A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Xiv Part 115

PLEA. But do they never grow surly, aunt?

WID. Not if you keep them from raw flesh; for they are a kind of lion-lovers, and if they once taste the sweet of it, they'll turn to their kind.

PLEA. Lord, aunt, there will be no going without one this summer into the country: pray, let's inquire for one, either a he-one to entertain us, or a she-one to tell us the story of her love; 'tis excellent to bedward, and makes one as drowsy as prayers.

WID. Faith, niece, this parliament has so destroyed 'em, and the Platonic humour, that 'tis uncertain whether we shall get one or no. Your leading members in the lower house have so cowed the ladies, that they have no leisure to breed any of late: their whole endeavours are spent now in feasting, and winning close committee men, a rugged kind of sullen fellows with implacable stomachs and hard hearts, that make the gay things court and observe them, as much as the foolish lovers use to do. Yet I think I know one she-lover; but she is smitten in years o' th'

wrong side of forty. I am certain she is poor, too, and in this lean age for courtiers she perhaps would be glad to run this summer in our park.

PLEA. Dear aunt, let us have her. Has she been famous? has she good tales, think you, of knights, such as have been false or true to love, no matter which?

WID. She cannot want cause to curse the s.e.x: handsome, witty, well-born, and poor in court, cannot want the experience how false young men can be: her beauty has had the highest fame; and those eyes, that weep now unpitied, have had their envy and a dazzling power.

PLEA. And that tongue, I warrant you, which now grows hoa.r.s.e with flattering the great law-breakers, once gave law to princes: was it not so, aunt? Lord, shall I die without begetting one story?

WID. Penthesilea nor all the cloven knights the poets treat of, yclad in mightiest petticoats, did her excel for gallant deeds, and with her honour still preserved her freedom. My brother loved her; and I have heard him swear Minerva might have owned her language; an eye like Pallas, Juno's wrists, a Venus for shape, and a mind chaste as Diana; but not so rough: never uncivilly cruel, nor faulty kind to any; no vanity, that sees more than lovers pay, nor blind to a gallant pa.s.sion. Her maxim was, he that could love, and tell her so handsomely, was better company, but not a better lover, than a silent man. Thus all pa.s.sions found her civility, and she a value from all her lovers. But alas! niece, this _was_ (which is a sad word)--_was_ handsome and _was_ beloved are abhorred sounds in women's ears.

[_The_ FIDDLERS _play again_.

PLEA. Hark! the fiddlers are merry still. Will not Secret have the wit to find us this morning, think you?

FID. [_Within._] G.o.d give you joy, Master Careless! G.o.d give your ladys.h.i.+p joy, my Lady Wild!

WID. What did the fellows say? G.o.d give me joy?

PLEA. As I live, I think so.

FID. G.o.d give you joy, Mistress Pleasant Wild!

WID. This is my nephew: I smell him in this knavery.

PLEA. Why did they give me joy by the name of Mistress Wild? I shall pay dear for a night's lodging if that be so; especially lying alone. By this light, there is some knavery afoot.

[_All the company confused without, and bid G.o.d give them joy._

JOLLY. Rise, rise, for shame; the year's afore you.

CAPT. Why, Ned Wild; why, Tom, will you not rise and let's in?

What, is it not enough to steal your wedding overnight, but lock yourselves up in the morning too? All your friends stay for points here, and kisses from the brides.

WILD. A little patience! you'll give us leave to dress us?

[_The women squeak when they speak_.

CARE. Why, what's o'clock, captain?

CAPT. It's late.

CARE. Faith, so it was before we slept.

WID. Why, nephew, what means this rudeness? As I live, I'll fall out with you. This is no jest.

WILD. No, as I live, aunt, we are in earnest; but my part lies here, and there's a gentleman will do his best to satisfy you.

[_They catch the women in their arms._] And, sweet Mistress Pleasant, I know you have so much wit as to perceive this business cannot be remedied by denials. Here we are, as you see, naked,[274] and thus have saluted hundreds at the window that pa.s.sed by, and gave us joy this morning.

PLEA. Joy! of what? what do you mean?

CARE. Madam, this is visible; and you may coy it, and refuse to call me husband, but I am resolved to call you wife, and such proofs I'll bring as shall not be denied.

[CARELESS _kisses the_ WIDOW.

WID. Promise yourself that; see whether your fine wits can make it good. You will not be uncivil?

CARE. Not a hair, but what you give, and that was in the contract before we undertook it; for any man may force a woman's body, but we have laid we will force your mind.

WILD. But that needs not, for we know by your discourse last night and this morning, we are men you have no aversion to; and I believe, if we had taken time, and wooed hard, this would have come o' course; but we had rather win you by wit, because you defied us.

WID. 'Tis very well, if it succeed.

CARE. And, for my part, but for the jest of winning you, and this way, not ten jointures should have made me marry.

WID. This is a new way of wooing.

CARE. 'Tis so, madam; but we have not laid our plot so weakly, though it were sudden, to leave it in anybody's power but our own to hinder it.

PLEA. Do you think so?

WILD. We are secure enough, if we can be true to ourselves.

CARE. Yet we submit in the midst of our strength, and beg you will not wifully spoil a good jest by refusing us. By this hand, we are both sound, and we'll be strangely honest, and never in ill humours; but live as merry as the maids, and divide the year between the town and the country. What say you, is't a match?

Your bed is big enough for two, and my meat will not cost you much: I'll promise nothing but one heart, one purse betwixt us, and a whole dozen of boys. Is't a bargain?

WID. Not if I can hinder it, as I live.

WILD. Faith, Mistress Pleasant, he hath spoken nothing but reason, and I'll do my best to make it good: come, faith, teach my aunt what to do, and let me strike the bargain upon your lips.

PLEA. No, sir, not to be half a queen; if we should yield now, your wit would domineer for ever: and still in all disputes (though never so much reason on our side) this shall be urged as an argument of your master-wit to confute us. I am of your aunt's mind, sir, and, if I can hinder it, it shall be no match.

WILD. Why, then know it is not in your powers to prevent it.

WID. Why? we are not married yet.

CARE. No, 'tis true.

Wid. By this good light, then, I'll be dumb for ever hereafter, lest I light upon the words of marriage by chance.

PLEA. 'Tis hard, when our own acts cannot be in our own power, gentlemen.

WILD. The plot is only known to four: the minister, and two that stood for fathers, and a simple country maid that waited upon you last night, which plays your chambermaid's part.