match quickely clapt up? This Gentleman whom I know every way deserving, were your Neece now in her prime of Fortune and of Vertue, desires to have her, and she him as much.

Hee shall not have her.

How can you say so?

He knowes his son I feare.

My son shall make his fault good, and restore her honor to her if he lives, in meed for your f [...]ire sisters wrong and my misdeede, my son shall marry her; provided that he take her in his Conscience unstain'd by any other man.

On that condition Ile give her all the worldly good I have.

We take you at your word.

My sonne!

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I take her not with all faults, but without any least blemish.

My supposed slaine: Thus I cast from me.

Znailes a Cushion, how warme her belly has made it.

And that all was but a plot 'twixt him and me, and these gen­tlemen: This paper may resolve you.

Tis mine owne hand by which I instructed her by a dissem­bled way, to wound her honour.

Now am I cheated both wayes.

The plot is finish'd: now thanks for your thousand pound sir.

You are mine owne; welcome into my bosome.

Act. 5 Scene 13.

Whoope, who oomes here, my brother Tim drest like Ma­ster Maiors wife of Taunton-Deane.

Tis all I could get to scape with out of the cozning house; and all I have to shew of foure hundred pound; but this certificate and this small jewel which my dying mother ga'me; and I had much ado to hide it from the Cheaters, to bring unto mine Vncle; which is he?

Lets see your token Sir.

This is a jewell that I gave my Awdrey.

That was my mother.

And that's your vather he zaies.

And a gentleman? what a divellish deale of mony might I ha sav'd! for gentle-men let me tell you, I have been cozen'd black and blew; backe-guld and belly-guld; and have nothing left me but a lit­tle bare Complement to live upon, as I am a cleare gentleman.

Will you bestow some of it upon me.

Vncle you shall: First ile give you a hit at single Rapier com­plement: and then a wipe or two with the Back-sword Complement and I ha done.

Pray begin.

Noble Mr. Striker the grave Magistrate (if my apprehension deale fairely with me) whose prayses reach to Heaven, for the faire distribution of equall justice: the poore mans Sanctuary, the righter of Widdowes, and the Orphans wrongs.

Enough, enough, you have sayd very well.

Note you yond justice sits upon the Bench?

Yes, I do note him.

The Stockes were fitter for him: the most corrupted fellow [Page] about the Suburbs, his conscience is stewd in Bribes, all his poore neigbours curse him; tis though the keeps a whoor now at three score.

A very Westerne Southsayer, thou art mine owne.

His Neece is much suspected.

Nay there you went too farre, this is his Neece, and my daughter now.

I know no Neece he has, I speak but backsword complement.

You put me wel in mind though, here's one, that ere the Par­son and we part, ile make an honest woman.

And for your part sir Hugh, you shall make satisfaction, and bring in your Confederates.

Here's one that came to complaine of me for my Robes here, but I ha lost my small acquaintance.

Ile answer for him too, & give you al the satisfaction that I can

What you cannot shall be remitted, we have all our faults.

And have I found thee Beck in so good company?

I Iacke, be you jealous no more, and I will long no more to vexe rhee.

Live lovingly and honestly I charge you, or come not at mee when I am married.

Sweet Sir I thanke you.

Ile home againe then and make Tanton ring on't.

Our quarrell in this peece of folly ends.

He parted us, and he has made us friends.

Lets in, and end all differences in wine.