Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker

by Thomas Dekker

  Were there no men, women might live like gods.

  Guilty, my lord?

  Hip. Yes, guilty my good lady.

  Inf. Nay, you may laugh, but henceforth shun my bed,

  With no whore’s leavings I’ll be poisonèd. [Exit.

  Hip. O’er-reached so finely? ’Tis the very diamond

  And letter which I sent: this villany

  Some spider closely weaves, whose poisonèd bulk

  I must let forth. Who’s there without?

  Ser. [Within.] My lord calls?

  Hip. Send me the footman.

  Ser. [Within.] Call the footman to my lord, — Bryan, Bryan!

  Hip. It can be no man else, that Irish Judas,

  Bred in a country where no venom prospers

  But in the nation’s blood, hath thus betrayed me.

  Re-enter Bryan.

  Slave, get you from your service.

  Bry. Faat meanest thou by this now?

  Hip. Question me not, nor tempt my fury, villain

  Couldst thou turn all the mountains in the land,

  To hills of gold, and give me: here thou stayest not.

  Bry. I’faat, I care not.

  Hip. Prate not, but get thee gone, I shall send else.

  Bry. Ay, do predy, I had rather have thee make a scabbard of my guts, and let out all de Irish puddings in my poor belly, den to be a false knave to de, i’faat! I will never see dine own sweet face more. A mawhid deer a gra, fare dee well, fare dee well; I will go steal cows again in Ireland. [Exit.

  Hip. He’s damned that raised this whirlwind, which hath blown

  Into her eyes this jealousy: yet I’ll on,

  I’ll on, stood armed devils staring in my face,

  To be pursued in flight, quickens the race,

  Shall my blood-streams by a wife’s lust be barred?

  Fond woman, no: iron grows by strokes more hard;

  Lawless desires are seas scorning all bounds,

  Or sulphur, which being rammed up, more confounds,

  Struggling with madmen madness nothing tames,

  Winds wrestling with great fires incense the flames. [Exit.

  SCENE II. — A Room in Matheo’s House.

  ENTER BELLAFRONT, AND Orlando disguised as a Serving-man.

  Bell. How now, what ails your master?

  Orl. Has taken a younger brother’s purge, forsooth, and that works with him.

  Bell. Where is his cloak and rapier?

  Orl. He has given up his cloak, and his rapier is bound to the peace: If you look a little higher, you may see that another hath entered into hatband for him too. Six and four have put him into this sweat.

  Bell. Where’s all his money?

  Orl. ’Tis put over by exchange; his doublet was going to be translated, but for me. If any man would ha’ lent but half a ducat on his beard, the hair of it had stuffed a pair of breeches by this time; I had but one poor penny, and that I was glad to niggle out, and buy a holly-wand to grace him through the street. As hap was, his boots were on, and them I dustied, to make people think he had been riding, and I had run by him.

  Bell. Oh me!

  Enter Matheo.

  How does my sweet Matheo?

  Mat. Oh rogue, of what devilish stuff are these dice made of, — the parings of the devil’s corns of his toes, that they run thus damnably?

  Bell. I prithee, vex not.

  Mat. If any handicraft’s-man was ever suffered to keep shop in hell, it will be a dice-maker; he’s able to undo more souls than the devil; I played with mine own dice, yet lost. Ha’ you any money?

  Bell. ‘Las, I ha’ none.

  Mat. Must have money, must have some, must have a cloak, and rapier, and things. Will you go set your lime-twigs, and get me some birds, some money?

  Bell. What lime-twigs should I set?

  Mat. You will not then? Must have cash and pictures, do ye hear, frailty? shall I walk in a Plymouth cloak, that’s to say, like a rogue, in my hose and doublet, and a crabtree cudgel in my hand, and you swim in your satins? Must have money, come! [Taking off her gown.

  Orl. Is’t bed-time, master, that you undo my mistress?

  Bell. Undo me? Yes, yes, at these riflings I

  Have been too often.

  Mat. Help to flay, Pacheco.

  Orl. Flaying call you it?

  Mat. I’ll pawn you, by th’ lord, to your very eyebrows.

  Bell. With all my heart, since Heaven will have me poor,

  As good be drowned at sea, as drowned at shore.

  Orl. Why, hear you, sir? i’faith do not make away her gown.

  Mat. Oh! it’s summer, it’s summer; your only fashion for a woman now is to be light, to be light.

  Orl. Why, pray sir, employ some of that money you have of mine.

  Mat. Thine? I’ll starve first, I’ll beg first; when I touch a penny of that, let these fingers’ ends rot.

  Orl. So they may, for that’s past touching. I saw my twenty pounds fly high. [Aside.

  Mat. Knowest thou never a damned broker about the city?

  Orl. Damned broker? yes, five hundred.

  Mat. The gown stood me in above twenty ducats, borrow ten of it. Cannot live without silver.

  Orl. I’ll make what I can of it, sir, I’ll be your broker, —

  But not your damned broker: Oh thou scurvy knave!

  What makes a wife turn whore, but such a slave? [Aside and exit with Bellafront’s gown.

  Mat. How now, little chick, what ailest, weeping for a handful of tailor’s shreds? pox on them, are there not silks enow at mercer’s?

  Bell. I care not for gay feathers, I.

  Mat. What dost care for then? why dost grieve?

  Bell. Why do I grieve? A thousand sorrows strike

  At one poor heart, and yet it lives. Matheo,

  Thou art a gamester, prithee, throw at all,

  Set all upon one cast. We kneel and pray,

  And struggle for life, yet must be cast away.

  Meet misery quickly then, split all, sell all,

  And when thou’st sold all, spend it; but I beseech thee

  Build not thy mind on me to coin thee more,

  To get it wouldst thou have me play the whore?

  Mat. ’Twas your profession before I married you.

  Bell. Umh? it was indeed: if all men should be branded

  For sins long since laid up, who could be saved?

  The quarter-day’s at hand, how will you do

  To pay the rent, Matheo?

  Mat. Why? do as all of our occupation do against quarter-days: break up house, remove, shift your lodgings: pox a’ your quarters!

  Enter Lodovico.

  Lod. Where’s this gallant?

  Mat. Signor Lodovico? how does my little Mirror of Knighthood? this is kindly done i’faith: welcome, by my troth.

  Lod. And how dost, frolic? — Save you fair lady. —

  Thou lookest smug and bravely, noble Mat.

  Mat. Drink and feed, laugh and lie warm.

  Lod. Is this thy wife?

  Mat. A poor gentlewoman, sir, whom I make use of a’nights.

  Lod. Pay custom to your lips, sweet lady. [Kisses her.

  Mat. Borrow some shells of him — some wine, sweetheart.

  Lod. I’ll send for’t then, i’faith.

  Mat. You send for’t? — Some wine, I prithee.

  Bell. I ha’ no money.

  Mat. ‘Sblood, nor I. — What wine love you, signor?

  Lod. Here! (Offering money,) or I’ll not stay, I protest; trouble the gentlewoman too much? [Gives money to Bellafront, who goes out.

  And what news flies abroad, Matheo?

  Mat. Troth, none. Oh signor, we ha’ been merry in our days.

  Lod. And no doubt shall again.

  The divine powers never shoot darts at men

  Mortal, to kill them.

  Mat. You say true.

  Lod. Why should we grieve at want? Say the world made thee

  Her minion, that thy hea
d lay in her lap,

  And that she danced thee on her wanton knee,

  She could but give thee a whole world: that’s all,

  And that all’s nothing; the world’s greatest part

  Cannot fill up one corner of thy heart.

  Say three corners were all filled, alas!

  Of what art thou possessed, a thin blown glass:

  Such as is by boys puffed into the air.

  Were twenty kingdoms thine, thou’dst live in care:

  Thou couldst not sleep the better, nor live longer,

  Nor merrier be, nor healthfuller, nor stronger.

  If, then, thou want’st, thus make that want thy pleasure,

  No man wants all things, nor has all in measure.

  Mat. I am the most wretched fellow: sure some left-handed priest hath christened me, I am so unlucky; I am never out of one puddle or another; still falling.

  Re-enter Bellafront with wine.

  Fill out wine to my little finger.

  With my heart, i’faith. [Drinks.

  Lod. Thanks, good Matheo.

  To your own sweet self. [Drinks.

  Re-enter Orlando.

  Orl. All the brokers’ hearts, sir, are made of flint. I can with all my knocking strike but six sparks of fire out of them; here’s six ducats, if you’ll take them.

  Mat. Give me them! [Taking money.] An evil conscience gnaw them all! moths and plagues hang upon their lousy wardrobes!

  Lod. Is this your man, Matheo?

  Mat. An old serving-man.

  Orl. You may give me t’other half too, sir, that’s the beggar.

  Lod. What hast there, — gold?

  Mat. A sort of rascals are in my debt, God knows what, and they feed me with bits, with crumbs, a pox choke them.

  Lod. A word, Matheo; be not angry with me;

  Believe it that I know the touch of time,

  And can part copper though it be gilded o’er,

  From the true gold: the sails which thou dost spread,

  Would show well if they were not borrowèd.

  The sound of thy low fortunes drew me hither,

  I give my self unto thee; prithee, use me,

  I will bestow on you a suit of satin,

  And all things else to fit a gentleman,

  Because I love you.

  Mat. Thanks, good, noble knight!

  Lod. Call on me when you please; till then farewell. [Exit.

  Mat. Hast angled? hast cut up this fresh salmon?

  Bell. Wouldst have me be so base?

  Mat. It’s base to steal, its base to be a whore:

  Thou’lt be more base, I’ll make thee keep a door. [Exit.

  Orl. I hope he will not sneak away with all the money, will he?

  Bell. Thou sees’t he does.

  Orl. Nay then, it’s well. I set my brains upon an upright last; though my wits be old, yet they are like a withered pippin, wholesome. Look you, mistress, I told him I had but six ducats of the knave broker, but I had eight, and kept these two for you.

  Bell. Thou should’st have given him all.

  Orl. What, to fly high?

  Bell. Like waves, my misery drives on misery. [Exit.

  Orl. Sell his wife’s clothes from her back? does any poulterer’s wife pull chickens alive? He riots all abroad, wants all at home: he dices, whores, swaggers, swears, cheats, borrows, pawns: I’ll give him hook and line, a little more for all this;

  Yet sure i’th end he’ll delude all my hopes,

  And show me a French trick danced on the ropes. [Exit.

  SCENE III. — Before Candido’s Shop. Candido and his Bride discovered in the Shop.

  ENTER AT ONE side Lodovico and Carolo; at another Bots, and Mistress Horseleech.

  Lod. Hist, hist, Lieutenant Bots, how dost, man?

  Car. Whither are you ambling, Madam Horseleech?

  Mis. H. About worldly profit, sir: how do your worships?

  Bots. We want tools, gentlemen, to furnish the trade: they wear out day and night, they wear out till no metal be left in their back. We hear of two or three new wenches are come up with a carrier, and your old goshawk here is flying at them.

  Lod. And, faith, what flesh have you at home?

  Mis. H. Ordinary dishes; by my troth, sweet men, there’s few good i’ th’ city; I am as well furnished as any, and, though I say it, as well customed.

  Bots. We have meats of all sorts of dressing; we have stewed meat for your Frenchman, pretty light picking meat for your Italian, and that which is rotten roasted for Don Spaniardo.

  Lod. A pox on’t.

  Bots. We have poulterer’s ware for your sweet bloods, as dove, chicken, duck, teal, woodcock, and so forth; and butcher’s meat for the citizen: yet muttons fall very bad this year.

  Lod. Stay, is not that my patient linen-draper yonder, and my fine young smug mistress, his wife?

  Car. Sirrah, grannam, I’ll give thee for thy fee twenty crowns, if thou canst but procure me the wearing of yon velvet cap.

  Mis. H. You’d wear another thing besides the cap. You’re a wag.

  Bots. Twenty crowns? we’ll share, and I’ll be your pully to draw her on.

  Lod. Do’t presently; we’ll ha’ some sport.

  Mis. H. Wheel you about, sweet men: do you see? I’ll cheapen wares of the man, whilst Bots is doing with his wife.

  Lod. To’t: if we come into the shop to do you grace, we’ll call you madam.

  Bots. Pox a’ your old face, give it the badge of all scurvy faces, a mask.

  [Mistress Horseleech puts on a mask.

  Cand. What is’t you lack, gentlewoman? Cambric or lawns, or fine hollands? Pray draw near, I can sell you a pennyworth.

  Bots. Some cambric for my old lady.

  Cand. Cambric? you shall, the purest thread in Milan.

  Car. Save you, Signor Candido.

  Lod. How does my noble master? how my fair mistress?

  Cand. My worshipful good servant. — View it well, for ’tis both fine and even. [Shows cambric.

  Car. Cry you mercy, madam; though masked, I thought it should be you by your man. — Pray, signor, show her the best, for she commonly deals for good ware.

  Cand. Then this shall fit her. — This is for your ladyship.

  Bots. A word, I pray; there is a waiting gentlewoman of my lady’s: her name is Ruyna, says she’s your kinswoman, and that you should be one of her aunts.

  Bride. One of her aunts? troth, sir, I know her not.

  Bots. If it please you to bestow the poor labour of your legs at any time, I will be your convoy thither?

  Bride. I am a snail, sir, seldom leave my house. If’t please her to visit me, she shall be welcome.

  Bots. Do you hear? the naked truth is; my lady hath a young knight, her son, who loves you, you’re made, if you lay hold upon’t; this jewel he sends you. [Offers jewel.

  Bride. Sir, I return his love and jewel with scorn; let go my hand, or I shall call my husband. You are an arrant knave. [Exit.

  Lod. What will she do?

  Bots. Do? They shall all do if Bots sets upon them once: she was as if she had professed the trade, squeamish at first; at last I showed her this jewel, said a knight sent it her.

  Lod. Is’t gold, and right stones?

  Bots. Copper, copper, I go a fishing with these baits. She nibbled, but would not swallow the hook, because the conger-head, her husband, was by; but she bids the gentleman name any afternoon, and she’ll meet him at her garden house, which I know.

  Lod. Is this no lie now?

  Bots. Damme, if —

  Lod. Oh, prithee stay there.

  Bots. The twenty crowns, sir.

  Lod. Before he has his work done? but on my knightly word he shall pay’t thee.

  Enter Astolfo, Beraldo, Fontinell, and Bryan.

  Ast. I thought thou hadst been gone into thine own country.

  Bry. No, faat, la, I cannot go dis four or tree days.

  Ber. Look thee, yonder’s the shop, and that’s the man hims
elf.

  Fon. Thou shalt but cheapen, and do as we told thee, to put a jest upon him, to abuse his patience.

  Bry. I’faat, I doubt my pate shall be knocked: but, sa crees sa’ me, for your shakes, I will run to any linen-draper in hell: come predee.

  Ast., Ber., Fon. Save you, gallants.

  Lod., Car. Oh, well met!

  Cand. You’ll give no more, you say? I cannot take it.

  Mis. H. Truly I’ll give no more.

  Cand. It must not fetch it.

  What would you have, sweet gentlemen.

  Ast. Nay, here’s the customer.

  [Exeunt Bots and Mistress Horseleech.

  Lod. The garden-house, you say? we’ll bolt out your roguery.

  Cand. I will but lay these parcels by — my men

  Are all at the custom house unloading wares,

  If cambric you would deal in, there’s the best,

  All Milan cannot sample it.

  Lod. Do your hear it? one, two, three,— ‘Sfoot, there came in four gallants! Sure your wife is slipt up, and the fourth man, I hold my life, is grafting your warden tree.

  Cand. Ha, ha, ha! you gentlemen are full of jest.

  If she be up, she’s gone some wares to show;

  I have above as good wares as below.

  Lod. Have you so? nay, then —

  Cand. Now, gentlemen, is’t cambrics?

  Bry. I predee now let me have de best waures.

  Cand. What’s that he says, pray, gentlemen?

  Lod. Marry, he says we are like to have the best wars.

  Cand. The best wars? all are bad, yet wars do good,

  And, like to surgeons, let sick kingdom’s blood.

  Bry. Faat a devil pratest tow so? a pox on dee! I preddee, let me see some hollen, to make linen shirts, for fear my body be lousy.

  Cand. Indeed, I understand no word he speaks.

  Car. Marry, he says that at the siege in Holland

  There was much bawdry used among the soldiers,

  Though they were lousy.

  Cand. It may be so, that likely; true, indeed,

  In every garden, sir, does grow that weed.

  Bry. Pox on de gardens, and de weeds, and de fool’s cap dere, and de clouts! hear? dost make a hobby-horse of me? [Tearing the cambric.

  All. Oh, fie! he has torn the cambric.

  Cand. ’Tis no matter.

  Ast. It frets me to the soul.