Scene Third. Barneses Garden

Enter Master Barnes and his Wife.

M. Bar. Wife, in my minde to day you were too blame,
Although my patience did not blame ye for it:
Me thought the rules of love and neighbourhood
Did not direct your thoughts; all indirect
Were your proceedings in the entertaine
Of them that I invited to my house.
Nay, stay, I doe not chide, but counsell, wife,
And in the mildest manner that I may:
You neede not viewe me with a servants eye,
Whose vassaile sences tremble at the looke
Of his displeased master. O my wife,
You are my selfe! when selfe sees fault in selfe,
Selfe is sinne obstinate, if selfe amend not:
Indeede, I sawe a fault in thee my selfe,
And it hath set a foyle upon thy fame,
Not as the foile doth grace the diamond.

Mi. Bar. What fault, sir, did you see in me to day?

M. Bar. O, doe not set the organ of thy voice
On such a grunting key of discontent!
Doe not deforme the beautie of thy tongue
With such mishapen answeres. Rough wrathfull words
Are bastards got by rashnes in the thoughts:
Faire demeanors are vertues nuptiall babes,
The off-spring of the well instructed soule;
O, let them call thee mother, then, my wife!
So seeme not barren of good courtesie.

Mi. Bar. So; have ye done?

M. Bar. I, and I had done well,
If you would do what I advise for well.

Mi. Bar. Whats that?

M. Bar. Which is, that you would be good friendes
With mistresse Goursey.

Mi. Bar. With mistresse Goursey!

M. Bar. I, sweet wife.

Mis. Bar. Not so, sweet husband.

M. Bar. Could you but shew me any grounded cause.

Mis. Bar. The grounded cause I ground because I wil not.

M. Bar. Your will hath little reason, then, I thinke.

Mi. Bar. Yes, sir, my reason equalleth my will.

M. Bar. Lets heare your reason, for your will is great.

Mi. Bar. Why, for I will not.

M. Bar. Is all your reason 'for I will not,' wife?
Now, by my soule, I held yee for more wise,
Discreete, and of more temperature in sence,
Then in a sullen humour to affect
That womans will borne, common, scholler phrase:
Oft have I heard a timely married girle,
That newly left to call her mother mam,
Her father dad, but yesterday come from
'Thats my good girle, God send thee a good husband!'
And now being taught to speake the name of husband,
Will, when she would be wanton in her will,
If her husband aske her why, say 'for I will.'
Have I chid men for unmanly choyse,
That would not fit their yeares? have I seene thee
Pupell such greene yong things, and with thy counsell
Tutor their wits? and art thou now infected
With this disease of imperfection?
I blush for thee, ashamed at thy shame.

Mi. Bar. A shame on her that makes thee rate me so!

M. Bar. O black mouth'd rage, thy breath is boysterous,
And thou makst vertue shake at this high storme!
Shees of good report; I know thou knowst it.

Mi. Bar. She is not, nor I know not, but I know
That thou dost love her, therefore thinkst her so;
Thou bearst with her, because she beares with thee.
Thou mayst be ashamed to stand in her defence:
She is a strumpet, and thou art no honest man
To stand in her defence against thy wife.
If I catch her in my walke, now, by Cockes bones,
Ile scratch out both her eyes.

M. Bar. O God!

Mi. Bar. Nay, never say 'O God' for the matter:
Thou art the cause; thou badst her to my house,
Onely to bleare the eyes of Goursey, didst not?
But I wil send him word, I warrant thee,
And ere I sleepe to[o]; trust upon it, sir.

Exit.

M. Bar. Me thinkes this is a mighty fault in her;
I could be angry with her: O, if I be so,
I shall but put a linke unto a torche,
And so give greater light to see her fault.
Ile rather smother it in melancholly:
Nay, wisedome bids me shunne that passion;
Then I will studie for a remedy.
I have a daughter,—now, heaven invocate,
She be not of like spirit as her mother!
If so, sheel be a plague unto her husband,
If that he be not patient and discreet,
For that I hold the ease of all such trouble.
Well, well, I would my daughter had a husband,
For I would see how she could demeane her selfe
In that estate; it may be, ill enough,—
And, so God shall help me, well remembred now!
Franke Goursey is his fathers sonne and heyre,
A youth that in my heart I have good hope on;
My sences say a match, my soule applaudes
The motion: O, but his lands are great,
Hee will looke high; why, I will straine my selfe
To make her dowry equall with his land.
Good faith, and twere a match, twould be a meanes
To make their mothers friends. Ile call my daughter,
To see how shees disposde to marriage.—
Mall, where are yee?

Enter Mall.

Mall. Father, heere I am.

M. Bar. Where is your mother?

Mal. I saw her not, forsooth, since you and she
Went walking both together to the garden.

M. Ba. Dost thou heare me, girle? I must dispute with thee.

Mal. Father, the question, then, must not be hard,
For I am very weake in argument.

M. Bar. Well, this it is; I say tis good to marry.

Mal. And this say I, tis not good to marry.

M. Bar. Were it not good, then all men would not marry;
But now they doe.

Mal. Marry, not all; but it is good to marry.

M. Bar. Is it both good and bad? how can this be?

Mal. Why, it is good to them that marry well;
To them that marry ill, no greater hell.

M. Bar. If thou mightst marry well, wouldst thou agree?

Mall. I cannot tell; heaven must appoint for me.

M. Bar. Wench, I am studying for thy good, indeed.

Mall. My hopes and dutie wish your thoughts good speed.

M. Bar. But tell me, wench, hast thou a minde to marry?

Mall. This question is too hard for bashfulnes;
And, father, now ye pose my modestie.
I am a maide, and when ye aske me thus,
I like a maide must blush, looke pale and wan,
And then looke pale againe; for we change colour
As our thoughts change. With true fac'd passion
Of modest maidenhead I could adorne me,
And to your question make a sober cursie
And with close clipt civilitie be silent;
Or els say 'no, forsooth,' or 'I, forsooth.'
If I said 'no, forsooth,' I lyed, forsooth:
To lye upon my selfe were deadly sinne,
Therefore I will speake truth, and shame the divell.
Father, when first I heard you name a husband,
At that same very name my spirits quickned.
Dispaire before had kild them, they were dead:
Because it was my hap so long to tarry,
I was perswaded I should never marry;
And, sitting sowing, thus upon the ground
I fell in traunce of meditation;
But comming to my selfe, 'O Lord,' said I,
'Shall it be so? must I unmarryed dye?'
And being angry, father, farther said,
'Now, by saint Anne, I will not dye a maide!'
Good faith, before I came to this ripe groath,
I did accuse the labouring time of sloath:
Me thought the yeere did run but slow about,
For I thought each yeare ten I was without.
Being foureteene and toward the other yeare,
Good Lord, thought I, fifteene will nere be heere!
For I have heard my mother say that then
Prittie maides were fit for handsome men:
Fifteene past, sixeteene, and seventeene too,
What, thought I, will not this husband do?
Will no man marry me? have men forsworne
Such beauty and such youth? shall youth be worne,
As rich mens gownes, more with age then use?
Why, then I let restrained fansie loose,
And bad it gaze for pleasure; then love swore me
To doe what ere my mother did before me;
Yet, in good faith, I was very loath,
But now it lyes in you to save my oath:
If I shall have a husband, get him quickly,
For maides that weares corke shooes may step awry.

M. Bar. Beleeve me, wench, I doe not repprehend thee,
But for this pleasant answere do commend thee.
I must confesse, love doth thee mighty wrong,
But I will see thee have thy right ere long;
I know a young man, whom I holde most fit
To have thee both for living and for wit:
I will goe write about it presentle.

Mall. Good father, do.

[Exit Barnes.]

O God, me thinkes I should
Wife it as fine as any woman could!
I could carry a porte to be obayde,
Carry a maistering eye upon my maide,
With 'Minion, do your businesse, or Ile make yee,'
And to all house authoritie be take me.
O God, would I were married! be my troth,
But if I be not, I sweare Ile keepe my oath.

Ent. Mi. Ba.

[Mi. Ba.] How now, minion, wher have you bin gadding?

Mall. Forsooth, my father called me forth to him.

Mi. Bar. Your father! and what said he too ye, I pray?

Mall. Nothing, forsooth.

Mi. Bar. Nothing! that cannot be; something he said.

Mall. I, somthing that as good as nothing was.

Mi. Bar. Come, let me heare that somthing nothing, then.

Mal. Nothing but of a husband for me, mother.

Mi. Bar. A husband! that was something: but what husband?

Mall. Nay, faith, I know not, mother: would I did!

Mis. Bar. I, 'would ye did'! i faith, are ye so hasty?

Mall. Hasty, mother! why, how olde am I?

Mis. Ba. To yong to marry.

Mal.

Nay, by the masse, ye lie.

Mother, how olde were you when you did marry?

Mis. Ba. How olde so ere I was, yet you shall tarry.

Mall. Then the worse for me. Hark, mother, harke!
The priest forgets that ere he was a clarke:
When you were at my yeeres, Ile holde my life,
Your minde was to change maidenhead for wife.
Pardon me, mother, I am of your minde,
And, by my troth, I take it but by kinde.

Mis. Bar. Do ye heare, daughter? you shal stay my leasure.

Mall. Do you heare, mother? would you stay fro pleasure
When ye have minde to it? Go to, there's no wrong
Like this, to let maides lye alone so long:
Lying alone they muse but in their beds
How they might loose their long kept maiden heads.
This is the cause there is so many scapes,
For women that are wise will not lead apes
In hell: I tel yee, mother, I say true;—
Therefore, come, husband, maiden head, adew!

Exit.

Mis. Bar. Well, lustie guts, I meane to make ye stay,
And set some rubbes in your mindes smothest way.

Enter Philip.

Phi. Mother—

Mi. Ba. How now, sirra, where have ye bin walking?

Phil. Over the meades, halfe way to Milton, mother,
To beare my friend Franke Goursey company.

Mi. Ba. Wher's your blew coat, your sword and buckler, sir?
Get you such like habite for a servingman,
If you will waight upon the brat of Goursey.

Phil. Mother, that you are moov'd, this maks me wonder,
When I departed I did leave yee friends:
What undigested jarre hath since betided?

Mi. Bar. Such as almost doth choake thy mother, boy,
And stifles her with the conceit of it;
I am abusde, my sonne, by Gourseys wife.

Phil. By mistresse Goursey?

Mi. Bar. Mistresse flurt, yon foule strumpet,
Light a love, short heeles! Mistresse Goursey
Call her againe, and thou wert better no.

Phil. O my deare mother, have some patience!

Mis. Bar. I, sir, have patience, and see your father
To rifle up the treasure of my love,
And play the spend-thrift upon such an harlot!
This same will make me have patience, will it not?

Phili. This same is womens most impatience:
Yet, mother, I have often heard ye say
That you have found my father temperate,
And ever free from such affections.

Mi. Bar. I, till my too much love did glut his thoughts,
And make him seek for change.

Phi. O, change your minde!
My father beares more cordiall love to you.

Mi. B. Thou liest, thou liest, for he loves Gourseys wife,
Not me.

Phil. Now, I sweare, mother, you are much too blame;
I durst be sworne he loves you as his soule.

Mi. Bar. Wilt thou be pampered by affection?
Will nature teach thee such vilde perjurie?
Wilt thou be sworne, I, forsworne, carelesse boy?
And if thou swearst, I say he loves me not.

Phil. He loves ye but too well, I sweare,
Unlesse ye knew much better how to use him.

Mi. Bar. Doth he so, sir? thou unnaturall boy!
'Too well,' sayest thou? that word shall cost thee somwhat:
O monstrous! have I brought thee up to this?
'Too well'! O unkinde, wicked, and degenerate,
Hast thou the heart to say so of thy mother?
Well, God will plague thee fort, I warrant thee:
Out on thee, villaine, fie upon thee, wretch!
Out of my sight, out of my sight, I say!

Phil. This ayre is pleasant, and doth please me well,
And here I will stay.

Mi. Bar. Wilt thou, stubborne villaine?

Enter M. Bar.

M. Bar. How now, whats the matter?

Mi. Bar. Thou setst thy sonne to scoffe and mocke at me:
Ist not sufficient I am wrongd of thee,
But he must be an agent to abuse me?
Must I be subject to my cradle too?
O God, O God amend it!

[Exit.]

M. Ba. Why, how now, Phillip? is this true, my sonne?

Phil. Deare father, she is much impatient:
Nere let that hand assist me in my need,
If I more said then that she thought amisse
To thinke that you were so licentious given;
And thus much more, when she inferd it more,
I swore an oath you lov'd her but too well:
In that as guiltie I do hold my selfe,
Now that I come to more considerate triall:
I know my fault; I should have borne with her:
Blame me for rashnesse, then, not for want of dutie.

M. Ba. I do absolve thee; and come hether, Phillip:
I have writ a letter unto master Goursey,
And I will tell thee the contents thereof;
But tell me first, thinkst thou Franke Goursey loves thee?

Phil. If that a man devoted to a man,
Loyall, religious in loves hallowed vowes,
If that a man that is soule laboursome
To worke his owne thoughts to his friends delight,
May purchase good opinion with his friend,
Then I may say, I have done this so well,
That I may thinke Franke Goursey loves me well.

M. Ba. Tis well; and I am much deceived in him,
And if he be not sober, wise, and valliant.

Phi. I hope my father takes me for thus wise,
I will not glew my selfe in love to one
That hath not some desert of vertue in him:
What ere you thinke of him, beleeve me, father,
He will be answerable to your thoughts
In any quallity commendable.

M. Bar. Thou chearst my hopes in him; and, in good faith,
Thoust made my love complete unto thy friend:
Phillip, I love him, and I love him so.
I could affoorde him a good wife I know.

Phi. Father, a wife!

M. Bar. Phillip, a wife.

Phil. I lay my life, my sister.

M. Bar. I, in good faith.

Phil. Then, father, he shall have her; he shall, I sweare.

M. Bar. How canst thou say so, knowing not his minde?

Phi. All is one for that; I will goe to him straight.
Father, if you would seeke this seaven yeares day,
You could not finde a fitter match for her;
And he shall have her, I sweare he shall;
He were as good be hang'd as once deny her.
I faith, Ile to him.

M. Bar. Hairebraine, hairebraine, stay!
As yet we do not know his fathers minde:
Why, what will master Goursey say, my sonne,
If we should motion it without his knowledge?
Go to, hees a wise and discreet gentleman,
And that expects from me all honest parts;
Nor shall he faile his expectation;
First I doe meane to make him privy to it:
Phillip, this letter is to that effect.

Phil. Father, for Gods sake send it quickly, then:
Ile call your man.—What, Hugh! wheres Hugh, there, ho?

M. Bar. Phillip, if this would proove a match,
It were the only meanes that could be found
To make thy mother frends with Mist[resse] Gou[rsey].

Phil. How, a match! Ile warrant ye, a match.
My sister's faire, Franke Goursie he is rich;
Her dowrie too will be sufficient;
Franke's yong, and youth is apt to love;
And, by my troth, my sisters maiden head
Standes like a game at tennis,—if the ball
Hit into the hole, or hazard, farewell all!

Ma. Bar. How now, where's Hugh?

[Enter Nicholas.]

Phil. Why, what doth this proverbial with us?
Why, where's Hugh?

M. Bar. Peace, peace.

Phil. Where's Hugh, I say?

M. Bar. Be not so hasty, Phillip.

Phil. Father, let me alone,
I doe it but to make my selfe some sport.
This formall foole, your man, speakes naught but proverbs,
And speake men what they can to him, hee'l answere
With some rime, rotten sentence, or olde saying,
Such spokes as the ancient of the parish use,
With, 'neighbour, tis an olde proverbe and a true,
Goose giblets are good meate, old sacke better then new';
Then saies another, 'neighbour, that is true';
And when each man hath drunke his gallon round,
A penny pot, for thats the olde mans gallon,
Then doth he licke his lips, and stroke his beard
That's glewed together with his slavering droppes
Of yesty ale, and when he scarce can trim
His gouty fingers, thus hee'l phillip it,
And with a rotten hem say, 'hey, my hearts,
Merry go sorrie! cocke and pye, my heartes!'
But then their saving penny proverbe comes,
And that is this, 'they that will to the wine,
Berlady mistresse, shall lay theyr penny to mine.'
This was one of this penny-fathers bastards,
For, on my lyfe, he was never begot
Without the consent of some great proverb-monger.

M. Bar. O, ye are a wag.

Phil. Well, now unto my busines.
Swounds, will that mouth, thats made of olde sed sawes
And nothing else, say nothing to us now?

Nich. O master Phillip, forbeare; you must not leape over the style before you come at it; haste makes waste; softe fire makes sweete malt; not too fast for falling; there's no hast to hang true men.

Phil. Father, we ha'te, ye see, we ha'te. Now will I see if my memorie will serve for some proverbs too. O,—a painted cloath were as wel worth a shilling as a theefe woorth a halter; well, after my heartie commendations, as I was at the making hereof; so it is, that I hope as you speed, so you're sure; a swift horse will tire, but he that trottes easilie will indure. You have most learnedly proverbde it, commending the vertue of patience or forbearance, but yet, you know, forbearance is no quittance.

Nich. I promise yee, maister Philip, you have spoken as true as steele.

Phil. Father, theres a proverbe well applied.

Nich. And it seemeth unto me, I, it seemes to me, that you, maister Phillip, mocke me: do you not know, qui mocat mocabitur? mocke age, and see how it will prosper.

Phil. Why, ye whoresen proverb-booke bound up in follio,
Have yee no other sence to answer me
But every worde a proverbe? no other English?
Well, Ile fulfill a proverb on thee straight.

Nich. What is it, sir?

Phil. Ile fetch my fist from thine eare.

Nich. Beare witnesse he threatens me!

Phil. Father, that same is the cowards common proverbe.—But come, come, sirra, tell me where Hugh is.

Nich. I may, and I will; I need not except I list; you shall not commaund me, you give me neither meate, drinke, nor wages; I am your fathers man, and a man's a man, and a have but a hose on his head; do not misuse me so, do not; for though he that is bound must obay, yet he that will not tarrie, may runne away, so he may.

M. Bar. Peace, Nicke, Ile see he shall use thee well;
Go to, peace, sirra: here, Nicke, take this letter,
Carrie it to him to whom it is directed.

Nich. To whom is it?

M. Bar. Why, reade it: canst thou read?

Nich. Forsooth, though none of the best, yet meanly.

M. Bar. Why, dost thou not use it?

Nich. Forsooth, as use makes perfectnes, so seldome seene is soone forgotten.

M. Bar. Well said: but goe; it is to master Goursey.

Phil. Now, sir, what proverbe have ye to deliver a letter?

Nich. What need you to care? who speakes to you? you may speake when you are spoken to, and keep your winde to coole your pottage. Well, well, you are my maisters sonne, and you looke for his lande; but they that hope for dead mens shooes, may hap to go barefoote: take heed; as soone goes the yong sheep to the pot as the olde. I pray God save my maysters life, for sildome comes the better!

Phil. O, he hath given it me! Farewell, proverbes.

Nich. Farewell, frost.

Phil. Shal I fling an old shoe after ye?

Nich. No; you should say, God send faire weather after me!

Phil. I meane for good lucke.

Nich. A good lucke on ye!

Exit.

M. Bar. Alas, poore foole, he uses all his wit!
Phillip, in faith this mirth hath cheered thought,
And cussend it of his right play of passion.
Goe after Nick, and, when thou thinkst hees there,
Go in and urge to that which I have writ:
Ile in these meddowes make a cerckling walke,
And in my meditation conjure so,
As that same fend of thought, selfe-eating anger,
Shall by my spels of reason vanish quite:
Away, and let me heare from thee to night.

Phil. To night! yes, that you shall: but harke ye, father;
Looke that you my sister waking keepe,
For Franke I sweare shall kisse her ere I sleepe.

Exeunt.