A Collection of Old English Plays, Vol. III
Author: Various
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In Four Volumes

Edited by




Preface Sir Gyles Goosecappe The Wisdome of Dr. Dodypoll The Distracted Emperor The Tryall of Chevalry Footnotes


I have not been able to give in the present volume the unpublished play of Heywood's to which I referred in the Preface to Vol. I. When I came to transcribe the play, I found myself baffled by the villanous scrawl. But I hope that, with the assistance of some expert in old handwriting, I may succeed in procuring an accurate transcript of the piece for the fourth volume.

One of the plays here presented to the reader is printed for the first time, and the others have not been reprinted. I desire to thank ALFRED HENRY HUTH, Esq., for the loan of books from his magnificent collection. It is pleasant to acknowledge an obligation when the favour has been bestowed courteously and ungrudgingly. To my friend F.G. FLEAY, Esq., I cannnot adequately express my gratitude for the great trouble that he has taken in reading all the proof-sheets, and for his many valuable suggestions. Portions of the former volume were not seen by him in the proof, and to this cause must be attributed the presence of some slight but annoying misprints. One serious fault, not a misprint, occurs in the first scene of the first Act of Barnavelt's Tragedy (p. 213). In the margin of the corrected proof, opposite the lines,

"And you shall find that the desire of glory Was the last frailty wise men ere putt of,"

I wrote

"That last infirmity of noble minds,"

a [mis]quotation from Lycidas. The words were written in pencil and enclosed in brackets. I was merely drawing Mr. FLEAY'S attention to the similarity of expression between Milton's words and the playwright's; but by some unlucky chance my marginal pencilling was imported into the text. I now implore the reader to expunge the line. On p. 116, l. 12 (in the same volume), for with read witt; p. 125 l. 2, for He read Ile; p. 128, l. 18, for pardue read perdue; p. 232, for Is read In; p. 272, l. 3, for baste read haste; p. 336, l. 6, the speaker should evidently be not Do. (the reading of the MS.) but Sis., and noble Sir Richard should be noble Sir Francis; p. 422, l. 12, del. comma between Gaston and Paris. Some literal errors may, perhaps, still have escaped me, but such words as anottomye for anatomy, or dietie for deity must not be classed as misprints. They are recognised though erroneous forms, and instances of their occurrence will be given in the Index to Vol. IV.

5, WILLOW ROAD, HAMPSTEAD, N.W. January 24, 1884.


This clever, though somewhat tedious, comedy was published anonymously in 1606. There is no known dramatic writer of that date to whom it could be assigned with any great degree of probability. The comic portion shows clearly the influence of Ben Jonson, and there is much to remind one of Lyly's court-comedies. In the serious scenes the philosophising and moralising, at one time expressed in language of inarticulate obscurity and at another attaining clear and dignified utterance, suggest a study of Chapman. The unknown writer might have taken as his motto a passage in the dedication of Ovid's Banquet of Sense:— "Obscurity in affection of words and indigested conceits is pedantical and childish; but where it shroudeth itself in the heart of his subject, uttered with fitness of figure and expressive epithets, with that darkness will I still labour to be shrouded." Chapman's Gentleman Usher was published in the same year as Sir Gyles Goosecappe; and I venture to think that in a passage of Act III., Scene II., our author had in his mind the exquisite scene between the wounded Strozza and his wife Cynanche. In Strozza's discourse on the joys of marriage occur these lines:—

"If he lament she melts herselfe in teares; If he be glad she triumphs; if he stirre She moon's his way: in all things his sweete Ape."

The charming fitness of the expression "sweet ape" would impress any capable reader. I cannot think that by mere accident the anonymous writer lighted on the same words:—

"Doe women bring no helpe of soule to men? Why, friend, they either are mens soules themselves Or the most witty imitatrixes of them, Or prettiest sweet apes of humane soules."

From a reference to Queen Elizabeth in Act I., Scene I., it is clear that Sir Gyles Goosecappe was written not later than 1603. The lines I have quoted may have been added later; or our author may have seen the Gentleman Usher in manuscript.

Chapman's influence is again (me judice) apparent in the eloquent but somewhat strained language of such a passage as the following:—

"Alas, my noble Lord, he is not rich, Nor titles hath, nor in his tender cheekes The standing lake of Impudence corrupts; Hath nought in all the world, nor nought wood have To grace him in the prostituted light. But if a man wood consort with a soule Where all mans sea of gall and bitternes Is quite evaporate with her holy flames, And in whose powers a Dove-like innocence Fosters her own deserts, and life and death Runnes hand in hand before them, all the skies Cleare and transparent to her piercing eyes. Then wood my friend be something, but till then A cipher, nothing, or the worst of men."

Sir Gyles Goosecappe is the work of one who had chosen the "fallentis semita vitae"; who was more at home in Academic cloisters than in the crowded highways of the world. None of the characters bears any impression of having been drawn from actual life. The plot is of the thinnest possible texture; but the fire of verbal quibbles is kept up with lively ingenuity, and plenty of merriment may be drawn from the humours of the affectate traveller and the foolish knight by all who are not

"of such vinegar aspect That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile, Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable."

The romantic friendship between the noble Lord Monford and the thoughtful Clarence is a pleasing study, planned and executed with a grave, sweet sincerity. It is not improbable that Clarence was the prototype of Charles in Fletcher's Elder Brother. The finest passage in the present play, where Clarence's modesty and Monford's nobility are portrayed in language of touching charm, was selected by Charles Lamb (whose judgment was never at fault) for quotation in the "Extracts from the Garrick Plays."

A second edition of Sir Gyles Goosecappe was issued, after the author's death, in 1636; and the following dedication was appended by Hugh Perry, the publisher:—

To the Worshipfull RICHARD YOUNG of Woolleyfarme in the County of Berks, Esquire.


The many favours, and courtesies, that I have Received from you, and your much Honor'd Father, have put such an obligation upon me, as I have bin long cogitateing how to expresse myselfe by the requitall of some part of them; Now this Play having diverse yeeres since beene thrust into the world to seeke its owne entertainment, without so much as an epistle, or under the Shelter of any generous spirit, is now almost become worne out of memory: and comming to be press'd to the publique view againe, it having none to speake for it (the Author being dead) I am bold to recommend the same to your Worships protection, I know your studies are more propense to more serious subjects, yet vouchsafe, I beseech you, to recreate your selfe with this at some vacant time when your leasure will permit you to peruse it, and daigne mee to bee,

Your Worships bounden Servant,



A Comedy presented by the Chil. of the Chappell.

AT LONDON: Printed by Iohn Windet, for Edward Blunt. 1606.

Eugenia, A widowe and a Noble Ladie. Hippolyta, Penelope, Ladie-virgines, and Companions to Eugenia. Wynnifred, gentlewoman to Eugenia. Monford, A Noble Man, uncle to Eugenia. Clarence, Gentleman, friend to Monf. Fowlweather, A french affected Travayler, and a Captaine. Sir Gyles Goosecap, a foolish Knight. Sir Cuthbert Rudsbie, a blunt Knight. Sir Clement Kingcob, a Knight, Lord Tales. Lord Furnifall. Bullaker, a french Page. Iack, Will, Pages.

Sir Gyles Goosecappe, Knight.

Actvs Primvs.


Enter Bullaker with a Torche.

Bullaker. This is the Countesse Eugenias house, I thinke. I can never hit of theis same English City howses, tho I were borne here: if I were in any City in Fraunce, I could find any house there at midnight.

Enter Iack, and Will.

Iack. Theis two strange hungry Knights (Will) make the leanest trenchers that ever I waited on.

Will. A plague on them Iack; they leave us no fees at all, for our attendance. I thinke they use to set their bones in silver they pick them so cleane.—See, see, see, Iack, whats that.

Iack. A my word (Will) tis the great Baboone, that was to be seen in Southwarke.

Will. Is this he? Gods my life what beastes were we, that we wood not see him all this while, never trust me if he looke not somewhat like a man: see how pretely he holds the torche in one of his forefeete: wheres his keeper trowe, is he broke loose?

Iack. Hast ever an Apple about thee (Will)? Weele take him up; sure, we shall get a monstrous deale of mony with him.

Will. That we shall yfath, boy! and looke thou here, heres a red cheeckt apple to take him up with.

Ia. Excellent fit a my credit; lets lay downe our provant, and to him.

Bul. Ile let them alone a while.

Ia. Give me the apple to take up Iack, because my name is Iack.

Will. Hold thee, Iack, take it.

Ia. Come, Iack, come, Iack, come, Iack.

Bul. I will come to you sir, Ile Iack ye a my word, Ile Iack ye.

Will. Gods me he speakes, Iack. O pray pardon us, Sir.

Bul. Out, ye mopede monckies, can yee not knowe a man from a Marmasett, in theis Frenchified dayes of ours? nay, ile Iackefie you a little better yet.

Both. Nay good Sir, good Sir, pardon us.

Bul. Pardon us! out ye home-bred peasants, plain English, pardon us? if you had parled, & not spoken, but said Pardonne moy, I wood have pardon'd you, but since you speake and not parley, I will cudgell ye better yet.

Ambo. O pardonne moy, mounsieur.

Bul. Bien je vous remercy; thers pardonne four vous, sir, now.

Will. Why I thanke ye for it, Sir; you seeme to bee a Squire of our order Sir.

Ia. Whose page might you be Sir.

Bul. I am now the great French Travalers page.

Will. Or rather the French Travalers great page, Sir; on, on.

Bul. Hight Captaine Fowleweather, alias Commendations; whose valours within here at super with the Countes Eugenia, whose propper eaters I take you two to be.

Will. You mistake us not Sir.

Ia. This Captaine Fowleweather, alias Commendations—

Will. Is the Gallant that will needs be a sutor to our Countes.

Bul.[1] Faith, and if Fouleweather be a welcome suter to a faire Lady, has good lucke.

Ia. O Sir, beware of one that can showre into the lapps of Ladies. Captaine Fowleweather? why hees a Captinado, or Captaine of Captaines, and will lie in their joyntes that give him cause to worke uppon them so heauylie, that he will make their hartes ake I warrant him. Captaine Fowleweather? why he will make the cold stones sweate for feare of him, a day or two before he come at them. Captaine Fowleweather? why he does so dominere, and raigne over women.

Will. A plague of Captaine Fowleweather, I remember him now Iack, and know him to be a dull moist-braind Asse.

Ia. A Southerne man I thinke.

Will. As fearefull as a Haire, and will lye like a Lapwing,[2] and I know how he came to be a Captain, and to have his Surname of Commendations.

Ia. How I preethee Will?

Will. Why Sir he served the great Lady Kingcob and was yeoman of her wardroppe, & because a cood brush up her silkes lustely, she thought he would curry the enemies coates as soundly, and so by her commendations, he was made Captaine in the lowe Countries.

Ia. Then being made Captaine onely by his Ladies commendations, without any worth also of his owne, he was ever after surnamd Captaine Commendations?

Will. Right.

Bul. I, Sir right, but if he had not said right, my Captaine should have taken no wrong at his handes, nor yours neyther, I can tell ye.

Ia. What are those two Knights names, that are thy Captaines Comrades, and within at Supper with our Lady?

Bul. One of their names Sir, is, Sir Gyles Goosecappe, the others Sir Cutt Rudseby.

Will. Sir Gyles Goosecappe? what's he? a gentleman?

Bul. I, that he is, at least if he be not a noble man; and his chiefe house is in Essex.

Ia. In Essex? did not his Auncestors come out of London.

Bul. Yes that they did Sir, the best Gosecappes in England, come out of London I assure you.

Will. I, but, Sir, these must come into it before they come out ont I hope; but what countriman is Sir Cutt Rudesby?

Bul. A Northern man, or a Westernman I take him, but my Captaine is the Emphaticall man; and by that pretty word Emphaticall you shall partly know him: for tis a very forcible word in troth, and yet he forces it too much by his favour; mary no more then he does all the rest of his wordes; with whose multiplicity often times he travailes himselfe out of all good company.

Iack. Like enough; he travaild for nothing else.

Will. But what qualities haunt Sir Gyles Goosecappe now Sir.

Bul. Sir Gyles Goosecap has always a deathes head (as it were) in his mouth, for his onely one reason for everything is, because we are all mortall; and therefore he is generally cald the mortall Knight; then hath he another pretty phrase too, and that is, he will "tickle the vanity ant" still in everything; and this is your Summa totalis of both their virtues.

Ia. Tis enough, tis enough, as long as they have land enough, but now muster your third person afore us I beseech you.

Bul. The third person and second Knight, blunt Sir Cutt Rudesby, is indeed blunt at a sharpe wit, and sharpe at a blunt wit; a good bustling Gallant, talkes well at Rovers; he is two parts souldier; as slovenlie as a Switzer, and somewhat like one in face too; for he weares a bush beard, will dead a Cannan shot better then a wool-packe: he will come into the presence like yor Frenchman in foule bootes, and dares eat Garlike as a preparative to his Courtship. You shall know more of him hereafter; but, good wags, let me winne you now for the Geographicall parts of your Ladies in requitall.

Will. That you shall Sir, and the Hydrographicall too and you will; first my Lady the widowe, and Countes Eugenia, is in earnest, a most worthy Lady, and indeede can doe more than a thousand other Ladies can doe I can tell you.

Bul. What's that I pray thee?

Ia. Mary Sir, he meanes she can doe more than sleepe, and eate, and drinke; and play at noddy[3], and helpe to make hir selfe ready[4].

Bul. Can she so?

Will. She is the best scholler of any woman but one[5] in England; she is wise and vertuous.

Ia. Nay she has one strange quality for a woman besides, tho these be strange enough that he has rekoned.

Bul. For Gods sake whats that?

Ia. She can love reasonable constantly, for she loved her husband only, almost a whole yeere together.

Bul. Thats strange indeed, but what is your faire Lady Sir?

Ia. My Lady Sir, the Lady Hippolita

Will. That is as chast as ever was Hippolitus.

Ia. (True, my prety Parenthesis) is halfe a maid, halfe a wife, and halfe a widdow.

Bul. Strange tale to tell; how canst thou make this good, my good Assumpsit.

Ia. Thus Sir: she was betroathed to a gallant young gentleman that loude hir with such passion, and admiration that he never thought he could be so blessed as to enjoy her in full marriage, till the minister was marrying them; and even then when he was saying I Charles take thee Hippolita with extreame joy, he began to looke pale, then going forwards saying, to my wedded wife, he lookt paler, and, then pronouncing, for richer for poorer as long as we both shall live, he lookt extreame pale. Now, sir, when she comes to speake her parte, and said, I Hippolyta take thee Charles, he began to faint for joy, then saying to my wedded husband, he began to sinke, but then going forth too, for better for worse, he could stand no longer, but with very conceit, it seemd, that she whom he tendred as the best of all things, should pronounce the worst, and for his sake too, he suncke down right, and died sodenly: And thus being halfe married, and her halfe husband wholy dead, I hope I may with discretion affirme her, halfe a maide, halfe a wife, and halfe a widdowe: do ye conceive me Sir?

Bul. O Lord Sir, I devoure you quicke; and now Sir I beseech you open unto me your tother Lady, what is shee?

Will. Ile answere for her, because I know her Ladiship to be a perfect maide indeed.

Bul. How canst thou know that?

Will. Passing perfectly I warrant ye.

Ia. By measuring her necke twice, and trying if it will come about hir forehead, and slip over her nose?

Will. No Sir no, by a rule that will not slip so I warrant you, which for her honours sake I will let slip unto you. Gods so Iack, I thinke they have supt.

Ia. Bir Lady we have waited well the while.

Will. Well though they have lost their attendance, let not us lose our supper, Iack.

Ia. I doe not meane it; come Sir you shall goe in, and drinke with us yfaith.

Bul. Pardonne moy, mounsieur.

both. No pardoning in truth Sir.

Bul. Ie vous remercie de bon Ceur.



Enter Goosecappe, Rudesby, Fouleweather, Eugenia, Hippol., Penelope, Wynne.

Rud. A plague on you, sweet Ladies, tis not so late; what needed you to have made so short a supper?

Goos. In truth Sir Cutt. we might have tickled the vanity ant an howre longer, if my watch be trustible.

Foul. I but how should theis beauties know that Sir Gyles? your watch is mortall, and may erre.

Go. Thats sooth Captaine, but doe you heare honest friend, pray take a light, and see if the moone shine, I have a Sunne Diall will resolue presently.

Fo. Howsoever beleeve it, Ladies, tis unwholesome, uncourtly, unpleasant to eate hastely, and rise sodainly; a man can shew no discourse, no witt, no stirring, no variety, no pretty conceits, to make the meate goe downe emphatically.

Eu. Wynnefred.

Wyn. Madam.

Eu. I prethee goe to my uncle the Lord Monford, and intreat him to come quicken our Eares with some of his pleasant Spirit; This same Fowleweather has made me so melancholly, prethie make haste.

Wyn. I will Madam. [Exit.

Hip. We will bid our guests good night, Madam; this same Fowleweather makes me so sleepy.

Pen. Fie uppon it; for Gods sake shut the Casements, heres such a fulsome Aire comes into this Chamber; in good faith Madame you must keepe your House in better reparations, this same Fowlweather beats in so filthily.

Eug. Ile take order with the Porter for it, Lady: good night, gentlemen.

Ru. Why good night, and be hangd, and you'l needs be gon.

Goos. God give you good night Madams, thanke you for my good cheere, weele tickle the vanity ant no longer with you at this time but ile indite your La. to supper at my lodging one of these mornings; and that ere long too, because we are all mortall you know.

Eu, Light the Lady Penelope, and the Lady Hippolyta to their Chambers; good night faire Ladies.

Hip. Good night, Madam; I wish you may sleep well after your light supper.

Eug, I warrant you, Lady, I shall never be troubled with dreaming of my French Suter. [Exeunt.

Ru. Why how now my Frenchified captain Fowlweather? by Cods ludd thy Surname is never thought upon here, I perceive heeres nobody gives thee any commendations.

Fo. Why this is the untravaild rudnes of our grose Englesh Ladies now; would any French Lady use a man thus thinke ye? be they any way so uncivill, and fulsome? they say they weare fowle smockes, and course smockes; I say they lie, and I will die int.

Rud. I, doe so, pray thee, thou shalt die in a very honorable cause, thy countries generall quarrell right.

Foul. Their smockes, quoth you? a my word you shall take them up so white, and so pure, so sweet, so Emphaticall, so mooving—

Rud. I marry Sir, I thinke they be continually moving.

Foul. But if their smockes were course or foule.

Rud. Nay I warrant thee thou carest not, so thou wert at them.

Foul. S'death they put not all their virtues in their smockes, or in their mockes, or in their stewde cockes as our Ladies doe.

Rud. But in their stewd pox, thers all their gentilitie.

Goos. Nay, good Sir Cutt., doe not agravate him no more.

Foul. Then they are so kinde, so wise, so familiar, so noble, so sweet in entertainment, that when you shall have cause to descourse or sometimes to come neerer them; if your breath be ill, your teeth ill, or any thing about you ill, why they will presently breake with ye, in kinde sort, good termes, pretty experiments, and tell you plaine this; thus it is with your breath, Sir, thus it is with your teeth, Sir, this is your disease, and this is your medicine.

Goos. As I am true mortall Knight, it is most superlatively good, this.

Foul. Why this is courtly now, this is sweete, this plaine, this is familiar, but by the Court of France, our peevish dames are so proud, so precise, so coy, so disdainfull, and so subtill, as the Pomonian Serpent, mort dieu the Puncke of Babylon was never so subtill.

Rud. Nay, doe not chafe so, Captaine.

Foul. Your Frenchman would ever chafe, sir Cutt., being thus movde.

Rud. What? and play with his beard so?

Foul. I and brystle, it doth expresse that passion of anger very full, and emphaticall.

Goos: Nay good Knight if your French wood brystle, let him alone, in troth our Ladies are a little too coy, and subtill, Captaine, indeed.

Foul. Subtill, sir Gyles Goosecappe? I assure your soule, they are as subtill with their suters, or loves, as the latine Dialect, where the nominative Case, and the Verbe, the Substantive, and the Adjective, the Verbe, and the [ad]Verbe, stand as far a sunder, as if they were perfect strangers one to another, and you shall hardly find them out; but then learne to Conster, and perse them, and you shall find them prepared and acquainted, and agree together in Case, gender, and number.

Goos. I detest[6], Sir Cutt, I did not thinke he had bin halfe the quintessence of a scholler he is.

Foul. Slydd there's not one of them truely emphaticall.

Goos. Yes, I'le ensure you Captaine, there are many of them truely emphaticall: but all your French Ladies are not fatt? are they sir?

Foul. Fatt sir? why doe ye thinke emphaticall is fatt, sir Gyles?

Rud. Gods my life, brother Knight, didst thou thinke so? hart I know not what it is my selfe, but yet I never thought it was fatt, Ile be sworne to thee.

Foul. Why if any true Courtly dame had had but this new fashioned sute, to entertaine anything indifferently stuffed, why you should have had her more respective by farre.

Rud. Nay, theres some reason for that, Captaine, me thinks a true woman should perpetually doate upon a new fashion.

Foul. Why y'are i'thright sir Cutt. In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas[7]. Tis the mind of man, and woman to affect new fashions; but to our Mynsatives[8] for sooth, if he come like to your Besognio,[9] or your bore, so he be rich, or emphaticall, they care not; would I might never excell a dutch Skipper in Courtship, if I did not put distaste into my cariage of purpose; I knew I should not please them. Lacquay? allume le torche.

Rud. Slydd, heres neyther Torch, nor Lacquay, me thinks.

Foul. O mon dieu.

Rud. O doe not sweare Captaine.

Foul. Your Frenchman ever sweares, Sir Cutt, upon the lacke of his Lacquay, I assure you.

Goos. See heere he comes, and my Ladies two pages, they have been tickling the vanity ont yfaith.


Enter to them Iack, Bullaker, Will.

Ia. Captaine Fowleweather, my Lady the Countes Eugenia commends her most kindly to you, and is determined to morrowe morning earely, if it be a frost, to take her Coach to Barnet to bee nipt; where if it please you, to meete her, and accompany her homewarde, joyning your wit with the frost, and helpe to nip her, She does not doubt but tho you had a sad supper, you will have a joyfull breakefast.

Foul. I shall indeed, my deare youth.

Rud. Why Captaine I abus'd thee, I see: I said the Ladies respected thee not, and now I perceive the widow is in love with thee.

Foul. Sblood, Knight, I knew I had strucke her to the quicke, I wondred shee departed in that extravagant fashion: I am sure I past one Passado of Courtship upon her, that has hertofore made a lane amongst the French Ladies like a Culvering shot, Ile be sworne; and I thinke, Sir Gyles, you saw she fell under it.

Goos. O as cleare as candlelight, by this daylight.

Rud. O good Knight a the post[10], heele sweare anything.

Will. The other two Ladies commend them no lesse kindly to you two Knights too; & desire your worships wood meete them at Barnet ith morning with the Captaine.

Foul. Goos. Rud. O good Sir.

Goos. Our worships shall attend their Ladiships thether.

Ia. No Sir Gyles by no meanes, they will goe privately thether, but if you will meet them there.

Rud. Meet them? weele die fort, but weele meet them.

Foul. Let's goe thether to night, Knights, and you be true Gallants.

Rud. Content.

Ia. How greedely they take it in, Sirra?

Goos. No it is too farre to goe to night, weele be up betimes ith morning, and not goe to bedd at all.

Foul. Why its but ten miles, and a fine cleere night, sir Gyles.

Goos. But ten miles? what do ye talke, Captaine?

Rud. Why? doost thinke its any more?

Goos. I, Ile lay ten pounds its more than ten miles, or twelve eyther.

Rud. What, to Barnet.

Goos. I, to Barnet.

Rud. Slydd, Ile lay a hundred pound with thee, if thou wilt.

Goos. Ile lay five hundred, to a hundred. Slight I will not be outborne with a wager, in that I know: I am sure it was foure yeeres agon ten miles thether, and I hope tis more now. Slydd doe not miles grow thinke you, as well as other Animals?

Ia. O wise Knight!

Goos. I never innd in the Towne but once, and then they lodged me in a Chamber so full of these Ridiculous Fleas, that I was fain to lie standing all night, and yet I made my man rise, and put out the Candle too, because they should not see to bite me.

Foul. A pretty project.

Bul. Intruth Captaine, if I might advise you, you should tarry, and take the morning afore you.

Foul. How? O mon Dieu! how the villaine poultroune, dishonours his travaile! You Buffonly Mouchroun, are you so mere rude, and English to advise your Captaine?

Rud. Nay, I prethee Fouleweather, be not tempesteous with thy poore Lacquay.

Foul. Tempesteous, Sir Cutt? will your Frenchman, thinke you, suffer his Lacquay to advise him?

Goos. O God you must take heed Lacquy how you advise your Captaine; your French lacquay would not have done it.

Foul. He would have bin poxt first. Allume le torche, sweet Pages commend us to your Ladies, say we kisse their white hands, and will not faile to meete them; Knights, which of you leades?

Goos. Not wee, sir; you are a Captaine, and a leader.

Rud. Besides, thou art commended for the better man, for thou art very Commendations it selfe, and Captaine Commendations.

Foul. Why? what tho I be Captain Commendations?

Rud. Why and Captaine Commendations, is harty commendations, for Captaines are harty I am sure, or else hang them.

Foul. Why, what if I be harty Commendations? come, come, sweete Knights, lead the way.

Rud. O Lorde Sir, alwayes after my harty Commendations.

Foul. Nay then you conquer me with precedent, by the autenticall forme of all Iustice letters. [Alloun. Exeunt.

Ia. Here's a most sweet Gudgeon swallowed, is there not?

Will. I but how will they disgest it, thinkest thou when they shall finde our Ladies not there?

Ia. I have a vaunt-currying[11] devise shall make them digest it most healthfully.



Enter Clarence, Musicians.

Cla. Worke on, sweet love; I am not yet resolved T'exhaust this troubled spring of vanities And Nurse of perturbations, my poore life, And therefore since in every man that holds This being deare, there must be some desire, Whose power t'enjoy his object may so maske The judging part, that in her radyant eyes His estimation of the World may seeme Vpright, and worthy, I have chosen love To blind my Reason with his misty hands And make my estimative power beleive I have a project worthy to imploy What worth so ever my whole man affordes: Then sit at rest, my soule, thou now hast found The end of thy infusion; in the eyes Of thy divine Eugenia looke for Heaven. Thanks gentle friends. [A song to the Violls. Is your good Lord, and mine, gon up to bedd yet?

Enter Momford.

Mom. I do assure ye not, sir, not yet, nor yet, my deepe, and studious friend; not yet, musicall Clarence.

Cla. My Lord?

Mom. Nor yet, thou sole divider of my Lordshippe.

Cla. That were a most unfit division, And farre above the pitch of my low plumes; I am your bold, and constant guest my Lord.

Mom. Far, far from bold, for thou hast known me long Almost these twenty yeeres, and halfe those yeeres Hast bin my bed-fellow; long time before This unseene thing, this thing of naught indeed, Or Atome cald my Lordshippe shind in me, And yet thou mak'st thy selfe as little bould To take such kindnes, as becomes the Age And truth of our indissolable love, As our acquaintance sprong but yesterday; Such is thy gentle, and too tender spirit.

Cla. My Lord, my want of Courtship makes me feare I should be rude, and this my meane estate Meetes with such envie, and detraction, Such misconstructions and resolud misdoomes Of my poore worth, that should I be advaunce'd Beyond my unseene lowenes, but one haire, I should be torne in peeces with the Spirits That fly in ill-lungd tempests through the world, Tearing the head of vertue from her shoulders If she but looke out of the ground of glorie. Twixt whom and me, and every worldly fortune There fights such sowre, and curst Antipathy, So waspish and so petulant a Starre, That all things tending to my grace or good Are ravisht from their object, as I were A thing created for a wildernes, And must not thinke of any place with men.

Mom. O harke you Sir, this waiward moode of yours Must sifted be, or rather rooted out. Youle no more musick Sir?

Cla. Not now, my Lord.

Mom. Begon my masters then to bedd, to bedd.

Cla. I thanke you, honest friends.

[Exeunt Musicians.

Mo. Hence with this book, and now, Mounsieur Clarence, me thinks plaine and prose friendship would do excellent well betwixt us: come thus, Sir, or rather thus, come. Sir, tis time I trowe that we both liv'd like one body, thus, and that both our sides were slit, and concorporat with Organs fit to effect an individuall passage even for our very thoughts; suppose we were one body now, and I charge you beleeve it; whereof I am the hart, and you the liver.

Cla. Your Lordship might well make that division[12], if you knew the plaine song.

Mo. O Sir, and why so I pray?

Cla. First because the heart, is the more worthy entraile, being the first that is borne, and moves, and the last that moves, and dies; and then being the Fountaine of heate too: for wheresoever our heate does not flow directly from the hart to the other Organs there, their action must of necessity cease, and so without you I neither would nor could live.

Mom. Well Sir, for these reasons I may be the heart, why may you be the liver now?

Cla. I am more then asham'd, to tell you that my Lord.

Mom. Nay, nay, be not too suspitious of my judgement in you I beseech you: asham'd friend? if your love overcome not that shame, a shame take that love, I saie. Come sir, why may you be the liver?

Cla. The plaine, and short truth is (my Lord) because I am all liver, and turn'd lover.

Mom. Lover?

Cla. Lover, yfaith my Lord.

Mom. Now I prethee let me leape out of my skin for joy: why thou wilt not now revive the sociable mirth of thy sweet disposition? wilt thou shine in the World anew? and make those that have sleighted thy love with the Austeritie of thy knowledge, dote on thee againe with thy commanding shaft of their humours?

Cla. Alas, my Lord, they are all farre out of my aime; and only to fit my selfe a little better to your friendshippe, have I given these wilfull raynes to my affections.

Mom. And yfaith is my sower friend to all worldly desires ouer taken with the hart of the World, Love? I shall be monstrous proud now, to heare shees every way a most rare woman, that I know thy spirit, and judgement hath chosen; is she wise? is she noble? is she capable of thy vertues? will she kisse this forehead with judiciall lipps where somuch judgement and vertue deserves it? Come brother Twin, be short, I charge you, and name me the woman.

Cla. Since your Lordship will shorten the length of my follies relation, the woman that I so passionately love, is no worse Lady then your owne Neece, the too worthy Countesse Eugenia.

Mom. Why so, so, so, you are a worthy friend, are you not, to conceale this love-mine in your head, and would not open it to your hart? now beshrow my hart, if my hart danse not for joy, tho my heeles do not; and they doe not, because I will not set that at my heeles that my friend sets at his heart? friend, and Nephews both? nephew is a far inferior title to friend I confesse, but I will preferre thee backwards (as many friends doe) and leave their friends woorse then they found them.

Cla. But, my noble Lord, it is almost a prodegie, that I being onely a poore Gentleman, and farre short of that state and wealth that a Ladie of her greatnesse in both will expect in her husband—

Mom. Hold thy doubt friend, never feare any woman, unlesse thyselfe be made of straw, or some such drie matter, and she of lightning. Audacitie prospers above probability in all Worldly matters. Dost not thou know that Fortune governes them without order, and therefore reason the mother of order is none of her counsaile? why should a man desiring to aspire an unreasonable creature, which is a woman, seeke her fruition by reasonable meanes? because thy selfe binds upon reason, wilt thou looke for congruity in a woman? why? there is not one woman amongst one thousand, but will speake false Latine, and breake Priscians head. Attempt nothing that you may with great reason doubt of and out of doubt you shall obtaine nothing. I tell thee, friend, the eminent confidence of strong spirits is the onely witch-craft of this World, Spirits wrastling with spirits as bodies with bodies: this were enough to make thee hope well, if she were one of these painted communities, that are ravisht with Coaches, and upper hands,[13] and brave men of durt: but thou knowest friend shees a good scholler, and like enough to bite at the rightest reason, and reason evermore Ad optima hortatur: to like that which is best, not that which is bravest, or rightest, or greatest, and so consequently worst. But prove what shee can, wee will turne her, and winde her, and make her so plyant, that we will drawe her thorugh a wedding ring yfaith.

Cla. Would to God we might, my Lord.

Mom. He warrant thee, friend.

Enter Messenger.

Mes. Here is Mistris Wynnifred from my Lady Eugenia desires to speake with your Lordshippe.

Mom. Marrie, enter, Mistris Wynnifred, even here I pray thee;—from the Lady Eugenia, doe you heare, friend?

Cla. Very easily on that side, my Lord.

Mom. Let me feele. Does not thy heart pant apace? by my hart, well labor'd Cupid, the field is yours, sir. God! and upon a very honourable composition. I am sent for now I am sure, and must even trusse, and to her.

Enter Wynnifred.

Witty Mistris Wynnifred, nay come neere, woman. I am sure this Gentleman thinkes his Chamber the sweeter for your deare presence.

Wyn. My absence shall thanke him, my Lord.

Mom. What, rude? Mistris Wynnifred? nay faith you shall come to him, and kisse him, for his kindenesse.

Wyn. Nay good, my Lord, I'le never goe to the market for that ware, I can have it brought home to my Dore.

Mom. O Wynnifred, a man may know by the market-folkes how the market goes.

Wyn. So you may, my Lord, but I know few Lords that thinke scorne to go to that market themselves.

Mom. To goe to it Wynnifred? nay to ride to it yfaith.

Wyn. Thats more then I know my Lord.

Mom. Youle not beleeve it till you are then a horsebacke, will ye?

Wyn. Come, come, I am sent of a message to you, will you heare it?

Mom. Stoppe, stoppe, faire Wynnifred, would you have audience so soone, there were no state in that yfaith. This faire gentlewoman sir—

Wyn. Now we shall have a fiction I beleive.

Mom. Had three Suiters at once.

Wyn. Youle leave out none my Lord.

Mom. No more did you, Wynnifred: you enterferde with them all in truth.

Wyn. O Monstrous Lord by this light!

Mom. Now sir to make my tale short I will doe that which she did not; vz. leave out the two first. The third comming, the third night for his turne—

Wyn. My Lord, my Lord, my Lady does that that no body else does, desires your company; and so fare you well.

Mom. O stay a little sweet Wynnifred, helpe me but to trusse my Poynts againe, and have with you.

Wyn. Not I by my truth my Lord, I had rather see your hose about your heeles, then I would helpe you to trusse a poynt.

Mom. O witty Wynnifred? for that jest, take thy passeport, and tell thy Ladie[14], thou leftst me with my hose about my heeles.

Wyn. Well, well my Lord you shall sit till the mosse grow about your heeles, ere I come at you againe. [Exit.

Mom. She cannot abide to heare of her three Suiters, but is not this very fit my sweet Clarence? Thou seest my rare Neece cannot sleepe without me; but for thy company sake, she shall to night; and in the morning I will visit her earely; when doe thou but stand in that place, and thou maiest chance heare (but art sure to see) in what subtill, and farre-fetcht manner Ile solicite her about thee.

Cla. Thank's, worthy Lord.


Finis Actus Primi.

Actvs Secvndi.


Clarence Solus.

Cla. I that have studied with world-skorning thoughts The way of Heaven, and how trew Heaven is reacht To know how mighty, and how many are The strange affections of enchaunted number; How to distinguish all the motions Of the Celestiall bodies, and what power Doth separate in such forme this massive Rownd; What is his Essence, Efficacies, Beames, Foot-steps, and Shadowes; what Eternesse[15] is, The World, and Time, and Generation; What Soule, the worlds Soule is, what the blacke Springs And unreveald Originall of Things, What their perseverance; what's life, and death, And what our certaine Restauration; Am with the staid-heads of this Time imploy'd To watch with all my Nerves a Female shade.

Enter Wynnifred, Anabell, with their sowing workes and sing: After their song Enter Lord Momford.

Mom. Witty Mistrisse Wynnifred, where is your Countesse, I pray?

Wyn. Faith your Lordship is bould enough to seeke her out, if she were at her urinall?

Mom. Then sh'as done, it seemes, for here she comes to save me that labour; away, wenches, get you hence wenches. [Exeunt.

Eu. What, can you not abide my maides, unkle?

Mom. I never cood abide a maide in my life Neece, but either I draw away the maide, or the maidenhead with a wet finger[16].

Eug. You love to make your selfe worse then you are still.

Mom. I know few mend in this World, Madam. For the worse the better thought on, the better the worse spoken on ever amongst women.

Eu. I wonder where you have binne all this while with your sentences.

Mom. Faith where I must be againe presently. I cannot stay long with you my deere Neece.

Eu. By my faith but you shall, my Lord. Cods pittie what will become of you shortly, that you drive maids afore you, and offer to leave widowes behind you, as mankindelie as if you had taken a surfet of our Sex lately, and our very sight turnd your stomacke?

Mom. Cods my life, she abuses her best unkle; never trust me if it were not a good revenge to helpe her to the losse of her widow-head.

Eu. That were a revenge, and a halfe, indeed.

Mom. Nay twere but a whole revenge Neece, but such a revenge as would more then observe the true rule of a revenger.

Eu. I know your rule before you utter it, Vlciscere inimico [sic] sed sine tuo incommodo.

Mom. O rare Neece, you may see, what tis to be a scholler now; learning in a woman is like waight in gold, or luster in Diamants, which in no other Stone is so rich or refulgent.

Eug. But say deere Vnckle how could you finde in your heart to stay so long from me?

Mom. Why, alas Neece, y'are so smeard with this willfull widdows three-yeeres blacke weede, that I never come to you, but I dreame of Coarses, and Sepulchres, and Epitaphs, all the night after, and therefore adew deere Neece.

Eug. Beshrew my heart my Lord, if you goe theis three houres.

Mom. Three houres? nay Neece, if I daunce attendance three hours (alone in her Chamber) with any Lady so neere alide to me, I am very idle yfaith—Mary with such an other I would daunce, one, two, three, foure, and five, tho it cost me ten shillings. And now I am in, have at it! my head must devise something, while my feet are pidling thus, that may bring her to some fit consideration of my friend, who indeed is onely a great scholler, and all his honours, and riches lie in his minde.

Eu. Come, come, pray tell me uncle, how does my cosen Momford?

Mom. Why, well, very well Neece, and so is my friend Clarence well too, and then is there a worthy gentleman well as any is in England I can tell ye. [He daunceth speaking.

Eug. But when did you see my Cosen?

Mom. And tis pitty but he should do well, and he shall be well too, if all my wealth will make him well.

Eug. What meanes he by this, tro? your Lord is very dancitive me thinkes.

Mom. I, and I could tell you a thing would make your Ladyship very dancitive, or else it were very dunsative yfaith. O how the skipping of this Christmas blocke of ours moves the block-head heart of a woman and indeed any thing that pleaseth the foolish eye which presently runnes with a lying tale of Excellence to the minde.

Eug. But I pray tell me my Lord could you tell me of a thing would make me dance say you?

Mom. Well, farewell sweet Neece, I must needs take my leave in earnest.

Eu. Lord blesse us, heres such a stir with your farewels.

Mom. I will see you againe within these two or three dayes a my word Neece.

Eug. Cods pretious, two or three dayes? why this Lord is in a maruallous strange humor. Sit downe, sweet Vnkle; yfaith I have to talke with you about greate matters.

Mom. Say then deere Neece, be short utter your minde quickly now.

Eug. But I pray tell me first, what's that would make me daunce yfaith?

Mom. Daunce, what daunce? hetherto your dauncers legges bow for-sooth, and Caper, and jerke, and Firke, and dandle the body above them, as it were their great childe; though the speciall jerker be above this place I hope here lies that shud fetch a perfect woman over the Coles yfaith.

Eug. Nay good Vnkle say what's the thing you could tell me of?

Mom. No matter, no matter: But let me see a passing prosperous fore-head of an exceeding happy distance betwixt the eye browes; a cleere lightning eye; a temperate, and fresh bloud in both the cheekes: excellent markes, most excellent markes of good fortune.

Eug. Why, how now Vnkle did you never see me before?

Mom. Yes Neece; but the state of these things at this instant must be specially observed, and these outward signes being now in this cleere elevation, show your untroubled minde is in an excellent power, to preferre them to act forth then a little, deere Neece.

Eug. This is excellent.

Mom. The Crises here are excellent good; The proportion of the chin good; the little aptness of it to sticke out good; and the wart above it most exceeding good. Never trust me, if all things be not answerable to the prediction of a most Divine fortune towards her; now if she have the grace to apprehend it in the nicke; thers all.

Eug. Well my Lord, since you will not tell me your secret, ile keepe another from you; with whose discovery, you may much pleasure me, and whose concealement may hurt my estate. And if you be no kinder then to see me so indangered; ile be very patient of it, I assure you.

Mom. Nay then it must instantly foorth. This kinde conjuration even fires it out of me; and (to be short) gather all your judgment togeather, for here it comes. Neece, Clarence, Clarence, rather my soule then my friend Clarence, of too substantiall a worth, to have any figures cast about him (notwithstanding, no other woman with Empires could stirre his affections) is with your vertues most extreamely in love; and without your requitall dead. And with it Fame shall sound this golden disticke through the World of you both.

Non illo melior quisquam, nec amantior aequi Vir fuit, aut illa reverentior ulla Deorum[17].

Eug. Ay me poore Dame, O you amase me Vncle, Is this the wondrous fortune you presage? What man may miserable women trust?

Mom. O peace good Lady, I come not to ravish you to any thing. But now I see how you accept my motion: I perceive (how upon true triall) you esteeme me. Have I rid all this Circuite to levie the powers of your Iudgment, that I might not proove their strength too sodainly with so violent a charge; And do they fight it out in white bloud, and show me their hearts in the soft Christall of teares?

Eug. O uncle you have wounded your selfe in charging me that I should shun Iudgement as a monster, if it would not weepe; I place the poore felicity of this World in a woorthy friend, and to see him so unworthily revolted, I shed not the teares of my Brayne, but the teares of my soule. And if ever nature made teares th'effects of any worthy cause, I am sure I now shed them worthily.

Mom. Her sensuall powers are up yfaith, I have thrust her soule quite from her Tribunall. This is her Sedes vacans when her subjects are priviledged to libell against her, and her friends. But weeps my kinde Neece for the wounds of my friendship? And I toucht in friendship for wishing my friend doubled in her singular happinesse?

Eug. How am I doubl'd? when my honour, and good name, two essentiall parts of me; would bee lesse, and loste?

Mom. In whose Iudgment?

Eug. In the judgment of the World.

Mom. Which is a fooles boult. Nihil a virtute nec a veritate remotius, quam vulgaris opinio: But my deare Neece, it is most true that your honour, and good name tendred, as they are the species of truth, are worthily two esentiall parts of you; But as they consist only in ayrie titles, and corrupteble bloud (whose bitternes sanitas & non nobilitas efficit) and care not how many base, and execrable acts they commit, they touch you no more then they touch eternity. And yet shall no nobility you have in eyther, be impaired neither.

Eug. Not to marry a poore Gentleman?

Mom. Respect him not so; for as he is a Gentleman he is noble; as he is wealthily furnished with true knowledge, he is rich, and therein adorn'd with the exactest complements belonging to everlasting noblenesse.

Eug. Which yet will not maintaine him a weeke: Such kinde of noblenesse gives no cotes of honour nor can scarse gette a cote for necessity.

Mom. Then is it not substantiall knowledge (as it is in him) but verball, and fantasticall for Omnia in illa ille complexu tenet.

Eug. Why seekes he me then?

Mom. To make you joynt partners with him in all things, and there is but a little partiall difference betwixt you, that hinders that universall joynture: The bignesse of this circle held too neere our eye keepes it from the whole Spheare of the Sun; but could we sustaine it indifferently betwixt us, and it would then without checke of one beame appeare in his fulnes.

Eug. Good Vnckle be content, for now shall I never dreame of contentment.

Mom. I have more then done Lady, and had rather have suffer'd an alteration of my being, then of your Judgment; but (deere Neece) for your own honours sake repaire it instantly.

Enter Hippolyta. Penelope. Iacke. Will.

See heere comes the Ladies; make an Aprill day on't[18], deare love, and bee sodainly cheerefull. God save you, more then faire Ladies, I am glad your come, for my busines will have me gone presently.

Hip. Why my Lord Momford I say? will you goe before Dinner?

Mom. No remedy, sweet Beauties, for which rudnesse I lay my hands thus low for your pardons.

Pen. O Courteous Lo. Momford![19]

Mom. Neece?——Mens est quae sola quietos, Sola facit claros, mentemque honoribus ornat.[20]

Eug. Verus honos juvat, at mendax infamia terret.[21]

Mom. Mine owne deare nephew?

Cla. What successe my Lord?

Mom. Excellent; excellent; come Ile tell thee all.—Exeunt.

Hip. Doe you heare Madam, how our youthes here have guld our three suiters?

Eug. Not I, Lady; I hope our suiters are no fit meat for our Pages.

Pe. No Madam, but they are fit sawce for any mans meat, Ile warrent them.

Eug. What's the matter Hippolyta?

Hip. They have sent the Knights to Barnet, Madam, this frosty morning to meet us there.

Eug. I'st true, youths? are Knights fit subjects for your knaveries?

Will. Pray pardon us, Madam, we would be glad to please anie body.

Ia. I indeed, Madam, and we were sure we pleased them highly, to tell them you were desirous of their company.

Hip. O t'was good, Eugenia, their livers were too hot, you know, and for temper sake they must needs have a cooling carde[22] plaid upon them.

Wil. And besides Madam we wood have them know that your two little Pages, which are lesse by halfe then two leaves, have more learning in them then is in all their three volumnes.

Ia. I yfaith Will, and put their great pagicall index to them, too.

Hip. But how will ye excuse your abuses, wags?

Wil. We doubt not, Madam, but if it please your Ladiship to put up their abuses.

Ia. Trusting they are not so deere to you, but you may.

Wil. We shall make them gladly furnishe their pockets with them.

Hip. Well, children and foules, agree as you will, and let the World know now, women have nothing to doe with you.

Pe. Come, Madam, I thinke your Dinner bee almost ready.

Enter Tales, Kingcob.

Hip. And see, here are two honourable guests for you, the Lord Tales, and sir Cutberd Kingcob.

Ta. Lacke you any guests, Madam?

Eu. I, my Lord, such guests as you.

Hip. Theres as common an answere, as yours was a question, my Lord.

King. Why? all things shood be common betwixt Lords, and Ladies, you know.

Pe. Indeed sir Cutberd Kingcob, I have heard, you are either of the familie of Love[23], or of no religion at all.

Eug. He may well be said to be of the family of love, he does so flow in the loves of poore over-throwne Ladies.

King. You speake of that I wood doe, Madam, but in earnest, I am now suing for a new Mistres; looke in my hand sweet Lady, and tell me what fortune I shall have with her.

Eug. Doe you thinke me a witch, Sir Cutberd?

King. Pardon me Madam, but I know you to bee learned in all things.

Eug. Come on, lets see.

Hip. He does you a speciall favour Lady, to give you his open hand, for tis commonly shut they say.

King. What find you in it, Madam?

Eug. Shut it now, and ile tell yee.

King. What now Lady?

Eug. Y'ave the worst hand that ever I saw Knight have; when tis open, one can find nothing in it, and when tis shut one can get nothing out ont.

King. The age of letting goe is past, Madam; we must not now let goe, but strike up mens heeles, and take am as they fall.

Eug. A good Cornish principle beleeve it sir Cutberd.

Tales. But I pray tell me, Lady Penelope, how entertaine you the love of my Cosen sir Gyles Goosecappe.

Pene. Are the Goosecaps a kin to you, my Lord?

Ta. Even in the first degree, Madam. And, Sir Gyles, I can tell ye, tho he seeme something simple, is compos'd of as many good parts as any Knight in England.

Hip. He shood be put up for concealement then, for he shewes none of them.

Pen. Are you able to reckon his good parts, my Lord?

Ta. Ile doe the best I can, Lady; first, he danses as comely, and lightly as any man, for upon my honour, I have seene him danse upon Egges, and a has not broken them.

Pene. Nor crackt them neyther.

Ta. That I know not; indeed I wood be loath to lie though he be my kinsman, to speake more then I know by him.

Eug. Well, forth my Lord.

Ta. He has an excellent skill in all manner of perfumes, & if you bring him gloves from forty pence, to forty shillings a paire, he will tell you the price of them to two pence.

Hip. A pretty sweet quality beleeve me.

Tales. Nay Lady he will perfume you gloves himselfe most delicately, and give them the right Spanish Titillation.

Pene. Titillation what's that my Lord?

Tal. Why, Lady, tis a pretty kinde of terme new come up in perfuming, which they call a Titillation.

Hip. Very well expounded, my Lord; forth with your kinsmans parts I pray.

Tal. He is the best Sempster of any woman in England, and will worke you needle-worke-edgings, and French purles, from an Angell to foure Angells a yarde.

Eug. That's pretious ware indeed.

Tal. He will worke you any flower to the life, as like it as if it grew in the very place, and being a delicate perfumer, he will give it you his perfect, and naturall savour.

Hip. This is wonderfull; forth, sweet Lord Tales.

Tal. He will make you flyes, and wormes, of all sorts most lively, and is now working a whole bed embrodred, with nothing but glowe wormes; whose lights a has so perfectly done, that you may goe to bed in the Chamber, doe any thing in the Chamber, without a Candle.

Pene. Never trust me, if it be not incredible; forth my good Lord.

Tal. He is a most excellent Turner, and will turne you wassel-bowles, and posset Cuppes caru'd with libberds faces, and Lyons heads with spouts in their mouths, to let out the posset Ale, most artificially.

Eug. Forth, good Lord Tales.

Pene. Nay, good my Lord no more; you have spoken for him thoroughly I warrant you.

Hip. I lay my life Cupid has shot my sister in love with him out of your lips, my Lord.

Eug. Well, come in, my Lords, and take a bad Dinner with me now, and we will all goe with you at night to a better supper with the Lord and Lady Furnifall.

King. Tale. We attend you, honorable Ladies.


Actvs Tertii.


Enter Rudesby, Goosecappe.

Rud. Bullaker.

Bul. I, Sir.

Rud. Ride, and catch the Captaines Horse.

Bul. So I doe Sir.

Rud. I wonder, Sir Gyles, you wood let him goe so, and not ride after him.

Goos. Wood I might never be mortall sir Cutt: if I rid not after him, till my horse sweat, so that he had nere a dry thread on him, and hollod, and hollod to him to stay him, till I had thought my fingers ends wood have gon off with hollowings; Ile be sworne to yee, & yet he ran his way like a Diogenes, and would never stay for us.

Rud. How shall wee doe to get the lame Captaine to London, now his horse is gone?

Goos. Why? he is but a lame jad neyther, Sir Moyle, we shall soone our'take him I warrent ye.

Rud. And yet thou saist thou gallopst after him as fast as thou coodst, and coodst not Catch him; I lay my life some Crabfish has bitten thee by the tongue, thou speakest so backward still.

Goos. But heres all the doubt, sir Cutt: if no body shoold catch him now, when he comes at London, some boy or other wood get uppe on him, and ride him hot into the water to wash him; Ile bee sworne I followed one that rid my Horse into the Thames, till I was up tooth knees hetherto; and if it had not beene for feare of going over shooes, because I am troubled with the rheume, I wood have taught him to wash my Horse when he was hot yfaith.

Enter Fowleweathter.

How now sweet Captaine, dost feele any ease in thy paine yet?

Rud. Ease in his paine quoth you, has good lucke if he feele ease in paine, I thinke, but wood any asse in the World ride downe such a Hill as High-gate is, in such a frost as this, and never light.

Foul. Cods precious, sir Cutt: your Frenchman never lights I tell ye.

Goos. Light, sir Cutt! Slight, and I had my horse againe, theres nere a paltry English frost an them all shood make me light.

Rud. Goe too, you French Zanies you, you will follow the French steps so long, till you be not able to set one sound steppe oth ground all the daies of your life.

Goos. Why, sir Cut: I care not if I be not sound, so I be well, but we were justly plagu'd by this Hill, for following women thus.

Foul. I, and English women too, sir Gyles.

Rud. Thou art still prating against English women, I have seene none of the French Dames, I confesse, but your greatest gallants, for men in France, were here lately,[24] I am sure, and me thinks there should be no more difference betwixt our Ladies, and theirs, then there is betwixt our Lords, and theirs, and our Lords are as farr byond them yfaith, for person, and Courtship, as they are beyond ours for phantasticality.

Foul. O Lord sir Cut. I am sure our Ladies hold our Lords tacke for Courtship, and yet the French Lords put them downe; you noted it, sir Gyles.

Goos. O God sir, I stud, and heard it, as I sat ith presence.

Rud. How did they put them downe, I pray thee?

Foul. Why for wit, and for Court-ship Sir Moile.

Rud.[25] As how, good left-handed Francois.

Foul. Why Sir when Monsieur Lambois came to your mistris the Lady Hippolyta as she sate in the presence,—sit downe here good Sir Gyles Goose-cappe,—he kneeld me by her thus Sir, and with a most queint French start in his speech of ah bellissime, I desire to die now, saies he, for your love that I might be buried here.

Rud. A good pickt-hatch[26] complement, by my faith; but I prethee what answer'd she.

Foul. She, I scorne to note that, I hope; then did he vie[27] it againe with an other hah.

Rud. That was hah, hah, I wood have put the third hah to it, if I had beene as my Mistris, and hah, hah, haht him out of the presence yfaith.

Foul. Hah, saies he, theis faire eyes, I wood not for a million they were in France, they wood renew all our civill-wars againe.

Goos. That was not so good, me thinkes, Captaine.

Rud. Well iudgd, yfaith; there was a little wit in that, I must confesse, but she put him downe far, and aunswered him with a question, and that was whether he wood seeme a lover, or a jester? if a lover, a must tell her far more lykelier then those, or else she was far from believing them; if a Jester, she cood have much more ridiculous jests then his of twenty fooles, that followed the Court; and told him she had as lieve be courted with a brush faggot as with a Frenchman, that spent it selfe all in sparkes, and would sooner fire ones chimney then warme the house, and that such sparkes were good enough yet to set thatcht dispositions a fire, but hers was tild with sleight, and respected them as sleightly.

Goos. Why so Captaine, and yet you talke of your great Frenchmen; [would] to God little England had never knowne them I may say.

Foul. What's the matter sir Gyles? are you out of love with Frenchmen now of a sodaine?

Goos. Slydd Captaine, wood not make one, Ile be sworne? Ile be sworne, they tooke away a mastie Dogge of mine by commission: now I thinke on't, makes my teares stand in my eyes with griefe, I had rather lost the dearest friend that ever I lay withall in my life be this light; never stir if he fought not with great Sekerson[28] foure hours to one, foremost take up hindmost, and tooke so many loaves from him, that he sterud him presently: So at last the dog cood doe no more then a Beare cood doe, and the beare being heavie with hunger you know, fell upon the Dogge, broke his backe, and the Dogge never stird more.

Rud. Why thou saist the Frenchmen tooke him away.

Goos. Frenchmen, I, so they did too, but yet, and he had not bin kild, twood nere a greevd me.

Foul. O excellent unity of speech.

Enter Will, and Iacke at seuerall Doores.

Will. Save ye, Knights.

Ia. Save you, Captaine.

Foul. Pages, welcome my fine Pages.

Rud. Welcome, boyes.

Goos. Welcome, sweet Will, good Iacke.

Foul. But how chaunce you are so farre from London now pages? is it almost Dinner time?

Wil. Yes indeed Sir, but we left our fellowes to wait for once, and cood not chuse in pure love to your worships, but we must needs come, and meet you, before you mett our Ladies, to tell you a secret.

Omnes. A secret, what secret I pray thee?

Ia. If ever your worships say any thing, we are undone for ever.

Omnes. Not for a World beleeve it.

Will. Why then this it is; we over-heard our Ladies as they were talking in private say, they refus'de to meet you at Barnet this morning of purpose, because they wood try which of you were most patient.

Ia. And some said you, Sir Gyles, another you Sir [Cutt] and the third you Captaine.

Om. This was excellent.

Wil. Then did they sweare one another not to excuse themselves to you by any meanes, that they might try you the better; now if they shall see you say nothing in the World to them what may come of it, when Ladies begin to try their suters once, I hope your wisedomes can judge a little.

Foul. O ho, my little knave, let us alone now yfaith; wood I might be Casheird, if I say any thing.

Rud. Faith, and I can forbeare my Tongue as well as another, I hope.

Goos. Wood I might be degraded, if I speake a word, Ile tell them I care not for loosing my labour.

Foul. Come Knights shall wee not reward the Pages?

Rud. Yes I prethee doe, sir Gyles give the boyes something.

Goos. Never stirre, sir Cutt, if I have ever a groat about me but one three pence.

Foul. Well Knights ile lay out fors all; here, my fine Pages.

Wil. No in deed, ant please your worship.

Foul. O Pages, refuse a Gentlemans bounty?

Ia. Cry you mercy, Sir; thanke you sweet Captaine.

Foul. And what other newes is stirring, my fine villiacos.

Wil. Marry Sir, they are invited to a great supper to night to your Lords house, Captaine, the Lord Furnifall, and there will be your great cosen Sir Gyles Goosecappe, the Lorde Tales, and your Vnckle, Sir Cutt. Rudesby, Sir Cutbert Kingcob.

Foul. The Lord Tales, what countriman is he?

Ia. A kentish Lord, sir; his ancestors came forth off Canterbury.

Foul. Out of Canterbury.

Wil. Indeed, Sir, the best Tales in England are your Canterbury Tales, I assure ye.

Rud. The boy tels thee true Captaine.

Ia. He writes his name Sir, Tales, and he being the tenth sonne his Father had; his Father Christned him Decem Tales, and so his whole name is the Lord Decem Tales.

Goos. A my mortality the boy knowes more then I doe of our house.

Rud. But is the Ladie Furnifall (Captaine) still of the same drinking humor she was wont to be?

Foul. Still of the same, Knight, and is never in any sociable veine till she be typsie, for in her sobriety she is madd, and feares my good little old Lord out of all proportion.

Rud.[29] And therefore, as I heare, he will earnestly invite guests to his house, of purpose to make his wife dronke, and then dotes on her humour most prophanely.

Foul. Tis very true Knight; we will suppe with them to night; and you shall see her; and now I thinke ont, ile tell you a thing Knights, wherein perhaps you may exceedingly pleasure me.

Goos. What's that, good Captaine?

Foul. I am desirous to helpe my Lord to a good merry Foole, and if I cood helpe him to a good merry one, he might doe me very much credit I assure ye.

Rud. Sbloud thou speakest to us as if we cood serue thy turne.

Foul. O Fraunce, Sir Cutt. your Frenchman wood not have taken me so, for a world, but because Fooles come into your companies many times to make you merry.

Rud. As thou doest.

Goos. Nay good sir Cut. you know fooles doe come into your companies.

Rud. I and thou knowst it too, no man better.

Foul. Beare off with Choller Sir Gyles.

Wil. But wood you helpe your Lord to a good foole so faine, Sir?

Foul. I, my good page exceeding faine.

Ia. You meane a wench, do you not, Sir? a foolish wench?

Foul. Nay I wood have a man foole, for his Lord; Page.

Wil. Does his Lord: love a foole, so well I pray?

Foul. Assure thy selfe, page, my Lord loves a foole, as he loves himselfe.

Ia. Of what degree wood you have your Foole Sir? for you may have of all manner of degrees.

Foul. Faith, I wood have him a good Emphaticall Foole, one that wood make my Lord laugh well, and I carde not.

Wil. Laugh well (um): then we must know this, Sir, is your Lord costive of laughter, or laxative of laughter?

Foul. Nay he is a good merry little Lord, and indeed sometimes Laxative of Laughter.

Wil. Why then sir the lesse wit will serue his Lordships turne, marry if he had bin costive of laughter he must have had two or three drams of wit the more in his foole, for we must minister according to the quantity of his Lord[ship's] humor, you know, and if he shood have as much witt in his foole being laxative of laughter, as if he were costive of Laughter, why he might laugh himselfe into an Epilepsie, and fall down dead sodainly, as many have done with the extremity of that passion; and I know your Lord cares for nothing, but the health of a Foole.

Foul. Thart ith right, my notable good page.

Ia. Why, and for that health, sir, we will warrant his Lordship, that if he should have all Bacon[30] de sanitate tuenda read to him, it shood not please his Lordship so well as our Foole shall.

Foul. Remercy, my more then English pages.

Goos. A my word I have not seene pages have so much wit, that have never bin in France Captaine.

Foul. Tis true indeed Sir Gyles, well then my almost french Elixers will you helpe my Lord to a Foole so fit for him as you say.

Wil. As fit, Ile warrant you Captaine, as if he were made for him, and he shall come this night to supper, and foole where his Lord: sits at table.

Foul. Excellent fit, faile not now, my sweet pages.

Ia. Not for a world, sir, we will goe both and seeke him presently.

Foul. Doe so my good wagges.

Wil. Save you Knights.

Ia. Save you Captaine. Exeunt.

Foul. Farewell, my pretty knaves; come, Knights, shall we resolve to goe to this Supper?

Rud. What else?

Goos. And let's provide torches for our men to sit at dore withall, Captaine.

Foul. That we will, I warrent you, sir Giles.

Rud. Torches? why the Moone will shine, man.

Goos. The Moone, sir Cut: I scorne the Moone yfaith. Slydd, sometimes a man shall not get her to shine, and if he wood give her a couple of Capons, and one of them must be white too. God forgive me, I cud never abide her since yesterday, she seru'd me such a tricke tother night.

Rud. What tricke, sir Gyles?

Goos. Why sir Cut. cause the daies be mortall, and short now you know, and I love daie light well; I thought it went away faster than it needed, and run after it into Finsbury-fieldes ith calme evening to see the wind-Mils goe; and even as I was going over a Ditch the Moone by this light of purpose runnes me behind a Cloud, and lets me fall into the Ditch by Heaven.

Rud. That was ill done in her, indeed sir Gyles.

Goos. Ill done sir Cut? Slydd a man may beare, and beare, but, and she have noe more good manners, but to make every blacke slovenly Cloud a pearle in her eye I shall nere love English Moone againe, while I live, Ile be sworne to ye.

Foul. Come, Knights, to London: Horse, Horse, Horse.

Rud. In what a case he is with the poor English Moone, because the French Moones (their Torches) will be the lesse in fashion, and I warrent you the Captaine will remember it too: tho he say nothing, he seconds his resolute chase so, and follows him, Ile lay my life you shall see them the next cold night, shut the Mooneshine out of their Chambers, and make it lie without Doores all night. I discredit my wit with their company, now I thinke on't, plague a god on them; Ile fall a beating on them presently.


[SCENE 2.]

Enter Lord Momford, and Clarence. Clarence, Horatio.

Cla. Sing good Horatio, while I sigh, and write. According to my master Platos minde, The soule is musicke, and doth therefore joy In accents musicall, which he that hates With points of discord is together tyed, And barkes at Reason, Consonant in sense. Divine Eugenia, beares the ocular forme Of musicke, and of Reason, and presents The soule exempt from flesh in flesh inflam'd[31]; Who must not love her then, that loves his soule? To her I write; my friend, the starre[32] of friends Will needs have my strange lines greet her strange eies And for her sake ile power my poore Soule forth In floods of inke; but did not his kinde hand Barre me with violent grace, I wood consume In the white flames of her impassionate love, Ere my harsh lipps shood vent the odorous blaze. For I am desperate of all worldly joyes, And there was never man so harsh to men. When I am fullest of digested life I seeme a livelesse Embrion to all, Each day rackt up in night-like Funerall. Sing, good Horatio, whilst I sigh, and write.


The Letter.

Suffer him to love that suffers not loving; my love is without passion, and therefore free from alteration._

Prose is too harsh, and Verse is Poetry. Why shood I write; then? merrit[33] clad in inke Is but a mourner, and as good as naked. I will not write, my friend shall speake for me. Sing one stave more, my good Horatio.


I must remember I know whom I love A dame of learning, and of life exempt From all the idle fancies of her Sex, And this, that to an other dame wood seeme Perplext and foulded in a rudelesse[34] vaile, Will be more cleere then ballads to her eye. Ile write, if but to satisfie my friend. Your third staunce sweet Horatio, and no more.


How vainele doe I offer my strange love? I marry, and bid states, and entertaine Ladies with tales, and jests, and Lords with newes, And keepe a House to feast Acteons hounds That eate their Master, and let idle guests Draw me from serious search of things divine? To bid them sit, and welcome, and take care To sooth their pallats with choyce kitchin-stuff, As all must doe that marry, and keepe House, And then looke on the left side of my yoake Or on the right perhaps, and see my wife Drawe in a quite repugnant course from me, Busied to starch her French purles, and her puffs, When I am in my Anima reflexa. Quid est faelicitas? quae origo rerum? And make these beings that are knowne to be The onely serious object of true men Seeme shadowes, with substantiall stir she keeps About her shadowes, which if husbands love They must beleeve; and thus my other selfe Brings me another body to dispose, That have already much too much of one, And must not looke for any Soule of her To helpe to rule two bodies?

Mom. Fie for shame; I never heard of such an antedame[35]. Doe women bring no helpe of soule to men? Why, friend, they eyther are mens soules themselves, Or the most witty Imitatrixes of them; Or prettiest sweet apes of humaine Soules, That ever Nature fram'd; as I will prove. For first they be Substantiae lucidae, And purer then mens bodies, like their soules, Which mens harsh haires both of their brest and chinne Occasioned by their grose and ruder heate Plainely demonstrats: Then like soules they doe, Movere corpora, for no power on Earth Moves a mans body, as a woman does. Then doe they Dare formas corpori, Or adde faire formes to men, as their soules doe: For but for women, who wood care for formes? I vow I never wood wash face, nor hands, Nor care how ragg'd, or slovenly I went, Wer't not for women, who of all mens pompes Are the true final causes: Then they make Men in their Seedes immortall, like their soules, That els wood perish in a spanne of time. Oh! they be soule-like creatures, and my Neece The soule of twenty rare soules stil'd in one.

Cla. That, that it is, my Lord, that makes me love.

Mom. Oh are ye come Sir, welcome to my Neece, As I may say, at midnight; gentle friend, What have you wrot I pray?

Cla. Strange stuffe my Lord.

Mom. Indeed the way to believe is to love [Hee reads and comments. And the right way to love is to believe. This I will carry now with pen, and incke, For her to use in answere; see, sweet friend, She shall not stay to call, but while the steele Of her affection is made softe and hott, Ile strike, and take occasion by the brow. Blest is the wooing thats not long a dooing. [Exit.

Cla. Had ever man so true, and noble friend? Or wood men thinke this sharpe worlds freezing Aire To all true honour and iuduciall love, Wood suffer such a florishing pyne in both To overlooke the boxe-trees of this time? When the learn'd minde hath by impulsion wrought Her eyes cleere fire into a knowing flame; No elementall smoke can darken it, Nor Northren coldnesse nyppe her Daphnean Flower. O sacred friendship, thanks to thy kinde power, That being retir'd from all the faithlesse World, Appear'st to me in my unworldly friend, And for thine own sake let his noble minde, By moving presedent to all his kinde, (Like just Deucalion) of Earths stony bones Repaire the World with humaine bloud and flesh, And dying vertue with new life refresh.


Actvs Qvartvs.

Enter Tales, Kingcob, Eugenia, Hippolyta, Penelope, Winnifred.

King. Tis time to leave your Chests, Ladies; tis too studious an exercise after Dinner.

Tal. Why is it cal'd Chests?

Hip. Because they leane upon their Chests that play at it.

Tal. I wood have it cald the strife of wits, for tis a game so witty, that with strife for maisterie, we hunt it eagerly.

Eug. Specially where the wit of the Goosecaps are in chase my Lord.

Tal. I am a Goosecappe by the mothers side, Madam; at least my mother was a Goosecappe.

Pene. And you were her white[36] sonne, I warrant my Lord.

Tal. I was the youngest, Lady, and therefore must bee her white sonne, yee know; the youngest of ten I was.

Hip. And the wisest of Fifteene.

Tal. And sweet Lady will yee cast a kinde eye now upon my Cosin, Sir Gyles Goosecappe.

Pene. Pardon my Lord, I have never a spare eye to cast away, I assure ye.

Tal. I wonder you shood count it cast away, Ladie, uppon him; doe you remember those fewe of his good parts I rehearst to you.

Pene. Verie perfectly, my Lord; amongst which one of them was, that he is the best Sempster of any woman in England: pray lets see some of his worke?

Hip. Sweet Lord, lets see him sowe a little.

Tal. You shall, a mine honour, Lady.

Eug. Hees a goodly greate Knight indeed; and a little needle in his hand will become him prettelie.

King. From the Spanish Pike to the Spanish Needle, he shall play with any Knight in England, Ladie.

Eug. But not e converso, from the Spanish needle to the Spanish Pike.

King. I thinke he be too wise for that indeed, Madam, for he has twenty Miles length in land lies togeather, and he wood bee loath to bring it all to the length of a Pike.

Hip. But no man commends my blount Servant sir Cut. Rudesby, methinks.

King. Hee is a kinde Gentleman, Ladie, though hee bee blunt, and is of this humour, the more you presume upon him without Ceremonie, the more he loves you; if he know you thinke him kinde once, and will say nothing but still use him, you may melt him into any kindnesse you will; he is right like a woman, and had rather, you shood bluntlie take the greatest favour you can of him, then shamefastly intreat it.

Eug. He saies well to you Hippolita.

Hip. I, Madam, but they saie, he will beat one in jest, and byte in kindenesse, and teare ones ruffes in Courtshippe.

King. Some that he makes sport withall perhappes, but none that he respects, I assure ye.

Hip. And what's his living sir Cutbeard?

King. Some two thousand a yeere, Ladie.

Hip. I pray doe not tell him that I ask't, for I stand not upon living.

King. O good Ladie, who can live without living?

Enter Momford.

Mom. Still heere, Lordings? good companions yfaith; I see you come not for vittles.

Tal. Vittles, my Lord? I hope wee have vittles at home.

Mom. I, but, sweet Lord, there is a principle in the Polititians physicke: Eat not[37] your meat upon other mens trenchers, and beware of surfets of your owne coste. Manie good companions cannot abide to eate meate at home, ye know. And how faires my noble Neece now, and her faire Ladie Feeres[38]?

Eug. What winde blowes you hether, troe?

Mom. Harke you, Madam, the sweet gale of one Clarences breath, with this his paper sayle blowes me hether.

Eug. Aye me still, in that humour? beshrewe my heart, if I take anie Papers from him.

Mom. Kinde bosome doe thou take it then.

Eug. Nay then never trust me.

Mom. Let it fall then or cast it away, you were best, that every body may discover your love suits, doe; theres somebody neare, you note it.—And how have you spent the time since Dinner, nobles?

King. At chests, my Lord.

Mom. Read it, Neece.

Eug. Heere, beare it backe, I pray.

Mom. I beare you on my backe to heare you. And how play the Ladies, sir Cuthberd? what men doe they play best withall, with Knights or rookes?

Tal. With Knights, my Lord.

Mom. T'is pitty their boord is no broader, and that some men called guls are not added to their game.

King. Why, my Lo? it needs not, they make the Knights guls.

Mom. That's pretty, sir Cuthbert.—You have begon I know, Neece; forth I command you.

Eug. O yare a sweet uncle.

Mom. I have brought here a little Greeke, to helpe mee out withall, and shees so coy of her learning forsooth, she makes it strange.—Lords and Ladies, I invite you all to supper to night, and you shall not deny me.

All. We will attend your Lordshippe.

Tal. Come Ladies let's into the gallery a little.


Mom. And now what saies mine owne deare Neece yfaith?

Eug. What shood she say to the backside of a paper?

Mom. Come, come, I know you have byn a' the belly side.

Eug. Now was there ever Lord so prodigall Of his owne honour'd bloud, and dignity?

Mom. Away with these same horse-faire allegations; will you answer the letter?

Eug. Gods my life, you goe like a cunning spokesman, answer uncle; what, doe you thinke me desperate of a husband?

Mom. Not so, Neece; but carelesse of your poore Vncle.

Eug. I will not write, that's certaine.

Mom. What, wil you have my friend and I perish? doe you thirst our blouds?

Eug. O yare in a mighty danger, noe doubt on't.

Mom. If you have our blouds, beware our ghosts, I can tell ye; come, will ye write?

Eug. I will not write yfaith.

Mom. Yfaith dame, then I must be your secretary, I see; heres the letter, come, doe you dictate, and ile write.

Eug. If you write no otherwise then I dictate, it will scarce prove a kinde answer, I beleeve.

Mom. But you will be advis'de, I trust. Secretaries are of counsell with their Countesses; thus it begins: Suffer him to love, that suffers not loving. What answere you to that?

Eug. He loves extreamely that suffers not in love.

Mom. He answers you for that presently, his love is without passion, and therefore free from alteration, for Pati you know is in alterationem labi; he loves you in his soule, he tels you, wherein there is no passion. Saie dame what answer you?

Eug. Nay if I answere anie thing—

Mom. Why? very well, ile answer for you.

Eug. You answere? shall I set my hand to your answere?

Mom. I, by my faith shall ye.

Eug. By my faith, but you shall answere as I wood have you then.

Mom. Alwaies put in with advice of your secretary, Neece, come, what answere you?

Eug. Since you needes will have my Answere, Ile answere briefely to the first, and last part of his letter.

Mom. Doe so, Neece; and leave the midst for himselfe a gods name: what is your answeare?

Eug. I cannot but suffer you to love, if you doe love.

Mom. Why very good, there it is,—and will requite your love; say you so? [He writes, and she dictates.

Eug. Beshrowe my lipps then, my Lord.

Mom. Beshrowe my fingers but you shall; what, you may promise to requite his love, and yet not promise him marriage, I hope; well,— and will requite your love.

Eug. Nay good my Lord, hold your hand, for ile be sworne, ile not set my hand too't.

Mom. Well hold off your hand, good Madam, till it shood come on, Ile be ready for it anon, I warrent ye. Now forth,—my love is without passion, and therefore free from alteration: what answere you to that Madam?

Eug. Even this, my Lord: your love, being mentall, needs no bodily Requitall.

Mom. I am content with that, and here it is;—but in hart.

Eug. What but in hart?

Mom. Hold off your hand yet I say;—I doe embrace, and repay it.

Eug. You may write, uncle, but if you get my hand to it—

Mom. Alas Neece, this is nothing, ist anything to a bodily marriage, to say you love a man in soule, if your harts agree, and your bodies meet not? simple marriage rites, now let us foorth: he is in the way to felicity, and desires your hand.

Eug. My hand shall alwaies signe the way to felicity.

Mom. Very good; may not any woman say this now. Conclude now, sweet Neece.

Eug. And so God prosper your journey.

Mom. Charitably concluded, though farre short of that love I wood have showen to any friend of yours, Neece, I sweare to you. Your hand now, and let this little stay his appetite.

Eug. Read what you have writ my Lord.

Mom. What needs that, Madam? you remember it, I am sure.

Eug. Well if it want sense in the Composition, let my secretary be blam'd for't; thers my hand.

Mom. Thanks, gentle Neece; now ile reade it.

Eug. Why now, more then before I pray?

Mom. That you shall see straite.—I cannot but suffer you to love if you doe love, and will requite your love.

Eug. Remember that requitall was of your owne putting in, but it shall be after my fashion, I warrant ye.

Mom. Interrupt me no more.—Your love being mentall needs no bodily requitall, but in hart I embrace, and repay it; my hand shall alwaies signe the way to felicity, and my selfe knit with you in the bands of marriage ever walke with you, in it, and so God prosper our journey: Eugenia.

Eug. Gods me life, tis not thus I hope.

Mom. By my life but it is, Neece.

Eug. By my life but tis none of my deed then.

Mom. Doe you use to set your hand to that which is not your deed; your hand is at it, Neece, and if there be any law in England, you shall performe it too.

Eug. Why? this is plaine dishonoured deceit. Does all your truest kindnes end in law?

Mom. Have patience Neece, for what so ere I say, Onely the lawes of faith, and thy free love Shall joyne my friend and thee, or naught at all. By my friends love, and by this kisse it shall.

Eug. Why, thus did false Acontius snare Cydippe.

Mom. Indeed, deere love, his wile was something like, And then tis no unheard of treachery, That was enacted in a goddes Eye: Acontius worthy love feard not Diana Before whom he contriv'd this sweet deceite.

Eug. Well there you have my hand, but ile be sworne I never did thing so against my will.

Mom. T'will prove the better, Madam, doubt it not. And to allay the billows of your bloud, Rais'd with my motion bold and opposite, Deere Neece, suppe with me, and refresh your spirites: I have invited your companions, With the two guests that din'd with you to daie, And will send for the old Lord Furnifall, The Captaine, and his mates, and (tho at night) We will be merry as the morning Larke.

Eug. No, no my Lord, you will have Clarence there.

Mom. Alas poore Gentleman, I must tell you now, He's extreame sicke, and was so when he writt, Tho he did charge me not to tell you so; And for the World he cannot come abroade.

Eug. Is this the man that without passion loves?

Mom. I doe not tell you he is sicke with love; Or if he be, tis wilfull passion. Which he doth choose to suffer for your sake, And cood restraine his sufferance with a thought, Vppon my life, he will not trouble you; And therefore, worthy Neece, faile not to come.

Eug. I will on that condition.

Mom. Tis perform'd. For were my friend well, and cood comfort me, I wood not now intreate your company, But one of you I must have, or I die: Oh such a friend is worth a monarchy.


(SCENE 2.)

Enter Lord Furnifall, Rudsbie, Goosecappe, Foulweather, Bullaker.

Fur. Nay, my gallants, I will tell you more.

All. Forth, good my Lord.

Fur. The evening came, and then our waxen starres Sparkled about the heavenly Court of Fraunce, When I then young and radiant as the sunne Gave luster to those lamps, and curling thus My golden foretoppe stept into the presence, Where set with other princely Dames I found The Countesse of Lancalier, and her neece, Who as I told you cast so fix'd an eye On my behaviours, talking with the King.

All. True, my good Lord.

Fur. They rose when I came in, and all the lights Burn'd dim for shame, when I stood up, and shin'd.

Foul. O most passionate description, sir Cutt.

Rud. True, of a candles end.

Goos. The passingst description of a candle that ever lived, sir Cutt.

Fur. Yet aym'd I not at them, nor seemed to note What grace they did me, but found courtly cause To talke with an accomplisht gentleman New come from Italy; in quest of newes I spake Italian with him.

Rud. What so young?

Fur. O rarissime volte cadono nel parlar nostro familiare.

Foul. Slid, a cood speake it, Knight, at three yeeres old.

Fur. Nay, gentle Captaine, doe not set me forth; I love it not, in truth I love it not.

Foul. Slight, my Lord, but truth is truth, you know.

Goos. I dare ensure your Lordship, Truth is truth, and I have heard in France, they speake French as well as their mother tongue, my Lord.

Fur. Why tis their mother tongue, my noble Knight. But (as I tell you) I seem'd not to note The Ladies notes of me, but held my talke, With that Italionate Frenchman, and tooke time (Still as our conference serv'd) to shew my Courtship In the three quarter legge, and setled looke, The quicke kisse of the top of the forefinger, And other such exploytes of good Accost; All which the Ladies tooke into their eyes With such attention that their favours swarm'd About my bosome, in my hart, mine eares, In skarffes about my thighes, upon mine armes Thicke on my wristes, and thicker on my hands, And still the lesse I sought, the more I found. All this I tell to this notorious end, That you may use your Courtship with lesse care To your coy mistresses; As when we strike A goodly Sammon, with a little line, We doe not tugge to hale her up by force, For then our line wood breake, and our hooke lost; But let her carelesse play alongst the streame, As you had left her, and sheele drowne her selfe.

Foul. A my life a most rich comparison.

Goos. Never stirre if it be not a richer Caparison then my Lorde my Cosin wore at Tilt, for that was brodred with nothing but moone-shine ith the water, and this has Sammons in't; by heaven a most edible Caparison.

Ru. Odious thou woodst say, for Comparisons are odious.

Foul. So they are indeed, sir Cut., all but my Lords.

Goos. Be Caparisons odious, sir Cut; what, like flowers?

Rud. O asse they be odorous.[39]

Goos. A botts a that stincking word odorous, I can never hitt on't.

Fur. And how like you my Court-counsell, gallants, ha?

Foul. Out of all proportion excellent, my Lord; and beleeve it, for Emphaticall Courtship, your Lordship puts downe all the Lords of the Court.

Fur. No, good Captaine, no.

Foul. By France you doe, my Lord, for Emphaticall Courtship.

Fur. For Emphaticall Courtship indeed I can doe somewhat.

Foul. Then does your merry entertainment become you so festifally, that you have all the bravery of a Saint Georges Day about ye, when you use it.

Fur. Nay thats too much, in sadnesse, Captaine.

Goos. O good, my Lord, let him prayse you, what so ere it costs your Lordship.

Foul. I assure your Lordship, your merry behaviour does so festifally show upon you, that every high holliday, when Ladies wood be most beautifull, every one wishes to God she were turnd into such a little Lord as you, when y'are merry.

Goos. By this fire they doe my Lord, I have heard am.

Fur. Marry God forbid, Knight, they shood be turnd into me; I had rather be turnd into them, a mine honour.

Foul. Then for your Lordships quips, and quicke jests, why Gesta Romanorum were nothing to them, a my vertue.

Fur. Well, well, well, I will heare thee no more, I will heare thee no more, good Captaine. Tha's an excellent wit, and thou shalt have Crownes, a mine honour, and now Knights, and Captaine, the foole you told me off, do you all know him?

Goos. I know him best my Lord.

Fur. Doe you sir Gyles? to him then, good Knight, and be here with him and here, and here, and here againe; I meane paint him unto us sir Gyles, paint him lively, lively now, my good Knightly boy.

Goos. Why my good Lord? he will nere be long from us, because we are all mortall you know.

Fur. Very true.

Goos. And as soone as ever we goe to Dinner, and Supper together—

Rud. Dinner and supper together, whens that troe?

Goos. A will come you in amongst us, with his Cloake buttond, loose under his chinne.

Rud. Buttond loose, my Lord?

Goos. I my Lord, buttond loose still, and both the flaps cast over before both his shoulders afore him.

Rud. Both shoulders afore him?

Fur. From before him he meanes; forth good sir Gyles.

Goos. Like a potentate, my Lord?

Rud. Much like a Potentate indeed.

Goos. For all the world like a Potentate, sir Cut. ye know.

Rud. So Sir.

Goos. All his beard nothing but haire.

Rud. Or something else.

Goos. Or something else as you say.

Foul. Excellent good.

Goos. His Mellons, or his Apricocks, Orrenges alwaies in an uncleane hand-kerchiffe, very cleanely, I warrant you, my Lord.

Fur. A good neate foole, sir Gyles, of mine honour.

Goose. Then his fine words that he sets them in, concaticall, a fine Annisseede wench foole, upon ticket, and so forth.

Fur. Passing strange words beleeve me.

Goos. Knoth every man at the table, though he never saw him before, by sight, and then will he foole you so finely my Lord, that he will make your hart ake, till your eyes runne over.

Fur. The best that ever I heard, pray mercy, good Knight, for thy merry description. Captaine, I give thee twenty companies of commendations, never to be cashierd.

Enter Iacke, and Will on the other side.

Am. Save your Lordship.

Fur. My pretty cast-of Merlins,[40] what prophecies with your little maestershippes?

Ia. Things that cannot come to passe my Lord, the worse our fortunes.

Foul. Why, whats the matter Pages?

Rud. How now, my Ladies foysting[41] hounds.

Goos. M. Iacke, M. Ia. how do ye M. William? frolicke?

Wil. Not so frolicke, as you left us, sir Gyles.

Fur. Why wags, what news bring you a Gods name?

Ia. Heavy newes indeed, my Lord, pray pardon us.

Fur. Heavy newes? not possible your little bodies cood bring am then, unload those your heavy newes, I beseech ye.

Wil. Why my Lord the foole we tooke for your Lord: is thought too wise for you, and we dare not present him.

Goos. Slydd Pages, youle not cheates of our foole, wil ye?

Ia. Why, sir Gyles, hees too dogged, and bitter for you in truth; we shall bring you a foole to make you laugh, and he shall make all the World laugh at us.

Wil. I indeed, sir Gyles, and he knowes you so wel too.

Gyles. Know me? slight he knowes me no more then the begger knowes his dish.[42]

Ia. Faith he begs you to be content, sir Gyles, for he wil not come.

Goos. Beg me? slight, I wood I had knowne that, tother Day, I thought I had met him in Paules, and he had bin any body else but a piller, I wood have runne him through by heaven: beg me?

Foul. He begges you to be content, sir Gyles; that is, he praies you.

Goos. O does he praise me then I commend him.

Fur. Let this unsutable foole goe, sir Gyles; we will make shift without him.

Goos. That we wil, a my word, my Lord, and have him too for all this.

Wil. Doe not you say so, sir Gyles, for to tell you true that foole is dead.

Goos. Dead? slight that can not be, man; I know he wood ha writ to me ant had byn so.

Fur. Quick or dead, let him goe, sir Giles.

Ia. I, my Lord, for we have better newes for you to harken after.

Fur. What are they, my good Novations?

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