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Knight of the Burning Pestle.

Francis Beaumont (1584-1616) and John Fletcher (1579-1625).

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Note on the e-text: this Renascence Editions text was transcribed in February 2007 by Risa Stephanie Bear, University of Oregon, from the edition by Frederic W. Moorman, J.M. Dent & Sons, Ltd., Aldine House, London, 1922. Moorman used the edition of Dyce, 1843, as his source. Content unique to this presentation is copyright © 2007 The University of Oregon. For nonprofit and educational uses only. Send comments and corrections to the publisher, rbear[at]uoregon.edu.

Dedicated to Anniina Jokinen.

SIR,
This unfortunate child, who, in eight days (as lately I have learned) was begot and born, soon after was by his parents (perhaps because he was so unlike his brethren) exposed to the wide world, who, for want of judgment, or not understanding the privy mark of irony about it (which shewed it was no offspring of any vulgar brain), utterly rejected it; so that, for want of acceptance, it was even ready to give up the ghost, and was in danger to have been smothered in perpetual oblivion, if you (out of your direct antipathy to ingratitude), had not been moved both to relieve and cherish it: wherein I must needs commend both your judgment, understanding, and singular love to good wits. afterwards sent it to me, yet being an infant and somewhat ragged: I have fostered it privately in my bosom these two years; and now, to shew my love, return it to you, clad in good lasting clothes, which scarce memory will wear out, and able to speak for itself; and withal, as it telleth me, desirous to try his fortune in the world, where, if yet it be welcome, father, foster-father, nurse, and child all have their desired end. If it be slighted or traduced, it hopes his father will beget him a younger brother, who shall revenge his quarrel, and challenge the world either of fond and merely literal interpretation or illiterate misprision. Perhaps it will be thought to be of the race of Don Quixote; we both may confidently swear it his elder above a year; and therefore may (by virtue of his birthright) challenge the wall of him. I doubt not but they will meet in their adventures, and I hope the breaking of one staff make them friends; and perhaps they will combine themselves, and travel through the world to seek their adventures. So I commit him to his good fortune, and myself to your love. Your assured friend,

GENTLEMEN,
The world is so nice in these our times, that for apparel there is no fashion; for music (which is a rare art, though now slighted) no instrument; for diet, none but the French kickshaws that are delicate; and for plays, no invention but that which now runneth an invective way, touching some particular persons, or else it is contemned before it is thoroughly understood. This is all that I have to say: that the author had no intent to wrong any one in this comedy; but, as a merry passage, here and there interlaced it with delight, which he hopes will please all, and be hurtful to none.

HERE the bee can suck no honey, she leaves her sting behind; and where the bear cannot find origanum to heal his grief, he blasteth all other leaves with his breath. We fear it is like to fare so with us; that, seeing you cannot reap the wonted mirth. Our intent was at this time to move inward delight, not outward lightness; and to breed (if it might be) soft smiling, not loud laughing; knowing it, to the wise, to be a great pleasure to hear counsel mixed with wit, as to the foolish, to have sport mingled with rudeness. They were banished the theatre of Athens, and from Rome hissed, that brought parasites on the stage with apish actions, or fools with uncivil habits, or courtezans with immodest words. We have endeavoured to be as far from unseemly speeches, to make your ears glow, as we hope you will be free from unkind reports, or mistaking the authors' intention, (who never aimed at any one particular in this play,) to make our cheeks blush. And thus I leave it, and thee to thine own censure, to like or dislike.—VALE.

Several Gentlemen sitting on Stools upon the Stage. The Citizen, his Wife, and Ralph sitting below among the audience.

S. of Prol. "From all that's near the court, from all that's great,
    Within the compass of the city-walls,
    We now have brought our scene—"

Cit. Hold your peace, goodman boy!

S. of Prol. What do you mean, sir?

Cit. That you have no good meaning: this seven years there hath been plays at this house, I have observed it, you have still girds at citizens; and now you call your play "The London Merchant." Down with your title, boy! down with your title!

S. of Prol. Are you a member of the noble city?

Cit. I am.

S. of Prol. And a freeman?

Cit. Yea, and a grocer.

S. of Prol. So, grocer, then, by your sweet favour, we intend no abuse to the city.

Cit. No, sir! yes, sir: if you were not resolved to play the Jacks, what need you study for new subjects, purposely to abuse your betters? Why could not you be contented, as well as others, with "The legend of Whittington," or "The Life and Death of Sir Thomas Gresham, with the building of the Royal Exchange, of story of Queen Eleanor, with the rearing of London Bridge upon woolsacks?"

S. of Prol. You seem to be an understanding man: what would you have us do, sir?

Cit. Why, present something notably in honour of the commons of the city.

S. of Prol. Why, what do you say to "The Life and Death of fat Drake, or the Repairing of Fleet-privies?"

Cit. I do not like that; but I will have a citizen, and he shall be of my own trade.

S. of Prol. Oh, you should have told us your mind a month since; our play is ready to begin now.

Cit. 'Tis all one for that; I will have a grocer, and he shall do admirable things.

S. of Prol. What will you have him do?

Cit. Marry, I will have him—

Wife. [below.] Husband, husband!

Ralph. [below.] Peace, mistress.

Wife. [below.]  Hold thy peace, Ralph; I know what I do, I warrant ye.—Husband, husband!

Cit. What sayest thou, cony?

Wife. [below.]  Let him kill a lion with a pestle, husband! let him kill a lion with a pestle!

Cit. So he shall.—I'll have him kill a lion with a pestle.

Wife. [below.] Husband! shall I come up, husband?

Cit. Ay, cony.—Ralph, help your mistress this way.—Pray, gentlemen, make her a little room.—I pray you, lend me your hand to help up my wife: I thank you, sir.—So.

Wife. By your leave, gentlemen all; I'm something troublesome: I'm a stranger here; I was ne'er at one of these plays, as they say, before; but I should have seen "Jane Shore" once; and my husband hath promised me, any time this twelvemonth, to carry me to "The Bold Beauchamps," but in truth he did not. I pray you, bear with me.

Cit. Boy, let my wife and I have a couple of stools and then begin; and let the grocer do rare things.

S. of Prol. But, sir, we have never a boy to play him: every one hath a part already.

Wife. Husband, husband, for God's sake, let Ralph play him! beshrew me, if I do not think he will go beyond them all.

Cit. Well remembered, wife.—Come up, Ralph.—I'll tell you, gentlemen; let them but lend him a suit of reparel and necessaries, and, by gad, if any of them all blow wind in the tail on him, I'll be hanged.

Wife. I pray you, youth, let him have a suit of reparel! — I'll be sworn, gentlemen, my husband tells you true: he will act you sometimes at our house, that all the neighbours cry out on him; he will fetch you up a couraging part so in the garret, that we are all as feared, I warrant you, that we quake again: we'll fear our children with him; if they be never so unruly, do but cry, "Ralph comes, Ralph comes!" to them, and they'll be as quiet as lambs.—Hold up thy head, Ralph; show the gentlemen what thou canst do; speak a huffing part; I warrant you, the gentlemen will accept of it.

Cit. Do, Ralph, do.

Ralph. " By Heaven, methinks, it were an easy leap
    To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon;
    Or dive into the bottom of the sea,
    Where never fathom-line touched any ground,
    And pluck up drowned honour from the lake of hell."

Cit. How say you, gentlemen, is it not as I told you?

Wife. Nay, gentlemen, he hath played before, my husband says, Mucedorus, before the wardens of our company.

Cit. Ay, and he should have played Jeronimo with a shoemaker for a wager.

S. of Prol. He shall have a suit of apparel, if he will go in.

Cit. In, Ralph, in, Ralph; and set out the grocery in their kind, if thou lovest me.

Wife. I warrant, our Ralph will look finely when he's dressed.

S. of Prol. But what will you have it called?

Cit. "The Grocer's Honour."  

S. of Prol. Methinks " The Knight of the Burning Pestle " were better.

Wife. I'll be sworn, husband, that's as good a name as can be.

Cit. Let it be so.—Begin, begin; my wife and I will sit down.

S. of Prol. I pray you, do.

Cit. What stately music have you? you have shawms?

S. of Prol. Shawms! no.

Cit. No! I'm a thief, if my mind did not give me to. Ralph plays a stately part, and he must needs have shawms: I'll be at the charge of them myself, rather than we'll be without them.

S. of Prol. So you are like to be.

Cit. Why, and so I will be: there's two shillings; —[Gives money]—let's have the waits of Southwark; they are as rare fellows a« any are in England; and that will fetch them all o'er the water with a vengeance, as if they were mad.

S. of Prol. You shall have them. Will you sit down, then?

Cit. Ay.—Come, wife.

Wife. Sit you merry all, gentlemen; I'm bold to sit amongst you for my ease.

S. of Prol. "From all that's near the court, from all that's great,
    We now have brought our scene. Fly far from hence
    All private taxes, immodest phrases,
    Whatever may but show like vicious!
    For wicked mirth never true pleasure brings,
    But honest minds are pleased with honest things."—
Thus much for that we do; but for Ralph's part you must answer for yourself.

Cit. Take you no care for Ralph; he'll discharge himself, I warrant you.

Wife. I'faith, gentlemen, I'll give my word for Ralph.

Vent. Sirrah, I'll make you know you are my prentice,
    And whom my charitable love redeemed
    Even from the fall of fortune; gave thee heat
    And growth, to be what now thou art, new-cast thee;
    Adding the trust of all I have, at home,
    In foreign staples, or upon the sea,
    To thy direction; tied the good opinions
    Both of myself and friends to thy endeavours;
    So fair were thy beginnings. But with these,
    As I remember, you had never charge
    To love your master's daughter, and even then
    When I had found a wealthy husband for her;
    I take it, sir, you had not: but, however,
    I'll break the neck of that commission,
    And make you know you are but a merchant's factor.

    Jasp. Sir, I do liberally confess I am yours,
    Bound both by love and duty to your service,
    In which my labour hath been all my profit:
    I have not lost in bargain, nor delighted
    To wear your honest gains upon my back;
    Nor have I given a pension to my blood,
    Or lavishly in play consumed your stock;
    These, and the miseries that do attend them,
    I dare with innocence proclaim are strangers
    To all my temperate actions. For your daughter,
    If there be any love to my deservings
    Borne by her virtuous self, I cannot stop it;
    Nor am I able to refrain her wishes,
    She's private to herself, and best of knowledge
    Whom she will make so happy as to sigh for:
    Unto a fellow of so lame a presence,
    One that hath little left of nature in him.

Vent. 'Tis very well, sir: I can tell your wisdom
    How all this shall be cured.

Jasp. Your care becomes you.

Vent. And thus it shall be, sir: I here discharge you
    My house and service; take your liberty;
    And when I want a son, I'll send for you.

Jasp. These be the fair rewards of them that love!
    Oh, you that live in freedom, never prove
    The travail of a mind led by desire!

Luce. Why, how now, friend? struck with my father's thunder!

Jasp. Struck, and struck dead, unless the remedy
    Be full of speed and virtue; I am now,
    What I expected long, no more your father's.

Luce. But mine.

Jasp. But yours, and only yours, I am;
    That's all I have to keep me from the statute.
    You dare be constant still?

Luce. Oh, fear me not!
    In this I dare be better than a woman:
    Nor shall his anger nor his offers move me,
    Were they both equal to a prince's power.

Jasp. You know my rival!

Luce. Yes, and love him dearly;
    Even as I love an ague or foul weather:
    I prithee, Jasper, fear him not.

Jasp. Oh, no!
    I do not mean to do him so much kindness.
    But to our own desires: you know the plot 
    We both agreed on?

Luce. Yes, and will perform
    My part exactly.

Jasp. I desire no more.
    Farewell, and keep my heart; 'tis yours.

Luce. I take it;
    He must do miracles makes me forsake it.

[Cit. Fie upon 'em, little infidels! what a matter's here now! Well, I'll be hanged for a half-penny, if there be not some abomination knavery in this play. Well; let 'em look to't; Ralph must come, and if there be any tricks a-brewing—

Wife. Let 'em brew and bake too, husband, a' name; Ralph will find all out, I warrant you, an they were older than they are.— [Enter Boy.]— I pray, my pretty youth, is Ralph ready?

Boy. He will be presently.

Wife. Now, I pray you, make my commendations unto him, and withal carry him this stick of liquorice: tell him his mistress sent it to him; and bid him bite a piece; 'twill open his pipes the better, say.]

Vent. Come, sir, she's yours; upon my faith, she's yours;
    You have my hand: for other idle lets
    Between your hopes and her, thus with a wind
    They are scattered and no more. My wanton prentice,
    That like a bladder blew himself with love,
    I have let out, and sent him to discover
    New masters yet unknown.

Hum. I thank you, sir,
    Indeed, I thank you, sir; and, ere I stir,
    It shall be known, however you do deem,
    I am of gentle blood, and gentle seem.

Vent, Oh, sir, I know it certain.

Hum. Sir, my friend,
    Although, as writers say, all things have end,
    And that we call a pudding hath his two,
    Oh, let it not seem strange, I pray, to you,
    If in this bloody simile I put
    My love, more endless than frail things or gut!

[Wife. Husband, I prithee, sweet lamb, tell me one thing; but tell me truly.—Stay, youths, I  beseech you, till I question my husband.

Cit. What is it, mouse?

Wife. Sirrah, didst thou ever see a prettier child? how it behaves itself, I warrant ye, and speaks and looks, and perts up the head!—I pray you, brother, with your favour, were you never none of Master Moncaster's scholars?

Cit. Chicken, I prithee heartily, contain thyself: the childer are pretty childer; but when Ralph comes, lamb—

Wife. Ay, when Ralph comes, cony!—Well, my youth, you may proceed.]

Vent. Well, sir, you know my love, and rest, I hope,
    Assured of my consent; get but my daughter's,
    And wed her when you please. You must be bold,
    And clap in close unto her: come, I know
    You have language good enough to win a wench.

[Wife. A whoreson Tyrant! h'as been an old stringer in's days, I warrant him.]

Hum. I take your gentle offer, and withal
    Yield love again for love reciprocal.

Vent. What, Luce! within there!

Luce. Called you, sir?

Vent. I did:
    Give entertainment to this gentleman;
    And see you be not froward.—To her, sir:
    My presence will but be an eye-sore to you.

Hum. Fair Mistress Luce, how do you? are you well?
    Give me your hand, and then I pray you tell
    How doth your little sister and your brother;
    And whether you love me or any other.

Luce. Sir, these are quickly answered.

Hum. So they are,
    Where women are not cruel. But how far
    Is it now distant from the place we are in,
    Unto that blessed place, your father's warren?

Luce. What makes you think of that, sir?

Hum. Even that face;
    For, stealing rabbits whilom in that place,
    God Cupid, or the keeper, I know not whether,
    Unto my cost and charges brought you thither,
    And there began—

Luce. Your game, sir.

Hum. Let no game,
    Or any thing that tendeth to the same,
    Be ever more remembered, thou fair killer,
    For whom I sate me down, and brake my tiller.

[Wife. There's a kind gentleman, I warrant you: when will you do as much for me, George?]

Luce. Beshrew me, sir, I am sorry for your losses,
    But, as the proverb says, I cannot cry:
    I would you had not seen me!

Hum. So would I,
    Unless you had more maw to do me good.

Luce. Why, cannot this strange passion be withstood;
    Send for a constable, and raise the town.

Hum. Oh, no! my valiant love will batter down
    Millions of constables, and put to flight
    Even that great watch of Midsummer-day at night.

Luce. Beshrew me, sir, 'twere good I yielded, then;
    Weak women cannot hope, where valiant men
    Have no resistance.

Hum. Yield, then; I am full
    Of pity, though I say it, and can pull
    Out of my pocket thus a pair of gloves.
    Look, Luce, look; the dog's tooth nor the dove's
    Are not so white as these; and sweet they be,
    And whipt about with silk, as you may see.
    If you desire the price, shoot from your eye
    A beam to this place, and you shall espy
    F. S, which is to say, my sweetest honey,
    They cost me three and twopence, or no money.

Luce. Well, sir, I take them kindly, and I thank you:
    What would you more?

Hum. Nothing.

Luce. Why, then, farewell.

Hum. Nor so, nor so; for, lady, I must tell,
    Before we part, for what we met together:
    God grant me time and patience and fair weather!

Luce. Speak, and declare your mind in terms brief.

Hum. I shall: then, first and foremost, for relief
    I call to you, if that you can afford it;
    I care not at what price, for, on my word, it
    Shall be repaid again, although it cost me
    More than I'll speak of now; for love hath tost me
    In furious blanket like a tennis-ball,
    And now I rise aloft, and now I fall.

Luce. Alas, good gentleman, alas the day!

Hum. I thank you heartily; and, as I say,
    Thus do I still continue without rest,
    I' the morning like a man, at night a beast,
    Roaring and bellowing mine own disquiet,
    That much I fear, forsaking of my diet
    Will bring me presently to that quandary,
    I shall bid all adieu.

Luce. Now, by St Mary,
    That were great pity!

Hum. So it were, beshrew me;
    Then, ease me, lusty Luce, and pity show me.

Luce. Why, sir, you know my will is nothing worth
    Without my father's grant; get his consent,
    And then you may with assurance try me.

Hum. The worshipful your sire will not deny me;
    For I have asked him, and he hath replied,
    "Sweet Master Humphrey, Luce shall be thy bride."

Luce. Sweet Master Humphrey, then I am content.

Hum. And so am I, in truth.

Luce. Yet take me with you;
    There is another clause must be annexed,
    And this it is: I swore, and will perform it,
    No man shall ever joy me as his wife
    But he that stole me hence. If you dare venture,
    I am yours (you need not fear; my father loves you);
    If not, farewell for ever!

Hum. Stay, nymph, stay:
    I have a double gelding, coloured bay,
    Sprung by his father from Barbarian kind;
    Another for myself, though somewhat blind,
    Yet true as trusty tree.

Luce. I am satisfied;
    And so I give my hand. Our course must lie
    Through Waltham-forest, where I have a friend
    Will entertain us. So, farewell, Sir Humphrey,
    And think upon your business.

Hum. Though I die,
    I am resolved to venture life and limb
    For one so young, so fair, so kind, so trim.

[Wife. By my faith and troth, George, and as I am virtuous, it is e'en the kindest young man that ever trod on shoe-leather.—Well, go thy ways; if thou hast her not, 'tis not thy fault, i'faith.

Cit. I prithee, mouse, be patient; 'a shall have her, or I'll make some of 'em smoke for't.

Wife. That's my good lamb, George. — Fie, this stinking tobacco kills me! would there were none in England!—Now, I pray, gentlemen, what good does this stinking tobacco do you? nothing, I warrant you: make chimneys o' your faces!]

[Wife. Oh, husband, husband, now, now! there's Ralph, there's Ralph.

Cit. Peace, fool! let Ralph alone.—Hark you, Ralph; do not strain yourself too much at the first.—Peace!—Begin, Ralph.]

Ralph. [Reads.] Then Palmerin and Trineus, snatching their lances from their dwarfs, and clasping their helmets galloped amain after the giant; and Palmerin, having gotten a sight of him, came posting amain, saying,' Stay, traitorous thief! for thou mayst not so carry away her, that is worth the greatest lord in the world;' and, with these words, gave him a blow on the shoulder, that he struck him besides his elephant. And Trineus, coming to the knight that had Agricola behind him, set him soon besides his horse, with his neck broken in the fall; so that the princess, getting out of the throng, between joy and grief, said, "All happy knight, the mirror of all such as follow arms, now may I be well assured of the love thou bearest me." I wonder why the kings do not raise an army of fourteen or fifteen hundred thousand men, as big as the army that the Prince of Portigo brought against Rosicleer, and destroy these giants; they do much hurt to wandering damsels, that go in quest of their knights.

[Wife. Faith, husband, and Ralph says true; for they say the King of Portugal cannot sit at his meat, but the giants and the ettins will come and snatch it from him.

Cit. Hold thy tongue.—On, Ralph!]

Ralph. And certainly those knights are much to be commended, who, neglecting their possessions, wander with a squire and a dwarf through the deserts to relieve poor ladies.

[Wife. Ay, by my faith, are they, Ralph; let 'em say what they will, they are indeed. Our knights neglect their possessions well enough, but they do not the rest.]

Ralph. There are no such courteous and fair well-spoken knights in this age: they will call one "the son of a whore," that Palmerin of England would have called "fair sir;" and one that Rosicleer would have called "right beauteous damsel," they will call "damned bitch."

[Wife. I'll be sworn will they, Ralph; they have called me so an hundred times about a scurvy pipe of tobacco.]

Ralph. But what brave spirit could be content to sit in his shop, with a flappet of wood, and a blue apron before him, selling mithridatum and dragon's-water to visited houses, that might pursue feats of arms, and, through    his noble achievements, procure such a famous history to be written of his heroic prowess?

[Cit. Well said, Ralph; some more of those words, Ralph!

Wife. They go finely, by my troth.]

Ralph. Why should not I, then, pursue this course, both for the credit of myself and our company? for amongst all the worthy books of achievements, I do not call to mind that I yet read of a grocer-errant: I will be the said knight. —Have you heard of any that hath wandered unfurnished of his squire and dwarf? My elder prentice Tim shall be my trusty squire, and little George my dwarf. Hence, my blue apron! Yet, in remembrance of my former trade, upon my shield shall be portrayed a Burning Pestle, and I will be called the Knight of the Burning Pestle.

[Wife. Nay, I dare swear thou wilt not forget thy old trade; thou wert ever meek.]

Ralph. Tim!

Tim. Anon.

Ralph. My beloved squire, and George my dwarf, I charge you that from henceforth you never call me by any other name but "the right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle;" and that you never call any female by the name of a woman or wench, but "fair lady," if she have her desires, if not, "distressed damsel;" that you call all forests and heaths "deserts," and all horses "palfreys."

[Wife. This is very fine, faith.—Do the gentlemen like Ralph, think you, husband?

Cit. Ay, I warrant thee; the players would give all the shoes in their shop for him.]

Ralph. My beloved squire Tim, stand out. Admit this were a desert, and over it a knight-errant pricking, and I should bid you inquire of his intents, what would you say?

Tim. Sir, my master sent me to know whither you are riding?

Ralph. No, thus: "Fair sir, the right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle commanded me to inquire upon what adventure you are bound, whether to relieve some distressed damsel, or otherwise."

[Cit. Whoreson blockhead, cannot remember!

Wife. I'faith, and Ralph told him on't before: all the gentlemen heard him.—Did he not, gentlemen? did not Ralph tell him on't?

George. Right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle, here is a distressed damsel to have a halfpenny-worth of pepper.

[Wife. That's a good boy! see, the little boy can hit it; by my troth, it's a fine child.]

Ralph. Relieve her, with all courteous language. Now shut up shop; no more my prentices, but my trusty squire and dwarf. I must bespeak my shield and arming pestle.

[Cit. Go thy ways, Ralph! As I'm a true man, thou art the best on 'em all.

Wife. Ralph, Ralph!

Ralph. What say you, mistress?

Wife. I prithee, come again quickly, sweet Ralph.

Ralph. By and by.]

Mist. Mer. Give thee my blessing! no, I'll ne'er give thee my blessing; I'll see thee hanged first; it shall ne'er be said I gave thee my blessing. Thou art thy father's own son, of the right blood of the Merrythoughts. I may curse the time that e'er I knew thy father; he hath spent all his own and mine too; and when I tell him of it, he laughs, and dances, and sings, and cries, "A merry heart lives long-a." And thou art a wastethrift, and art run away from thy master that loved thee well, and art come to me; and I have laid up a little for my younger son Michael, and thou thinkest to bezzle that, but thou shall never be able to do it.—Come hither, Michael!

Come, Michael, down on thy knees; thou shalt have my blessing.

Mich. [Kneels.] I pray you, mother, pray to God to bless me.

Mist. Mer. God bless thee! but Jasper shall never have my blessing; he shall be hanged first: shall he not, Michael? how sayest thou?

Mich.Yes, forsooth, mother, and grace of God.

Mist. Mer. That's a good boy!

[Wife. I'faith, it's a fine-spoken child.]

Jasp. Mother, though you forget a parent's love
    I must preserve the duty of a child.
    I ran not from my master, nor return
    To have your stock maintain my idleness.

[Wife. Ungracious child, I warrant him; hark, how he chops logic with his mother!—Thou hadst best tell her she lies; do, tell her she lies.

Cit. If he were my son, I would hang him up by the heels, and flay him, and salt him, whoreson haltersack.]

Jasp. My coming only is to beg your love,
    Which I must ever, though I never gain it;
    And, howsoever you esteem of me,
    There is no drop of blood hid in these veins
    But, I remember well, belongs to you
    That brought me forth, and would be glad for you
    To rip them all again, and let it out.

Mist. Mer. I'faith, I had sorrow enough for thee, God knows; but I'll hamper thee well enough. Get thee in, thou vagabond, get thee in, and learn of thy brother Michael.

Mer. [Singing within.]
            Nose, nose, jolly red nose,
            And who gave thee this jolly red nose?

Mist. Mer. Hark, my husband! he's singing and hoiting; and I'm fain to cark and care, and all little enough.—Husband! Charles! Charles Merrythought!

Mer. [Sings.]
            Nutmegs and ginger, cinnamon and cloves;
            And they gave me this jolly red nose.

Mist. Mer. If you would consider your state, you would have little list to sing, i-wis.
 
Mer. It should never be considered, while it were an estate, if I thought it would spoil my singing.

Mist. Mer. But how wilt thou do, Charles? thou art an old man, and thou canst not work, and thou hast not forty shillings left, and thou eatest good meat, and drinkest good drink, and laughest.

Mer. And will do.

Mist. Mer. But how wilt thou come by it, Charles?

Mer. How! why, how have I done hitherto these forty years? I never came into my dining room, but, at eleven and six o'clock, I found excellent meat and drink o' the table; my clothes were never worn out, but next morning a tailor brought me a new suit: and without question it will be so ever; use makes perfectness. If all should fail, it is but a little straining myself extraordinary, and laugh myself to death.

[Wife. It's a foolish old man this; is not he, George?

Cit. Yes, cony.

Wife. Give me a penny i' the purse while I live, George.

Cit. Ay, by lady, cony, hold thee there.]

Mist. Mer. Well, Charles; you promised to provide for Jasper, and I have laid up for Michael. I pray you, pay Jasper his portion: he's come home, and he shall not consume Michael's stock; he says his master turned him away, but, I promise you truly, I think he ran away.

[Wife. No, indeed, Mistress Merrythought; though he be a notable gallows, yet I'll assure you his master did turn him away, even in this place; 'twas, i'faith, within this half-hour, about his daughter; my husband was by.

Cit. Hang him, rogue! he served him well enough: love his master's daughter! By my troth, cony, if there were a thousand boys, thou wouldst spoil them all with taking their parts; let his mother alone with him.

Wife. Ay, George; but yet truth is truth.]

Mer. Where is Jasper? he's welcome, however. Call him in; he shall have his portion. Is he merry?

Mist. Mer. Ah, foul chive him, he is too merry! —Jasper! Michael!

Mer. Welcome, Jasper! though thou runnest away, welcome! God bless thee!  'Tis thy mother's mind thou shouldst receive thy portion; thou hast been abroad, and I hope hast learned experience enough to govern it; thou art of sufficient years; hold thy hand—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, there is ten shillings for thee. [Gives money.] Thrust thyself into the world with that, and take some settled course: if fortune cross thee, thou hast a retiring place; come home to me; I have twenty shillings left. Be a good husband; that is, wear ordinary clothes, eat the best meat, and drink the best drink; be merry, and give to the poor, and, believe me, thou hast no end of thy goods.

Jasp. Long may you live free from all thought of ill,
    And long have cause to be thus merry still!
    But, father—

Mer. No more words, Jasper; get thee gone. Thou hast my blessing; thy father's spirit upon thee! Farewell, Jasper!

So, now begone; no words.

Mist. Mer. So, Michael, now get thee gone too.

Mich. Yes, forsooth, mother; but I'll have my father's blessing first.

Mist. Mer. No, Michael; 'tis no matter for his blessing; thou hast my blessing; begone. I'll fetch my money and jewels, and follow thee; I'll stay no longer with him, I warrant thee.

—Truly, Charles, I'll be gone too.

Mer. What! you will not?

Mist. Mer. Yes, indeed will I.

Mer. [Sings.]
            Heigh-ho, farewell, Nan!
            I'll never trust wench more again, if I can.

Mist. Mer. You shall not think, when all your own is gone, to spend that I have been scraping up for Michael.

Mer. Farewell, good wife; I expect it not: all I have to do in this world, is to be merry; which I shall, if the ground be not taken from me; and if it be,

        [Sings.]
            When earth and seas from me are reft,
            The skies aloft for me are left.

[Wife. I'll be sworn he's a merry old gentleman for all that. [Music.] Hark, hark, husband, hark! fiddles, fiddles! now surely they go finely. They say 'tis present death for these fiddlers, to tune their rebecks before the great Turk's grace; is't not, George? [Enter a Boy and dances.] But, look, look! here's a youth dances!—Now, good youth, do a turn o' the toe.—Sweetheart, i'faith, I'll have Ralph come and do some of his gambols.—He'll ride the wild mare, gentlemen, 'twould do your hearts good to see him.—I thank you, kind youth; pray, bid Ralph come.

Cit. Peace, cony!—Sirrah, you scurvy boy, bid the players send Ralph; or, by God's—an they do not, I'll tear some of their periwigs beside their heads: this is all riff-raff.

Vent. And how, faith, how goes it now, son Humphrey?

Hum. Right worshipful, and my beloved friend
    And father dear, this matter's at an end.

Vent. 'Tis well: it should be so: I'm glad the girl
    Is found so tractable.

Hum. Nay, she must whirl
    From hence (and you must wink; for so, I say,
    The story tells,) to-morrow before day.

[Wife. George, dost thou think in thy conscience now 'twill be a match? tell me but what thou thinkest, sweet rogue. Thou seest the poor gentleman, dear heart, how it labours and throbs, I warrant you, to be at rest! I'll go move the father for't.

Cit. No, no; I prithee, sit still, honeysuckle; thou'lt spoil all. If he deny him, I'll bring half-adozen good fellows myself, and in the shutting of an evening, knock't up, and there's an end.

Wife. I'll buss thee for that, i'faith, boy. Well, George, well, you have been a wag in your days, I warrant you; but God forgive you, and I do with all my heart.]

Vent. How was it, son? you told me that to-morrow
    Before day-break, you must convey her hence.

Hum. I must, I must; and thus it is agreed:
    Your daughter rides upon a brown-bay steed,
    I on a sorrel, which I bought of Brian,
    The honest host of the Red roaring Lion,
    In Waltham situate. Then, if you may,
    Consent in seemly sort; lest, by delay,
    The Fatal Sisters come, and do the office,
    And then you'll sing another song.

Vent. Alas,
    Why should you be thus full of grief to me,
    That do as willing as yourself agree
    To any thing, so it be good and fair?
    Then, steal her when you will, if such a pleasure
    Content you both; I'll sleep and never see it,
    To make your joys more full. But tell me why
    You may not here perform your marriage?

[Wife. God's blessing o' thy soul, old man! i'faith, thou art loath to part true hearts. I see 'a has her, George; and I'm as glad on't!—Well, go thy ways, Humphrey, for a fair-spoken man; I believe thou hast not thy fellow within the walls of London; an I should say the suburbs too, I should not lie.—Why dost not rejoice with me, George?

Cit. If I could but see Ralph again, I were as merry as mine host, i'faith.]

Hum. The cause you seem to ask, I thus declare—
    Help me, O Muses nine! Your daughter sware
    A foolish oath, and more it was the pity;
    Yet no one but myself within this city
    Shall dare to say so, but a bold defiance
    Shall meet him, were he of the noble science;
    And yet she sware, and yet why did she sware?
    Truly, I cannot tell, unless it were
    For her own ease; for, sure, sometimes an oath,
    Being sworn thereafter, is like cordial broth;
    And this it was she swore, never to marry
    But such a one whose mighty arm could carry
    (As meaning me, for I am such a one)
    Her bodily away, through stick and stone,
    Till both of us arrive, at her request,
    Some ten miles off, in the wild Waltham-forest.

Vent. If this be all, you shall not need to fear
    Any denial in your love: proceed;
    I'll neither follow, nor repent the deed.

Hum. Good night, twenty good nights, and twenty more,
    And twenty more good nights,—that makes three-score!

Mist. Mer. Come, Michael; art thou not weary, boy?

Mich. No, forsooth, mother, not I.

Mist. Mer. Where be we now, child?

Mich. Indeed, forsooth, mother, I cannot tell, unless we be at Mile-End: Is not all the world Mile-End, mother?

Mist. Mer. No, Michael, not all the world, boy; but I can assure thee, Michael, Mile-End is a goodly matter: there has been a pitchfield, my child, between the naughty Spaniels and the Englishmen; and the Spaniels ran away, Michael, and the Englishmen followed: my neighbour Coxstone was there, boy, and killed them all with a birding-piece.

Mich. Mother, forsooth—

Mist. Mer. What says my white boy?

Mich. Shall not my father go with us too?

Mist. Mer. No, Michael, let thy father go snick-up; he shall never come between a pair of sheets with me again while he lives; let him stay at home, and sing for his supper,  boy. Come, child, sit down, and I'll show my boy fine knacks, indeed. [They sit down: and she takes out a casket.] Look here, Michael; here's a ring, and here's a brooch, and here's a bracelet, and here's two rings more, and here's money and gold by th'eye, my boy.

Mich. Shall I have all this, mother?

Mist. Mer. Ay, Michael, thou shall have all, Michael.

[Cit. How likest thou this, wench?

Wife. I cannot tell; I would have Ralph, George; I'll see no more else, indeed, la; and I pray you, let the youths understand so much by word of mouth; for, I tell you truly, I'm afraid o' my boy. Come, come, George, let's be merry and wise: the child's a fatherless child; and say they should put him into a strait pair of gaskins, 'twere worse than knot-grass; he would never grow after it.]

[Cit. Here's Ralph, here's Ralph!

Wife. How do you do, Ralph? you are welcome, Ralph, as I may say; it's a good boy, hold up thy head, and be not afraid; we are thy friends, Ralph; the gentlemen will praise thee, Ralph, if thou playest thy part with audacity. Begin, Ralph, a' God's name!]

Ralph. My trusty squire, unlace my helm: give me my hat.
    Where are we, or what desert may this be?

George. Mirror of knighthood, this is, as I take it, the perilous Waltham-down; in whose bottom stands the enchanted valley.

Mist. Mer. Oh, Michael, we are betrayed, we are betrayed! here be giants! Fly, boy! fly, boy, fly!

Ralph. Lace on my helm again. What noise is this?
    A gentle lady, flying the embrace
    Of some uncourteous knight! I will relieve her.
    Go, squire, and say, the Knight, that wears this Pestle
    In honour of all ladies, swears revenge
    Upon that recreant coward that pursues her;
    Go, comfort her, and that same gentle squire
    That bears her company.

Tim. I go, brave knight.

Ralph. My trusty dwarf and friend, reach me my shield;
    And hold it while I swear. First, by my knighthood;
   Then by the soul of Amadis de Gaul,
    My famous ancestor; then by my sword
    The beauteous Brionella girt about me;
    By this bright burning Pestle, of mine honour
    The living trophy; and by all respect
    Due to distressed damsels; here I vow
    Never to end the quest of this fair lady
    And that forsaken squire till by my valour
    I gain their liberty!

George. Heaven bless the knight
    That thus relieves poor errant gentlewomen!

[Wife. Ay, marry, Ralph, this has some savour in't; I would see the proudest of them all offer to carry his books after him. But, George, I will not have him go away so soon; I shall be sick if he go away, that I shall: call Ralph again, George, call Ralph again; I prithee, sweetheart, let him come fight before me, and let's ha' some drums and some trumpets, and let him kill all that comes near him, an thou lovest me, George!

Cit. Peace a little, bird: he shall kill them all, an they were twenty more on 'em than there are.]

Jasp. Now, Fortune, if thou be'st not only ill,
    Show me thy better face, and bring about
    Thy desperate wheel, that I may climb at length,
    And stand. This is our place of meeting,
    If love hare any constancy. Oh, age,
    Where only wealthy men are counted happy!
    I am only rich in misery?
    My father's blessing and this little coin
    Is my inheritance; a strong revenue!
    From earth thou art, and to the earth I give thee:

    There grow and multiply, whilst fresher air
    Breeds me a fresher fortune.—How! illusion?

    What, hath the devil coined himself before me?
    'Tis metal good, it rings well; I am waking,
    And taking too, I hope. Now, God's dear blessing
    Upon his heart that left it here! 'tis mine;
    These pearls, I take it, were not left for swine.

[Wife. I do not like that this unthrifty youth should embezzle away the money; the poor gentlewoman his mother will have a heavy heart for it, God knows.

Cit. And reason good, sweetheart.

Wife. But let him go; I'll tell Ralph a tale in's ear shall fetch him again with a wanion, I warrant him, if he be above ground; and besides, George, here are a number of sufficient gentlemen can witness, and myself, and yourself, and the musicians, if we be called in question.

But here comes Ralph, George; thou shalt hear him speak as he were an emperal.]

Ralph. Comes not sir squire again?

George. Right courteous knight,
    Your squire doth come, and with him comes the lady,
    For and the Squire of  Damsels, as I take it.

Ralph. Madam, if any service or devoir
    Of a poor errant knight may right your wrongs,
    Command it; I am prest to give you succour;
    For to that holy end I bear my armour.

Mist. Mer. Alas, sir, I am a poor gentlewoman, and I have lost my money in this forest!

Ralph. Desert, you would say, lady; and not lost
    Whilst I have sword and lance. Dry up your tears,
    Which ill befit the beauty of that face,
    And tell the story, if I may request it,
    Of your disastrous fortune.

Mist. Mer. Out, alas! I left a thousand pound, a thousand pound, e'en all the money I had laid up for this youth, upon the sight of your mastership, you looked so grim, and, as I may say it, saving your presence, more like a giant than a mortal man.

Ralph. I am as you are, lady; so to are they:
    All mortal. But why weeps this gentle squire?

Mist. Mer. Has he not cause to weep, do you think, when he hath lost his inheritance?

Ralph. Young hope of valour, weep not; I am here
    That will confound thy foe, and pay it dear
    Upon his coward head, that dares deny
    Distressed squires and ladies equity.
    I have but one horse, on which shall ride
    This fair lady behind me, and before
    This courteous squire: fortune will give us more
    Upon our next adventure. Fairly speed
    Beside us, squire and dwarf, to do us need!

[Cit. Did not I tell you, Nell, what your man would do? by the faith of my body, wench, for clean action and good delivery, they may all cast their caps at him.

Wife. And so they may, i'faith; for I dare speak it boldly, the twelve companies of London cannot match him, timber for timber. Well, George, an he be not inveigled by some of these paltry players, I ha' much marvel: but, George, we ha' done our parts, if the boy have any grace to be thankful.

Cit. Yes, I warrant thee, duckling.]

Hum. Good Mistress Luce, however I in fault am
    For your lame horse, you're welcome unto Waltham;
    But which way now to go, or what to say,
    I know not truly, till it be broad day.

Luce. Oh, fear not, Master Humphrey; I am guide
    For this place good enough.

Hum. Then, up and ride;
    Or, if it please you, walk, for your repose,
    Or sit, or, if yon will, go pluck a rose;
    Either of which shall be indifferent
    To your good friend and Humphrey, whose consent
    Is so entangled ever to your will,
    As the poor harmless horse is to the mill.

Luce. Faith, an you say the word, we'll e'en sit down,
    And take a nap.

Hum. 'Tis better in the town,
    Where we may nap together; for, believe me.
    To sleep without a snatch would mickle grieve me.

Luce. You're merry, Master Humphrey.

Hum. So I am,
    And have been ever merry from my dam.

Luce. Your nurse had the less labour.

Hum. Faith, it may be,
    Unless it were by chance I did beray me.

Jasp. Luce! dear friend Luce!

Luce. Here, Jasper.

Jasp. You are mine.

Hum. If it be so, my friend, you use me fine:
    What do you think I am?

Jasp. An arrant noddy.

Hum. A word of obloquy! Now, by God's body,
    I'll tell thy master; for I know thee well.

Jasp. Nay, an you be so forward for to tell,
    Take that, and that; and tell him, sir, I gave it:
    And say, I paid you well.

Hum. Oh, sir I have it,
    And do confess the payment! Pray, be quiet.

Jasp. Go, get you to your night-cap and the diet,
    To cure your beaten bones.

Luce. Alas, poor Humphrey;
    Get thee some wholesome broth, with sage and comfrey;
    A little oil of roses and a feather
    To 'noint thy back withal.

Hum. When I came hither,
    Would I had gone to Paris with John Dory!

Luce. Farewell, my pretty nump; I am very sorry
    I cannot bear thee company.

Hum. Farewell:
    The devil's dam was ne'er so banged in hell.

[Wife. This young Jasper will prove me another thing, o' my conscience, an he may be suffered. George, dost not see, George, how 'a swaggers, and flies at the very heads o' folks, as he were a dragon? Well, if I do not do his lesson for wronging the poor gentleman, I am no true woman. His friends that brought him up might have been better occupied, i-wis, than have taught him these fegaries: he's e'en in the high way to the gallows, God bless him!

Cit. You're too bitter, cony; the young man may do well enough for all this.

Wife. Come hither, Master Humphrey; has he hurt you? now, beshrew his fingers for't! Here sweetheart, here's some green ginger for thee. Now, beshrew my heart, but 'a has peppernel in's head, as big as a pullet's egg! Alas, sweet lamb, how thy temples beat! Take  the peace on him, sweetheart, take the peace on him.

Cit. No, no; you talk like a foolish woman: I'll ha' Ralph fight with him, and swinge him up well-favouredly. — Sirrah boy, come hither. [Enter Boy.] Let Ralph come in and fight with Jasper.

Wife. Ay, and beat him well; he's an unhappy boy.

Boy. Sir, you must pardon; the plot of our play lies contrary; and 'twill hazard the spoiling of our play.

Cit. Plot me no plots! I'll ha' Ralph come out; I'll make your house too hot for you else.

Boy. Why, sir, he shall; but if any thing fall out of order, the gentlemen must pardon us.

Cit. Go your ways, goodman boy!

I'll hold him a penny, he shall have his bellyfill of fighting now. Ho, here comes Ralph! no more!]

Ralph. What knight is that, squire? ask him if he keep
    The passage, bound by love of lady fair,
    Or else but prickant.

Hum. Sir, I am no knight,
    But a poor gentleman, that this same night
    Had stolen from me, on yonder green,
    My lovely wife, and suffered (to be seen
    Yet extant on my shoulders) such a greeting,
    That whilst I live I shall think of that meeting.

[Wife. Ay, Ralph, he beat him unmercifully, Ralph, an thou sparest him, Ralph, I would thou went hanged.

Cit. No more, wife, no more.]

Ralph. Where is the caitiff-wretch hath done this deed?
    Lady, your pardon; that I may proceed;
    Upon the quest of this injurious knight.
    And thou, fair squire, repute me not the worse,
    In leaving the great venture of the purse
    And the rich casket, till some better leisure.

Hum. Here comes the broker hath purloined my treasure.

Ralph. Go, squire, and tell him I am here,
    An errant knight-at-arms, to crave delivery
    Of that fair lady to her own knight's arms.
    If he deny, bid him take choice of ground,
    And so defy him.

Tim. From the Knight that bears
    The Golden Pestle, I defy thee, knight,
    Unless thou make fair restitution
    Of that bright lady.

Jasp. Tell the knight that sent thee,
    He is an ass; and I will keep the wench,
    And knock his head-piece.

Ralph. Knight, thou art but dead,
    If thou recall not thy uncourteous terms.

[Wife. Break 's pate, Ralph; break 's pate, Ralph, soundly!]

Jasp. Come, knight; I am ready for you. Now your Pestle [Snatches away his pestle.]
shall try what temper, sir, your mortar's of. With that he stood upright in his stirrups, and gave the Knight of the calf-skin such a knock [Knocks Ralph down.] that he forsook his horse and down he fell; and then he leaped upon him, and plucking off his helmet —

Hum. Nay, an my noble knight be down so soon,
    Though I can scarcely go, I needs must run.

[Wife. Run, Ralph, run, Ralph; run for thy life, boy; Jasper comes, Jasper comes!]

Jasp. Come Luce, we must have other arms for you:
    Humphrey, and Golden Pestle, both adieu!

[Wife. Sure the devil (God bless us!) is in this springald! Why, George, didst ever see such a fire-drake? I am afraid my boy's miscarried: if he be, though he were Master Merrythought's son a thousand times, if there be any law in England, I'll make some of them smart for't.

Cit. No, no; I have found out the matter, sweetheart; as sure as we are here, he is enchanted: he could no more have stood in Ralph's hands than I can in my lord mayor's. I'll have a ring to discover all enchantments, and Ralph shall beat him yet: be no more vexed, for it shall be so.]

[Wife. Oh, husband, here's Ralph again!—Stay, Ralph, let me speak with thee. How dost thou, Ralph? art thou not shrewdly hurt? the foul great lungies laid unmercifully on thee: there's some sugar-candy for thee. Proceed; thou shalt have another bout with him.

Cit. If Ralph had him at the fencing-school, if he did not make a puppy of him, and drive him up and down the school, he should ne'er come in my shop more.]

Mist. Mer. Truly Master Knight of the Burning Pestle, I am weary.

Mich. Indeed, la, mother, and I am very hungry.

Ralph. Take comfort, gentle dame, and you, fair squire;
    For in this desert there must needs be placed
    Many strong castles, held by courteous knights;
    And till I bring you safe to one of those,
    I swear by this my order ne'er to leave you.

[Wife. Well said, Ralph!— George, Ralph was ever comfortable, was he not?

Cit. Yes, duck.

Wife. I shall ne'er forget him. When he had lost our child, (you know it was strayed almost alone to Puddle-Wharf, and the criers were abroad for it, and there it had drowned itself but for a sculler,) Ralph was the most comfortablest to me: "Peace, mistress," says he, "let it go; I'll get you another as good." Did he not, George, did he not say so?

Cit. Yes, indeed did he, mouse.]

George. I would we had a mess of pottage and a pot of drink, squire, and were going to bed!

Tim. Why, we are at Waltham-town's end, and that's the Bell-Inn.

George. Take courage, valiant knight, damsel, and squire!
    I have discovered, not a stone's cast off,
    An ancient castle, held by the old knight
    Of the most holy order of the Bell,
    Who gives to all knights-errant entertain:
    There plenty is of food, and all prepared
    By the white hands of his own lady dear.
    He hath three squires that welcome all his guests;
    The first, hight Chamberlino, who will see
    Our beds prepared, and bring us snowy sheets,
    Where never footman stretched his buttered hams;
    The second, hight Tapstero, who will see
    Our pots full filled, and no froth therein;
    The third, a gentle squire, Ostlero hight,
    Who will our palfreys slick with wisps of straw,
    And in the manger put them oats enough,
    And never grease their teeth with candle-snuff.

[Wife. That same dwarfs a pretty boy, but the squire's a groutnol.]

Ralph. Knock at the gates, my squire, with stately lance.

Tap. Who's there?—You're welcome, gentlemen: will you see a room?

George. Right courteous and valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle, this is the Squire Tapstero.

Ralph. Fair Squire Tapstero, I a wandering knight,
    Hight of the Burning Pestle, in the quest
    Of this fair lady's casket and wrought purse,
    Losing myself in this vast wilderness,
    Am to this castle well by fortune brought;
    Where, hearing of the goodly entertain
    Your knight of holy order of the Bell
    Gives to all damsels and all errant knights,
    I thought to knock, and now am bold to enter.

Tap. An't please you see a chamber, you are very welcome.

[Wife. George, I would have something done, and I cannot tell what it is.

Cit. What is it, Nell?

Wife. Why, George, shall Ralph beat nobody again? prithee, sweetheart, let him.

Cit. So he shall, Nell; and if I join with him, we'll knock them all.]

[Wife. Oh, George, here's Master Humphrey again now that lost Mistress Luce, and Mistress Luce's father. Master Humphrey will do somebody's errand, I warrant him.]

Hum. Father, it's true in arms I ne'er shall clasp her;
    For she is stoln away by your man Jasper.

[Wife. I thought he would tell him.]

Vent. Unhappy that I am, to lose my child!
    Now I begin to think on Jasper's words,
    Who oft hath urged to me thy foolishness:
    Why didst thou let her go? thou lov'st her not,
    That wouldst bring home thy life, and not bring her.

Hum. Father, forgive me. Shall I tell you true?
    Look on my shoulders, they are black and blue:
    Whilst to and fro fair Luce and I were winding,
    He came and basted me with a hedge-binding.

Vent. Get men and horses straight: we will be there
    Within this hour. You know the place again!

Hum. I know the place where he my loins did swaddle;
    I'll get six horses, and to each a saddle.

[Wife. George, what wilt thou lay with me now, that Master Humphrey has not Mistress Luce yet? speak, George, what wilt thou lay with me?

Cit. No, Nell; I warrant thee, Jasper is at Puckeridge with her by this.

Wife. Nay, George, you must consider Mistress Luce's feet are tender; and besides 'tis dark; and, I promise you truly, I do not see how he should get out of Waltham forest with her yet.

Cit. Nay, cony, what wilt thou lay with me, that Ralph has her not yet?

Wife. I will not lay against Ralph, honey, because I have not spoken with him.]

[Wife. But look, George, peace! here comes the merry old gentleman again.]

Mer. [Sings.]
            When it was grown to dark midnight,
                And all were fast asleep,
            In came Margaret's grimly ghost,
                And stood at William's feet.

I have money, and meat, and drink beforehand, till to-morrow at noon; why should I be sad? methinks I have half-a-dozen jovial spirits within me!

      [Sings.]
            I am three merry men, and three merry men!

To what end should any man be sad in this world? give me a man that when he goes to hanging cries,

            Troul the black bowl to me!

and a woman that will sing a catch in her travail! I have seen a man come by my door with a serious face, in a black cloak, without a hat-band, carrying his head as if he looked for pins in the street; I have looked out of my window half a year after, and have spied that man's head upon London-bridge. 'Tis vile: never trust a tailor that does not sing at his work; his mind is of nothing but filching.

[Wife. Mark this, George; 'tis worth noting; Godfrey my tailor, you know, never sings, and he had fourteen yards to make this gown: and I'll be sworn, Mistress Penistone the draper's wife had one made with twelve.]

Mer. [Sings.]
            'Tis mirth that fills the veins with blood,
            More than wine, or sleep, or food;
            Let each man keep his heart at ease
            No man dies of that disease.
            He that would his body keep
            From diseases, must not weep;
            But whoever laughs and sings,
            Never he his body brings
            Into fevers, gouts, or rheums,
            Or lingeringly his lungs consumes,
            Or meets with aches in the bone,
            Or catarrhs or griping stone;
            But contented lives for aye;
            The more he laughs, the more he may.

[Wife. Look, George; how sayst thou by this, George? is't not a fine old man?—Now, God's blessing o' thy sweet lips!—When wilt thou be so merry, George? faith, thou art the frowningest little thing, when thou art angry, in a country.

Cit. Peace, cony; thou shalt see him taken down too, I warrant thee.

Here's Luce's father come now.]

Mer. [Sings.]
            As you came from Walsingham,
                From that holy land,
            There met you not with my true love
                By the way as you came?

Vent. Oh, Master Merrythought, my daughter's gone!
    This mirth becomes you not; my daughter's gone!

Mer. [Sings.]
            Why, an if she be, what care I?
            Or let her come, or go, or tarry.

Vent. Mock not my misery; it is your son
    (Whom I have made my own, when all forsook him)
    Has stoln my only joy, my child, away.

Mer. [Sings.]
            He set her on a milk-white steed,
                And himself upon a grey;
            He never turned his face again,
                But he bore her quite away.

Vent. Unworthy of the kindness I have shown
    To thee and thine! too late I well perceive
    Thou art consenting to my daughter's loss.

Mer. Your daughter! what a stir's here wi' your daughter? Let her go, think no more on her, but sing loud. If both my sons were on the gallows, I would sing,

      [Sings.]
            Down, down, down they fall;
            Down, and arise they never shall.

Vent. Oh, might I behold her once again,
    And she once more embrace her aged sire!

Mer. Fie, how scurvily this goes! "And she once more embrace her aged sire?" You'll make a dog on her, will ye? she cares much for her aged sire, I warrant you.

      [Sings.]
            She cares not for her daddy, nor
                She cares not for her mammy,
            For she is, she is, she is, she is
                My lord of Lowgave's lassy.

Vent. For this thy scorn I will pursue that son
    Of thine to death.

Mer. Do; and when you ha' killed him,

      [Sings.]
            Give him flowers enow, palmer, give him flowers enow;
            Give him red, and white, and blue, green, and yellow.

Vent. I'll fetch my daughter—

Mer. I'll hear no more o' your daughter; it spoils my mirth.

Vent. I say, I'll fetch my daughter.

Mer. [Sings.]
            Was never man for lady's sake,
                    Down, down,
            Tormented as I poor Sir Guy,
                    De derry down,
            For Lucy's sake, that lady bright,
                    Down, down,
            As ever men beheld with eye,
                    De derry down.

Vent. I'll be revenged, by Heaven!

[Wife. How dost thou like this, George?

Cit. Why, this is well, cony; but if Ralph were hot once, thou shouldst see more.

Wife. The fiddlers go again, husband.

Cit. Ay, Nell; but this is scurvy music. I gave the whoreson gallows money, and I think he has not got me the waits of Southwark: if I hear 'em not anon, I'll twinge him by the ears.—You musicians, play Baloo!

Wife. No, good George, let's ha' Lachrymae! 

Cit. Why, this is it, cony.

Wife. It's all the better, George. Now, sweet lamb, what story is that painted upon the cloth? the Confutation of St Paul?

Cit. No, lamb; that's Ralph and Lucrece.

Wife. Ralph and Lucrece! which Ralph? our Ralph?

Cit. No, mouse; that was a Tartarian.

Wife. A Tartarian! Well, I would the fiddlers had done, that we might see our Ralph again!]

Jasp. Come, my dear dear; though we have lost our way
    We have not lost ourselves. Are you not weary
    With this night's wandering, broken from your rest,
    And frighted with the terror that attends
    The darkness of this wild unpeopled place?

Luce. No, my best friend; I cannot either fear,
    Or entertain a weary thought, whilst you
    (The end of all my full desires) stand by me:
    Let them that lose their hopes, and live to languish
    Amongst the number of forsaken lovers,
    Tell the long weary steps, and number time,
    Start at a shadow, and shrink up their blood,
    Whilst I (possessed with all content and quiet)
    Thus take my pretty love, and thus embrace him.

Jasp. You have caught me, Luce, so fast, that, whilst I live,
    I shall become your faithful prisoner,
    And wear these chains for ever. Come, sit down,
    And rest your body, too, too delicate
    For these disturbances.—[They sit down.] So: will you sleep?
    Come, do not be more able than you are;
    I know you are not skilful in these watches,
    For women are no soldiers: be not nice,
    But take it; sleep, I say.

Luce. I cannot sleep;
    Indeed, I cannot, friend.

Jasp. Why, then, we'll sing,
    And try how that will work upon our senses.

Luce. I'll sing, or say, or any thing but sleep.

Jasp. Come, little mermaid, rob me of my heart
    With that enchanting voice.

Lute. You mock me, Jasper.

Jasp.     Tell me, dearest, what is love?
Luce.     'Tis a lightning from above;
                 'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire,
                 'Tis a boy they call Desire;
                     'Tis a smile
                     Doth beguile
Jasp.         The poor hearts of men that prove.

             Tell me more, are women true?
Luce.    Some love change, and so do you.
Jasp.         Are they fair and never kind?
Luce.        Yes, when men turn with the wind.
Jasp.            Are they froward?
Luce.            Ever toward
                 Those that love, to love anew.

Jasp. Dissemble it no more; I see the god
    Of heavy sleep lay on his heavy mace
    Upon your eyelids.

Luce. I am very heavy.

Jasp. Sleep, sleep; and quiet rest crown thy sweet thoughts!
    Keep from her fair blood distempers, startings,
    Horrors, and fearful shapes! let all her dreams
    Be joys, and chaste delights, embraces, wishes,
    And such new pleasures as the ravished soul
    Gives to the senses!—So; my charms have took.
    Keep her, you powers divine, whilst I contemplate
    Upon the wealth and beauty of her mind!
    She is only fair and constant, only kind,
    And only to thee, Jasper. Oh, my joys!
    Whither will you transport me? let not fulness
    Of my poor buried hopes come up together
    And overcharge my spirits! I am weak.
    Some say (however ill) the sea and women
    Are governed by the moon; both ebb and flow,
    Both full of changes; yet to them that know,
    And truly judge, these but opinions are,
    And heresies, to bring on pleasing war
    Between our tempers, that without these were
    Both void of after-love and present fear,
    Which are the best of Cupid. Oh, thou child
    Bred from despair, I dare not entertain thee,
    Having a love without the faults of women,
    And greater in her perfect goods than men!
    Which to make good, and please myself the stronger,
    Though certainly I am certain of her love,
    I'll try her, that the world and memory
    May sing to after-times her constancy.—

    Luce! Luce! awake!

Luce. Why do you fright me, friend,
With those distempered looks? what makes your sword
Drawn in your hand? who hath offended you?
I prithee, Jasper, sleep; thou art wild with watching.

Jasp. Come, make your way to Heaven, and bid the world,
With all the villanies that stick upon it,
Farewell; you're for another life.

Luce. Oh, Jasper,
How have my tender years committed evil,
Especially against the man I love,
Thus to be cropped untimely?

Jasp. Foolish girl,
Canst thou imagine I could love his daughter
That flung me from my fortune into nothing?
Discharged me his service, shut the doors
Upon my poverty, and scorned my prayers,
Sending me, like a boat without a mast,
To sink or swim? Come; by this hand you die;
I must have life and blood, to satisfy
Your father's wrongs.

[Wife. Away, George, away! raise the watch at Ludgate, and bring a mittimus from the justice for this desperate villain!—Now, I charge you, gentlemen, see the king's peace kept—Oh, my heart, what a varlet's this, to offer manslaughter upon the harmless gentlewoman!

Cit. I warrant thee, sweetheart, we'll have him hampered.]

Luce. Oh, Jasper, be not cruel!
    If thou wilt kill me, smile, and do it quickly,
    And let not many deaths appear before me;
    I am a woman, made of fear and love,
    A weak, weak woman; kill not with thy eyes,
    They shoot me through and through: strike, I am ready;
    And, dying, still I love thee.

Vent. Whereabouts?

Jasp. [Aside.] No more of this; now to myself again.

Hum. There, there he stands, with sword, like martial knight,
    Drawn in his hand; therefore beware the fight,
    You that be wise; for, were I good Sir Bevis,
    I would not stay his coming, by your leaves.

Vent. Sirrah, restore my daughter!

Jasp. Sirrah, no.

Vent. Upon him, then!

[Wife. So; down with him, down with him, down with him! cut him i' the leg, boys, cut him i' the leg!]

Vent. Come your ways, minion: I'll provide a cage
    For you, you're grown so tame.—Horse her away.

Hum. Truly, I'm glad your forces have the day.

Jasp. They are gone, and I am hurt; my love is lost,
    Never to get again. Oh, me unhappy!
    Bleed, bleed and die! I cannot. Oh, my folly,
    Thou hast betrayed me! Hope, where art thou fled?
    Tell me, if them be'st any where remaining,
    Shall I but see my love again? Oh, no!
    She will not deign to look upon her butcher,
    Nor is it fit she should; yet I must venture.
    Oh, Chance, or Fortune, or whate'er thou art,
    That men adore for powerful, hear my cry,
    And let me loving lire, or losing die!

[Wife. Is 'a gone, George?

Cit. Ay, cony.

Wife. Marry, and let him go, sweetheart. By the faith o' my body, 'a has put me into such a fright, that I tremble (as they say) as 'twere an aspen-leaf. Look o' my little finger, George, how it shakes. Now, in truth, every member of my body is the worse for't.

Cit. Come, hug in mine arms, sweet mouse; he shall not fright thee any more. Alas, mine own dear heart, how it quivers!]

[Wife. Oh, Ralph! how dost thou, Ralph? How hast thou slept to-night? has the knight used thee well?

Cit. Peace, Nell; let Ralph alone.]

Ralph. Right courteous knight, who, for the orders sake
    Which thou hast ta'en, hang'st out the holy Bell,
    As I this flaming Pestle bear about,
    We render thanks to your puissant self,
    Your beauteous lady, and your gentle squires,
    For thus refreshing of our wearied limbs,
    Stiffened with hard achievements in wild desert.

Tap. Sir, there is twelve shillings to pay.

Ralph. Thou merry Squire Tapstero, thanks to thee
    For comforting our souls with double jug:
    And, if adventurous fortune prick thee forth,
    Thou jovial squire, to follow feats of arms,
    Take heed thou tender every lady's cause,
    Every true knight, and every damsel fair;
    But spill the blood of treacherous Saracens,
    And false enchanters that with magic spells
    Have done to death full many a noble knight.

Host. Thou valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle, give ear to me; there is twelve shillings to pay, and, as I am a true knight, I will not bate a penny.

[Wife. George, I prithee, tell me, must Ralph pay twelve shillings now?

Cit. No, Nell, no; nothing but the old knight is merry with Ralph.

Wife. Oh, is't nothing else? Ralph will be as merry as he.]

Ralph. Sir Knight, this mirth of yours becomes you well;
    But, to requite this liberal courtesy,
    If any of your squires will follow arms,
    He shall receive from my heroic hand
    A knighthood, by the virtue of this Pestle.

Host. Fair knight, I thank you for your noble offer: therefore, gentle knight, twelve shillings you must pay, or I must cap you.

[Wife. Look, George! did not I tell thee as much? the knight of the Bell is in earnest. Ralph shall not be beholding to him: give him his money, George, and let him go snick up.

Cit. Cap Ralph! no. — Hold your hand, Sir Knight of the Bell; there's your money [gives money]: have you any thing to say to Ralph now? Cap Ralph!

Wife. I would you should know it, Ralph has friends that will not suffer him to be capt for ten times so much, and ten times to the end of that—Now take thy course, Ralph.]

Mist. Mer. Come, Michael; thou and I will go home to thy father; he hath enough left to keep us a day or two, and we'll set fellows abroad to cry our purse and our casket: shall we, Michael?

Mich. Ay, I pray, mother; in truth my feet are full of chilblains with travelling.

[Wife. Faith, and those chilblains are a foul trouble. Mistress Merrythought, when your youth comes home, let him rub all the soles of his feet, and his heels, and his ancles with a mouse-skin; when he goes to bed, let him roll his feet in when he goes to bed, let him roll his feet in the warm embers, and, I warrant you, he shall be well; and you may make him put his fingers between his toes, and smell to them; it's very sovereign for his head, if he be costive.]

Mist. Mer. Master Knight of the Burning Pestle, my son Michael and I bid you farewell: I thank your worship heartily for your kindness.

Ralph. Farewell, fair lady, and your tender squire.
    If pricking through these deserts, I do hear
    Of any traitorous knight, who through his guile
    Hath light upon your casket and your purse,
    I will despoil him of them, and restore them.

Mist. Mer. I thank your worship.