Scene 1.

THy father left thee much money, and but a smal quan­tity of wit to mannage it. What—after all this to marrie a widdow, a kinde of chewed meat—what a fantasticall stomack hast thou, that thou canst not eat of a dish till another first cut of it—who would wash after another, when he might have fresh water enough for asking.

M. Shallow Braines, and M. Sneake, the whole company are troubled at your abrupt departure—your faire wife M. Shallow-Braines is very sensible of your departure—

Why here Sneake tells me, widdowes are but chewed meat—and has set such a soile upon my appetite, that should I see her, I should go nigh to vomit.

Fie M. Sneake, that you with rude breath should go about to extinguish Hymens taper ere it is through ligh­ted. Come hither M. Shallow-Braines,—M. Sneake, give me leave to pitie thee, who wouldst faine condemne that which I will make thee confesse naturall; and the sooner the better.

As how, as how?

First, I will prove that a widdow is rather the chew­er, then the chewed; for should we not account him strange­ly [Page 2]fantasticall, that would spend an houre in pulling on a strait boot, when he might be furnished with enough that would come on easily, and do him more service, and as much cred [...]t▪ wine first broacht drinks not half so wel as after awhile drawing: wouldst thou not account him a mad man, who whilest he might faire and easily ride on the beaten road way, should trouble himself with breaking up of gaps; a well-wayed horse will sooner conveigh thee to thy journeys end, then an unbackt Fillie: 'tis Prince-like to marrie a widdow, for 'tis to have a Taster.

I begin to have my stomack come to me again.

I, but Sir, I pray resolve me, whether it be not bet­ter, if a man must be in prison, to lie in a private room, then in the hole.

I shall answer you with Pythagoras in his 2. Sect. de Cuniculorum, that it is better to lie in the hole, then sit in the stocks. —Come M. Shallow-braines, the widdow you have married, I hope, will never give you cause to curse the time I joyn'd your hands: she is faire and demure; come M. Sneake, will you along?

Ile follow you—I nere yet affected a woman but as an house of office, to exonerate nature for that time.

SCENE 2.

Hee's somwhat tall of stature, his haire somwhat inclining to black; his chin has no bush, save a little downe, enough to give notice to the world, he now growes mannish.

Is he a blade, will he fence, and use his spit dexte­rously?

O, no, he weares no sword, the Committees have ta­ken away your feares in that point, and ordered, that on pain of close imprisonment no Cavalier shall mannage steel.

I like that well, Rapio, is the word, what's the debt?

Nine pounds, Ile assure you.

Are you sure he's retir'd into his house?

Most certain, 'tis but a little waiting, I shall requite your stay, you shall find me at the next Tavern.

Stand close, I heare one coming.

SCENE 3.

He's not at home, this Povertie 's so hated a disease, men flie from't as the Pox or Plague. — No matter, to morrow Ile imbarque for France, and prove, if with the climate I can change my fortune; but before I go, I have discover'd that which cheares my soule, the States-men that so long have re­velled, now hang their heads like full-ear'd corne, two of them supt last night in London at a place where I then was, & in the midst of supper one askt what a clock 'twas, and when 'twas told, started, as if he had been to run a race, —there's some great storm towards, whispering in every corner; and there has been about the town to day a murmuring and a buzzing, such as men use to make when they do fear to vent their fears.

Tis he, upon him, upon him.

How now my friends, what means this outrage?

Quietly, 'twill be your best way.

Best way, for what?

Why 'twill be your best way, because there is no o­ther; Rapio, that's the word, you must along Sir.

Is that the word, then here's my sword.

Murder, murder, murder, h'as kild one of the Kings Officers, murder, murder.

The people begin to gather, I must not stay.

What's the matter?

Here Sir, here,—oh a man-mender, a man-mender has broacht me in so many places, all the liquor in my body will run out—Oh, oh!

In troth neighbour, and in good deed saw, I am very sorry for your hurts; on my life this was one of the carriers.

Cavaliers you meane.

I Cavalier, would I had him in hold, the Commit­tee, I believe would order him.

Hang the Committee, ô shall I bleed to death? some help good people.

Alas neighbour, — see, h'as tapt him at the wrong end too, hee has been busie with you here behind (as they say) lend a hand some of you; I charge some — in the Kings name to follow mee.

Scene 1.

I Shall not scape them sure, which way now? ther'es no passage that way: —a doore, and open too.

Where am I now?

O Mr. Lovelesse, my Mistresse hath been in such feares for you—

Ha, for me, 'tis fit I apprehend her, and take the op­portunity,

Alas I could not help it.

Sir, shee's i'th garden walks, hoping your presence.

This is prettie.

Ile to her instantly.

She hath been so distemper'd.

How shall I beare my selfe?

I am very sorrie for that.

Come Sir, my Mistresse will rejoyce to heare your entrance.

Ile venter in, Love guide me right this night, and lovers shall restore thee back againe those eyes the Poets took so boldly from thee. Ile henceforth learne to love a woman better then I was wont: who knows how this may prove?

SCENE 2.

What caus'd their quarrell?

This Sir: because when you, my Master, and M. Time-Server, were with him at the Sun Tavern, you went a­way and left him sleeping on a bench, which act he took so hainously that the next day he sent a furious challenge to my Master.

The place.

Hide-Park.

Tell M. Suckdry I will be there and back him, as his second (vengeance pursue him, why made he choyce of mee) I have had vigour in my arme ere now, and yet I can doe some­what, tell him Ile meet him at the houre appointed. Farwell.

I shall informe him Sir.

The death of slaves pursue thee: — So now my houre of death drawes neer, I could not force my tongue to a deniall — I shall meet them at more distance, then a country Gentle-womman, sees the Lyons at first time — Ile goe (though by the way I fall to ashes.)

SCENE 3.

Is he drunk? Har. So dead, that you may pound him in a mortar, or shake him in a blanket stuck with pins, and he nere cry for help.

Very good fortune, this favour does me ample amends for all thy frowns: Sweet tis thy marriage night, the thought of that creates an earthly heaven, while now the fool thy husband snorts in's bed, and dreams, that passing a rough tide, he arrives at Cuckolds haven; I'me swallowed in the O­cean of thy beauty, and thus I spread my armes for help.

So, close Priest, I shall pound you with her, my wit is not so shallow, but it can prompt me to save my head from being grafted on my marriage night: J, so, revell with your salt lips, the other sport is fulsome.

Thou knowest J ever lov'd thee, and that J took this fool but for a Stale, his money thee and J will revellout in cloaths and banquets.

O where!

Ha, ha, ha, was ever such a novice, to fill the bed himselfe his marriage night,—sweet shal's go to a cham­ber, and there we will feast love unto the height, and use va­riety in lust, which shall beget perpetuall appetite.—

I'le circumvent you—Sir.—

But now I think on't, first, I pray resolve me Sir, doe you find no remorse at no time, that you who are obliged to be a guide to others, should so forget the way your selfe?

And what of that? let men do as I say, and not as I do; is man inslav'd more then the beasts? Does not the wombe of one faire spring bring unto the earth many sweet Rivers, that wantonly do one another chase, And in one bed, kisse, mingle and imbrace: nice observations cleave to easie souls that love to be deluded.

Can you deceive the world so?

As easily as Whores their jealous husbands; I must seem holy to the publike view, else there's no comings in, 'tis out-sides men are taken with, I can on the Fast-daies presse abstinence, and on Thanksgiving daies, teach how wee ought rejoyce with moderation, on Sabbath daies exhort to strict devotion, and keeping of that day inviolate, else not a penny from the Sisters purses but oh away prophane.

Ime verie cold, that villan will undoe me.

Sir, you are absolute in hypocrisie, an art I'me not to learne, but I that have been false my selfe, would faine rely on your fidelity,—will ye prove true unto me, Shallow, lightning blast um, would they would rise.

By this and this loves breakfast,

and by his feasts to come, by all the beauty in this face.—

O hold, sweare not by that, sicknesse and mischance, are great devourers, and when there is not in these cheeks and lips left red enough to blush at perjury, when you shall make it, what shall I doe then?

Our souls by that time, sweet, wil by long custom so acquainted be, they will not need that duller truch-man flesh,

Ha, ha, ha, they're taken in my toyle.—

[Page 7]

Now M. Time-server, and my Bride, how

do you like your bathe.

We are undone, this vault is full of mire not water.

I do confesse my fault, sweet husband draw me out.

I have no ambition to be hanged for you sweet-heart, nor for the leacherous Priest there, here one of you bind your selfe to this rope, and view the light agen,—come now.

So now pull you up the Priest, or let him lie there; I think I have so cooled you, you are this night unfit for Venus sports, to morrow I'le proclaime ye.

I sink deeper, and deeper, was I ordained to pe­rish thus in mud.

here Sir, fasten your body to this rope,— if my weake strength can help come Sir.

My cloathes are weightier then if I were arm'd cap a pe for the battell, where shall I shift my selfe?

I shake like to a lambe new yean'd upon a sheet of snow; O fatall chance, this misery Sir you have brought upon me!

I thought he had been so drunk the cannons iron throat could not have wak'd him; let's seek some place to shift us.

Scene 1.

WHat have I done unto the Fates that they should thus find waies to ruine me, this whore betraid me to my death, and like the Syren useth to allure those that passe by, to prey on um, for none live here but whores and villans, J have escapt their hands, this house is full of thre­sholds and trap-doors, would I were out: J was i'th cellar too where maids were couch't, J laid my hand (groping for my way) upon one of them and and she began to squeake; J must submit to chance, and think on some way to relieve my selfe in meet time, wait with patience.

SCENE 2.

You have observed your time, are nobler then J thought you would have been;—where is your second?

Where's yours?

Here.

What Shallow-brains?

Yes Sir; Shallow-braines, who intends e're that his Ma­ster shall be wrong'd for to beat out your braines? —

J like thy humour well, go on and prosper, my friend staies long.

As J live, they are so foolish, as to fight, see where they stand. J would give twenty pound now for Fortunatus wishing hat, that in a trice J might flie home againe,—J had thought not to have found them there.—

Now yon­der comes my friend.

Yes, he steals along as he had rob'd some henroost.

J am descride, nor can J now give back, feare seizes on me like the hand of death.

—Gentlemen J am come but may not fight.

How not not fight,— Reb. No Sir, this night J had a vision, that certified mee, if J should fight to day 'twere as much as my life's worth.

Base coward get thee home again, drawes: Come M. Suck-dry let us now meet in single battell here, and struggle till wee want our soules.

Alas Sir, you see my second doth refuse to fight, and be­sides, as yet J have not made my peace with heaven, J nere thought on't till now.—

Under this tree (kneel down) and quickly end thy orisons.—

Alas Sir, this place is not convenient, let me go home, and anie other day you shall appoint, J will be sure to meet you.

They're busie in discourse, Jle take the opportunity, —runs—away.—

Slave, Jle be thy confessor, thou art not worthy of my sword, a wand were better,—cuts a cudgell,—Jle bee your ghostly father,—nay stirre not, if thou dost, Jle cut thee into At­ [...]oms, and let the humerous wind to fanne the o're thee earth.

Oh, oh! good Sir, let me go home, Jle enter into bond to give forty pounds.

So perishing sailors pray to storms, and so they heare agen,

— sirrha confesse unto me, J know J have been everie way as guiltie as thy selfe, but Tve repented of what hath been, and left my cursed calling, and now Jle Curr [...]e thee into a better Creed.

O hold Sir, J will confesse.

Come then.

J do acknowledge, [Page 9]J have hitherto pretended zeale to God and love to good­nesse onely to blind the eyes of men.—

So.

And J have contrarie to the very light of knowledge extold those men for vertuous, faithfull ones, whom J have knowne to be the worst of Traytors▪—

Good, very good.

That I with them have daily hoorded that coine the foolish Commons have brought in, —swaid with a foolish zeal, and that I have used all means to impede what ere did tend to peace.

Hold, my ears are blistered sore already, and should I heare thee further, I feare they will drop off; be gone, Ile leave thee, wishing thy conversion; the constitution of my soule agrees not with this climate; Ile leave this Isle ere long▪

Scene 1.

YOu know what's my disease Sir.

Yes, and the cure.

Jf it take, I will reward your friendship: is my uncle sent for?

Yes.

My friends, I've sent for one able enough to pay you.

But is he willing Sir?

For that you must remain in hope, two houres will not expire ere you receive your money, or be for ever out of hope.

Of paiment? Heaven forbid it sir.

Ile joyn with you in the same prayer, but if it happen that unawares you do receive your money, you'l not be time­rous to trust anew.

You shall not want for cloth.

For Linnen.

For money.

I thank you all.

Mr. Rebellion is without.

Admit him in. Sir, von know your charge,

Now must I practise my disguise.

How now nephew, although I once resolved forever to desert thee, yet naturall affection cannot be hid: what's your desire?

You see Sir, in what a despicable state I am worn quite away with sicknesse, my soule now ready to take her flight to him that lent her me. —Oh, Oh, I can no more.

Help for Gods sake, rub him, rub him, so, so, so, how do you nephew.

We must all die, the sisters spin no cables for us mor­talls: you'r his Physition I suppose Sir, what's his disease?

A burning Fever Sir.

Me thinks he lookes too pale for that.

Alas the operation's secret, which renders him the worse, it is Aurum palpabile alone can cure him.

I quite dispare of life, wer't thou a second Aesculapi­us Doctor, thy skill were spent in vaine, on mee only thus Sir I would desire you Uncle, as you are vertuous, and would not be thought guiltie of obstructing my journey unto heaven, you would before my death discharge those debts I am to these ingag'd, which when I see perform'd, I shall with joy depart; imbrace my death with as much willingnesse as ship-wrack Sea-men would the shore, or Malefactors a repreive: till that be done, my soule is much distracted, and worldly thoughts incountring those are pious, maintain fierce warre within mee. Oh! oh! oh!

Ha, I'm caught,

cannot for credit of my own humanity, denie for to perform his hests; I shall be rid of him at once: what's he oblig'd to pay you?

Twenty pound Sir to me for cloth.

Thirty to me Sir for linnen.

Twenty he borrowed of me, beside the interest.

It must be so, Ile pay it, Gentlemen you shall have your mony.

We thank you Sir.

The world sha'nt say I damn'd my brothers son. May I use a servant?

O yes Sir: Richard, come hither.

Your pleasure.

Goe you my friend home to my house, —Thou knowest.

Yes Sir I do.

And bid Thomas bring me the seal'd bag that lies in my Studie window; this key will further him.

I shall Sir.

How fare you nephew?

Sir, now my [Page 11]soule is pacified, and I shall passe away as in a pleasing dream; pray heaven the fatall Sisters cut not into my vitall thread, untill I see the money paid: pray take your seat unkle, M. Vrinal pray sir down; Gen­tlemen, pray fill those chaires: I've a device ere I depart the world, worthy your observation.

What's the conceipt of this?

This is a vision Sir, fore­warnes what is to come, and is an excellent preparative for me.

I understand not what was meant, but much I like their postures.

Sir, here's the gold you sent for.

O very good, Gentlemen draw neer, here's pen, ink, and pa­per, give me acquittance, and subscribe your names, then take your money.

Willingly.

Let me see, there's twenty

pounds for you Sir, there's thirty for you Sir, there's 20. for you Sir. Now nephew, I trust, your peace being made on earth, you will make peace with heaven, I have discharged your debts.

I thank you Sir,

This hearty love of yours has wrought my perfect cure.

Fa, la, fa, la, la, fa, la, la, la, la, la.

Does he counterfeit? I'm fool'd out of my money, these var­lets have spread a net to catch me threescore and ten pounds, —I shall run mad, I can't contain my selfe, what shall I do?

SCENE 2.

Whence, who's there? Dammee without. Where's Mrs. Horns.

I shall be beat to dust if be set eye on me, Ile send one to him,

without I am Who's there? Dam Open the doore you rogue.

Rogue, who are you?

OM. Dammee, you are welcome Sir.

Wher's thy mistresse?

Not at home Sir.

Then all my feares are true, any she is false, false as a falling starre, or glow wormes fire: this divell beauty is compounded strangely, it is a subtill point, and hard to know, whether it has in it more active tempting, or more passive tempted, so soon it forces, and so soon it yeelds—Shees light as ayre, Ile once give her the bells, and let her flie to the devill.

Iames, Is he gone Iames? His vo [...]ce doth terrifie me more then thunder doth the Indians: my game is gone, my wife is run away, I could for spight now be a convert, and turn [...]onest in my age; I have a Countrie-house in Warwick thire, thither Ile go, and live upon the Onions that I sow, and Beans that I shall set. W [...] along Iames

Yes Sir.