A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Xi Part 13

ABRA. _Thy servant, Abraham, sends this foolish ditty_.

PEN. You say true, in troth, sir.

ABRA. _Thy servant, Abraham, sends this foolish dit- Ty unto thee, pity both him and it_. [_Write._

PEN. _Ty unto thee:_ well, if she do not pity both, 'tis pity she should live.

ABRA. _But if thou still wilt poor Sir Abraham frump, Come, grim death, come! here give thy mortal thump_. [_Write._ So; now I'll read it together.

_I die, I sigh, thou precious stony jewel, O, wherefore wear'st thou silk, yet art so cruel?

To thee thy Ninny sends this foolish dit- Ty, and pity both him and it._[39]

_If thou deny, and still Sir Abraham frump, Come, grim death, come! here give thy mortal thump._ Let me see, who shall I get now to set it to a dumpish note.

PEN. In good faith, I do not know; but n.o.body that is wise, I am sure of that. It will be an excellent matter sung to the knacking of the tongs.

But to my business. G.o.d save thee, worthy and right wors.h.i.+pful Sir Abraham! what, musing and writing? O, this love will undo us all, and that made me prevent love, and undo myself. But what news of Mistress Lucida? ha! will she not come off, nor cannot you come on, little Abraham?

ABRA. Faith, I have courted her, and courted her; and she does, as everybody else does, laughs at all I can do or say.

PEN. Laughs; why that's a sign she is pleased. Do you not know, when a woman laughs, she's pleased?

ABRA. Ay, but she laughs most shamefully and most scornfully.

PEN. Scornfully! hang her, she's but a bauble.

ABRA. She's the fitter for my turn, sir; for they will not stick to say, I am a fool, for all I am a knight.[40]

PEN. Love has made you witty, little Nab; but what a mad villain art thou, a striker, a fiftieth part of Hercules, to get one wench with child, and go a-wooing to another.

ABRA. With child! a good jest, i' faith: whom have I got with child?

PEN. Why, Mistress Wagtail is with child, and will be deposed 'tis yours. She is my kinswoman, and I would be loth our house should suffer any disgrace in her; if there be law in England, which there should be, if we may judge by their consciences, or if I have any friends, the wench shall take no wrong. I cannot tell: I think my lord will stick to me.

ABRA. D'ye hear? talk not to me of friends, law, or conscience: if your kinswoman say she is with child by me, your kinswoman is an errant wh.o.r.e. Od's will, have you n.o.body to put your gulls upon but knights?

That Wagtail is a wh.o.r.e, and I'll stand to it.

PEN. Nay, you have stood to it already. But to call my cousin wh.o.r.e! you have not a mind to have your throat cut, ha' you?

ABRA. Troth, no great mind, sir.

PEN. Recant your words, or die. [_Draws his sword._

ABRA. Recant? O, base! out, sword, mine honour keep: Love, thou hast made a lion of a sheep.

PEN. But will you fight in this quarrel?

ABRA. I am resolved.

PEN. Heart! I have pulled an old house over my head: here's like to be a tall fray. I perceive a fool's valianter than a knave at all times.

Would I were well rid of him: I had as lief meet Hector, G.o.d knows, if he dare fight at all: they are all one to me; or, to speak more modernly, with one of the roaring boys. [_Aside._

ABRA. Have you done your prayers?

PEN. Pray give me leave, sir: put up, an't please you. Are you sure my cousin Wagtail is a wh.o.r.e?

ABRA. With sword in hand I do it not recant.

PEN. Well, it shall never be said Jack Pendant would venture his blood in a wh.o.r.e's quarrel. But, wh.o.r.e or no wh.o.r.e, she is most desperately in love with you: praises your head, your face, your nose, your eyes, your mouth: the fire of her commendations makes the pot of your good parts run over; and to conclude, if the wh.o.r.e have you not, I think the pond at Islington will be her bathing-tub, and give an end to mortal misery.

But if she belie you----pray, put up, sir; she is an errant wh.o.r.e, and so let her go.

ABRA. Does she so love me, say you?

PEN. Yes, yes: out of all question, the wh.o.r.e does love you abominable.

ABRA. No more of these foul terms: if she do love me, That goes by fate, I know it by myself.

I'll not deny but I have dallied with her.

PEN. Ay, but hang her, wh.o.r.e; dallying will get no children.

ABRA. Another _wh.o.r.e_, and draw! Where is the girl?

PEN. Condoling her misfortune in the gallery; Upon the rushes sitting all alone, And for Sir Abraham's love venting her moan.

ABRA. I know not what to say: fate's above all.

Come, let's go overbear her. Be this true, Welcome, my Wagtail: scornful Luce, adieu. [_Exit._

PEN. One way it takes yet. 'Tis a fool's condition, Whom none can love, out of his penury To catch most greedily at any wench That gives way to his love, or feigns her own First unto him: and so Sir Abraham now, I hope, will buy the pool where I will fish.

Thus a quick knave makes a fat fool his dish. [_Exit._

_Enter_ CAPTAIN POUTS.

CAPT. POUTS. I have played the melancholy a.s.s, and partly the knave, in this last business, but as the parson said that got the wench with child, "'Tis done now, sir; it cannot be undone, and my purse or I must smart for it."

_Enter_ SERVANT.

SER. Your trunks are s.h.i.+pped, and the tide falls out about twelve to-night.

CAPT. POUTS. I'll away. This law is like the basilisk, to see it first is the death on't.[41] This night and, n.o.ble London, farewell; I will never see thee more, till I be knighted for my virtues. Let me see, when shall I return? and yet I do not think, but there are a great many dubbed for their virtues; otherwise, how could there be so many poor knights?[42]

_Enter_ STRANGE, _like a soldier, amazedly_.

What art thou? what's thy news?

STRANGE. 'Zoons; a man is fain to break open doors, ere he can get in to you. I would speak with a general sooner.

CAPT. POUTS. Sir, you may: he owes less, peradventure; or if more, he is more able to pay't. What art?

STRANGE. A soldier; one that lives upon this buff jerkin: 'twas made of Fortunatus's pouch; and these are the points I stand upon. I am a soldier.

CAPT. POUTS. A counterfeit rogue you are.