SCENE—LONDON and BARNET.
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.—A Room in Old WINCOTT’S House.
ENTER YOUNG GERALDINE AND DELAVIL.
DELAVIL.
Oh, friend, that I to mine own notion
Had joined but your experience! I have
The theoric, but you the practic.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
I
Perhaps have seen what you have only read of.
DELAVIL.
There’s your happiness.
A scholar in his study knows the stars,
Their motion and their influence, which are fixed
And which are wandering, can decipher seas,
And give each several land his proper bounds;
But set him to the compass, he’s to seek,
When a plain pilot can direct his course
From hence unto both the Indies; can bring back
His ship and charge, with profits quintuple.
I have read Jerusalem, and studied Rome,
Can tell in what degree each city stands,
Describe the distance of this place from that—
All this the scale in every map can teach;
Nay, for a need could punctually recite
The monuments in either; but what I
Have by relation only, knowledge by travel,
Which still makes up a complete gentleman,
Proves eminent in you.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
I must confess
I have seen Jerusalem and Rome, have brought
Mark from the one, from the other testimony,
Known Spain, and France, and from their airs have sucked
A breath of every language: but no more
Of this discourse, since we draw near the place
Of them we go to visit.
Enter Clown.
CLOWN.
Noble Master Geraldine, worshipful Master Delavil!
DELAVIL.
I see thou still rememberest us.
CLOWN.
Remember you! I have had so many memorandums from the multiplicities of your bounties, that not to remember you were to forgot myself; you are both most ingeniously and nobly welcome.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
And why ingeniously and nobly?
CLOWN.
Because had I given your welcomes other attributes than I have done, the one being a soldier, and the other seeming a scholar, I should have lied in the first, and showed myself a kind of blockhead in the last.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
I see your wit is nimble as your tongue;
But how doth all at home?
CLOWN.
Small doings at home, sir, in regard that the age of my master corresponds not with the youth of my mistress, and you know cold January and lusty May seldom meet in conjunction.
DELAVIL.
I do not think but this fellow in time may for his wit and understanding make almanacks.
CLOWN.
Not so, sir, you being more judicious than I, I’ll give you the pre-eminence in that, because I see by proof you have such judgment in times and seasons.
DELAVIL.
And why in times and seasons?
CLOWN.
Because you have so seasonably made choice to come so just at dinner-time. You are welcome, gentlemen; I’ll go tell my master of your coming. [Exit.
DELAVIL.
A pleasant knave.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
This fellow I perceive
Is well acquainted with his master’s mind.
Oh ’tis a good old man.
DELAVIL.
And she a lady
For beauty and for virtue unparalleled,
Nor can you name that thing to grace a woman
She has not in a full perfection.
Though in their years might seem disparity,
And therefore at the first a match unfit,
Imagine but his age and government,
Withal her modesty and chaste respect;
Betwixt them there’s so sweet a sympathy
As crowns a noble marriage.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
’Tis acknowledged;
But to the worthy gentleman himself
I am so bound in many courtesies,
That not the least, by all the expression
My labour or my industry can show,
I will know how to cancel.
DELAVIL.
Oh, you are modest.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
He studies to engross me to himself,
And is so wedded to my company,
He makes me stranger to my father’s house,
Although so near a neighbour.
DELAVIL.
This approves you
To be most nobly propertied, that from one
So exquisite in judgment, can attract
So affectionate an eye.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
Your character
I must bestow on his unmerited love,
As one that know I have it, and yet ignorant
Which way I should deserve it: here both come.
ENTER OLD WINCOTT, HIS WIFE, AND PRUDENTILLA.
WINCOTT.
Gentlemen, welcome; but what need I use
A word so common, unto such to whom
My house was never private? I expect
You should not look for such a needless phrase,
Especially you, Master Geraldine;
Your father is my neighbour, and I know you
Even from the cradle; then I loved your infancy,
And since your riper growth bettered by travel:
My wife and you in youth were play-fellows,
And must not now be strangers; as I take it,
Not above two years different in your age.
WIFE.
So much he hath outstripped me.
WINCOTT.
I would have you
Think this your home, free as your father’s house,
And to command it, as the master on’t;
Call boldly here, and entertain your friends,
As in your own possessions: when I see’t,
I’ll say you love me truly, not till then;
Oh, what a happiness your father hath,
Far above me!—one to inherit after him,
Where I (Heaven knows) am childless.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
That defect
Heaven hath supplied in this your virtuous wife,
Both fair, and full of all accomplishments;
My father is a widower, and herein
Your happiness transcends him.
WIFE.
Oh, Master Geraldine,
Flattery in men’s an adjunct of their sex,
This country breeds it, and for that, so far
You needed not to have travelled.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
Truth’s a word
That should in every language relish well,
Nor have I that exceeded.
WIFE.
Sir, my husband
Hath took much pleasure in your strange discourse
About Jerusalem and the Holy Land:
How the new city differs from the old,
What ruins of the Temple yet remain,
And whether Sion, and those hills about,
With the adjacent towns and villages,
Keep that proportioned distance as we read;
And then in Rome, of that great pyramis
Reared in the front, on four lions mounted;
How many of those idol temples stand,
First dedicated to their heathen gods,
Which ruined, which to better use repaired;
Of their Pantheon, and their Capitol,—
What structures are demolished, what remain.
WINCOTT.
And what more pleasure to an old man’s ear,
That never drew save his own country’s air,
Than hear such things related? I do exceed him
In years, I must confess, yet he much older
Than I in his experience.
PRUDENTILLA.
Master Geraldine,
May I be bold to ask you but one question,
The which I’d be resolved in?
YOUNG GERALDINE.
Anything
That lies within my knowledge.
WINCOTT.
Put him to’t.
Do, sister, you shall find him, make no doubt,
Most pregnant in his answer.
PRUDENTILLA.
In your travels
Through France, through Savoy, and through Italy,
Spain, and the Empire, Greece and Palestine,
Which breeds the choicest beauties?
YOUNG GERALDINE.
In troth, lady,
I never cast on any in those parts
A curious eye of censure,[3] since my travel
Was only aimed at language, and to know;
These passed me but as common objects did—
Seen, but not much regarded.
PRUDENTILLA.
Oh, you strive
To express a most unheard-of modesty,
And seldom found in any traveller,
Especially of our country, thereby seeking
To make yourself peculiar.
YOUNG GERALDINE.
I should be loth
Profess in outward show to be one man,
And prove myself another.
PRUDENTILLA.
One thing more:
Were you to marry, you that know these climes,
Their states and their conditions, out of which
Of all these countries would you choose your wife?
YOUNG GERALDINE.
I’ll answer you in brief: as I observe,
Each several clime, for object, fare, or use,
Affords within itself for all of these
What is most pleasing to the man there born:
Spain, that yields scant of food, affords the nation
A parsimonious stomach, where[4] our appetites
Are not content but with the large excess
Of a full table; where the pleasing’st fruits
Are found most frequent, there they best content;
Where plenty flows, it asks abundant feasts;
For so hath provident Nature dealt with all.
So in the choice of women: the Greek wantons,
Compelled beneath the Turkish slavery,
Vassal themselves to all men, and such best
Please the voluptuous that delight in change;
The French is of one humour, Spain another,
The hot Italian has a strain from both,
All pleased with their own nations—even the Moor,
He thinks the blackest the most beautiful;
And, lady, since you so far tax my choice,
I’ll thus resolve you: being an Englishman,
’Mongst all these nations I have seen or tried,
To please me best, here would I choose my bride.
PRUDENTILLA.
And happy were that lady, in my thoughts,
Whom you would deign that grace to.
WIFE.
How now, sister!
This is a fashion that’s but late come up.
For maids to court their husbands.
WINCOTT.
I would, wife,
It were no worse, upon condition
They had my helping hand and purse to boot,
With both in ample measure. Oh, this gentleman
I love, nay almost dote on.
WIFE.
You’ve my leave
To give it full expression.
WINCOTT.
In these arms, then.
Oh, had my youth been blest with such a son,
To have made my estate to my name hereditary,
I should have gone contented to my grave,
As to my bed; to death, as to my sleep;
But Heaven hath will in all things. Once more welcome;
And you, sir, for your friend’s sake.
DELAVIL.
Would I had in me
That which he hath, to have claimed it for mine own;
However, I much thank you.
Enter
Clown.
WINCOTT.
Now, sir, the news with you?
CLOWN.
Dancing news, sir; for the meat stands piping hot upon the dresser, the kitchen’s in a heat, and the cook hath so bestirred himself that he’s in a sweat. The jack[5] plays music, and the spits turn round to’t.
WINCOTT.
This fellow’s my best clock,
He still strikes true to dinner.
CLOWN.
And to supper too, sir: I know not how the day goes with you, but my stomach hath struck twelve, I can assure you that.
WINCOTT.
You take us unprovided, gentlemen;
Yet something you shall find, and we would rather
Give you the entertain of household guests
Than compliment of strangers. I pray enter.
[Exeunt all but
Clown.
CLOWN.
I’ll stand to’t, that in good hospitality there can be nothing found that’s ill: he that’s a good house-keeper keeps a good table, a good table is never without good stools, good stools seldom without good guests, good guests never without good cheer, good cheer cannot be without good stomachs, good stomachs without good digestion, good digestion keeps men in good health; and therefore, all good people that bear good minds, as you love goodness, be sure to keep good meat and drink in your houses, and so you shall be called good men, and nothing can come on’t but good, I warrant you. [Exit.
SCENE II.—A Room in Old LIONEL’S House.
Enter REIGNALD and ROBIN, two Serving-men.
REIGNALD.
Away, you Corydon!
ROBIN.
Shall I be beat out of my master’s house thus?
REIGNALD.
Thy master! we are lords amongst ourselves,
And here we live and reign. Two years already
Are past of our great empire, and we now
Write anno tertio.
ROBIN.
But the old man lives
That shortly will depose you.
REIGNALD.
I’ the meantime,
I, as the mighty lord and seneschal
Of this great house and castle, banish thee
The very smell o’ the kitchen; be it death
To appear before the dresser.
ROBIN.
And why so?
REIGNALD.
Because thou stink’st of garlick. Is that breath
Agreeing with our palace, where each room
Smells with musk, civet, and rich ambergris,
Aloes, cassia, aromatic gums,
Perfumes, and powders? One whose very garments
Scent of the fowls and stables! Oh, fie, fie!
What a base nasty rogue ’tis!
ROBIN.
Yet your fellow.
REIGNALD.
Then let us put a cart-horse in rich trappings,
And bring him to the tilt-yard.
ROBIN.
Prank it, do;
Waste, riot, and consume, misspend your hours
In drunken surfeits, lose your days in sleep,
And burn the nights in revels, drink and drab,
Keep Christmas all year long, and blot lean Lent
Out of the calendar; all that mass of wealth
Got by my master’s sweat and thrifty care,
Havoc in prodigal uses; make all fly,
Pour’t down your oily throats, or send it smoking
Out at the tops of chimneys. At his departure,
Was it the old man’s charge to have his windows
Glister all night with stars? his modest house
Turned to a common stews? his beds to pallets
Of lusts and prostitutions? his buttery hatch[6]
Now made more common than a tavern’s bar?
His stools, that welcomed none but civil guests,
Now only free for pandars, whores and bawds,
Strumpets, and such?
REIGNALD.
I suffer thee too long.
What is to me thy country; or to thee
The pleasure of our city? thou hast cows,
Cattle, and beeves to feed, oves and boves;
These that I keep, and in this pasture graze,
Are dainty damosellas, bonny girls.
If thou be’st born to hedge, ditch, thresh, and plough,
And I to revel, banquet and carouse;
Thou, peasant, to the spade and pickaxe, I
The battoon and stiletto, think it only
Thy ill, my good; our several lots are cast,
And both must be contented.
ROBIN.
But when both
Our services are questioned—
REIGNALD.
Look thou to one,
My answer is provided.
Enter Young LIONEL.
ROBIN.
Farewell, musk-cat! [Exit.
REIGNALD.
Adieu, good cheese and onions; stuff thy guts
With speck and barley-pudding for digestion;
Drink whig[7] and sour milk, whilst I rinse my throat
With Bordeaux and canary.
YOUNG LIONEL.
What was he?
REIGNALD.
A spy, sir;
One of their hinds o’ the country, that came prying
To see what dainty fare our kitchen yields,
What guests we harbour, and what rule we keep,
And threats to tell the old man when he comes;
I think I sent him packing.
YOUNG LIONEL.
It was well done.
REIGNALD.
A whoreson-jackanapes, a base baboon,
To insinuate in our secrets.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Let such keep
The country, where their charge is.
REIGNALD.
So I said, sir.
YOUNG LIONEL.
And visit us when we command them thence,
Not search into our counsels.
REIGNALD.
’Twere not fit.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Who in my father’s absence should command,
Save I his only son?
REIGNALD.
It is but justice.
YOUNG LIONEL.
For am not I now lord?
REIGNALD.
Dominus-fac-totum.
And am not I your steward?
YOUNG LIONEL.
Well remembered.
This night I have a purpose to be merry,
Jovial and frolic. How doth our cash hold out?
REIGNALD.
The bag’s still heavy.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Then my heart’s still light.
REIGNALD.
I can assure you, yet ’tis pretty deep
Though scarce a mile to the bottom.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Let me have
To supper, let me see, a duck—
REIGNALD.
Sweet rogue!
YOUNG LIONEL.
A capon—
REIGNALD.
Geld the rascal!
YOUNG LIONEL.
Then a turkey—
REIGNALD.
Now spit him, for an infidel!
YOUNG LIONEL.
Green plover, snipe,
Partridge, lark, cock, and pheasant.
REIGNALD.
Ne’er a widgeon?
YOUNG LIONEL.
Yes; wait thyself at table.
REIGNALD.
Where I hope
Yourself will not be absent.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Nor my friends.
REIGNALD.
We’ll have them then in plenty.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Caviare, sturgeon, anchoves, pickle-oysters; yes,
And a potato pie; besides all these,
What thou think’st rare and costly.
REIGNALD.
Sir, I know
What’s to be done; the stock that must be spent
Is in my hands, and what I have to do
I will do suddenly.
YOUNG LIONEL.
No butcher’s meat;
Of that beware in any case.
REIGNALD.
I still remember
Your father was no grazier; if he were,
This were a way to eat up all his fields,
Hedges and all.
YOUNG LIONEL.
You will begone, sir?
REIGNALD.
Yes, and you are i’ the way going. [Exit.
YOUNG LIONEL.
To what may young men best compare themselves?
Better to what, than to a house new built,
The fabric strong, the chambers well contrived,
Polished within, without well beautified;
When all that gaze upon the edifice
Do not alone commend the workman’s craft,
But either make it their fair precedent
By which to build another, or at least
Wish there to inhabit? Being set to sale,
In comes a slothful tenant, with a family
As lazy and debauched; rough tempests rise,
Untile the roof, which by their idleness
Left unrepaired, the stormy showers beat in,
Rot the main posts and rafters, spoil the rooms,
Deface the ceilings, and in little space
Bring it to utter ruin, yet the fault
Not in the architector that first reared it,
But him that should repair it. So it fares
With us young men; we are those houses made;
Our parents raise these structures, the foundation
Laid in our infancy; and as we grow
In years, they strive to build us by degrees,
Story on story higher; up at height,
They cover us with counsel, to defend us
From storms without; they polish us within
With learnings, knowledge, arts and disciplines;
All that is naught and vicious they sweep from us,
Like dust and cobwebs, and our rooms concealed,
Hang with the costliest hangings, ’bout the walls
Emblems and beauteous symbols pictured round:
But when that lazy tenant, Love, steps in,
And in his train brings sloth and negligence,
Lust, disobedience, and profuse excess,
The thrift with which our fathers tiled our roofs
Submits to every storm and winter’s blast,
And, yielding place to every riotous sin,
Gives way without to ruin what’s within:
Such is the state I stand in.
ENTER BLANDA AND SCAPHA; YOUNG LIONEL RETIRES.
BLANDA.
And how doth this tire become me?
SCAPHA.
Rather ask, how your sweet carriage and court behaviour doth best grace you, for lovers regard not so much the outward habit as that which the garment covers.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Oh, here’s that hail, shower, tempest, storm, and gust
That shattered hath this building; let in lust,
Intemperance, appetite to vice; withal,
Neglect of every goodness: thus I see
How I am sinking in mine own disease,
Yet can I not abide it. [Aside.
BLANDA.
And how this gown? I prithee view me well,
And speak with thy best judgment.
SCAPHA.
What do you talk of gowns and ornaments,
That have a beauty precious in itself,
And becomes anything?
YOUNG LIONEL.
Let me not live, but she speaks nought but truth,
And I’ll for that reward her. [Aside.
BLANDA.
All’s one to me, become they me or not,
Or be I fair or foul in others’ eyes,
So I appear so to my Lionel;
He is the glass in whom I judge my face,
By whom in order I will dress these curls,
And place these jewels, only to please him.
Why dost smile?
SCAPHA.
To hear a woman that thinks herself so wise speak so foolishly; that knows well, and does ill.
BLANDA.
Teach me wherein I err.
SCAPHA.
I’ll tell thee, daughter: in that thou knowest thyself to be beloved of so many, and settlest thy affection only upon one. Doth the mill grind only when the wind sits in one corner, or ships only sail when it’s in this or that quarter? Is he a cunning fencer that lies but at one guard, or he a skilful musician that plays but on one string? Is there but one way to the wood, and but one bucket that belongs to the well? To affect one, and despise all other, becomes the precise matron, not the prostitute; the loyal wife, not the loose wanton. Such have I been as you are now, and should learn to sail with all winds, defend all blows, make music with all strings, know all the ways to the wood, and, like a good travelling hackney, learn to drink of all waters.
YOUNG LIONEL.
May I miscarry in my Blanda’s love,
If I that old damnation do not send
To hell before her time! [Aside.
BLANDA.
I would not have you, mother, teach me aught
That tends to injure him.
SCAPHA.
Well, look to’t when ’tis too late, and then repent at leisure, as I have done. Thou seest, here’s nothing but prodigality and pride, wantoning and wasting, rioting and revelling, spoiling and spending, gluttony and gormandising—all goes to havoc. And can this hold out? When he hath nothing left to help himself, how can he harbour thee? Look at length to drink from a dry bottle, and feed from an empty knapsack; look to’t, ’twill come to that.
YOUNG LIONEL.
My parsimony shall begin in thee,
And instantly; for from this hour, I vow
That thou no more shalt drink upon my cost,
Nor taste the smallest fragment from my board;
I’ll see thee starve i’ the street first. [Aside.
SCAPHA.
Live to one man! a jest; thou mayst as well tie thyself to one gown; and what fool but will change with the fashion? Yes, do, confine thyself to one garment, and use no variety, and see how soon it will rot, and turn to rags.
YOUNG LIONEL. [Coming forward.]
Those rags be thy reward!—Oh, my sweet Blanda,
Only for thee I wish my father dead,
And ne’er to rouse us from our sweet delight;
But for this hag, this beldam, she whose back
Hath made her items in my mercer’s books;
Whose ravenous guts I have stuffed with delicates,
Nay even to surfeit; and whose frozen blood
I have warmed with aquavitæ—be this day
My last of bounty to a wretch ingrate;
But unto thee a new indenture[8] sealed
Of an affection fixed and permanent.
I’ll love thee still, be’t but to give the lie
To this old cankered worm.
BLANDA.
Nay, be not angry.
YOUNG LIONEL.
With thee my soul shall ever be at peace;
But with this love-seducer, still at war.
SCAPHA.
Hear me but speak.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Ope but thy lips again, it makes a way
To have thy tongue plucked out.
Enter RIOTER and two Gallants.
RIOTER.
What, all in tempest!
YOUNG LIONEL.
Yes, and the storm raised by that witch’s spells;
Oh, ’tis a damned enchantress!
RIOTER.
What’s the business?
BLANDA.
Only some few words, slipped her unawares:
For my sake make her peace.
RIOTER.
You charge me deeply.
Come, friend, will you be moved at women’s words,
A man of your known judgment?
YOUNG LIONEL.
Had you but heard
The damned erroneous doctrine that she taught,
You would have judged her to the stake.
BLANDA.
But, sweetheart,
She now recants those errors; once more number her
Amongst your household servants.
RIOTER.
Shall she beg,
And be denied aught from you?
BLANDA.
Come, this kiss
Shall end all former quarrels.
RIOTER.
’Tis not possible
Those lips should move in vain, that two ways plead,—
Both in their speech and silence.
YOUNG LIONEL.
You have prevailed,
But upon this condition, no way else:
I’ll censure her, as she hath sentenced thee,
But with some small inversion.
RIOTER.
Speak, how’s that?
BLANDA.
Not too severe, I prithee; see, poor wretch,
She at the bar stands quaking.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Now, hold up—
RIOTER.
How, man, how?
YOUNG LIONEL.
Her hand, I mean.—And now I’ll sentence thee,
According to thy counsel given to her:
Sail by one wind; thou shalt to one tune sing,
Lie at one guard, and play but on one string;
Henceforth I will confine thee to one garment,
And that shall be a cast one, like thyself,
Just past all wearing, as thou past all use,
And not to be renewed, till’t be as ragged
As thou art rotten.
BLANDA.
Nay, sweet—
YOUNG LIONEL.
That for her habit.
SCAPHA.
A cold suit I have on’t.
YOUNG LIONEL.
To prevent surfeit,
Thy diet shall be to one dish confined,
And that too rifled, with as unclean hands
As e’er were laid on thee.
SCAPHA.
What he scants me in victuals, would he but allow me in drink!
YOUNG LIONEL.
That shall be the refuse of the flagons, jacks,
And snuffs, such as the nastiest breaths shall leave;
Of wine, and of strong-water, never hope
Henceforth to smell.
SCAPHA.
Oh me! I faint already.
YOUNG LIONEL.
If I sink in my state, of all the rest
Be thou excused; what thou proposed to her,
Beldam, is now against thyself decreed:
Drink from dry springs, from empty knapsacks feed.
SCAPHA.
No burnt wine,[9] nor hot-waters! [She swoons.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Take her hence.
BLANDA.
Indeed you are too cruel.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Yes, to her,
Only of purpose to be kind to thee;
Are any of my guests come?
RIOTER.
Fear not, sir,
You will have a full table.
YOUNG LIONEL.
What, and music?
RIOTER.
Best consort[10] in the city, for six parts.
YOUNG LIONEL.
We shall have songs then?
RIOTER.
By the ear. [Whispers.
YOUNG LIONEL.
And wenches?
RIOTER.
Yes, by the eye.
BLANDA.
Ha! what was that you said?
RIOTER.
We shall have such to bear you company
As will no doubt content you.
YOUNG LIONEL.
Ever thine:
In youth there is a fate that sways us still,
To know what’s good, and yet pursue what’s ill.
[Exeunt.