Scene Eighth. In front of Barneses House

Enter Philip and Frank [and Boy].

Phil. Come, Franke, now we are hard by the house:
But how now, sad?

Fran. No, to studie how to woe thy sister.

Phil. How, man? how to woe her! why, no matter how;
I am sure thou wilt not be ashamed to woe.
Thy cheekes not subject to a childish blush,
Thou hast a better warrant by thy wit;
I know thy oratorie can unfold
Quicke invention, plausible discourse,
And set such painted beautie on thy tongue,
As it shall ravish every maiden sence;
For, Franke, thou art not like the russet youth
I tolde thee of, that went to woe a wench,
And being full stuft up with fallow wit
And meddow matter, askt the pretty maide
How they solde corne last market day with them,
Saying, 'Indeed, twas very deare with them.'
And, do ye heare, ye had not need be so,
For she will, Francis, throwly trie your wit:
Sirra, sheel bow the mettall of your wits,
And, if they cracke, she will not hold ye currant;
Nay, she will way your wits as men way angels,
And, if it lacke a graine, she will not change with ye.
I cannot speake it but in passion,
She is a wicked wench to make a jest;
Aye me, how full of floutes and mockes she is!

Fran. Some aqua vitæ reason to recover
This sicke discourser! Sound not, prethy, Philip.
Tush, tush, I do not thinke her as thou saiest:
Perhaps shees opinions darling, Phillip,
Wise in repute, the crowes bird. O my friend,
Some judgements slave themselves to small desart,
And wondernize the birth of common wit,
When their owne straungenes do but make that strange,
And their ill errors do but make that good:
And why should men debase to make that good?
Perhaps such admiration winnes her wit.

Phil. Well, I am glad to heare this bold prepare
For this encounter. Forward, hardy Franke!
Yonders the window with the candle int;
Belike shees putting on her night attire:
I told ye, Franke, twas late. Well, I will call her,
Mary, softly, that my mother may not heare.—
Mall, sister Mall!

Enter Mall in the window.

Mal. How now, whose there?

Phil. Tis I.

Mal. Tis I! who I? I, quoth the dogge, or what?
A Christ crosse rowe I?

Phi. No, sweete pinckanie.

Mal. O, ist you, wilde oates?

Phil. I, forsooth, wanton.

Mal. Well said, scape thrift.

Fran. Philip, be these your usuall best salutes?

Phi. This is the harmlesse chiding of that dove.

Fran. Dove! one of those that drawe the queene of love?

Mal. How now? whose that, brother? whose that with ye?

Phil. A gentleman, my friend.

Mal. Beladie, he hath a pure wit.

Fran. How meanes your holy judgement?

Mal. O, well put in, sir!

Fran. Up, you would say.

Mal. Well climde, gentleman!
I pray, sir, tell me, do you carte the queene of love?

Fran. Not cart her, but couch her in your eye,
And a fit place for gentle love to lye.

Mal. I, but me thinkes you speake without the booke,
To place a fower wheele waggon in my looke:
Where will you have roome to have the coachman sit?

Fran. Nay, that were but small manners, and not fit:
His dutie is, before you bare to stand,
Having a lustie whipstocke in his hand.

Ma. The place is voide; will you provide me one?

Fra. And if you please, I will supply the roome.

Mal. But are ye cunning in the carmans lash?
And can ye whistle well?

Fran. Yes, I can well direct the coache of love.

Mal. Ah cruell carter, would you whip a dove?

Phil. Harke ye, sister—

Mal. Nay, but harke ye, brother;
Whose white boy is that same? know ye his mother?

Phil. He is a gentleman of a good house.

Mal. Why, is his house of gold?
Is it not made of lyme and stone like this?

Phil. I meane, hees well descended.

Mal. God be thanked!
Did he descend some steeple or some ladder?

Phi. Well, you will still be crosse: I tell ye, sister,
This gentleman by all your friends consent
Must be your husband.

Mal. Nay, not all, some sing another note;
My mother will say no, I hold a groate.
But I thought twas somewhat, he would be a carter;
He hath beene whipping lately some blinde beare,
And now he would ferke the blinde boy heere with us.

Phil. Well, do you heare, you, sister, mistresse Would-Have?
You that do long for somewhat, I know what—
My father tolde me—go to, Ile tell all
If ye be crosse—do ye heare me? I have labourd
A yeares worke in this afternoone for ye:
Come from your cloyster, votarie, chas[t]e nun,
Come downe and kisse Franke Gourseys mothers sonne.

Mal. Kisse him, I pray?

Phi. Go to, stale maidenhead! come downe, I say,
You seveneteene and upward, come, come downe;
You'l stay till twentie else for your wedding gowne.

Mal. Nun, votarie, stale maidenhead, seventeen and upward!
Here be names! what, nothing else?

Fran. Yes, or a faire built steeple without bels.

Mal. Steeple! good people, nay, another cast.

Fran. I, or a well made ship without a mast.

Mal. Fie, not so big, sir, by one part of foure.

Fran. Why, then, ye are a boate without an oare.

Mal. O, well rode, wit! but whats your fare, I pray?

Fran. Your faire selfe must be my fairest pay.

Mal. Nay, and you be so deare, Ile chuse another.

Fran. Why, take your first man, wench, and go no further.

Phi. Peace, Francis.—Harke ye, sister, this I say:
You know my mind; or answer, I or nay.
Wit and judgement hath resolvde his mind,
And he foresees what after he shall finde:
If such discretion, then, shall governe you,
Vow love to him, heele do the like to you.

Mal. Vow love! who would not love such a comely feature,
Nor high nor lowe, but of the middle stature?
A middle man, thats the best syze indeed;
I like him well: love graunt us well to speed!

Fran. And let me see a woman of that tallnesse,
So slender and of such a middle smalnesse,
So olde enough, and in each part so fit,
So faire, so kinde, endued with so much wit,
Of so much wit as it is held a wonder,
Twere pittie to keepe love and her asunder;
Therefore go up, my joy, call downe my blisse;
Bid her come seale the bargaine with a kisse.

Mal. Franke, Franke, I come through dangers, death, and harmes,
To make loves patent with my seale of armes.

Phi. But, sister, softly, least my mother heare.

Mal. Hush, then: mum, mouse in cheese, cat is neere.

Exit Mal.

Fran. Now, in good faith, Philip, this makes me smile,
That I have woed and wonne in so small while.

Phi. Francis, indeed, my sister, I dare say,
Was not determined to say thee nay;
For this same tother thing, calde maiden-head,
Hangs by so small a haire or spiders thred,
And worne so too with time, it must needs fall,
And, like a well lur'de hawke, she knows her call.

[Enter Mall.]

Mal. Whist, brother, whist! my mother heard me tread,
And askt, Whose there? I would not answer her;
She calde, A light! and up shees gone to seeke me:
There when she findes me not, sheel hether come;
Therefore dispatch, let it be quickly done.
Francis, my loves lease I do let to thee,
Date of my life and thine: what sayest thou to me?
The entring, fine, or income thou must pay,
Are kisses and embrases every day;
And quarterly I must receive my rent;
You know my minde.

Fran. I gesse at thy intent:
Thou shalt not misse a minute of thy time.

Mal. Why, then, sweet Francis, I am onely thine.—
Brother, beare witnesse.

Phi. Do ye deliver this as your deed?

Mul. I do, I do.

Ph. God send ye both good speed! Gods Lord, my mother!
Stand aside, and closely too, least that you be espied.

[Enter Mistresse Barnes.]

Mi. Ba. Whose there?

Phi. Mother, tis I.

Mis. Ba. You disobedient ruffen, carlesse wretch,
That said your father lovde me but too well!
Ile thinke on't when thou thinkst I have forgotten it:
Whose with thee else?—How now, minion? you!
With whom? with him!—Why, what make you heere, sir,
And thus late too? what, hath your mother sent ye
To cut my throate, that heere you be in waite?—
Come from him, mistris, and let go his hand.—
Will ye not, sir?

Fra. Stay, mistresse Barnes, or mother, what ye will;
Shees my wife, and here she shall be still.

Mi. Ba. How, sir? your wife! wouldst thou my daughter have?
Ile rather have her married to her grave.
Go to, be gone, and quickly, or I sweare
Ile have my men beate ye for staying here.

Phi. Beate him, mother! as I am true man,
They were better beate the divell and his dam.

Mi. Bar. What, wilt thou take his part?

Phil. To do him good,
And twere to wade hetherto up in blood.

Fran. God a mercy, Phil!—But, mother, heare me.

Mis. Bar. Calst thou me mother? no, thy mothers name
Carryes about with it reproche and shame.
Give me my daughter: ere that she shall wed
A strumpets sonne, and have her so mislead,
Ile marry her to a carter; come, I say,
Give me her from thee.

Fra. Mother, not to day,
Nor yet to morrow, till my lives last morrow
Make me leave that which I with leave did borrow:
Heere I have borrowed love, Ile not denaie it.—
Thy wedding night's my day, then Ile repay it.—
Till then sheel trust me.—Wench, ist not so?
And if it be, say I, if not, say no.

Mal. Mother, good mother, heare me! O good God,
Now we are even, what, would you make us odde?
Now, I beseech ye, for the love of Christ,
To give me leave once to do what I list.
I am as you were when you were a maide;
Gesse by your selfe how long you would have staide,
Might you have had your will: as good begin
At first as last, it saves us from much sinne;
Lying alone, we muse on things and things,
And in our mindes one thought another brings:
This maides life, mother, is an idle life.
Therefore Ile be, I, I will be a wife;
And, mother, doe not mistrust my age or power,
I am sufficient, I lacke nere an houre;
I had both wit to graunt when he did woe me,
And strength to beare what ere he can doe to me.

Mi. Bar. Well, bold-face, but I meane to make you stay.
Goe to, come from him, or Ile make ye come:
Will yee not come?

Phi. Mother, I pray forbeare;
This match is for my sister.

Mi. Bar. Villaine, tis not;
Nor she shall not be so matcht now.

Phi. In troth, she shall, and your unruly hate
Shall not rule us; weele end all this debate
By this begun devise.

Mi. Bar. I, end what you begun! Villaines, theeves,
Give me my daughter! will ye rob me of her?—
Help, help! theil rob me heere, theil rob me heere!

Enter Master Barnes and his men.

M. Bar. How now? what outcry is here? why, how now, woman?

Mi. Ba. Why, Gourseys sonne, confederates with this boy,
This wretch unnaturall and undutifull,
Seekes hence to steale my daughter: will you suffer it?
Shall he, thats sonne to my arche-enemy,
Enjoy her? have I brought her up to this?
O God, he shall not have her, no, he shall not!

M. Bar. I am sorry she knowes it. [Aside].—Harke ye, wife,
Let reason moderate your rage a little.
If you examine but his birth and living,
His wit and good behaviour, you will say,
Though that ill hate make your opinion bad,
He dooth deserve as good a wife as she.

Enter Mistris Goursey and Coomes.

Mi. Bar. Why, will you give consent he shall enjoy her?

M. Bar. I, so that thy minde would agree with mine.

Mi. Bar. My minde shall nere agree to this agreement.

M. Ba. And yet it shall go forward:—but who's heere?
What, mistris Goursey! how knew she of this?

Phi. Franke, thy mother.

Fra. Swones, where? a plague uppon it!
I thinke the devill is set to crosse this match.

Mi. Go. This is the house, Dick Coomes, and yonders light:
Let us go neere. How now? me thinkes I see
My sonne stand hand in hand with Barnes his daughter.—
Why, how now, sirra? is this time of night
For you to be abroad? what have we heere?
I hope that love hath not thus coupled you.

Fra. Love, by my troth, mother, love: she loves me,
And I love her; then we must needs agree.

Mi. Bar. I, but Ile keep her sure enough from thee.

Mi. Go. It shall not need. Ile keep him safe enough;
Be sure he shal not graft in such a stock.

Mi. Bar. What stock, forsooth? as good a stock as thine:
I doe not meane that he shall graft in mine.

Mi. Gou. Nor shall he, mistris.—Harke, boy; th'art but mad
To love the branch that hath a roote so bad.

Fra. Then, mother, Ile graft a pippin on a crab.

Mi. Gou. It will not proove well.

Fra. But Ile proove my skill.

Mi. Bar. Sir, but you shall not.

Fra. Mothers both, I will.

M. Bar. Harke, Phillip: send away thy sister straight;
Let Francis meete her where thou shall appoint;
Let them go severall to shun suspition,
And bid them goe to Oxford both this night;
There to morrow say that we will meete them,
And there determine of their marriage. [Aside.]

Phi. I will: though it be very late and darke,
My sister will endure it for a husband. [Aside.]

M. Ba. Well, then, at Carfolkes, boy, I meane to meet them. [Aside.]

Phil. Enough.

Exit [Master Barnes].

Would they would begin to chide!
For I would have them brawling, that meane while
They may steale hence, to meete where I appoint it. [Aside].—
What, mother, will you let this match go forward?—
Or, mistresse Goursey, will you first agree?

Mi. Gou. Shall I agree first?

Phi. I, why not? come, come.

Mi. Go. Come from her, sonne, and if thou lov'st thy mother.

Mi. Bar. With the like spell, daughter, I conjure thee.

Mi. G. Francis, by faire means let me win thee from her,
And I will gild my blessing, gentle sonne,
With store of angels. I would not have thee
Check thy good fortune by this cusning choise:
O, doe not thrall thy happie libertie
In such a bondage! if thou'lt be needs bound,
Be, then, to better worth; this worthlesse choise
Is not fit for thee.

Mi. Bar. Ist not fit for him? wherefore ist not fit?
Is he too brave a gentleman, I praie?
No, tis not fit; she shall not fit his turne:
If she were wise, she would be fitter for
Three times his better.—Minion, go in, or Ile make ye;
Ile keep ye safe from him, I warrant ye.

Mi. Gou. Come, Francis, come from her.

Fra. Mothers, with both hands shove I hate from love,
That like an ill companion would infect
The infant minde of our affection:
Within this cradle shall this minutes babe
Be laide to rest; and thus Ile hug my joy.

Mi. Gou. Wilt thou be obstinate, thou selfe wilde boy?
Nay, then, perforce Ile parte ye, since ye will not.

Coom. Doe yee heare, mistresse? praie yee give me leave to talke two or three cold words with my yong master.—Harke ye, sir, yee are my masters sonne, and so foorth; and indeed I beare ye some good will, partlie for his sake, and partly for your own; and I do hope you do the like to me,—I should be sorry els. I must needs saie, ye are a yong man; and for mine owne part, I have seene the world, and I know what belongs to causes, and the experience that I have, I thanke God I have travelled for it.

Fra. Why, how far have yee travelled for it?

Boy. From my masters house to the ale-house.

Coo. How, sir?

Bo. So, sir.

Coo. Go to.—I praie, correct you boie; twas nere a good world, since a boie would face a man so.

Fra. Go to.—Forward, man.

Coom. Wel, sir, so it is, I would not wish ye to marry without my mistres consent.

Fra. And why?

Coom. Nay, theres nere a why but there is a wherefore; I have known some have done the like, and they have daunst a galliard at Beggers bush for it.

Boy. At Beggers bush!—here him no more, maister; he doth bedawbe ye with his durty speech.—Doe ye heare, sir? how farre stands Beggers bushe from your fathers house, sir? How, thou whorson refuge of a tailor, that wert prentise to a tailor half an age, and because if thou hadst served ten ages thou wouldst proove but a botcher, thou leapst from the shop board to a blew coate, doth it become thee to use thy tearmes so? wel, thou degree above a hackney, and ten degrees under a page, sow up your lubber lips, or tis not your sworde and buckler shall keep my poniard from your brest.

Coo. Do yee heare, sir? this is your boy.

Fran. How then?

Coom. You must breech him for it.

Fran. Must I? how, if I will not?

Coom. Why, then, tis a fine world when boies keep boies, and know not how to use them.

Fra. Boy, ye rascall!

Mi. Gour. Strike him, and thou darst.

Coom. Strike me! alas, he were better strike his father!— Sownes, go to, put up your bodkin.

Fran. Mother, stand by; Ile teach that rascall—

Coom. Go to, give me good words, or, by Gods dines, Ile buckle ye for all your bird-spit.

Fran. Will ye so, sir?

Phi. Stay, Franke, this pitch of frensie will defile thee;
Meddle not with it: thy unreprooved vallour
Should be high minded; couch it not so low.—
Dost heare me? take occasion to slip hence,
But secretly, let not thy mother see thee:
At the back side there is a cunny greene;
Stay there for me, and Mall and I will come to thee. [Aside.]

Fra. Enough, I will. [Aside].—Mother, you doe me wrong
To be so peremptory in your commaund,
And see that rascall to abuse me so.

Coom. Rascall! take that and take all! Do ye heare, sir? I doe not meane to pocket up this wrong.

Bo. I know why that is.

Coo. Why?

Bo. Because you have nere a pocket.

Co. A whip, sira, a whip!—But, sir, provide your tooles against to morrow morning; tis somewhat darke now, indeed: you know Dawsons close, betweene the hedge and the pond; tis good even ground; Ile meete you there; and I do not, call me cut, and you be a man, shew yourselfe a man; weele have a bout or two; and so weele part for that present.

Fran. Well, sir, well.

Nic. [approaching.] Boy, have they appointed to fight?

Boy. I, Nicholas; wilt not thou go see the fray?

Nich. No, indeed; even as they brewe, so let them bake. I wil not thrust my hand into the flame, and need not; tis not good to have an oare in another mans boate; little said is soone amended, and in little medling commeth great rest; tis good sleeping in a whole skin; so a man might come home by Weeping Crosse: no, by lady, a friend is not so soone gotten as lost; blessed are the peace-makers; they that strike with the sword, shall be beaten with the scabberd.

Phil. Well said, proverbs: nere another to that purpose?

Nic. Yes, I could have said to you, sir, Take heed is a good reed.

Phil. Why to me, take heede?

Ni. For happy is he whom other mens harms do make to beware.

Phi. O, beware, Franke!—Slip away, Mall.—You know what I told ye. Ile hold our mothers both in talk meanwhile. [Aside.] —Mother, and mistris Barnes, me thinkes you should not stand in hatred so hard one with the other.

Mi. Bar. Should I not, sir? should I not hate a harlot,
That robs me of my right, vilde boye?

Mi. Gou. That tytle I returne unto thy teeth,

[Exeunt Francis and Mall.]

And spit the name of harlot in thy face.

Mi. Bar. Well, tis not time of night to hold out chat
With such a scold as thou art; therefore now
Thinke that I hate thee as I doe the devill.

Mi. Gou. The devill take thee, if thou dost not, wretch!

Mi. Bar. Out upon thee, strumpet!

Mi. Gou. Out upon thee, harlot!

Mis. Bar. Well, I will finde a time to be reveng'd:
Meane time Ile keep my daughter from thy sonne.—
Where are you, minion? how now, are yee gone?

Phi. She went in, mother.

Mi. Go. Francis where are ye?

Mi. Ba. He is not heere. O, then, they slipt away,
And both together!

Phi. Ile assure ye, no;
My sister she went in, into the house.

Mi. Ba. But, then, sheele out againe at the backe doore,
And meete with him: but I will search about
All these same fields and paths neere to my house;
They are not far I am sure, if I make haste.

Exit.

Mi. Go. O God, how went he hence, I did not see him?
It was when Barnses wife did scolde with me;
A plague on her!—Dick, why didst not thou looke to him?

Coo. What should I looke for him? no, no, I looke not for him while to morrow morning.

Mi. Gou. Come, go with me to help to looke him out.
Alas, I have nor light, nor linke, nor torche!
Though it be darke, I will take any paines
To crosse this match. I prethy, Dick, away.

Coo. Mistris, because I brought ye out, Ile bring ye home; but, if I should follow, so hee might have the law on his side.

Mi. Go. Come, tis no matter; prethee, goe with me.

Exeunt [Mistress Goursey and Coomes.]

M. Ba. Philip, thy mothers gone to seeke thy sister,
And in a rage, i faith: but who comes heere?

Ph. Olde master Goursey, as I thinke, tis he.

M. Ba. Tis so, indeed.

[Enter Master Goursey.]

M. Gour. Whoes there?

M. Bar. A friend of yours.

M. Gou. What, master Barnes! did ye not see my wife?

M. Bar. Yes, sir, I saw her; she was heere even now.

M. Gou. I doubted that; that made me come unto you:
But whether is she gone?

Phil. To seeke your sonne, who slipt away from her
To meete with Mall my sister in a place
Where I appointed; and my mother too
Seeke for my sister; so they both are gone:
My mother hath a torch; mary, your wife
Goes darkling up and downe, and Coomes before her.

M. Gou. I thought that knave was with her; but tis well:
I pray God, they may come by nere a light,
But both be led a darke daunce in the night!

Ho. Why, is my fellow Dick in the dark with my mistres? I pray God, they be honest, for there may be much knaverie in the dark: faith, if I were there, I wold have some knavery with them. [Aside.]—Good maister, wil ye carry the torch yourself, and give me leave to play the blind man buffe with my mistris?

Phil. On that condition thou wilt do thy best
To keep thy mistresse and thy fellow Dick
Both from my sister and thy masters sonne,
I will entreate thy master let thee goe.

Hod. O, I, I warrant ye, Ile have fine tricks to cousen them.

M. Gou. Well, sir, then, go your waies; I give you leave.

Hod. O brave! but where about are they?

Phil. About our cunny green they surely are,
If thou canst find them.

Hod. O, let me alone to grope for cunnies. [Gives Phil. the torch, and] exit.

Phi. Well, now will I to Franke and to my sister.
Stand you two harkning neere the cunny greene,
But sure your light in you must not be seene;
Or els let Nicholas stand afarre off with it, [Gives Nich. the torch.]
And as his life keep it from mistris Goursey.
Shall this be done?

M. Bar. Phillip, it shall.

Phi. God be with ye! Ile be gone.

Exit.

M. Bar. Come on, master Goursey: this same is a meanes
To make our wives friends, if they resist not.

M. Go. Tut, sir, howsoever it shall go forward.

M. Bar. Come, then, lets do as Phillip hath advisd.

Exeunt [toward the cunny greene.]