Etext of Selected Plays of Beaumont and Fletcher 
by Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher
Selected by Geoffrey P. Baker
Dent & Dutton London & New York 
1915 

 Introduction 
The Knight of the Burning Pestle
The Maid's Tragedy
A King and No King
The Faithful Shepherdess
The Wild-Goose Chase
Bonduca 

Introduction

The plays written by Beaumont and Fletcher are dramatic
collaboration in the best sense. Scholarly investigation at the hands
of Fleay, Boyle, Oliphant, Macaulay, Thorndike, and Alden,
subjecting the plays said to have been written by the two men to all
kinds of external and internal tests, has sought to distinguish
clearly the styles of Beaumont and Fletcher, and to apportion to
each his proper share in the plays in question. Yet all this effort
leaves us echoing the words of Jasper Maine, prefixed to the first
folio of the works of Beaumont and Fletcher 

"Whether one did contrive, the other write,
Or one framed the plot, the other did indite;
Whether one found the matter, th' other dress,
Or th' one disposed what th' other did express;
Where'er your parts between yourselves lay, we,
In all things which you did, but one thread see;
So evenly drawn out, so gently spun,
That art with nature ne'er did smoother run  
So, though you were thus twisted and combined,
As (in) two bodies to have but one fair mind,
Yet, if we praise you rightly, we must say,
Both join'd, and both did wholly make the play.
For that you could write singly, we may guess
By the divided pieces which the press
Hath severally sent forth; nor were join'd so,
Like some our modern authors made to go
One merely by the help of th' other, who
To purchase fame do come forth one of two;
Nor wrote you so, that one's part was to lick
The other into shape; nor did one stick
The other's cold inventions with such wit,
As served, like spice, to make them quick and fit;
Nor, one of mutual want, or emptiness,
Did you conspire to go still twins to the press;
But what, thus join'd, you wrote, might have come forth
As good from each, and stored with the same worth
That thus united them."

This perfect co-operation, however, must necessarily have been
brief. It began, apparently, in 1607 1608, when Fletcher was
twenty-nine and Beaumont was twenty-three. Beaumont apparently
gave over all close association with the stage after 1611. He died
in 1616.1 Only three plays in which Beaumont had at least a share
were published before his death, and all of them without his name
on the title-page The Woman-Hater, 1607; The Knight of the
Burning Pestle, 1613; and Cupid's Revenge, 1615. Beaumont
seems to have had some hand in the following plays which may be
dated before 1616: The Knight of the Burning Pestle, The
Woman-Hater, Philaster, The Maid's Tragedy, Four Plays in One,
Love's Cure, The Scornful Lady, The Coxcomb, A King and No
King, Cupid's Revenge, The Honest Man's Fortune, and Thierry
and Theodoret. It is possible that he had a hand in The Captain,
and Wit at Several Weapons. Critics agree that the work of
Beaumont predominates, at least, in The Woman-Hater, Philaster,
The Maid's Tragedy, The Knight of the Burning Pestle, and A King
and No King. Indeed, many critics give both The Woman-Hater
and The Knight of the Burning Pestle wholly to Beaumont. He
wrote in 1613 a Masque of the Inner Temple.

Any one who has read the twelve plays named above, as wholly or
in part by Beaumont, must recognise that they are the best, or
among the best, in the whole group of independent or collaborated
plays at any time assigned to Beaumont and Fletcher, and that their
excellences differ from those of the plays written by Fletcher
independently, or in collaboration with other dramatists. The
method and the spirit of The Maid's Tragedy or Philaster differ
distinctly from the method and the spirit of Bonduca or
Valentinian. In similar fashion, A King and No King differs from
the serious romantic work of Fletcher. Obviously, each of the
collaborators wrote better when aided by the other. Certainly, so
complete is the artistic sympathy that again and again one
suspects, in a scene assigned to Beaumont or Fletcher, the
stimulating imagination or the corrective criticism of his
fellow-worker.

Moreover, these two men working together produced a composite
providing just the needed bridge from the drama of 1600 1608 to
that of 1608 1625. Fletcher became the leader in the drama of
1612 1625, the latter the date of his death. Indeed, his influence
dominates to the closing of the theatres in 1642, and even beyond.
During all this time he was certainly as popular as Shakespeare,
and probably more so. Beaumont, on the other hand, in his love of
poetry for its own sake, in his fondness for romantic situation such
as one finds in Philaster, in his interest in more rounded
characterisation, was an Elizabethan living in the early days of
James I. Through Beaumont, then, the collaborative work looked
back to the older drama. Resting on sympathetic appreciation of
the best that had been, Beaumont developed with Fletcher a new
form of romantic drama. Much that was essential in this newer
romantic tragi-comedy and tragedy Fletcher carried on
triumphantly from 1612 to 1625. At the same time, with an equal
or greater success, he developed his own peculiar vein of comedy.
To speak broadly, it was through Beaumont that the peculiar
characteristics of Fletcher's independent tragedy and comedy won
the suffrages of a public accustomed to the romanticism of
Shakespeare, and the realism of Ben Jonson and Thomas
Middleton.

It looks as if the first performances of Philaster (1608) and The
Maid's Tragedy (circa 1609) really deserve the abused epithet
"epoch-making." Since 1600 the chronicle-play had given way to
the tragedy of Shakespeare Hamlet, Othello, Lear, and Antony and
Cleopatra. With this development of tragedy in the highest sense
of the word had come the realistic plays of Ben Jonson and
Thomas Middleton, portraying life in the shops, streets, brothels,
and taverns of London. Repetition of the same types in these
realistic plays was growing wearisome. The subtle psychology, the
increasingly involved phrasing, the rich thoughtfulness of the
Shakespearean work, even if carried to success by the vivid and
dramatic incident of a well-wrought story, made demands on the
attention of the public sure to react in a craving for simpler
entertainment. The public was ready for romanticism, and a
romanticism in which the incident, if presented by characters
convincing within the scene, would suffice. The public was ready
for dramatic story-telling once again. This is exactly what these
collaborative plays of Beaumont and Fletcher gave them. It is
certainly striking that about 1608, when these plays of Beaumont
and Fletcher appear, Shakespeare turned from his tragedies to
something quite similar, in Cymbeline, The Winter's Tale, and The
Tempest, and that Thomas Middleton shifted from realism to
romanticism. It cannot be proved that Beaumont and Fletcher are
the inventors of this new romanticism, but they work in it so
consistently when collaborating, and show such an amount of it,
that one is almost forced to accept the opinion of Professor
Thorndike2 and grant them leadership in the matter.

"One of the striking qualities of the heroic romance is its lofty
improbability. The typical characters are an insanely arrogant king,
a hero of blameless character but of incapacity to stand up against
the tyrant, and maidens betrayed, deserted, or forced to woo for
themselves. The interest, while it is often in the characters, is felt
to be in them as they move on the stage rather than in their
representative humanity. Their loves and hates and repentances are
not from within, but are imposed by a domineering fate.
Unplausible tension of feeling, and equally unplausible change of
feeling, are constantly to be expected."3

"Their plots, largely invented, are ingenious and complicated.
They deal with royal or noble persons, with heroic actions, and are
placed in foreign localities. The conquests, usurpations, and
passions that ruin kingdoms are their themes, there are no battles
or pageants, and the action is usually confined to the rooms of the
palace or its immediate neighbourhood. Usually contrasting a story
of gross sensual passion with one of idyllic love, they introduce a
great variety of incidents and aim at constant but varied
excitement. Some of the situations that they use more than once,
indicate their general character a girl, disguised as a boy, is
stabbed by the man whom she loves; a woman convicted of
adultery brazenly defies her accusers; the hero is saved from the
tyrant by a timely insurrection of the turbulent populace. The
tragic, idyllic, and sensational material is skilfully constructed into
a number of theatrically telling situations, which lead by a series of
surprises to very effective climaxes or catastrophes. All signs of
the epic methods of construction found in the early drama have
disappeared; there is usually a chance until the last moment for
either a happy or an unhappy ending, and in every case the
d‚nouement or catastrophe is elaborately prepared for and
complicated. The dramatis person  belong to impossible and
romantic situations rather than to life, and are usually of certain
types the sentimental or violent hero; his faithful friend, a blunt,
outspoken soldier; the sentimental heroine, often a love-lorn
maiden disguised as a page that she may serve the hero; the evil
woman defiant in her crimes; and the poltroon, usually a comic
personage. With the addition of a king, some gentlemen and ladies
of the court, and a few persons from the lower ranks, the cast is
complete. The plays depend for interest, not on their observation
or revelation of human nature, or the development of character,
but on the variety of situations, the clever construction that holds
the interest through one suspense to another up to the unravelling
at the very end, and on the naturalness, felicity, and vigour of the
poetry.

"Beaumont and Fletcher have no emotions too fleeting or too
profound for utterance, no perplexing tangle of thought that defies
expression in decasyllabics; and they had no desire to make their
style sententious, weighty, philosophical. They had no doubt about
what they wanted to say, and they said it clearly and rapidly. They
had room for ornament and rhetorical device but none for
eccentricity or obscurity."4

All this work Beaumont treated with an unusual sense of the irony
of life, that is, the contrast between the largeness of the result and
the pettiness of the cause; with much humorous observation of
character, and often with much sympathetic insight. Indeed, in
contrast with Fletcher, it may be said that he cared more for
rounded and consistent characterisation, although he is not
impeccable in this respect.

Did these two young men, then, present in these collaborative
plays life as they saw it? Surely it would rather seem that they
agreed with George Chapman: "And for the auntenticall truth of
eyther person or action, who (worth the respecting) will expect it
in a Poeme, whose subject is not truth, but things like truth." All
this work is not far removed as dramatic writing from what to-day
we call "refined melodrama." Yet, was even this high order of
melodrama the spontaneous outpouring of the artistic impulses of
these two men? Hardly, it is to be suspected. In the first place,
their work shows that they were under the influence of both
Shakespeare and Jonson. They knew and had studied the successes
of these dramatic masters. There is evident imitation of both in
The Woman-Hater and elsewhere in the early works. In that play
Beaumont, and just possibly Fletcher, seem to be feeling their way
hesitatingly toward individual expression. Moreover, the critical
sense that usually renders wholehearted adherence to romance
impossible was not wanting in Beaumont, nor was critical
dramatic sense lacking in Fletcher. The proof of this lies in The
Knight of the Burning Pestle and The Faithful Shepherdess. In
each play the dramatist, though hoping to please his audience,
wrote primarily to please himself. In neither case did the public
approve the play. The Knight girds at all the absurdities of popular
dramatic romance, as seen, for instance, in the plays of Marston
and Heywood. Yet romance was just as rampant in this
collaborative work of Beaumont and Fletcher, though it was of a
somewhat different kind and its absurdities were disguised by
better stage-craft, a larger amount of really fine poetry, and more
effective characterisation. Moreover, in the swifter movement of
this newer romance an auditor had no time to hesitate and discover
flaws. Quickly aroused emotionally by striking action at the
beginning of the play, he was swept on by constantly varied and
exciting incident, unable to criticise before the end was reached,
and perhaps not even then. Beaumont too clearly recognised the
faults inherent in such work and too evidently half despised the
public for their devotion to mere romance not to see the
fundamental unrealities in his own work. Fletcher, too, shows his
critical sense in The Faithful Shepherdess: in it, for strictly artistic
ends, he exercised a restraint practically unknown in his popular
plays. "Fletcher on the other hand conceived of the pastoral as
artistically remote from actual life, and even to please his audience
would not make it `a play of country-hired shepherds with
curtailed dogs in strings.' That Fletcher felt this aloofness of the
form is evident from the fact that in using it he adopted a treatment
distinct in almost every point from that which he followed in his
other plays. Not only does he introduce a different metrical
scheme, but here, as nowhere else, he subordinates the plot interest
to subtler considerations and effects, keeps down his predilection
for complications and conventions, except such as will harmonise
with the central idea, and even omits much of the plot of his Italian
source the Pastor Fido, which, in his search for material, would
usually offer a strong appeal to him all in order that he may obtain
a simplicity of impression and unity of tone. That he also realised
the small possibilities of stage effectiveness in the method which
he followed is practically certain from his constant attention in
other plays to stage success, as well as from the fact that he
appears to have kept this play in its early form in spite of its utter
failure on its first presentation. If such an inference is justifiable,
The Faithful Shepherdess becomes interesting as apparently the
only instance of Fletcher's fidelity to a high artistic instinct when it
was weighed in the balance against stage success."5

Does not all this look as if two men whose educated critical sense
revealed to them the weaknesses of popular dramatic romance said
to themselves: "Romantic story-telling the public will have; to
contend against this is useless. Very well, then, it is as well that we
should entertain them as another. But we will tell our
extraordinary or impossible stories so that they shall seem as
lifelike as possible, and shall have as much literary quality as we
can give them"? That attitude is certainly not unknown at the
present day. These two men did not believe in their romance-land,
but for their own amusement and the delight of the public
pretended to believe in it. Peele, Greene, Shakespeare, believing in
their romance, turn it for us into reality.

With this theory, that Beaumont and Fletcher wrote in half-amused
contempt of their public, yet gave their artistic best in producing
what they conceived it wanted, it is easier to understand
Beaumont's quitting of the theatrical world in 1611. His was quite
a different mood from that of Shakespeare or Thomas Heywood,
who could unite in saying 

"He who denies then theatres should be,
He may as well deny a world to me."

Born a gentleman, by environment and education a thoroughly
cultivated man, Beaumont had given his literary instincts
expression in a way that satisfied the general public. He had
gratified youthful ambition and vanity by proving that he could
win the suffrages of a public whose taste he despised, and at the
same time lift it to appreciation of better art than they usually
acclaimed. So, too, the outpouring of praise for Beaumont at his
early death is easier to understand, if we may believe that the
critical part of the public recognised in him not merely a charming
personality and a rich poetic gift, but the man who had done the
chief part in re-establishing romance in the drama, and a romance
different in kind from that of 1580 to 1600.

Certainly, in the last few years students of the Elizabethan and
Jacobean drama have been recognising more and more that it is
Beaumont rather than Fletcher who is the real creator of this new
romance and is consequently the real forerunner, rather than
Fletcher, of the heroic drama of the Restoration period. The
romantic methods worked out in collaboration with Beaumont,
Fletcher, so far as he was able, maintained. Through him they pass
on to Massinger and D'Avenant, and from these to the Restoration
period. While it is of course true that France through such
romances as those of CalprenŠde and Mlle. de Scud‚ry, and
through the drama of Corneille and Racine, had its effect on our
heroic drama of 1660 to 1690, these influences found a soil
thoroughly prepared by the romantic drama of Beaumont and his
successors. Misled by the fact that D'Avenant and Dryden
acknowledge their debt in heroic drama to Fletcher, we have failed
till recently to note that Fletcher in his tragedies merely continues,
as his equipment permits, what he had done in collaboration with
Beaumont. The high-flown ideas of friendship between man and
man such as we see in Melantius and Amintor in The Maid's
Tragedy become the stock-in-trade of the Restoration heroic
drama. The heroines of the collaborative plays of Beaumont and
Fletcher, and later of Fletcher working by himself, are prepared to
sacrifice all for love and hold the world well lost. As every one
knows, the heroic drama in the Restoration turns on the struggle
between love and honour, with the emotional scales tipping always
on the side of love. Moreover, these plays of the newer romance
show a straining of the situations that will in the hands of less
competent men produce the excesses in the so-called tragedy of
1620 to 1642 and of the Restoration. Absurdity is often grimacing
behind a mask in Beaumont and Fletcher, and especially in
Fletcher's own work: only the skill of the characterisation within
the scene and consummate stage-craft save the day. In the heroic
drama of the Restoration all these tendencies break loose, and
absurdity reigns, except for an audience of the time hypnotised
into delighted attention by the literary and dramatic conventions of
the hour.

Beaumont's position, then, in our drama is unique. Richly poetic,
thoughtful, genuinely humorous, a belated Elizabethan working in
the early years of James I., he is the chief creator of a new
dramatic romance which leads in unbroken sequence to the heroic
drama fifty years later.

Fletcher as a dramatist works for about twenty years. We attribute
to him wholly or in part at least thirty-eight plays in which
Beaumont is not held to have shared. As we have seen, they
probably wrote together some eight or ten plays. That is, he seems
to have been connected with some fifty extant plays, certainly a
large product for twenty years. He collaborated with Massinger,
Shakespeare, and it is said with Field and Rowley. As has been
pointed out, he was certainly as popular as Shakespeare, and
probably more popular, between 1610 and 1642. During the
Restoration period two of his plays were revived to one of any
other man. Nor is this popularity hard to understand. He provides
the maximum of entertainment of high literary value with the
minimum of required attention. If it be true, as has recently been
said, that "A playwright is a man who writes entertaining and
successful plays; a dramatist is a playwright who teaches while he
entertains," then Fletcher is the consummate playwright, but
Shakespeare remains the great dramatist. In serious drama, while
following in general on the lines laid down in his collaborative
work with Beaumont, he depends more upon constant variety in
exciting incident and convincing characterisation within the scene
than on character as consistent as the work of Beaumont showed
or work as thoughtfully poetic. He is a past master in getting from
his material the largest amount of emotional effect which it can
provide for the audience he has in mind. Even his verse has a
curiously persuasive value. Notable particularly for the freedom
with which it uses extra syllables both within the line and at the
end, it runs over freely. Indeed, while full of subtle music, it
sounds when properly spoken remarkably like the speech of
cultivated men and women. In his hands it is capable of almost any
dramatic work and he rarely uses prose; but in the hands of those
who copy him its delicacies of rhythm are missed, and it stumbles
or halts into prose.

It is probably in comedy that Fletcher finds his best individual
expression. His comedies with their conscienceless gaiety, their
unceasing, cackling chase after laughter at any cost, their emphasis
on the comic values of the duel of sex, in their regard for dialogue
as a reliable appeal to the public, became models for the comedies
of 1625 to 1642 and to a considerable extent for the Restoration
comedy. In the Restoration the plots are thinner, the emphasis on
talk greater; but the central situations, many of the characters, and
the general moral tone are much the same. That is, there is no real
break in English comedy between 1642 and 1660 because of
Fletcher and his sons. Shirley admires and copies Fletcher; so, too,
do many of the minor men before 1642. Etheredge in his Love and
a Tub is, in the main plot, writing as nearly as he can in the style of
Fletcher. Dryden studies and copies Fletcher, making his Spanish
Friar from the Spanish Curate. Farquhar, not to mention other
cases, makes his Inconstant from The Wild-Goose Chase.

The extraordinary acting quality of his plays is proved by the fact
that they held the stage remarkably even beyond the Restoration.
In the eighteenth century one finds repeated mention of
performances of Rule a Wife and Have a Wife, The Chances, The
Humorous Lieutenant, and Monsieur Thomas. Indeed, till the
vogue of the "old comedy" passed, with the coming of Robertson's
plays in the sixties, we still find occasional performances of his
plays.

It is doubtful if Fletcher ever took his art very seriously. He seems
always to have held his unusual powers subject to the wishes of his
public. Yet by his hold on the public of his own day, by his passing
on to the Restoration the traditions of the newer romance which he
had established with Beaumont, by his development of the finest
comedy up to 1642 outside Shakespeare, and by his consummate
stage-craft, he is remarkable. He belongs to the group of great
theatrical entertainers of all ages, and stands very high in the list.
One does not think of him with Euripides, Shakespeare, Goethe,
Corneille, Racine, or MoliŠre; but rather with Scribe and Sardou.
In resourcefulness, in variety, in stage-craft he is the equal of the
best playwrights, and even superior to most. In poetic power and
literary ability he is incomparably above almost all of them. It was
only his lack of artistic conscience which kept him from rising
above the great playwright into the great dramatist.

Geo. P. Baker.

___________

1 Beaumont was born about 1585. He was the third son of Sir
Francis Beaumont of Grace Dieu in Leicestershire. He became a
gentleman commoner of Broadgates Hall, Oxford, in 1597. He left
in 1598. He was entered at the Inner Temple, London, November
3, 1600. In 1613, probably, he married. At his death, 1616, he was
buried in the Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey.

Fletcher was baptised at Rye in Sussex, December 20, 1579. His
father, Richard Fletcher, Bishop of London, was at that time a
minister at Rye. He became a pensioner at Benet College,
Cambridge, in 1591. His father was successively Dean of
Peterborough and holder of the Sees of Bristol, Worcester, and
London. John Fletcher died of the plague and was buried August
29, 1625, in St. Saviour's, Southwark.

2 The Influence of Beaumont and Fletcher on Shakspere, A. H.
Thorndike, 1901.

3 Beaumont's Knight of the Burning Pestle and King and No King,
Belles Lettres Series, R. M. Alden, 1910, p. xxvi.

4 Beaumont and Fletcher's The Maid's Tragedy and Philaster,
Belles Lettres Series, A.H. Thorndike, 1906, pp. xix-xx, xxxiii

5 John Fletcher: A Study in Dramatic Method, O. L. Hatcher,
Chicago, 1905. 


The Knight of the Burning Pestle

TO HIS MANY WAYS ENDEARED FRIEND, MASTER
ROBERT KEYSAR

Sir, This unfortunate child, who, in eight days (as lately I have
learned), was begot and born, soon after was by his parents
(perhaps because he was so unlike his brethren) exposed to the
wide world, who, for want of judgment, or not understanding the
privy mark of irony about it (which shewed it was no offspring of
any vulgar brain), utterly rejected it; so that, for want of
acceptance, it was even ready to give up the ghost, and was in
danger to have been smothered in perpetual oblivion, if you (out of
your direct antipathy to ingratitude) had not been moved both to
relieve and cherish it: wherein I must needs commend both your
judgment, understanding, and singular love to good wits. You
afterwards sent it to me, yet being an infant and somewhat ragged:
I have fostered it privately in my bosom these two years; and now,
to shew my love, return it to you, clad in good lasting clothes,
which scarce memory will wear out, and able to speak for itself;
and withal, as it telleth me, desirous to try his fortune in the world,
where, if yet it be welcome, father, foster-father, nurse, and child
all have their desired end. If it be slighted or traduced, it hopes his
father will beget him a younger brother, who shall revenge his
quarrel, and challenge the world either of fond and merely literal
interpretation or illiterate misprision. Perhaps it will be thought to
be of the race of Don Quixote; we both may confidently swear it
his elder above a year; and therefore may (by virtue of his
birthright) challenge the wall of him. I doubt not but they will
meet in their adventures, and I hope the breaking of one staff will
make them friends; and perhaps they will combine themselves, and
travel through the world to seek their adventures. So I commit him
to his good fortune, and myself to your love. Your assured friend,

W. B[URRE].

TO THE READERS OF THIS COMEDY

Gentlemen, The world is so nice in these our times, that for
apparel there is no fashion; for music (which is a rare art, though
now slighted) no instrument; for diet, none but the French
kickshaws that are delicate; and for plays, no invention but that
which now runneth an invective way, touching some particular
persons, or else it is contemned before it is thoroughly understood.
This is all that I have to say: that the author had no intent to wrong
any one in this comedy; but, as a merry passage, here and there
interlaced it with delight, which he hopes will please all, and be
hurtful to none.

PROLOGUE

Where the bee can suck no honey, she leaves her sting behind; and
where the bear cannot find origanum to heal his grief, he blasteth
all other leaves with his breath. We fear it is like to fare so with us;
that, seeing you cannot draw from our labours sweet content, you
leave behind you a sour mislike, and with open reproach blame our
good meaning, because you cannot reap the wonted mirth. Our
intent was at this time to move inward delight, not outward
lightness; and to breed (if it might be) soft smiling, not loud
laughing; knowing it, to the wise, to be a great pleasure to hear
counsel mixed with wit, as to the foolish, to have sport mingled
with rudeness. They were banished the theatre of Athens, and from
Rome hissed, that brought parasites on the stage with apish
actions, or fools with uncivil habits, or courtezans with immodest
words. We have endeavoured to be as far from unseemly speeches,
to make your ears glow, as we hope you will be free from unkind
reports, or mistaking the authors' intention (who never aimed at
any one particular in this play), to make our cheeks blush. And
thus I leave it, and thee to thine own censure, to like or dislike.
VALE.

DRAMATIS PERSON’ 
Speaker of the Prologue
A Citizen.
His Wife.
Ralph, his Apprentice.
Boys.
Venturewell, a Merchant.
Humphrey.
Merrythought.
Jasper, his Sons.
Michael, his Sons.
Tim, Apprentices.
George, Apprentices.
Host.
Tapster.
Barber.
Three Men, supposed captives.
Sergeant.
William Hammerton.
George Greengoose.
Soldiers, and Attendants.
Luce, Daughter of Venturewell.
Mistress Merrythought.
Woman, supposed a captive.
Pompiona, Daughter of the King of Moldavia.

Scene: London and the neighbouring Country, excepting Act IV.
Scene ii., where it is in Moldavia.

The Knight of the Burning Pestle

Induction

Several Gentlemen sitting on Stools upon the Stage. The Citizen,
his Wife, and Ralph sitting below among the audience.

Enter Speaker of the Prologue.

S. of Prol. "From all that's near the court, from all that's great,

Within the compass of the city-walls 

We now have brought our scene  "

Citizen leaps on the Stage.

Cit. Hold your peace, goodman boy!

S. of Prol. What do you mean, sir?

Cit. That you have no good meaning: this seven years there hath
been plays at this house, I have observed it, you have still girds at
citizens; and now you call your play "The London Merchant."
Down with your title, boy! down with your title!

S. of Prol. Are you a member of the noble city?

Cit. I am.

S. of Prol. And a freeman?

Cit. Yea, and a grocer.

S. of Prol. So, grocer, then, by your sweet favour, we intend no
abuse to the city.

Cit. No, sir! yes, sir: if you were not resolved to play the Jacks,
what need you study for new subjects, purposely to abuse your
betters? why could not you be contented, as well as others, with
"The legend of Whittington," or "The Life and Death of Sir
Thomas Gresham, with the building of the Royal Exchange," or
"The story of Queen Eleanor, with the rearing of London Bridge
upon woolsacks?"

S. of Prol. You seem to be an understanding man: what would you
have us do, sir?

Cit. Why, present something notably in honour of the commons of
the city.

S. of Prol. Why, what do you say to "The Life and Death of fat
Drake, or the Repairing of Fleet-privies?"

Cit. I do not like that; but I will have a citizen, and he shall be of
my own trade.

S. of Prol. Oh, you should have told us your mind a month since;
our play is ready to begin now.

Cit. 'Tis all one for that; I will have a grocer, and he shall do
admirable things.

S. of Prol. What will you have him do?

Cit. Marry, I will have him  

Wife. [below.] Husband, husband!

Ralph. [below.] Peace, mistress.

Wife. [below.] Hold thy peace, Ralph; I know what I do, I warrant
ye. Husband, husband!

Cit. What sayest thou, cony?

Wife. [below.] Let him kill a lion with a pestle, husband! let him
kill a lion with a pestle!

Cit. So he shall. I'll have him kill a lion with a pestle.

Wife. [below.] Husband! shall I come up, husband?

Cit. Ay, cony. Ralph, help your mistress this way. Pray, gentlemen,
make her a little room. I pray you, sir, lend me your hand to help
up my wife: I thank you, sir. So.

[Wife comes on the Stage.

Wife. By your leave, gentlemen all; I'm something troublesome:
I'm a stranger here; I was ne'er at one of these plays, as they say,
before; but I should have seen "Jane Shore" once; and my husband
hath promised me, any time this twelvemonth, to carry me to "The
Bold Beauchamps," but in truth he did not. I pray you, bear with
me.

Cit. Boy, let my wife and I have a couple of stools and then begin;
and let the grocer do rare things.

[Stools are brought.

S. of Prol. But, sir, we have never a boy to play him: every one
hath a part already.

Wife. Husband, husband, for God's sake, let Ralph play him!
beshrew me, if I do not think he will go beyond them all.

Cit. Well remembered, wife. Come up, Ralph. I'll tell you,
gentlemen; let them but lend him a suit of reparel and necessaries,
and, by gad, if any of them all blow wind in the tail on him, I'll be
hanged.

[Ralph comes on the Stage.

Wife. I pray you, youth, let him have a suit of reparel! I'll be
sworn, gentlemen, my husband tells you true: he will act you
sometimes at our house, that all the neighbours cry out on him; he
will fetch you up a couraging part so in the garret, that we are all
as feared, I warrant you, that we quake again: we'll fear our
children with him; if they be never so unruly, do but cry, "Ralph
comes, Ralph comes!" to them, and they'll be as quiet as lambs.
Hold up thy head, Ralph; show the gentlemen what thou canst do;
speak a huffing part; I warrant you, the gentlemen will accept of it.

Cit. Do, Ralph, do.

Ralph. "By Heaven, methinks, it were an easy leap To pluck bright
honour from the pale-faced moon; Or dive into the bottom of the
sea, Where never fathom-line touched any ground, And pluck up
drowned honour from the lake of hell."

Cit. How say you, gentlemen, is it not as I told you?

Wife. Nay, gentlemen, he hath played before, my husband says,
Mucedorus, before the wardens of our company.

Cit. Ay, and he should have played Jeronimo with a shoemaker for
a wager.

S. of Prol. He shall have a suit of apparel, if he will go in.

Cit. In, Ralph, in, Ralph; and set out the grocery in their kind, if
thou lovest me.

[Exit Ralph.

Wife. I warrant, our Ralph will look finely when he's dressed.

S. of Prol. But what will you have it called?

Cit. "The Grocer's Honour."

S. of Prol. Methinks "The Knight of the Burning Pestle" were
better.

Wife. I'll be sworn, husband, that's as good a name as can be.

Cit. Let it be so. Begin, begin; my wife and I will sit down.

S. of Prol. I pray you, do.

Cit. What stately music have you? you have shawms?

S. of Prol. Shawms! no.

Cit. No! I'm a thief, if my mind did not give me so. Ralph plays a
stately part, and he must needs have shawms: I'll be at the charge
of them myself, rather than we'll be without them.

S. of Prol. So you are like to be.

Cit. Why, and so I will be: there's two shillings; [Gives money.]
let's have the waits of Southwark; they are as rare fellows as any
are in England; and that will fetch them all o'er the water with a
vengeance, as if they were mad.

S. of Prol. You shall have them. Will you sit down, then?

Cit. Ay. Come, wife.

Wife. Sit you merry all, gentlemen; I'm bold to sit amongst you for
my ease.

[Citizen and Wife sit down.

S. of Prol. "From all that's near the court, from all that's great, 

Within the compass of the city-walls, 

We now have brought our scene. Fly far from hence 

All private taxes, immodest phrases, 

Whatever may but show like vicious! 

For wicked mirth never true pleasure brings, 

But honest minds are pleased with honest things." 

Thus much for that we do; but for Ralph's part you 

must answer for yourself.

Cit. Take you no care for Ralph; he'll discharge himself, I warrant
you.

[Exit Speaker of Prologue.

Wife. I'faith, gentlemen, I'll give my word for Ralph.

ACT I

SCENE I. A Room in the House of Venturewell.

Enter Venturewell and Jasper.

Vent. Sirrah, I'll make you know you are my prentice, 

And whom my charitable love redeemed 

Even from the fall of fortune; gave thee heat 

And growth, to be what now thou art, new-cast thee; 

Adding the trust of all I have, at home, 

In foreign staples, or upon the sea, 

To thy direction; tied the good opinions 

Both of myself and friends to thy endeavours; 

So fair were thy beginnings. But with these, 

As I remember, you had never charge 

To love your master's daughter, and even then 

When I had found a wealthy husband for her; 

I take it, sir, you had not: but, however,

I'll break the neck of that commission,

And make you know you are but a merchant's factor.

Jasp. Sir, I do liberally confess I am yours, 

Bound both by love and duty to your service, 

In which my labour hath been all my profit: 

I have not lost in bargain, nor delighted 

To wear your honest gains upon my back; 

Nor have I given a pension to my blood, 

Or lavishly in play consumed your stock; 

These, and the miseries that do attend them, 

I dare with innocence proclaim are strangers 

To all my temperate actions. For your daughter, 

If there be any love to my deservings 

Borne by her virtuous self, I cannot stop it; 

Nor am I able to refrain her wishes, 

She's private to herself, and best of knowledge 

Whom she will make so happy as to sigh for: 

Besides, I cannot think you mean to match her 

Unto a fellow of so lame a presence, 

One that hath little left of nature in him.

Vent. 'Tis very well, sir: I can tell your wisdom 

How all this shall be cured.

Jasp. Your care becomes you.

Vent. And thus it shall be, sir: I here discharge you 

My house and service; take your liberty; 

And when I want a son, I'll send for you.

[Exit.

Jasp. These be the fair rewards of them that love! 

Oh, you that live in freedom, never prove

The travail of a mind led by desire!

Enter Luce.

Luce. Why, how now, friend? struck with my father's thunder!

Jasp. Struck, and struck dead, unless the remedy 

Be full of speed and virtue; I am now, 

What I expected long, no more your father's.

Luce. But mine.

Jasp. But yours, and only yours, I am; 

That's all I have to keep me from the statute. 

You dare be constant still?

Luce. Oh, fear me not! 

In this I dare be better than a woman: 

Nor shall his anger nor his offers move me,

Were they both equal to a prince's power.

Jasp. You know my rival!

Luce. Yes, and love him dearly; 

Even as I love an ague or foul weather: 

I prithee, Jasper, fear him not.

Jasp. Oh, no! 

I do not mean to do him so much kindness. 

But to our own desires: you know the plot 

We both agreed on?

Luce. Yes, and will perform 

My part exactly.

Jasp. I desire no more. 

Farewell, and keep my heart; 'tis yours.

Luce. I take it; 

He must do miracles makes me forsake it.

[Exeunt severally.

[Cit. Fie upon 'em, little infidels! what a matter's here now! Well,
I'll be hanged for a halfpenny, if there be not some abomination
knavery in this play. Well; let 'em look to't; Ralph must come, and
if there be any tricks a-brewing  

Wife. Let 'em brew and bake too, husband, a' God's name; Ralph
will find all out, I warrant you, an they were older than they are.
[Enter Boy.] I pray, my pretty youth, is Ralph ready?

Boy. He will be presently.

Wife. Now, I pray you, make my commendations unto him, and
withal carry him this stick of liquorice: tell him his mistress sent it
to him; and bid him bite a piece; 'twill open his pipes the better,
say.] [Exit Boy.

SCENE II. Another Room in the House of Venturewell.

Enter Venturewell and Humphrey.

Vent. Come, sir, she's yours; upon my faith, she's yours; 

You have my hand: for other idle lets 

Between your hopes and her, thus with a wind 

They are scattered and no more. My wanton prentice, 

That like a bladder blew himself with love, 

I have let out, and sent him to discover 

New masters yet unknown.

Hum. I thank you, sir, 

Indeed, I thank you, sir; and, ere I stir,

It shall be known, however you do deem, 

I am of gentle blood, and gentle seem.

Vent. Oh, sir, I know it certain.

Hum. Sir, my friend, 

Although, as writers say, all things have end, 

And that we call a pudding hath his two, 

Oh, let it not seem strange, I pray, to you, 

If in this bloody simile I put 

My love, more endless than frail things or gut!

[Wife. Husband, I prithee, sweet lamb, tell me one thing; but tell
me truly. Stay, youths, I beseech you, till I question my husband.

Cit. What is it, mouse?

Wife. Sirrah, didst thou ever see a prettier child? how it behaves
itself, I warrant ye, and speaks and looks, and perts up the head! I
pray you, brother, with your favour, were you never none of
Master Moncaster's scholars?

Cit. Chicken, I prithee heartily, contain thyself: the childer are
pretty childer; but when Ralph comes, lamb  

Wife. Ay, when Ralph comes, cony! Well, my youth, you may
proceed.]

Vent. Well, sir, you know my love, and rest, I hope, 

Assured of my consent; get but my daughter's, 

And wed her when you please. You must be bold, 

And clap in close unto her: come, I know 

You have language good enough to win a wench.

[Wife. A whoreson tyrant! h'as been an old stringer in's days, I
warrant him.]

Hum. I take your gentle offer, and withal 

Yield love again for love reciprocal.

Vent. What, Luce! within there!

Enter Luce.

Luce. Called you, sir?

Vent. I did: 

Give entertainment to this gentleman; 

And see you be not froward. To her, sir: 

My presence will but be an eye-sore to you. [Exit.

Hum. Fair Mistress Luce, how do you? are you well? 

Give me your hand, and then I pray you tell 

How doth your little sister and your brother; 

And whether you love me or any other.

Luce. Sir, these are quickly answered.

Hum. So they are, 

Where women are not cruel. But how far 

Is it now distant from the place we are in, 

Unto that blessŠd place, your father's warren?

Luce. What makes you think of that, sir?

Hum. Even that face; 

For, stealing rabbits whilom in that place, 

God Cupid, or the keeper, I know not whether, 

Unto my cost and charges brought you thither, 

And there began  

Luce. Your game, sir.

Hum. Let no game, 

Or any thing that tendeth to the same, 

Be ever more remembered, thou fair killer, 

For whom I sate me down, and brake my tiller.

[Wife. There's a kind gentleman, I warrant you: when will you do
as much for me, George?]

Luce. Beshrew me, sir, I am sorry for your losses, 

But, as the proverb says, I cannot cry: 

I would you had not seen me!

Hum. So would I, 

Unless you had more maw to do me good.

Luce. Why, cannot this strange passion be withstood; 

Send for a constable, and raise the town.

Hum. Oh, no! my valiant love will batter down 

Millions of constables, and put to flight 

Even that great watch of Midsummer-day at night.

Luce. Beshrew me, sir, 'twere good I yielded, then; 

Weak women cannot hope, where valiant men 

Have no resistance.

Hum. Yield, then; I am full Of pity, though I say it, and can pull 

Out of my pocket thus a pair of gloves. 

Look, Luc‚, look; the dog's tooth nor the dove's 

Are not so white as these; and sweet they be, 

And whipt about with silk, as you may see. 

If you desire the price, shoot from your eye 

A beam to this place, and you shall espy 

F S, which is to say, my sweetest honey, 

They cost me three and twopence, or no money.

Luce. Well, sir, I take them kindly, and I thank you: 

What would you more?

Hum. Nothing.

Luce. Why, then, farewell.

Hum. Nor so, nor so; for, lady, I must tell, 

Before we part, for what we met together: 

God grant me time and patience and fair weather!

Luce. Speak, and declare your mind in terms so brief.

Hum. I shall: then, first and foremost, for relief. 

I call to you, if that you can afford it; 

I care not at what price, for, on my word, it 

Shall be repaid again, although it cost me 

More than I'll speak of now; for love hath tost me 

In furious blanket like a tennis-ball, 

And now I rise aloft, and now I fall.

Luce. Alas, good gentleman, alas the day!

Hum. I thank you heartily; and, as I say, 

Thus do I still continue without rest, 

I' the morning like a man, at night a beast, 

Roaring and bellowing mine own disquiet, 

That much I fear, forsaking of my diet 

Will bring me presently to that quandary, 

I shall bid all adieu.

Luce. Now, by St. Mary, 

That were great pity!

Hum. So it were, beshrew me; 

Then, ease me, lusty Luce, and pity show me.

Luce. Why, sir, you know my will is nothing worth 

Without my father's grant; get his consent, 

And then you may with assurance try me.

Hum. The worshipful your sire will not deny me; 

For I have asked him, and he hath replied, 

"Sweet Master Humphrey, Luce shall be thy bride."

Luce. Sweet Master Humphrey, then I am content.

Hum. And so am I, in truth.

Luce. Yet take me with you; 

There is another clause must be annexed, 

And this it is: I swore, and will perform it, 

No man shall ever joy me as his wife 

But he that stole me hence. If you dare venture, 

I am yours (you need not fear; my father loves you); 

If not, farewell for ever!

Hum. Stay, nymph, stay: 

I have a double gelding, coloured bay, 

Sprung by his father from Barbarian kind;

Another for myself, though somewhat blind, 

Yet true as trusty tree.

Luce. I am satisfied; 

And so I give my hand. Our course must lie 

Through Waltham forest, where I have a friend 

Will entertain us. So, farewell, Sir Humphrey, 

And think upon your business.

[Exit.

Hum. Though I die, 

I am resolved to venture life and limb 

For one so young, so fair, so kind, so trim. [Exit.

[Wife. By my faith and troth, George, and as I am virtuous, it is
e'en the kindest young man that ever trod on shoeleather. Well, go
thy ways; if thou hast her not, 'tis not thy fault, i'faith.

Cit. I prithee, mouse, be patient; 'a shall have her, or I'll make
some of 'em smoke for't.

Wife. That's my good lamb, George. Fie, this stinking tobacco kills
me! would there were none in England! Now, I pray, gentlemen,
what good does this stinking tobacco do you? nothing, I warrant
you: make chimneys o' your faces!]

SCENE III. A Grocer's Shop.

Enter Ralph, as a Grocer, reading Palmerin of England,

with Tim and George.

[Wife. Oh, husband, husband, now, now! there's Ralph, there's
Ralph.

Cit. Peace, fool! let Ralph alone. Hark you, Ralph; do not strain
yourself too much at the first. Peace! Begin, Ralph.]

Ralph. [Reads.] Then Palmerin and Trineus, snatching their lances
from their dwarfs, and clasping their helmets, galloped amain after
the giant; and Palmerin, having gotten a sight of him, came posting
amain, saying, "Stay, traitorous thief! for thou mayst not so carry
away her, that is worth the greatest lord in the world;" and, with
these words, gave him a blow on the shoulder, that he struck him
besides his elephant. And Trineus, coming to the knight that had
Agricola behind him, set him soon besides his horse, with his neck
broken in the fall; so that the princess, getting out of the throng,
between joy and grief, said, "All happy knight, the mirror of all
such as follow arms, now may I be well assured of the love thou
bearest me." I wonder why the kings do not raise an army of
fourteen or fifteen hundred thousand men, as big as the army that
the Prince of Portigo brought against Rosicleer, and destroy these
giants; they do much hurt to wandering damsels, that go in quest of
their knights.

[Wife. Faith, husband, and Ralph says true; for they say the King
of Portugal cannot sit at his meat, but the giants and the ettins will
come and snatch it from him.

Cit. Hold thy tongue.--On, Ralph!]

Ralph. And certainly those knights are much to be commended,
who, neglecting their possessions, wander with a squire and a
dwarf through the deserts to relieve poor ladies.

[Wife. Ay, by my faith, are they, Ralph; let 'em say what they will,
they are indeed. Our knights neglect their possessions well enough,
but they do not the rest.]

Ralph. There are no such courteous and fair well-spoken knights in
this age: they will call one "the son of a whore," that Palmerin of
England would have called "fair sir;" and one that Rosicleer would
have called "right beauteous damsel," they will call "damned
bitch."

[Wife. I'll be sworn will they, Ralph; they have called me so an
hundred times about a scurvy pipe of tobacco.]

Ralph. But what brave spirit could be content to sit in his shop,
with a flappet of wood, and a blue apron before him, selling
mithridatum and dragon's-water to visited houses, that might
pursue feats of arms, and, through his noble achievements, procure
such a famous history to be written of his heroic prowess?

[Cit. Well said, Ralph; some more of those words, Ralph!

Wife. They go finely, by my troth.]

Ralph. Why should not I, then, pursue this course, both for the
credit of myself and our company? for amongst all the worthy
books of achievements, I do not call to mind that I yet read of a
grocer-errant: I will be the said knight. Have you heard of any that
hath wandered unfurnished of his squire and dwarf? My elder
prentice Tim shall be my trusty squire, and little George my dwarf.
Hence, my blue apron! Yet, in remembrance of my former trade,
upon my shield shall be portrayed a Burning Pestle, and I will be
called the 

Knight of the Burning Pestle.

[Wife. Nay, I dare swear thou wilt not forget thy old trade; thou
wert ever meek.]

Ralph. Tim!

Tim. Anon.

Ralph. My beloved squire, and George my dwarf, I charge you that
from henceforth you never call me by any other name but "the
right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle;" and that
you never call any female by the name of a woman or wench, but
"fair lady," if she have her desires, if not, "distressed damsel;" that
you call all forests and heaths "deserts," and all horses "palfreys."

[Wife. This is very fine, faith. Do the gentleman like Ralph, think
you, husband?

Cit. Ay, I warrant thee; the players would give all the shoes in their
shop for him.]

Ralph. My beloved squire Tim, stand out. Admit this were a
desert, and over it a knight-errant pricking, and I should bid you
inquire of his intents, what would you say?

Tim. Sir, my master sent me to know whither you are riding?

Ralph. No, thus: "Fair sir, the right courteous and valiant Knight of
the Burning Pestle commanded me to inquire upon what adventure
you are bound, whether to relieve some distressed damsel, or
otherwise."

[Cit. Whoreson blockhead, cannot remember!

Wife. I'faith, and Ralph told him on't before: all the gentlemen
heard him. Did he not, gentlemen? did not 

Ralph tell him on't?]

George. Right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle,
here is a distressed damsel to have a halfpenny-worth of pepper.

[Wife. That's a good boy! see, the little boy can hit it; by my troth,
it's a fine child.]

Ralph. Relieve her, with all courteous language. Now shut up
shop; no more my prentices, but my trusty squire and dwarf. I must
bespeak my shield and arming pestle. [Exeunt Tim and George.

[Cit. Go thy ways, Ralph! As I'm a true man, thou art the best on
'em all.

Wife. Ralph, Ralph!

Ralph. What say you, mistress?

Wife. I prithee, come again quickly, sweet Ralph.

Ralph. By and by.] [Exit.

SCENE IV. A Room in Merrythought's House.

Enter Mistress Merrythought and Jasper.

Mist. Mer. Give thee my blessing! no, I'll ne'er give thee my
blessing; I'll see thee hanged first; it shall ne'er be said I gave thee
my blessing. Thou art thy father's own son, of the right blood of
the Merrythoughts. I may curse the time that e'er I knew thy father;
he hath spent all his own and mine too; and when I tell him of it,
he laughs, and dances, and sings, and cries, "A merry heart lives
long-a." And thou art a wastethrift, and art run away from thy
master that loved thee well, and art come to me; and I have laid up
a little for my younger son Michael, and thou thinkest to bezzle
that, but thou shalt never be able to do it. Come hither, 

Michael!

Enter Michael.

Come, Michael, down on thy knees; thou shalt have my blessing.

Mich. [Kneels.] I pray you, mother, pray to God to bless me.

Mist. Mer. God bless thee! but Jasper shall never have my
blessing; he shall be hanged first: shall he not, Michael? how
sayest thou?

Mich. Yes, forsooth, mother, and grace of God.

Mist. Mer. That's a good boy!

[Wife. I'faith, it's a fine-spoken child.]

Jasp. Mother, though you forget a parent's love 

I must preserve the duty of a child. 

I ran not from my master, nor return 

To have your stock maintain my idleness.

[Wife. Ungracious child, I warrant him; hark, how he chops logic
with his mother! Thou hadst best tell her she lies; do, tell her she
lies.

Cit. If he were my son, I would hang him up by the heels, and flay
him, and salt him, whoreson haltersack.]

Jasp. My coming only is to beg your love, 

Which I must ever, though I never gain it;

And, howsoever you esteem of me, 

There is no drop of blood hid in these veins 

But, I remember well, belongs to you 

That brought me forth, and would be glad for you 

To rip them all again, and let it out.

Mist. Mer. I'faith, I had sorrow enough for thee, God knows; but
I'll hamper thee well enough. Get thee in, thou vagabond, get thee
in, and learn of thy brother Michael. 

[Exeunt Jasper and Michael.

Mer. [Singing within.] 

Nose, nose, jolly red nose, 

And who gave thee this jolly red nose?

Mist. Mer. Hark, my husband! he's singing and hoiting; and I'm
fain to cark and care, and all little enough. Husband! 

Charles! Charles Merrythought!

Enter Merrythought.

Mer. [Sings.] 

Nutmegs and ginger, cinnamon and cloves; 

And they gave me this jolly red nose.

Mist. Mer. If you would consider your state, you would have little
list to sing, i-wis.

Mer. It should never be considered, while it were an estate, if I
thought it would spoil my singing.

Mist. Mer. But how wilt thou do, Charles? thou art an old man,
and thou canst not work, and thou hast not forty shillings left, and
thou eatest good meat, and drinkest good drink, and laughest.

Mer. And will do.

Mist. Mer. But how wilt thou come by it, Charles?

Mer. How! why, how have I done hitherto these forty years? 

I never came into my dining room, but, at eleven and six o'clock, I
found excellent meat and drink o' the table; my clothes were never
worn out, but next morning a tailor brought me a new suit: and
without question it will be so ever; use makes perfectness. If all
should fail, it is but a little straining myself extraordinary, and
laugh myself to death.

[Wife. It's a foolish old man this; is not he, George?

Cit. Yes, cony.

Wife. Give me a penny i' the purse while I live, George.

Cit. Ay, by lady, cony, hold thee there.]

Mist. Mer. Well, Charles; you promised to provide for Jasper, and
I have laid up for Michael. I pray you, pay Jasper his portion: he's
come home, and he shall not consume Michael's stock; he says his
master turned him away, but, I promise you truly, I think he ran
away.

[Wife. No, indeed, Mistress Merrythought; though he be a notable
gallows, yet I'll assure you his master did turn him away, even in
this place; 'twas, i'faith, within this half-hour, about his daughter;
my husband was by.

Cit. Hang him, rogue! he served him well enough: love his master's
daughter! By my troth, cony, if there were a thousand boys, thou
wouldst spoil them all with taking their parts; let his mother alone
with him.

Wife. Ay, George; but yet truth is truth.]

Mer. Where is Jasper? he's welcome, however. Call him in; he
shall have his portion. Is he merry?

Mist. Mer. Ah, foul chive him, he is too merry! Jasper! 

Michael!

Re-enter Jasper and Michael.

Mer. Welcome, Jasper! though thou runnest away, welcome! God
bless thee! 'Tis thy mother's mind thou shouldst receive thy
portion; thou hast been abroad, and I hope hast learned experience
enough to govern it; thou art of sufficient years; hold thy hand one,
two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, there is ten shillings
for thee. [Gives money.] Thrust thyself into the world with that,
and take some settled course: if fortune cross thee, thou hast a
retiring place; come home to me; I have twenty shillings left. Be a
good husband; that is, wear ordinary clothes, eat the best meat, and
drink the best drink; be merry, and give to the poor, and, believe
me, thou hast no end of thy goods.

Jasp. Long may you live free from all thought of ill, 

And long have cause to be thus merry still! 

But, father 

Mer. No more words, Jasper; get thee gone. 

Thou hast my blessing; thy father's spirit upon thee! Farewell,
Jasper!

[Sings. But yet, or ere you part (oh, cruel!) 

Kiss me, kiss me, sweeting, mine own dear jewel!

So, now begone; no words.

[Exit Jasper.

Mist. Mer. So, Michael, now get thee gone too.

Mich. Yes, forsooth, mother; but I'll have my father's blessing first.

Mist. Mer. No, Michael; 'tis no matter for his blessing; thou hast
my blessing; begone. I'll fetch my money and jewels, and follow
thee; I'll stay no longer with him, I warrant thee. [Exit Michael.]
Truly, Charles, I'll be gone too.

Mer. What! you will not?

Mist. Mer. Yes, indeed will I.

Mer. [Sings.] 

Heigh-ho, farewell, Nan 

I'll never trust wench more again, if I can.

Mist. Mer. You shall not think, when all your own is gone, to
spend that I have been scraping up for Michael.

Mer. Farewell, good wife; I expect it not: all I have to do in this
world, is to be merry; which I shall, if the ground be not taken
from me; and if it be, [Sings. 

When earth and seas from me are reft, 

The skies aloft for me are left. 

[Exeunt severally.

[Wife. I'll be sworn he's a merry old gentleman for all that.
[Music.] Hark, hark, husband, hark! fiddles, fiddles! now surely
they go finely. They say 'tis present death for these fiddlers, to tune
their rebecks before the great Turk's grace; it's not, George? [Enter
a Boy and dances.] But, look, look! here's a youth dances! Now,
good youth, do a turn o' the toe. Sweetheart, i'faith, I'll have Ralph
come and do some of his gambols. He'll ride the wild mare,
gentlemen, 'twould do your hearts good to see him. I thank you,
kind youth; pray, bid Ralph come.

Cit. Peace, cony! Sirrah, you scurvy boy, bid the players send
Ralph; or, by God's  an they do not, I'll tear some of their periwigs
beside their heads: this is all riff-raff.] 

[Exit Boy.

ACT II

SCENE I.  A Room in the House of Venturewell .

Enter Venturewell and Humphrey.

Vent . And how, faith, how goes it now, son Humphrey?

Hum . Right worshipful, and my belovŠd friend 

And father dear, this matter's at an end.

Vent . 'Tis well: it should be so: I'm glad the girl 

Is found so tractable.

Hum . Nay, she must whirl 

From hence (and you must wink; for so, I say, 

The story tells,) to-morrow before day. [Wife . George, dost thou
think in thy conscience now 'twill be a match? tell me but what
thou thinkest, sweet rogue. Thou seest the poor gentleman, dear
heart, how it labours and throbs, I warrant you, to be at rest! I'll go
move the father for't.

Cit . No, no; I prithee, sit still, honeysuckle; thou'lt spoil all. If he
deny him, I'll bring half-a-dozen good fellows myself, and in the
shutting of an evening, knock't up, and there's an end.

Wife . I'll buss thee for that, i'faith, boy. Well, George, well, you
have been a wag in your days, I warrant you; but God forgive you,
and I do with all my heart.]

Vent . How was it, son? you told me that to-morrow 

Before day-break, you must convey her hence.

Hum . I must, I must; and thus it is agreed: 

Your daughter rides upon a brown-bay steed, 

I on a sorrel, which I bought of Brian, 

The honest host of the Red roaring Lion, 

In Waltham situate. Then, if you may, 

Consent in seemly sort; lest, by delay, 

The Fatal Sisters come, and do the office, 

And then you'll sing another song.

Vent . Alas, 

Why should you be thus full of grief to me, 

That do as willing as yourself agree 

To any thing, so it be good and fair? 

Then, steal her when you will, if such a pleasure 

Content you both; I'll sleep and never see it, 

To make your joys more full. But tell me whyYou may not here
perform your marriage? [Wife . God's blessing o' thy soul, old
man! i'faith, thou art loath to part true hearts. I see 'a has her,
George; and I'm as glad on't! Well, go thy ways, Humphrey, for a
fair-spoken man; I believe thou hast not thy fellow within the walls
of London; an I should say the suburbs too, I should not lie. Why
dost not rejoice with me, George?

Cit . If I could but see Ralph again, I were as merry as mine host,
i'faith.]

Hum . The cause you seem to ask, I thus declare Help 

me, O Muses nine! Your daughter sware 

A foolish oath, and more it was the pity; 

Yet no one but myself within this city 

Shall dare to say so, but a bold defiance 

Shall meet him, were he of the noble science; 

And yet she sware, and yet why did she sware? 

Truly, I cannot tell, unless it were 

For her own ease; for, sure, sometimes an oath, 

Being sworn thereafter, is like cordial broth; 

And this it was she swore, never to marry 

But such a one whose mighty arm could carry 

(As meaning me, for I am such a one) 

Her bodily away, through stick and stone, 

Till both of us arrive, at her request, 

Some ten miles off, in the wild Waltham forest.

Vent . If this be all, you shall not need to fear 

Any denial in your love: proceed; 

I'll neither follow, nor repent the deed.

Hum . Good night, twenty good nights, and twenty more, 

And twenty more good nights, that makes three-score!

[Exeunt severally .

SCENE II.  Waltham Forest .

Enter Mistress Merrythought and Michael.

Mist. Mer . Come, Michael; art thou not weary, boy?

Mich . No, forsooth, mother, not I.

Mist. Mer . Where be we now, child?

Mich . Indeed, forsooth, mother, I cannot tell, unless we be at
Mile-End: Is not all the world Mile-End, mother?

Mist. Mer . No, Michael, not all the world, boy; but I can assure
thee, Michael, Mile End is a goodly matter: there has been a
pitchfield, my child, between the naughty Spaniels and the
Englishmen; and the Spaniels ran away, Michael, and the
Englishmen followed: my neighbour Coxstone was there, boy, and
killed them all with a birding-piece.

Mich . Mother, forsooth  

Mist. Mer . What says my white boy?

Mich . Shall not my father go with us too?

Mist. Mer . No, Michael, let thy father go snick - up; he shall never
come between a pair of sheets with me again while he lives; let
him stay at home, and sing for his supper, boy. Come, child, sit
down, and I'll show my boy fine knacks, indeed. [They sit down:
and she takes out a casket .] Look here, Michael; here's a ring, and
here's a brooch, and here's a bracelet, and here's two rings more,
and here's money and gold by th'eye, my boy.

Mich . Shall I have all this, mother?

Mist. Mer . Ay, Michael, thou shalt have all, Michael. [Cit . How
likest thou this, wench?

Wife . I cannot tell; I would have Ralph, George; I'll see no more
else, indeed, la; and I pray you, let the youths understand so much
by word of mouth; for, I tell you truly, I'm afraid o' my boy. Come,
come, George, let's be merry and wise: the child's a fatherless
child; and say they should put him into a strait pair of gaskins,
'twere worse than knot-grass; he would never grow after it.]

Enter Ralph, Tim, and George. [Cit . Here's Ralph, here's Ralph!

Wife . How do you do, Ralph? you are welcome, Ralph, as I may
say; it's a good boy, hold up thy head, and be not afraid; we are thy
friends, Ralph; the gentlemen will praise thee, Ralph, if thou
playest thy part with audacity. Begin, Ralph, a' God's name!]

Ralph . My trusty squire, unlace my helm: give me my hat. Where
are we, or what desert may this be?

George . Mirror of knighthood, this is, as I take it, the perilous
Waltham-down; in whose bottom stands the enchanted valley.

Mist. Mer . Oh, Michael, we are betrayed, we are betrayed! here be
giants! Fly, boy! fly, boy, fly!

[Exit with Michael leaving the casket .

Ralph . Lace on my helm again. What noise is this? 

A gentle lady, flying the embrace 

Of some uncourteous knight! I will relieve her. 

Go, squire, and say, the Knight, that wears this Pestle 

In honour of all ladies, swears revenge 

Upon that recreant coward that pursues her; 

Go, comfort her, and that same gentle squire 

That bears her company.

Tim . I go, brave knight.

[Exit .

Ralph . My trusty dwarf and friend, reach me my shield; 

And hold it while I swear. First, by my knighthood; 

Then by the soul of Amadis de Gaul, 

My famous ancestor; then by my sword 

The beauteous Brionella girt about me; 

By this bright burning Pestle, of mine honour 

The living trophy; and by all respect Due to distressŠd damsels;
here I vow 

Never to end the quest of this fair lady 

And that forsaken squire till by my valour 

I gain their liberty!

George . Heaven bless the knight 

That thus relieves poor errant gentlewomen!

[Exeunt .

[Wife . Ay, marry, Ralph, this has some savour in't; I would see the
proudest of them all offer to carry his books after him. But,
George, I will not have him go away so soon; I shall be sick if he
go away, that I shall: call Ralph again, George, call Ralph again; I
prithee, sweetheart, let him come fight before me, and let's ha'
some drums and some trumpets, and let him kill all that comes
near him, an thou lovest me, George!

Cit . Peace a little, bird: he shall kill them all, an they were twenty
more on 'em than there are.]

Enter Jasper.

Jasp . Now, Fortune, if thou be'st not only ill, 

Show me thy better face, and bring about 

Thy desperate wheel, that I may climb at length, 

And stand. This is our place of meeting, 

If love have any constancy. Oh, age, 

Where only wealthy men are counted happy! 

How shall I please thee, how deserve thy smiles, 

When I am only rich in misery? 

My father's blessing and this little coin

Is my inheritance; a strong rev‚nue! 

From earth thou art, and to the earth I give thee:

[Throws away the money .There grow and multiply, whilst fresher
air 

Breeds me a fresher fortune. How! illusion?

[Sees the casket What, hath the devil coined himself before me? 

'Tis metal good, it rings well; I am waking, 

And taking too, I hope. Now, God's dear blessing 

Upon his heart that left it here! 'tis mine; 

These pearls, I take it, were not left for swine.

[Exit with the casket .

[Wife . I do not like that this unthrifty youth should embezzle away
the money; the poor gentlewoman his mother will have a heavy
heart for it, God knows.

Cit . And reason good, sweetheart.

Wife . But let him go; I'll tell Ralph a tale in's ear shall fetch him
again with a wanion, I warrant him, if he be above ground; and
besides, George, here are a number of sufficient gentlemen can
witness, and myself, and yourself, and the musicians, if we be
called in question.

SCENE III.  Another part of the Forest .

Enter Ralph and George.But here comes Ralph, George; thou shalt
hear him speak as he were an emperal.]

Ralph . Comes not sir squire again?

George . Right courteous knight, 

Your squire doth come, and with him comes the lady, 

For and the Squire of Damsels, as I take it.

Enter Tim, Mistress Merrythought, and Michael.

Ralph . Madam, if any service or devoir 

Of a poor errant knight may right your wrongs, 

Command it; I am prest to give you succour; 

For to that holy end I bear my armour.

Mist. Mer . Alas, sir, I am a poor gentlewoman, and I have lost my
money in this forest!

Ralph . Desert, you would say, lady; and not lost 

Whilst I have sword and lance. Dry up your tears, 

Which ill befit the beauty of that face,

And tell the story, if I may request it, 

Of your disastrous fortune.

Mist. Mer . Out, alas! I left a thousand pound, a thousand pound,
e'en all the money I had laid up for this youth, upon the sight of
your mastership; you looked so grim, and, as I may say it, saving
your presence, more like a giant than a mortal man.

Ralph . I am as you are, lady; so are they; 

All mortal. But why weeps this gentle squire?

Mist. Mer . Has he not cause to weep, do you think, when he hath
lost his inheritance?

Ralph . Young hope of valour, weep not; I am here 

That will confound thy foe, and pay it dear 

Upon his coward head, that dares deny 

DistressŠd squires and ladies equity. 

I have but one horse, on which shall ride 

This fair lady behind me, and before 

This courteous squire: fortune will give us more 

Upon our next adventure. Fairly speed 

Beside us, squire and dwarf, to do us need!

[Exeunt .

[Cit . Did not I tell you, Nell, what your man would do? by the
faith of my body, wench, for clean action and good delivery, they
may all cast their caps at him.

Wife . And so they may, i'faith; for I dare speak it boldly, the
twelve companies of London cannot match him, timber for timber.
Well, George, an he be not inveigled by some of these paltry
players, I ha' much marvel: but, George, we ha' done our parts, if
the boy have any grace to be thankful.

Cit . Yes, I warrant thee, duckling.]

SCENE IV.  Another part of the Forest .

Enter Humphrey and Luce.

Hum . Good Mistress Luce, however I in fault am 

For your lame horse, you're welcome unto Waltham; 

But which way now to go, or what to say, 

I know not truly, till it be broad day.

Luce . Oh, fear not, Master Humphrey; I am guide 

For this place good enough.

Hum . Then, up and ride; 

Or, if it please you, walk, for your repose, 

Or sit, or, if you will, go pluck a rose;

Either of which shall be indifferent 

To your good friend and Humphrey, whose consent 

Is so entangled ever to your will, 

As the poor harmless horse is to the mill.

Luce . Faith, an you say the word, we'll e'en sit down, 

And take a nap.

Hum . 'Tis better in the town, 

Where we may nap together; for, believe me, 

To sleep without a snatch would mickle grieve me.

Luce . You're merry, Master Humphrey.

Hum . So I am, 

And have been ever merry from my dam.

Luce . Your nurse had the less labour.

Hum . Faith, it may be, 

Unless it were by chance I did beray me.

Enter Jasper.

Jasp . Luce! dear friend Luce!

Luce . Here, Jasper.

Jasp . You are mine.

Hum . If it be so, my friend, you use me fine: 

What do you think I am?

Jasp . An arrant noddy.

Hum . A word of obloquy! Now, by God's body, 

I'll tell thy master; for I know thee well.

Jasp . Nay, an you be so forward for to tell, 

Take that, and that; and tell him, sir, I gave it: 

And say, I paid you well.

[Beats him .

Hum . Oh, sir, I have it, 

And do confess the payment! Pray, be quiet.

Jasp . Go, get you to your night-cap and the diet, 

To cure your beaten bones.

Luce . Alas, poor Humphrey; 

Get thee some wholesome broth, with sage and comfrey; 

A little oil of roses and a feather 

To 'noint thy back withal.

Hum . When I came hither, 

Would I had gone to Paris with John Dory!

Luce . Farewell, my pretty nump; I am very sorry I cannot bear
thee company.

Hum . Farewell: 

The devil's dam was ne'er so banged in hell.

[Exeunt Luce and Jasper .

[Wife . This young Jasper will prove me another thing, o' my
conscience, an he may be suffered. George, dost not see, George,
how 'a swaggers, and flies at the very heads o' folks, as he were a
dragon? Well, if I do not do his lesson for wronging the poor
gentleman, I am no true woman. His friends that brought him up
might have been better occupied, i-wis, than have taught him these
fegaries: he's e'en in the high way to the gallows, God bless him!

Cit . You're too bitter, cony; the young man may do well enough
for all this.

Wife . Come hither, Master Humphrey; has he hurt you? now,
beshrew his fingers for't! Here, sweetheart, here's some green
ginger for thee. Now, beshrew my heart, but 'a has peppernel in's
head, as big as a pullet's egg! Alas, sweet lamb, how thy temples
beat! Take the peace on him, sweetheart, take the peace on him.

Cit . No, no; you talk like a foolish woman: I'll ha' Ralph fight with
him, and swinge him up well-favouredly. Sirrah boy, come hither.
[Enter Boy .] Let Ralph come in and fight with Jasper.

Wife . Ay, and beat him well; he's an unhappy boy.

Boy . Sir, you must pardon; the plot of our play lies contrary; and
'twill hazard the spoiling of our play.

Cit . Plot me no plots! I'll ha' Ralph come out; I'll make your house
too hot for you else.

Boy . Why, sir, he shall; but if any thing fall out of order, the
gentlemen must pardon us.

Cit . Go your ways, goodman boy! [Exit Boy .] I'll hold him a
penny, he shall have his bellyful of fighting now. Ho, here comes
Ralph! no more!]

SCENE V.  Another part of the Forest .

Enter Ralph, Mistress Merrythought, Michael, 

Tim, and George.

Ralph . What knight is that, squire? ask him if he keep 

The passage, bound by love of lady fair, 

Or else but prickant.

Hum . Sir, I am no knight, 

But a poor gentleman, that this same night 

Had stolen from me, on yonder green, 

My lovely wife, and suffered (to be seen

Yet extant on my shoulders) such a greeting, 

That whilst I live I shall think of that meeting.

[Wife . Ay, Ralph, he beat him unmercifully, Ralph; an thou
sparest him, Ralph, I would thou wert hanged.

Cit . No more, wife, no more.]

Ralph . Where is the caitiff-wretch hath done this deed? 

Lady, your pardon; that I may proceed 

Upon the quest of this injurious knight. And 

thou, fair squire, repute me not the worse, 

In leaving the great venture of the purse 

And the rich casket, till some better leisure.

Hum . Here comes the broker hath purloined my treasure.

Enter Jasper and Luce.

Ralph . Go, squire, and tell him I am here, 

An errant knight-at-arms, to crave delivery 

Of that fair lady to her own knight's arms. 

If he deny, bid him take choice of ground, 

And so defy him.

Tim . From the Knight that bears 

The Golden Pestle, I defy thee, knight, 

Unless thou make fair restitution 

Of that bright lady.

Jasp . Tell the knight that sent thee, 

He is an ass; and I will keep the wench, 

And knock his head-piece.

Ralph . Knight, thou art but dead, 

If thou recall not thy uncourteous terms.

[Wife . Break's pate, Ralph; break's pate, Ralph, soundly!]

Jasp . Come, knight; I am ready for you. Now your Pestle

[Snatches away his pestle .Shall try what temper, sir, your mortar's
of. 

With that he stood upright in his stirrups, and gave the 

Knight of the calf-skin such a knock [Knocks Ralph 

down .] that he forsook his horse, and down he fell; and 

then he leaped upon him, and plucking off his helmet  

Hum . Nay, an my noble knight be down so soon, 

Though I can scarcely go, I needs must run. [Exit .

[Wife . Run, Ralph, run, Ralph; run for thy life, boy; 

Jasper comes, Jasper comes!] [Exit Ralph .

Jasp . Come, Luce, we must have other arms for you: 

Humphrey, and Golden Pestle, both adieu! [Exeuni .

[Wife . Sure the devil (God bless us!) is in this springald! Why,
George, didst ever see such a fire-drake? I am afraid my boy's
miscarried: if he be, though he were Master Merrythought's son a
thousand times, if there be any law in England, I'll make some of
them smart for't.

Cit . No, no; I have found out the matter, sweetheart; as sure as we
are here, he is enchanted: he could no more have stood in Ralph's
hands than I can in my lord mayor's. I'll have a ring to discover all
enchantments, and Ralph shall beat him yet: be no more vexed, for
it shall be so.]

SCENE VI.  Before the Bell Inn, Waltham .

Enter Ralph, Mistress Merrythought, Michael, Tim, and George.

[Wife . Oh, husband, here's Ralph again! Stay, Ralph again, let me
speak with thee. How dost thou, Ralph? art thou not shrewdly
hurt? the foul great lungies laid unmercifully on thee: there's some
sugar-candy for thee. Proceed; thou shalt have another bout with
him.

Cit . If Ralph had him at the fencing-school, if he did not make a
puppy of him, and drive him up and down the school, he should
ne'er come in my shop more.]

Mist. Mer . Truly, Master Knight of the Burning Pestle, I am
weary.

Mich . Indeed, la, mother, and I am very hungry.

Ralph . Take comfort, gentle dame, and you, fair squire; 

For in this desert there must needs be placed 

Many strong castles, held by courteous knights; 

And till I bring you safe to one of those, 

I swear by this my order ne'er to leave you.

[Wife . Well said, Ralph! George, Ralph was ever comfortable,
was he not?

Cit . Yes, duck.

Wife . I shall ne'er forget him. When he had lost our child, (you
know it was strayed almost alone to Puddle Wharf, and the criers
were abroad for it, and there it had drowned itself but for a
sculler,) Ralph was the most comfortablest to me: "Peace,
mistress," says he, "let it go; I'll get you another as good." Did he
not, George, did he not say so?

Cit . Yes, indeed did he, mouse.]

George . I would we had a mess of pottage and a pot of drink,
squire, and were going to bed!

Tim . Why, we are at Waltham town's end, and that's the Bell Inn.

George . Take courage, valiant knight, damsel, and squire! 

I have discovered, not a stone's cast off, 

An ancient castle, held by the old knight 

Of the most holy order of the Bell, 

Who gives to all knights-errant entertain: 

There plenty is of food, and all prepared 

By the white hands of his own lady dear. 

He hath three squires that welcome all his guests; 

The first, hight Chamberlino, who will see 

Our beds prepared, and bring us snowy sheets, 

Where never footman stretched his buttered hams; 

The second, hight Tapstero, who will see 

Our pots full filled, and no froth therein; 

The third, a gentle squire, Ostlero hight, 

Who will our palfreys slick with wisps of straw, 

And in the manger put them oats enough, 

And never grease their teeth with candle-snuff.

[Wife . That same dwarf's a pretty boy, but the squire's a groutnol.]

Ralph . Knock at the gates, my squire, with stately lance.

[Tim knocks at the door .

Enter Tapster.

Tap . Who's there? You're welcome, gentlemen: will you see a
room?

George . Right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle,
this is the Squire Tapstero.

Ralph . Fair Squire Tapstero, I a wandering knight, 

Hight of the Burning Pestle, in the quest 

Of this fair lady's casket and wrought purse, 

Losing myself in this vast wilderness, 

Am to this castle well by fortune brought; 

Where, hearing of the goodly entertain 

Your knight of holy order of the Bell 

Gives to all damsels and all errant knights, 

I thought to knock, and now am bold to enter.

Tap . An't please you see a chamber, you are very welcome.

[Exeunt .

[Wife . George, I would have something done, and I cannot tell
what it is.

Cit . What is it, Nell?

Wife . Why, George, shall Ralph beat nobody again? prithee,
sweetheart, let him.

Cit . So he shall, Nell; and if I join with him, we'll knock them all.]

SCENE VII.  A Room in the House of Venturewell .

Enter HUMPHREY and VENTUREWELL.

[Wife . Oh, George, here's Master Humphrey again now that lost
Mistress Luce, and Mistress Luce's father. Master Humphrey will
do somebody's errand, I warrant him.]

Hum . Father, it's true in arms I ne'er shall clasp her; For she is
stoln away by your man Jasper.

[Wife . I thought he would tell him.]

Vent . Unhappy that I am, to lose my child! 

Now I begin to think on Jasper's words, 

Who oft hath urged to me thy foolishness: 

Why didst thou let her go? thou lov'st her not, 

That wouldst bring home thy life, and not bring her.

Hum . Father, forgive me. Shall I tell you true? 

Look on my shoulders, they are black and blue: 

Whilst to and fro fair Luce and I were winding, 

He came and basted me with a hedge-binding.

Vent . Get men and horses straight: we will be there 

Within this hour. You know the place again!

Hum . I know the place where he my loins did swaddle; 

I'll get six horses, and to each a saddle.

Vent . Meantime I will go talk with Jasper's father.

[Exeunt severally .

[Wife . George, what wilt thou lay with me now, that Master
Humphrey has not Mistress Luce yet? speak, George, what wilt
thou lay with me?

Cit . No, Nell; I warrant thee, Jasper is at Puckeridge with her by
this.

Wife . Nay, George, you must consider Mistress Luce's feet are
tender; and besides 'tis dark; and, I promise you truly, I do not see
how he should get out of Waltham forest with her yet.

Cit . Nay, cony, what wilt thou lay with me, that Ralph has her not
yet?

Wife . I will not lay against Ralph, honey, because I have not
spoken with him.]

SCENE VIII.  A Room in Merrythought's House .

Enter MERRYTHOUGHT.

[Wife . But look, George, peace! here comes the merry old
gentleman again.]

Mer . [Sings .]

When it was grown to dark midnight,

  And all were fast asleep,

In came Margaret's grimly ghost,

  And stood at William's feet.

I have money, and meat, and drink beforehand, till to-morrow at
noon; why should I be sad? methinks I have half-a-dozen jovial
spirits within me!

[Sings .]I am three merry men, and three merry men!

To what end should any man be sad in this world? give 

me a man that when he goes to hanging cries,

Troul the black bowl to me!

and a woman that will sing a catch in her travail! I have seen a
man come by my door with a serious face, in a black cloak,
without a hat-band, carrying his head as if he looked for pins in the
street; I have looked out of my window half a year after, and have
spied that man's head upon London Bridge. 'Tis vile: never trust a
tailor that does not sing at his work; his mind is of nothing but
filching.

[Wife . Mark this, George; 'tis worth noting; Godfrey my 

tailor, you know, never sings, and he had fourteen yards 

to make this gown: and I'll be sworn, Mistress Penistone 

the draper's wife had one made with twelve.]

Mer . [Sings .]'Tis mirth that fills the veins with blood,

More than wine, or sleep, or food;

Let each man keep his heart at ease,

No man dies of that disease.

He that would his body keep

From diseases, must not weep;

But whoever laughs and sings,

Never he his body brings

Into fevers, gouts, or rheums,

Or lingeringly his lungs consumes,

Or meets with achŠs in the bone,

Or catarrhs or griping stone;

But contented lives for aye;

The more he laughs, the more he may.

[Wife . Look, George; how sayst thou by this, George? is't not a
fine old man? Now, God's blessing o' thy sweet lips! When wilt
thou be so merry, George? faith, thou art the frowningest little
thing, when thou art angry, in a country.

Cit . Peace, cony; thou shalt see him taken down too, I warrant
thee.

Enter VENTUREWELL. Here's Luce's father come now.]

Mer . [Sings .]

As you came from Walsingham,

  From that holy land,

There met you not with my true love

  By the way as you came?

Vent . Oh, Master Merrythought, my daughter's gone! 

This mirth becomes you not; my daughter's gone!

Mer . [Sings .]

Why, an if she be, what care I?

Or let her come, or go, or tarry.

Vent . Mock not my misery; it is your son 

(Whom I have made my own, when all forsook him) 

Has stoln my only joy, my child, away.

Mer . [Sings .]

He set her on a milk-white steed,

  And himself upon a grey;

He never turned his face again,

  But he bore her quite away.

Vent . Unworthy of the kindness I have shown 

To thee and thine! too late I well perceive 

Thou art consenting to my daughter's loss.

Mer . Your daughter! what a stir's here wi' your daughter? 

Let her go, think no more on her, but sing loud. If 

both my sons were on the gallows, I would sing, [Sings .

Down, down, down they fall;

Down, and arise they never shall.

Vent . Oh, might I behold her once again, 

And she once more embrace her aged sire!

Mer . Fie, how scurvily this goes! "And she once more embrace
her aged sire?" You'll make a dog on her, will ye? she cares much
for her aged sire, I warrant you.

[Sings .She cares not for her daddy, nor

  She cares not for her mammy,

For she is, she is, she is, she is

  My lord of Lowgave's lassy.

Vent . For this thy scorn I will pursue that son 

Of thine to death.

Mer . Do; and when you ha' killed him,

[Sings .Give him flowers enow, palmer, give him flowers enow

Give him red, and white, and blue, green, and yellow.

Vent . I'll fetch my daughter 

Mer . I'll hear no more o' your daughter; it spoils my mirth.

Vent . I say, I'll fetch my daughter.

Mer . [Sings .]

Was never man for lady's sake,

  Down, down,

Tormented as I poor Sir Guy,

  De derry down,

For Lucy's sake, that lady bright,

  Down, down,

As ever men beheld with eye,

  De derry down.

Vent . I'll be revenged, by Heaven!

[Exeunt severally .

[Wife . How dost thou like this, George?

Cit . Why, this is well, cony; but if Ralph were hot once, 

thou shouldst see more.

[Music .

Wife . The fiddlers go again, husband.

Cit . Ay, Nell; but this is scurvy music. I gave the whoreson
gallows money, and I think he has not got me the waits of
Southwark: if I hear 'em not anon, I'll twinge him by the ears.  You
musicians, play Baloo!

Wife . No, good George, let's ha' Lachrym‘!

Cit . Why, this is it, cony.

Wife . It's all the better, George. Now, sweet lamb, what story is
that painted upon the cloth? the Confutation of St. Paul?

Cit . No, lamb; that's Ralph and Lucrece.

Wife . Ralph and Lucrece! which Ralph? our Ralph?

Cit . No, mouse; that was a Tartarian.

Wife . A Tartarian! Well, I would the fiddlers had done, that we
might see our Ralph again!] 

ACT III

SCENE I. Waltham Forest .

Enter JASPER and LUCE.

Jasp . Come, my dear dear; though we have lost our way 

We have not lost ourselves. Are you not weary 

With this night's wandering, broken from your rest, 

And frighted with the terror that attends 

The darkness of this wild unpeopled place?

Luce . No, my best friend; I cannot either fear, 

Or entertain a weary thought, whilst you 

(The end of all my full desires) stand by me: 

Let them that lose their hopes, and live to languish 

Amongst the number of forsaken lovers, 

Tell the long weary steps, and number time, 

Start at a shadow, and shrink up their blood, 

Whilst I (possessed with all content and quiet) 

Thus take my pretty love, and this embrace him.

Jasp . You have caught me, Luce, so fast, that, whilst I live, 

I shall become your faithful prisoner, 

And wear these chains for ever. Come, sit down, 

And rest your body, too, too delicate 

For these disturbances. —[They sit down .] So: will you sleep? 

Come, do not be more able than you are; 

I know you are not skilful in these watches, 

For women are no soldiers: be not nice, 

But take it; sleep, I say.

Luce . I cannot sleep; 

Indeed, I cannot, friend.

Jasp . Why, then, we'll sing, 

And try how that will work upon our senses.

Luce . I'll sing, or say, or any thing but sleep.

Jasp . Come, little mermaid, rob me of my heart 

With that enchanting voice.

Luce . You mock me, Jasper. 

[They sing .Jasp . Tell me, dearest, what is love?

Luce . 'Tis a lightning from above;

  'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire,

  'Tis a boy they call Desire;

    'Tis a smile

    Doth beguile

Jasp . The poor hearts of men that prove.

Tell me more, are women true?

Luce . Some love change, and so do you.

Jasp . Are they fair and never kind?

Luce . Yes, when men turn with the wind.

Jasp . Are they froward?

Luce . Ever toward

  Those that love, to love anew.

Jasp . Dissemble it no more; I see the god 

Of heavy sleep lay on his heavy mace 

Upon your eyelids.

Luce . I am very heavy.

[Sleeps .

Jasp . Sleep, sleep; and quiet rest crown thy sweet thoughts! 

Keep from her fair blood distempers, startings, 

Horrors, and fearful shapes! let all her dreams 

Be joys, and chaste delights, embraces, wishes, 

And such new pleasures as the ravished soul 

Gives to the senses!—So; my charms have took.

Keep her, you powers divine, whilst I contemplate 

Upon the wealth and beauty of her mind! 

She is only fair and constant, only kind, 

And only to thee, Jasper. Oh, my joys! 

Whither will you transport me? let not fulness 

Of my poor buried hopes come up together 

And overcharge my spirits! I am weak. 

Some say (however ill) the sea and women 

Are governed by the moon; both ebb and flow, 

Both full of changes; yet to them that know, 

And truly judge, these but opinions are, 

And heresies, to bring on pleasing war 

Between our tempers, that without these were 

Both void of after-love and present fear, 

Which are the best of Cupid. Oh, thou child 

Bred from despair, I dare not entertain thee, 

Having a love without the faults of women, 

And greater in her perfect goods than men! 

Which to make good, and please myself the stronger, 

Though certainly I am certain of her love, 

I'll try her, that the world and memory 

May sing to after-times her constancy.—

[Draws his sword .Luce! Luce! awake!

Luce . Why do you fright me, friend, 

With those distempered looks? what makes your sword 

Drawn in your hand? who hath offended you?

I prithee, Jasper, sleep; thou art wild with watching.

Jasp . Come, make your way to Heaven, and bid the world, 

With all the villanies that stick upon it, 

Farewell; you're for another life.

Luce . Oh, Jasper, 

How have my tender years committed evil, 

Especially against the man I love, 

Thus to be cropped untimely?

Jasp . Foolish girl, 

Canst thou imagine I could love his daughter 

That flung me from my fortune into nothing? 

Dischargèd me his service, shut the doors 

Upon my poverty, and scorned my prayers, 

Sending me, like a boat without a mast, 

To sink or swim? Come; by this hand you die; 

I must have life and blood, to satisfy 

Your father's wrongs.

[Wife . Away, George, away! raise the watch at Ludgate, and bring
a mittimus from the justice for this desperate villain!—Now, I
charge you, gentlemen, see the king's peace kept!—Oh, my heart,
what a varlet's this, to offer manslaughter upon the harmless
gentlewoman!

Cit . I warrant thee, sweetheart, we'll have him hampered.]

Luce . Oh, Jasper, be not cruel! 

If thou wilt kill me, smile, and do it quickly, 

And let not many deaths appear before me; 

I am a woman, made of fear and love, 

A weak, weak woman; kill not with thy eyes, 

They shoot me through and through: strike, I am ready; 

And, dying, still I love thee.

Enter VENTUREWELL, HUMPHREY, and Attendants.

Vent . Whereabouts?

Jasp . No more of this; now to myself again. 

[Aside .

Hum . There, there he stands, with sword, like martial knight, 

Drawn in his hand; therefore beware the fight, 

You that be wise; for, were I good Sir Bevis, 

I would not stay his coming, by your leavès.

Vent . Sirrah, restore my daughter!

Jasp . Sirrah, no.

Vent . Upon him, then! 

[They attack Jasper, and force Luce from him .

[Wife . So; down with him, down with him, down with him! cut
him i' the leg, boys, cut him i' the leg!]

Vent . Come your ways, minion: I'll provide a cage 

For you, you're grown so tame. —Horse her away.

Hum . Truly, I'm glad your forces have the day.

[Exeunt all except Jasper .

Jasp . They are gone, and I am hurt; my love is lost, 

Never to get again. Oh, me unhappy! 

Bleed, bleed and die! I cannot. Oh, my folly, 

Thou hast betrayed me! Hope, where art thou fled? 

Tell me, if thou be'st anywhere remaining, 

Shall I but see my love again? Oh, no! 

She will not deign to look upon her butcher, 

Nor is it fit she should; yet I must venture. 

Oh, Chance, or Fortune, or whate'er thou art, 

That men adore for powerful, hear my cry, 

And let me loving live, or losing die! 

[Exit .

[Wife . Is 'a gone, George?

Cit . Ay, cony.

Wife . Marry, and let him go, sweetheart. By the faith o' my body,'
a has put me into such a fright, that I tremble (as they say) as
'twere an aspen-leaf. Look o' my little finger, George, how it
shakes. Now, in truth, every member of my body is the worse for't.

Cit . Come, hug in mine arms, sweet mouse; he shall not fright
thee any more. Alas, mine own dear heart, how it quivers!]

SCENE II. A Room in the Bell Inn, Waltham .

Enter Mistress MERRYTHOUGHT, RALPH, MICHAEL, TIM,
GEORGE, Host, and Tapster.

[Wife . Oh, Ralph! how dost thou, Ralph? How hast thou slept
to-night? has the knight used thee well?

Cit . Peace, Nell; let Ralph alone.]

Tap . Master, the reckoning is not paid.

Ralph . Right courteous knight, who, for the order's sake 

Which thou hast ta'en, hang'st out the holy Bell, 

As I this flaming Pestle bear about, 

We render thanks to your puissant self, Your beauteous lady, and
your gentle squires,

For thus refreshing of our wearied limbs, 

Stiffened with hard achievements in wild desert.

Tap . Sir, there is twelve shillings to pay.

Ralph . Thou merry Squire Tapstero, thanks to thee 

For comforting our souls with double jug: 

And, if adventurous fortune prick thee forth, 

Thou jovial squire, to follow feats of arms, 

Take heed thou tender every lady's cause, 

Every true knight, and every damsel fair; 

But spill the blood of treacherous Saracens, 

And false enchanters that with magic spells 

Have done to death full many a noble knight.

Host . Thou valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle, give ear to me;
there is twelve shillings to pay, and, as I am a true knight, I will
not bate a penny.

[Wife . George, I prithee, tell me, must Ralph pay twelve shillings
now?

Cit . No, Nell, no; nothing but the old knight is merry with Ralph.

Wife . Oh, is't nothing else? Ralph will be as merry as he.]

Ralph . Sir Knight, this mirth of yours becomes you well; 

But, to requite this liberal courtesy, 

If any of your squires will follow arms, 

He shall receive from my heroic hand 

A knighthood, by the virtue of this Pestle.

Host . Fair knight, I thank you for your noble offer: 

Therefore, gentle knight, 

Twelve shillings you must pay, or I must cap you.

[Wife . Look, George! did not I tell thee as much? the knight of the
Bell is in earnest. Ralph shall not be beholding to him: give him
his money, George, and let him go snick up.

Cit . Cap Ralph! no. —Hold your hand, Sir Knight of the Bell;
there's your money [gives money]: have you anything to say to
Ralph now? Cap Ralph!

Wife . I would you should know it, Ralph has friends that will not
suffer him to be capt for ten times so much, and ten times to the
end of that. —Now take thy course, Ralph.]

Mist . Mer . Come, Michael; thou and I will go home to thy father;
he hath enough left to keep us a day or two, and we'll set fellows
abroad to cry our purse and our casket: shall we, Michael? Mich .
Ay, I pray, mother; in truth my feet are full of chilblains with
travelling.

[Wife . Faith, and those chilblains are a foul trouble. Mistress
Merrythought, when your youth comes home, let him rub all the
soles of his feet, and his heels, and his ankles with a mouse-skin;
or, if none of your people can catch a mouse, when he goes to bed,
let him roll his feet in the warm embers, and, I warrant you, he
shall be well; and you may make him put his fingers between his
toes, and smell to them; it's very sovereign for his head, if he be
costive.]

Mist . Mer . Master Knight of the Burning Pestle, my son Michael
and I bid you farewell: I thank your worship heartily for your
kindness.

Ralph . Farewell, fair lady, and your tender squire. 

If pricking through these deserts, I do hear 

Of any traitorous Knight, who through his guile 

Hath light upon your casket and your purse, 

I will despoil him of them, and restore them.

Mist . Mer . I thank your worship.

[Exit with Michael .

Ralph . Dwarf, bear my shield; squire, elevate my lance:

And now farewell, you Knight of holy Bell.

[Cit . Ay, ay, Ralph, all is paid.]

Ralph . But yet, before I go, speak, worthy knight, 

Of aught you do of sad adventures know, 

Where errant knight may through his prowess win 

Eternal fame, and free some gentle souls 

From endless bonds of steel and lingering pain.

Host . Sirrah, go to Nick the barber, and bid him prepare himself,
as I told you before, quickly.

Tap . I am gone, sir. 

[Exit .

Host . Sir Knight, this wilderness affordeth none 

But the great venture, where full many a knight 

Hath tried his prowess, and come off with shame; 

And where I would not have you lose your life 

Against no man, but furious fiend of hell.

Ralph . Speak on, Sir Knight; tell what he is and where: 

For here I vow, upon my blazing badge, 

Never to blaze a day in quietness, 

But bread and water will I only eat, 

And the green herb and rock shall be my couch, 

Till I have quelled that man, or beast, or fiend, 

That works such damage to all errant knights.

Host . Not far from hence, near to a craggy cliff, 

At the north end of this distressèd town, 

There doth stand a lowly house, 

Ruggedly builded, and in it a cave 

In which an ugly giant now doth won, 

Ycleped Barbarossa: in his hand 

He shakes a naked lance of purest steel, 

With sleeves turned up; and him before he wears 

A motley garment, to preserve his clothes 

From blood of those knights which he massacres And ladies gent:
without his door doth hang 

A copper basin on a prickant spear; 

At which no sooner gentle knights can knock, 

But the shrill sound fierce Barbarossa hears, 

And rushing forth, brings in the errant knight, 

And sets him down in an enchanted chair; 

Then with an engine, which he hath prepared, 

With forty teeth, he claws his courtly crown; 

Next makes him wink, and underneath his chin 

He plants a brazen piece of mighty bord, 

And knocks his bullets round about his cheeks; 

Whilst with his fingers, and an instrument 

With which he snaps his hair off, he doth fill 

The wretch's ears with a most hideous noise: 

Thus every knight-adventurer he doth trim, 

And now no creature dares encounter him.

Ralph . In God's name, I will fight with him. Kind sir, 

Go but before me to this dismal cave, 

Where this huge giant Barbarossa dwells, 

And, by that virtue that brave Rosicleer 

That damnèd brood of ugly giants slew, 

And Palmerin Frannarco overthrew, 

I doubt not but to curb this traitor foul, 

And to the devil send his guilty soul.

Host . Brave-sprighted knight, thus far I will perform 

This your request; I'll bring you within sight 

Of this most loathsome place, inhabited 

By a more loathsome man; but dare not stay, 

For his main force swoops all he sees away.

Ralph . Saint George, set on before! march squire and page!

[Exeunt .

[Wife . George, dost think Ralph will confound the giant?

Cit . I hold my cap to a farthing he does: why, Nell, I saw him
wrestle with the great Dutchman, and hurl him.

Wife . Faith, and that Dutchman was a goodly man, if all things
were answerable to his bigness. And yet they say there was a
Scotchman higher than he, and that they two and a knight met, and
saw one another for nothing. But of all the sights that ever were in
London, since I was married, methinks the little child that was so
fair grown about the members was the prettiest; that and the
hermaphrodite.

Cit . Nay, by your leave, Nell, Ninivie was better.

Wife . Ninivie! oh, that was the story of Jone and the wall, was it
not, George?

Cit . Yes, lamb.]

SCENE III.The Street before Merrythought's House .

Enter Mistress MERRYTHOUGHT.

[Wife . Look, George, here comes Mistress Merrythought again!
and I would have Ralph come and fight with the giant; I tell you
true, I long to see't.

Cit . Good Mistress Merrythought, begone, I pray you, for my
sake; I pray you, forbear a little; you shall have audience presently;
I have a little business.

Wife . Mistress Merrythought, if it please you to refrain your
passion a little, till Ralph have despatched the giant out of the way,
we shall think ourselves much bound to you. [Exit Mistress
Merrythought .] I think you, good Mistress Merrythought.

Cit . Boy, come hither. [Enter Boy .] Send away Ralph and this
whoreson giant quickly.

Boy . In good faith, sir, we cannot; you'll utterly spoil our play, and
make it to be hissed; and it cost money; you will not suffer us to go
on with our plot.—I pray, gentlemen, rule him.

Cit . Let him come now and despatch this, and I'll trouble you no
more.

Boy . Will you give me your hand of that?

Wife . Give him thy hand, George, do; and I'll kiss him. I warrant
thee, the youth means plainly.

Boy . I'll send him to you presently.

Wife . [Kissing him .] I thank you, little youth.

[Exit Boy .]Faith, the child hath a sweet breath, George; but I think
it be troubled with the worms; carduus benedictus and mare's milk
were the only thing in the world for't.

SCENE IV.Before a Barber's Shop , Waltham .

Enter RALPH, Host, TIM, and GEORGE.

Wife . Oh, Ralph's here, George!—God send thee good luck,
Ralph!]

Host . Puissant knight, yonder his mansion is. 

Lo, where the spear and copper basin are! 

Behold that string, on which hangs many a tooth, 

Drawn from the gentle jaw of wandering knights! 

I dare not stay to sound; he will appear. 

[Exit .

Ralph . Oh, faint not, heart! Susan, my lady dear, 

The cobbler's maid in Milk Street, for whose sake 

I take these arms, oh, let the thought of thee 

Carry thy knight through all adventurous deeds; 

And, in the honour of thy beauteous self, 

May I destroy this monster Barbarossa!

Knock, squire, upon the basin, till it break 

With the shrill strokes, or till the giant speak.

[Tim knocks upon the basin 

Enter Barber.

[Wife . Oh, George, the giant, the giant!—Now, Ralph, for thy life!]

Bar . What fond unknowing wight is this, that dares 

So rudely knock at Barbarossa's cell, 

Where no man comes but leaves his fleece behind?

Ralph . I, traitorous caitiff, who am sent by fate 

To punish all the sad enormities 

Thou hast committed against ladies gent 

And errant knights. Traitor to God and men, 

Prepare thyself; this is the dismal hour 

Appointed for thee to give strict account 

Of all thy beastly treacherous villanies.

Bar . Fool-hardy knight, full soon thou shalt aby 

This fond reproach: thy body will I bang;

[Takes down his pole .And, lo, upon that string thy teeth shall
hang! 

Prepare thyself, for dead soon shalt thou be.

Ralph . Saint George for me! 

[They fight .

Bar . Gargantua for me!

[Wife . To him, Ralph, to him! hold up the giant; set out thy leg
before, Ralph!

Cit . Falsify a blow, Ralph, falsify a blow! the giant lies open on
the left side.

Wife . Bear't off, bear't off still! there, boy!

Oh, Ralph's almost down, Ralph's almost down!]

Ralph . Susan, inspire me! now have up again.

[Wife . Up, up, up, up, up! so, Ralph! down with him, down with
him, Ralph!

Cit . Fetch him o'er the hip, boy!

[Ralph knocks down the Barber .

Wife . There, boy! kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, Ralph!

Cit . No, Ralph; get all out of him first.]

Ralph . Presumptuous man, see to what desperate end 

Thy treachery hath brought thee! The just gods, 

Who never prosper those that do despise them, 

For all the villanies which thou hast done 

To knights and ladies, now have paid thee home By my stiff arm, a
knight adventurous. 

But say, vile wretch, before I send thy soul 

To sad Avernus, (whither it must go) 

What captives holdst thou in thy sable cave?

Bar . Go in, and free them all; thou hast the day.

Ralph . Go, squire and dwarf, search in this dreadful cave, 

And free the wretched prisoners from their bonds.

[Exeunt Tim and George .

Bar . I crave for mercy, as thou art a knight, 

And scorn'st to spill the blood of those that beg.

Ralph . Thou show'd'st no mercy, nor shalt thou have any; 

Prepare thyself, for thou shalt surely die.

Re-enter TIM leading a Man winking , with a Basin under his Chin
.

Tim . Behold, brave knight, here is one prisoner, 

Whom this vile man hath useèd as you see.

[Wife . This is the first wise word I heard the squire speak.]

Ralph . Speak what thou art, and how thou hast been used, 

That I may give him condign punishment.

Man . I am a knight that took my journey post 

Northward from London; and in courteouswise

This giant trained me to his loathsome den, 

Under pretence of killing of the itch; 

And all my body with a powder strewed, 

That smarts and stings; and cut away my beard, 

And my curled locks wherein were ribands tied; 

And with a water washed my tender eyes, (Whilst up and down
about me still he skipt,) 

Whose virtue is, that, till my eyes be wiped 

With a dry cloth, for this my foul disgrace, 

I shall not dare to look a dog i' the face.

[Wife . Alas, poor knight!—Relieve him, Ralph; relieve poor
knights, whilst you live.]

Ralph . My trusty squire, convey him to the town, 

Where he may find relief.—Adieu, fair knight.

[Exeunt Man with Tim , who presently re-enters .

Re-enter GEORGE, leading a second Man, with a patch over his
nose .

George . Puissant Knight, of the Burning Pestle hight, 

See here another wretch, whom this foul beast 

Hath scotched and scored in this inhuman wise.

Ralph . Speak me thy name, and eke thy place of birth, 

And what hath been thy usage in this cave. 2 nd Man . I am a
knight, Sir Pockhole is my name, 

And by my birth I am a Londoner, 

Free by my copy, but my ancestors 

Were Frenchmen all; and riding hard this way 

Upon a trotting horse, my bones did ache; 

And I, faint knight, to ease my weary limbs, 

Light at this cave; when straight this furious fiend, 

With sharpest instrument of purest steel, 

Did cut the gristle of my nose away, 

And in the place this velvet plaster stands: 

Relieve me, gentle knight, out of his hands!

[Wife . Good Ralph, relieve Sir Pockhole, and send him away; for
in truth his breath stinks.]

Ralph . Convey him straight after the other knight.—Sir 

Pockhole, fare you well. 2 nd Man . Kind sir, good night.

[Exit with George , who presently re-enters .

3 rd Man [within]. Deliver us! 

[Cries within .

Woman [within]. Deliver us!

[Wife . Hark, George, what a woeful cry there is! I think some
woman lies-in there.]

3 rd Man [within]. Deliver us!

Women [within]. Deliver us!

Ralph . What ghastly noise is this? Speak, Barbarossa, 

Or, by this blazing steel, thy head goes off!

Bar . Prisoners of mine, whom I in diet keep. 

Send lower down into the cave, 

And in a tub that's heated smoking hot, 

There may they find them, and deliver them.

Ralph . Run, squire and dwarf; deliver them with speed.

[Exeunt Tim and George .

[Wife . But will not Ralph kill this giant? Surely I am afraid, if he
let him go, he will do as much hurt as ever he did.

Cit . Not so, mouse, neither, if he could convert him.

Wife . Ay, George, if he could convert him; but a giant is not so
soon converted as one of us ordinary people. There's a pretty tale
of a witch, that had the devil's mark about her, (God bless us!) that
had a giant to her son, that was called Lob-lie-by-the-fire; didst
never hear it, George?

Cit . Peace, Nell, here comes the prisoners.]

Re-enter TIM, leading a third Man, with a glass of lotion in his
hand , and GEORGE leading a Woman, with diet-bread and drink
in her hand .

George . Here be these pinèd wretches, manful knight, 

That for this six weeks have not seen a wight.

Ralph . Deliver what you are, and how you came 

To this sad cave, and what your usage was?

3 rd Man . I am an errant knight that followed arms 

With spear and shield; and in my tender years 

I stricken was with Cupid's fiery shaft, 

And fell in love with this my lady dear, 

And stole her from her friends in Turnbull Street, 

And bore her up and down from town to town, 

Where we did eat and drink, and music hear; 

Till at the length at this unhappy town 

We did arrive, and coming to this cave, 

This beast us caught, and put us in a tub, 

Where we this two months sweat, and should have done

Another month, if you had not relieved us.

Woman . This bread and water hath our diet been, 

Together with a rib cut from a neck 

Of burned mutton; hard hath been our fare: 

Release us from this ugly giant's snare!

3 rd Man . This hath been all the food we have received; 

But only twice a-day, for novelty, 

He gave a spoonful of this hearty broth 

To each of us, through this same slender quill.

[Pulls out a syringe .

Ralph . From this infernal monster you shall go, 

That useth knights and gentle ladies so!

Convey them hence.

[3 rd Man and Woman are led off by Tim and 

George , who presently re-enter .

[Cit . Cony, I can tell thee, the gentlemen like Ralph.

Wife . Ay, George, I see it well enough.—Gentlemen, I thank you
all heartily for gracing my man Ralph; and I promise you, you shall
see him oftener.]

Bar . Mercy, great knight! I do recant my ill, 

And henceforth never gentle blood will spill.

Ralph . I give thee mercy; but yet shalt thou swear, 

Upon my Burning Pestle, to perform 

Thy promise utterèd.

Bar . I swear and kiss. 

[Kisses the Pestle .

Ralph . Depart, then and amend.

[Exit Barber . 

Come, squire and dwarf; the sun grows towards his set, 

And we have many more adventures yet.

[Exeunt .

[Cit . Now Ralph is in this humour, I know he would ha' beaten all
the boys in the house, if they had been set on him.

Wife . Ay, George, but it is well as it is: I warrant you, the
gentlemen do consider what it is to overthrow a giant.]

SCENE V.The Street before Merrythought's House .

Enter Mistress MERRYTHOUGHT and MICHAEL.

[Wife . But, look, George; here comes Mistress Merrythought, and
her son Michael.—Now you are welcome, Mistress Merrythought;
now Ralph has done, you may go on.]

Mist . Mer . Mick, my boy—

Mich . Ay, forsooth, mother.

Mist . Mer . Be merry, Mick; we are at home now; where, I
warrant you, you shall find the house flung out of the windows.
[Music within .] Hark! hey, dogs, hey! this is the old world, i'faith,
with my husband. If I get in among them, I'll play them such a
lesson, that they shall have little list to come scraping hither
again

Why, Master Merrythought! husband! Charles Merrythought!

Mer . [Appearing above , and singing .]

If you will sing, and dance, and laugh,

  And hollow, and laugh again,

And then cry, "there, boys, there!" why, then,

  One, two, three, and four,

  We shall be merry within this hour.

Mist . Mer . Why, Charles, do you not know your own natural
wife? I say, open the door, and turn me out those mangy
companions; 'tis more than time that they were fellow and
fellow-like with you. You are a gentleman, Charles, and an old
man, and father of two children; and I myself, (though I say it) by
my mother's side niece to a worshipful gentleman and a conductor;
he has been three times in his majesty's service at Chester, and is
now the fourth time, God bless him and his charge, upon his
journey.

Mer . [Sings .]

Go from my window, love, go;

Go from my window, my dear!

  The wind and the rain

  Will drive you back again;

You cannot be lodged here.

Hark you, Mistress Merrythought, you that walk upon adventures,
and forsake your husband, because he sings with never a penny in
his purse; what, shall I think myself the worse? Faith, no, I'll be
merry. You come not here; here's none but lads of mettle, lives of a
hundred years and upwards; care never drunk their bloods, nor
want made them warble "Heigh-ho, my heart is heavy."

Mist . Mer . Why, Master Merrythought, what am I, that you
should laugh me to scorn thus abruptly? am I not your
fellow-feeler, as we may say, in all our miseries? your comforter in
health and sickness? have I not brought you children? are they not
like you, Charles? look upon thine own image, hard-hearted man!
and yet for all this—

Mer . [Sings .]

Begone, begone, my juggy, my puggy,

Begone, my love, my dear!

The weather is warm, 'Twill do thee no harm:

Thou canst not be lodged here.—



Be merry, boys! some light music, and more wine!

[Exit above .

[Wife . He's not in earnest, I hope, George, is he?

Cit . What if he be, sweetheart?

Wife . Marry, if he be, George, I'll make bold to tell him he's an
ingrant old man to use his bedfellow so scurvily.

Cit . What! how does he use her, honey?

Wife . Marry, come up, sir saucebox! I think you'll take his part,
will you not? Lord, how hot you have grown! you are a fine man,
an' you had a fine dog; it becomes you sweetly!

Cit . Nay, prithee, Nell, chide not; for, as I am an honest man and a
true Christian grocer, I do not like his doings.

Wife . I cry you mercy, then, George! you know we are all frail and
full of infirmities.—D'ye hear, Master Merrythought? may I crave a
word with you?]

Mer . [Appearing above .] Strike up lively, lads!

[Wife . I had not thought, in truth, Master Merrythought, that a
man of your age and discretion, as I may say, being a gentleman,
and therefore known by your gentle conditions, could have used so
little respect to the weakness of his wife; for your wife is your own
flesh, the staff of your age, your yoke-fellow, with whose help you
draw through the mire of this transitory world; nay, she's your own
rib: and again—]

Mer . [Sings .]

I came not hither for thee to teach,

I have no pulpit for thee to preach,

I would thou hadst kissed me under the breech,

As thou art a lady gay.

[Wife . Marry, with a vengeance! I am heartily sorry for the poor
gentlewoman: but if I were thy wife, i'faith, grey-beard, i'faith—

Cit . I prithee, sweet honeysuckle, be content.

Wife . Give me such words, that am a gentlewoman born! hang
him, hoary rascal! Get me some drink, George;

I am almost molten with fretting: now, beshrew his knave's heart
for it!]

[Exit Citizen .

Mer . Play me a light lavolta. Come, be frolic. 

Fill the good fellows wine.

Mist . Mer . Why, Master Merrythought, are you disposed to make
me wait here? You'll open, I hope; I'll fetch them that shall open
else.

Mer . Good woman, if you will sing, I'll give you something; if
not

[Sings .You are no love for me, Margaret,

I am no love for you.—

Come aloft, boys, aloft! 

[Exit above .

Mist . Mer . Now a churl's fart in your teeth, sir!—Come, Mick,
we'll not trouble him; 'a shall not ding us i' the teeth with his bread
and his broth, that he shall not. Come, boy; I'll provide for thee, I
warrant thee. We'll go to Master Venturewell's, the merchant: I'll
get his letter to mine host of the Bell in Waltham; there I'll place
thee with the tapster: will not that do well for thee, Mick? and let
me alone for that old cuckoldly knave your father; I'll use him in
his kind, I warrant ye. 

[Exeunt .

Re-enter Citizen with Beer .

[Wife . Come, George, where's the beer?

Cit . Here, love.

Wife . This old fornicating fellow will not out of my mind
yet.—Gentlemen, I'll begin to you all; and I desire more of your
acquaintance with all my heart. [Drinks .] Fill the gentlemen some
beer, George. [Enter Boy .] Look, George, the little boy's come
again: methinks he looks something like the Prince of Orange in
his long stocking, if he had a little harness about his neck. George,
I will have him dance fading.—Fading is a fine jig, I'll assure you,
gentlemen.—Begin, brother. [Boy dances .] Now 'a capers,
sweetheart!—Now a turn o' the toe, and then tumble! cannot you
tumble, youth?

Boy . No, indeed, forsooth.

Wife . Nor eat fire?

Boy . Neither.

Wife . Why, then, I thank you heartily; there's twopence to buy you
points withal.] 

ACT IV

SCENE I. A Street.

Enter JASPER and Boy.

Jasp . There, boy, deliver this; but do it well. 

Hast thou provided me four lusty fellows, 

[ Gives a letter . 

Able to carry me? and art thou perfect 

In all thy business?

Boy . Sir, you need not fear; 

I have my lesson here, and cannot miss it: 

The men are ready for you, and what else 

Pertains to this employment.

Jasp . There, my boy; 

Take it, but buy no land. 

[ Gives money .

Boy . Faith, sir, 'twere rare 

To see so young a purchaser. I fly, 

And on my wings carry your destiny.

Jasp . Go, and be happy! [ Exit Boy .] Now, my latest hope, 

Forsake me not, but fling thy anchor out, 

And let it hold! Stand fixed, thou rolling stone, 

Till I enjoy my dearest! Hear me, all 

You powers, that rule in men, celestial! 

[ Exit .

[ Wife . Go thy ways; thou art as crooked a sprig as ever grew in
London. I warrant him, he'll come to some naughty end or other;
for his looks say no less: besides, his father (you know, George) is
none of the best; you heard him take me up like a flirt-gill, and
sing bawdy songs upon me; but, i'faith, if I live, George, 

Cit . Let me alone, sweetheart: I have a trick in my head shall
lodge him in the Arches for one year, and make him sing peccavi
ere I leave him; and yet he shall never know who hurt him neither.

Wife . Do, my good George, do!

Cit . What shall we have Ralph do now, boy?

Boy . You shall have what you will, sir.

Cit . Why, so, sir; go and fetch me him then, and let the 

Sophy of Persia come and christen him a child.

Boy . Believe me, sir, that will not do so well; 'tis stale; it has been
had before at the Red Bull.

Wife . George, let Ralph travel over great hills, and let him be very
weary, and come to the King of Cracovia's house, covered with
black velvet; and there let the king's daughter stand in her window,
all in beaten gold, combing her golden locks with a comb of ivory;
and let her spy Ralph, and fall in love with him, and come down to
him, and carry him into her father's house; and then let Ralph talk
with her.

Cit . Well said, Nell; it shall be so. Boy, let's ha't done quickly.

Boy . Sir, if you will imagine all this to be done already, you shall
hear them talk together; but we cannot present a house covered
with black velvet, and a lady in beaten gold.

Cit . Sir boy, let's ha't as you can, then.

Boy . Besides, it will show ill-favouredly to have a grocer's
prentice to court a king's daughter.

Cit . Will it so, sir? you are well read in histories! I pray you, what
was Sir Dagonet? was not he prentice to a grocer in London? Read
the play of "The Four 

Prentices of London," where they toss their pikes so. 

I pray you, fetch him in, sir, fetch him in.

Boy . It shall be done. It is not our fault, gentlemen. 

[ Exit .

Wife . Now we shall see fine doings, I warrant ye, George.]

SCENE II.  A Hall in the King of Moldavia's Court .

Enter POMPIONA, RALPH, TIM, and GEORGE.

[ Wife . Oh, here they come! how prettily the King of 

Cracovia's daughter is dressed!

Cit . Ay, Nell, it is the fashion of that country, I warrant ye.]

Pomp . Welcome, Sir Knight, unto my father's court, 

King of Moldavia; unto me Pompiona, 

His daughter dear! But, sure, you do not like 

Your entertainment, that will stay with us 

No longer but a night.

Ralph . Damsel right fair, 

I am on many sad adventures bound, 

That call me forth into the wilderness; 

Besides, my horse's back is something galled,Which will enforce
me ride a sober pace. 

But many thanks, fair lady, be to you 

For using errant knight with courtesy!

Pomp . But say, brave knight, what is your name and birth?

Ralph . My name is Ralph; I am an Englishman (As true as steel, a
hearty Englishman), 

And prentice to a grocer in the Strand 

By deed indent, of which I have one part: 

But fortune calling me to follow arms, 

On me this only order I did take 

Of Burning Pestle, which in all men's eyes 

I bear, confounding ladies' enemies.

Pomp . Oft have I heard of your brave countrymen, 

And fertile soil and store of wholesome food; 

My father oft will tell me of a drink 

In England found, and nipitato called, 

Which driveth all the sorrow from your hearts.

Ralph . Lady, 'tis true; you need not lay your lips 

To better nipitato than there is.

Pomp . And of a wild fowl he will often speak, 

Which powdered-beef-and-mustard called is: 

For there have been great wars 'twixt us and you; 

But truly, Ralph, it was not 'long of me. 

Tell me then, Ralph, could you contented be 

To wear a lady's favour in your shield?

Ralph . I am a knight of a religious order, 

And will not wear a favour of a lady 

That trusts in Antichrist and false traditions.

[ Cit . Well said, Ralph! convert her, if thou canst.]

Ralph . Besides, I have a lady of my own 

In merry England, for whose virtuous sake 

I took these arms; and Susan is her name, 

A cobbler's maid in Milk Street; whom I vow 

Ne'er to forsake whilst life and Pestle last.

Pomp . Happy that cobbling dame, whoe'er she be, 

That for her own, dear Ralph, hath gotten thee! 

Unhappy I, that ne'er shall see the day 

To see thee more, that bear'st my heart away!

Ralph . Lady, farewell; I needs must take my leave.

Pomp . Hard-hearted Ralph, that ladies dost deceive!

[ Cit . Hark thee, Ralph: there's money for thee [ Gives money ];
give something in the King of Cracovia's house; be not beholding
to him.]

Ralph . Lady, before I go, I must remember Your father's officers,
who truth to tell, 

Have been about me very diligent: 

Hold up thy snowy hand, thou princely maid! 

There's twelve-pence for your father's chamberlain; 

And another shilling for his cook, 

For, by my troth, the goose was roasted well; 

And twelve-pence for your father's horse-keeper, 

For'nointing my horse-back, and for his butter 

There is another shilling; to the maid 

That washed my boot-hose there's an English groat 

And two-pence to the boy that wiped my boots; 

And last, fair lady, there is for yourself 

Three-pence, to buy you pins at Bumbo-fair.

Pomp . Full many thanks; and I will keep them safe 

Till all the heads be off, for thy sake, Ralph.

Ralph . Advance, my squire and dwarf! I cannot stay.

Pomp . Thou kill'st my heart in passing thus away.

[ Exeunt .

[ Wife . I commend Ralph yet, that he will not stoop to a
Cracovian; there's properer women in London than any are there,
I-wis.]

SCENE III.  A Room in the House of Venturewell .

Enter VENTUREWELL, HUMPHREY, LUCE, and Boy.

[ Wife . But here comes Master Humphrey and his love again now,
George.

Cit . Ay, cony; peace.]

Vent . Go, get you up; I will not be entreated; 

And, gossip mine, I'll keep you sure hereafter 

From gadding out again with boys and unthrifts: 

Come, they are women's tears; I know your fashion.  

Go, sirrah, lock her in, and keep the key 

Safe as you love your life. 

[ Exeunt Luce and Boy .Now, my son Humphrey,

You may both rest assurŠs of my love 

In this, and reap your own desire.

Hum . I see this love you speak of, through your daughter, 

Although the hole be little; and hereafter 

Will yield the like in all I may or can, 

Fitting a Christian and a gentleman.

Vent . I do believe you, my good son, and thank you; 

For'twere an impudence to think you flattered.

Hum . It were, indeed; but shall I tell you why? 

I have been beaten twice about the lie.

Vent . Well, son, no more of compliment. My daughter 

Is yours again: appoint the time and take her; 

We'll have no stealing for it; I myself 

And some few of our friends will see you married.

Hum . I would you would, i'faith! for, be it known, 

I ever was afraid to lie alone.

Vent . Some three days hence, then.

Hum . Three days! let me see: 'Tis somewhat of the most; yet I
agree, 

Because I mean against the appointed day 

To visit all my friends in new array.

Enter Servant.

Serv . Sir, there's a gentlewoman without would speak with your
worship.

Vent . What is she?

Serv . Sir, I asked her not.

Vent . Bid her come in.

[ Exit Servant .

Enter Mistress MERRYTHOUGHT and MICHAEL.

Mist . Mer . Peace be to your worship! I come as a poor suitor to
you, sir, in the behalf of this child.

Vent . Are you not wife to Merrythought?

Mist . Mer . Yes, truly. Would I had ne'er seen his eyes! he has
undone me and himself and his children; and there he lives at
home, and sings and hoits and revels among his drunken
companions! but, I warrant you, where to get a penny to put bread
in his mouth he knows not: and therefore, if it like your worship, I
would entreat your letter to the honest host of the Bell in Waltham,
that I may place my child under the protection of his tapster, in
some settled course of life.

Vent . I'm glad the heavens have heard my prayers. Thy husband, 

When I was ripe in sorrows, laughed at me; 

Thy son, like an unthankful wretch, I having 

Redeemed him from his fall, and made him mine, 

To show his love again, first stole my daughter,

Then wronged this gentleman, and, last of all, 

Gave me that grief had almost brought me down 

Unto my grave, had not a stronger hand 

Relieved my sorrows. Go, and weep as I did, 

And be unpitied; for I here profess 

An everlasting hate to all thy name.

Mist . Mer . Will you so, sir? how say you by that? Come, 

Mick; let him keep his wind to cool his pottage. We'll go to thy
nurse's, Mick: she knits silk stockings, boy; and we'll knit too, boy,
and be beholding to none of them all. 

[ Exit with Michael .

Enter Boy.

Boy . Sir, I take it you are the master of this house.

Vent . How then, boy!

Boy . Then to yourself, sir, comes this letter. 

[ Gives letter .

Vent . From whom, my pretty boy?

Boy . From him that was your servant; but no more 

Shall that name ever be, for he is dead: 

Grief of your purchased anger broke his heart. 

I saw him die, and from his hand received 

This paper, with a charge to bring it hither: 

Read it, and satisfy yourself in all.

Vent . [ Reads .] Sir, that I have wronged your love I must confess;
in which I have purchased to myself, besides mine own undoing,
the ill opinion of my friends. Let not your anger, good sir, outlive
me, but suffer me to rest in peace with your forgiveness: let my
body (if a dying man may so much prevail with you) be brought to
your daughter, that she may truly know my hot flames are now
buried, and withal receive a testimony of the zeal I bore her virtue.
Farewell for ever, and be ever happy!

JASPER.God's hand is great in this: I do forgive him; 

Yet I am glad he's quiet, where I hope 

He will not bite again. Boy, bring the body, 

And let him have his will, if that be all.

Boy . 'Tis here without, sir.

Vent . So, sir; if you please, 

You may conduct it in; I do not fear it.

Hum . I'll be your usher, boy; for, though I say it, 

He owed me something once, and well did pay it. 

[ Exeunt .

SCENE IV.  Another Room in the House of 

Venturewell .

Enter Luce.

Luce . If there be any punishment inflicted 

Upon the miserable, more than yet I feel, Let it together seize me,
and at once 

Press down my soul! I cannot bear the pain 

Of these delaying tortures. Thou that art 

The end of all, and the sweet rest of all, 

Come, come, oh, Death! bring me to thy peace, 

And blot out all the memory I nourish 

Both of my father and my cruel friend!  

Oh, wretched maid, still living to be wretched, 

To be a say to Fortune in her changes, 

And grow to number times and woes together! 

How happy had I been, if, being born, 

My grave had been my cradle!

Enter Servant.

Serv . By your leave, 

Young mistress; here's a boy hath brought a coffin. 

What'a would say, I know not; but your father 

Charged me to give you notice. Here they come. 

[ Exit .

Enter Boy, and two Men bearing a C