The Scornful Lady Part 14

_Elder Lo._ Prethee be gone, and rave at home, thou art so base a fool I cannot laugh at thee: Sirrah, this comes of couzening, home and spare, eat Reddish till you raise your sums again. If you stir far in this, I'le have you whipt, your ears nail'd for intelligencing o'the Pillory, and your goods forfeit: you are a stale couzener, leave my house: no more.

_More._ A pox upon your house. Come Widow, I shall yet hamper this young Gamester.

_Wid._ Good twelve i'th' hundred keep your way, I am not for your diet, marry in your own Tribe _Jew_, and get a Broker.

_Young Lo._ 'Tis well said Widow: will you jog on Sir?

_More._ Yes, I will go, but 'tis no matter whither: But when I trust a wild Fool, and a Woman, May I lend Gratis, and build Hospitals.

_Young Lo._ Nay good Sir, make all even, here's a Widow wants your good word for me, she's rich, and may renew me and my fortunes.

_Elder Lo._ I am glad you look before you. Gentlewoman, here is a poor distressed younger Brother.

_Wid._ You do him wrong Sir, he's a Knight.

_Elder Lo._ I ask you mercy: yet 'tis no matter, his Knighthood is no inheritance I take it: whatsoever he is, he is your Servant, or would be, Lady. Faith be not merciless, but make a man; he's young and handsome, though he be my Brother, and his observances may deserve your Love: he shall not fail for means.

_Wid._ Sir you speak like a worthy Brother: and so much I do credit your fair Language, that I shall love your Brother: and so love him, but I shall blush to say more.

_Elder Lo._ Stop her mouth. I hope you shall not live to know that hour when this shall be repented. Now Brother I should chide, but I'le give no distaste to your fair Mistress. I will instruct her in't and she shall do't: you have been wild and ignorant, pray mend it.

_Young Lo._ Sir, every day now Spring comes on.

_Elder Lo._ To you good Mr. _Savil_ and your Office, thus much I have to say: Y'are from my Steward become, first your own Drunkard, then his Bawd: they say y'are excellent grown in both, and perfect: give me your keys Sir _Savil_.

_Savil._ Good Sir consider whom you left me to.

_Elder Lo._ I left you as a curb for, not to provoke my Brothers follies: where's the best drink, now? come, tell me _Savil_; where's the soundest Wh.o.r.es? Ye old he Goat, ye dried Ape, ye lame Stallion, must you be leading in my house your Wh.o.r.es, like Fairies dance their night rounds, without fear either of King or Constable, within my walls? Are all my Hangings safe; my Sheep unfold yet? I hope my Plate is currant, I ha' too much on't. What say you to 300 pounds in drink now?

_Sav._ Good Sir forgive me, and but hear me speak?

_Elder Lo._ Me thinks thou shouldst be drunk still, and not speak, 'tis the more pardonable.

_Sav._ I will Sir, if you will have it so.

_Elder Lo._ I thank ye: yes, e'ne pursue it Sir: do you hear? get a Wh.o.r.e soon for your recreation: go look out Captain _Broken-breech_ your fellow, and Quarrel if you dare: I shall deliver these Keys to one shall have more honesty, though not so much fine wit Sir. You may walk and gather _Cresses_ fit to cool your Liver; there's something for you to begin a Diet, you'l have the Pox else. Speed you well, Sir _Savil_: you may eat at my house to preserve life; but keep no Fornication in the Stables.

[_Ex. om. pr._ Savil.

_Sav._ Now must I hang my self, my friends will look for't.

Eating and sleeping, I do despise you both now: I will run mad first, and if that get not pitty, I'le drown my self, to a most dismal ditty. [_Exit_ Savil.

_Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._

_Enter_ Abigal _sola._

_Abigal._ Alas poor Gentlewoman, to what a misery hath Age brought thee: to what a scurvy Fortune! Thou that hast been a Companion for n.o.blemen, and at the worst of those times for Gentlemen: now like a broken Servingman, must beg for favour to those, that would have crawl'd like Pilgrims to my Chamber but for an Apparition of me. You that be coming on, make much of fifteen, and so till five and twenty: use your time with reverence, that your profits may arise: it will not tarry with you, _Ecce signum_: here was a face, but time that like a surfeit eats our youth, plague of his iron teeth, and draw 'em for't, has been a little bolder here than welcome: and now to say the truth, I am fit for no man. Old men i'th' house of fifty, call me Granum; and when they are drunk, e'ne then, when _Jone_ and my Lady are all one, not one will do me reason. My little Levite hath forsaken me, his silver sound of Cittern quite abolish[t], [h]is doleful _hymns_ under my Chamber window, digested into tedious learning: well fool, you leapt a Haddock when you left him: he's a clean man, and a good edifier, and twenty n.o.bles is his state _de claro_, besides his pigs in _posse_. To this good _Homilist_ I have been ever stubborn, which G.o.d forgive me for, and mend my manners: and Love, if ever thou hadst care of forty, of such a piece of lape ground, hear my prayer, and fire his zeal so far forth that my faults in this renued impression of my love may shew corrected to our gentle reader.

_Enter_ Roger.

See how negligently he pa.s.ses by me: with what an Equipage Canonical, as though he had broken the heart of _Bellarmine_, or added something to the singing Brethren. 'Tis scorn, I know it, and deserve it, Mr. _Roger_.

_Rog._ Fair Gentlewoman, my name is _Roger_.

_Abig_. Then gentle _Roger_?

_Rog_. Ungentle _Abigal_.

_Abig_. Why M'r _Roger_ will you set your wit to a weak womans?

_Rog_. You are weak indeed: for so the Poet sings.

_Abig_. I do confess my weakness, sweet Sir _Roger_.

_Rog_. Good my Ladies Gentlewoman, or my good Ladies Gentlewoman (this trope is lost to you now) leave your prating, you have a season of your first mother in ye: and surely had the Devil been in love, he had been abused too: go _Dalilah_, you make men fools, and wear Fig-breeches.

_Abi_. Well, well, hard hearted man; dilate upon the weak infirmities of women: these are fit texts, but once there was a time, would I had never seen those eyes, those eyes, those orient eyes.

_Rog_. I they were pearls once with you.

_Abi_. Saving your reverence Sir, so they are still.

_Rog_. Nay, nay, I do beseech you leave your cogging, what they are, they are, they serve me without Spectacles I thank 'em.

_Abig_. O will you kill me?

_Rog_. I do not think I can, Y'are like a Copy-hold with nine lives in't.

_Abig_. You were wont to bear a Christian fear about you: For your own wors.h.i.+ps sake.

_Rog_. I was a Christian fool then: Do you remember what a dance you led me? how I grew qualm'd in love, and was a dunce? could expound but once a quarter, and then was out too: and then out of the stinking stir you put me in, I prayed for my own issue. You do remember all this?

_Abig_. O be as then you were!

_Rog_. I thank you for it, surely I will be wiser _Abigal_: and as the Ethnick Poet sings, I will not lose my oyl and labour too. Y'are for the wors.h.i.+pfull I take it _Abigal_.

_Abig_. O take it so, and then I am for thee!

_Rog_. I like these tears well, and this humbling also, they are Symptomes of contrition. If I should fall into my fit again, would you not shake me into a quotidian c.o.xcombe? Would you not use me scurvily again, and give me possets with purging Confets in't? I tell thee Gentlewoman, thou hast been harder to me, than a long pedigree.

_Abig_. O Curate cure me: I will love thee better, dearer, longer: I will do any thing, betray the secrets of the main house-hold to thy reformation. My Ladie shall look lovingly on thy learning, and when true time shall point thee for a Parson, I will convert thy egges to penny custards, and thy t.i.th goose shall graze and multiply.

_Rog_. I am mollified, as well shall testifie this faithfull kiss, and have a great care Mistris _Abigal_ how you depress the Spirit any more with your rebukes and mocks: for certainly the edge of such a follie cuts it self.

_Abigal_. O Sir, you have pierc'd me thorow. Here I vow a recantation to those malicious faults I ever did against you. Never more will I despise your learning, never more pin cards and cony tails upon your Ca.s.sock, never again reproach your reverend nightcap, and call it by the mangie name of murrin, never your reverend person more, and say, you look like one of _Baals_ Priests in a hanging, never again when you say grace laugh at you, nor put you out at prayers: never cramp you more, nor when you ride, get Sope and Thistles for you. No my _Roger_, these faults shall be corrected and amended, as by the tenour of my tears appears.