A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Vi Part 67

SIMPLICITY.

Gramercy, good Will, my wife shall love thee still; And since I can neither get Wit nor Wealth, Let my wife have her Will, and let me have my health.

G.o.d forgive me, I think I never name her, but it conjures her: look where she comes!

Be mannerly, boys, that she knock ye not with her staff: Keep your own counsel, and I'll make ye laugh.

What do ye lack? What lack ye?

Stand away, these boys, from my wares: Get ye from my stall, or I'll wring you by the ears: Let my customers see the wares. What lack ye?

What would ye have bought?

_Enter_ PAINFUL-PENURY, _attired like a water-bearing woman, with her tankard_.

PENURY.

You have customers enou', and if they were ought.

What do you with these boys here, to filch away your ware?

You show all your wit: you'll ne'er have more care.

WILL.

Content ye, good wife: we do not filch, but buy.

PENURY.

I meant not you, young master, G.o.d's blessing on your heart: You have bought indeed, sir, I see, for your part.

Be these two young gentlemen of your company?

Buy, gentlemen, buy ballads to make your friends merry.

WIT.

To stand long with your burden, methinks, you should be weary.

PENURY.

True, gentlemen; but you may see, poor Painful-Penury Is fain to carry three tankards for a penny.

But, husband, I say, come not home to dinner; it's Ember-day: You must eat nothing till night, but fast and pray.

I shall lose my draught at Conduit, and therefore I'll away.

Young gentlemen, G.o.d be with ye.

SIMPLICITY.

Wife, must I not dine to-day?

PENURY.

No, sir, by my fay.

[_Exit_ PENURY.

SIMPLICITY.

If I must not eat, I mean to drink the more: What I spare in bread, in ale I'll set on the score.

How say ye, my lads, and do I not speak wisely?

WIT.

Methinks ye do; and it's pretty that Simplicity Hath gotten to his wife plain Painful-Penury.

SIMPLICITY.

Yea, I thank G.o.d, though she he poor and scarce cleanly, Yet she is homely, careful, and comely.

_One call within_.

Wit, Wealth, and Will, come to your lords quickly.

WILL.

Must the scutcheons hang still?

_One within_.

Yea, let them alone.

WIT.

Farewell, Master Simplicity.

[_Exeunt_.

SIMPLICITY.

Farewell, good master boys, e'en heartily, e'en heartily, heartily.

And, hear ye, Will, I thank you for your hansel[245] truly.

Pretty lads! hark ye, sirs, how? Will, Wit, Wealth!

[_Re-]enter_ WIT.

WIT.

What's the matter, you call us back so suddenly?

SIMPLICITY.

I forgot to ask you whether your three lords of London be courtiers or citizens?

WIT.

Citizens born, and courtiers brought up. Is this all? Farewell.

[_Exit_.

SIMPLICITY.

Citizens born and courtiers brought up! I think so; for they that be born in London are half courtiers, before they see the court: for fineness and mannerliness, O, pa.s.sing! My manners and misbehaviour is mended half in half, since I gave over my mealman, and came to dwell in London: ye may see time doth much. Time wears out iron horseshoes: time tears out milstones: time seasons a pudding well; and time hath made me a free man, as free to bear water and sell ballads as the best of our copulation. I would have thought once my horse should have been free as soon as myself, and sooner too, for he would have stumbled with a sack of meal, and lien along in the channel with it, when he had done; and that some calls freedom. But it's but a dirty freedom, but, ye may see, bad horses were but jades in those days. But soft: here comes customers.

What lack ye? What is't ye lack? What lack ye? Come along, and buy nothing. Fine ballads! new ballads! What lack ye?

_Enter_ NEMO _and the three Lords_.

NEMO.

My lords, come on. What suits have you to me?

POLICY.

Renowned Nemo, the most only one That draws no breath but of th'eternal air, That knowest our suit before we bound to speak, For thou art the very Oracle of thoughts; Whose virtues do encompa.s.s thee about, As th'air surrounds this ma.s.sy globe of earth; Who hast in power whatever pleaseth thee, And canst bestow much more than we may crave, To thee we seek; to thee on knees we sue, That thou wilt deign from thraldom to release Those lovely dames, that London ladies are.

NEMO.

What, those three caitiffs, long ago condemn'd?

Love, Lucre, Conscience? well-deserving death, Being corrupt with all contagion: The spotted ladies of that stately town?

POMP.

Love, Lucre, Conscience, we of thee desire, Which in thyself hast all perfection, Accomplished with all integrity, And needest no help to do what pleaseth thee; Which holdest fame and fortune both thy slaves, And dost compel the Destinies draw the coach, To thee we sue, sith power thou hast thereto, To set those ladies at their liberty.