HARVEY

Good reason, so it leads to Croched-Fryers Where old Pisaro, and his Daughters dwell, Look to your feet, the broad way leads to Hell: They say Hell stands below, down in the deep, I'll down that Hill, where such good Wenches keep, But sirrah Ned, what says Mathea to thee? Wilt fadge? wilt fadge? What, will it be a match? Prithee talk milder: let but thee alone, And thou in one bore hour will ask him more, Then heel remember in a hundred years: Come from him Anthony, and say what news? Maids should read, that it teaches modesty. What's this? what's this? I thank you sir, but tell me what wouldst thou do with a Frenchman: Fools tell the truth men say, and so may he: Wenches we come now, Love our conduct be. Ned, knock at the door: but soft forbear; The Cloud breaks up, and our three Suns appear. To this I fly, shine bright my lives sole stay, And make griefs night a glorious summer's day. Come to the Exchange, and when I feel decay, Send me such Wenches, Heavens I still shall pray. Whats he, sweet youths; that so they flock about: What old Pisaro tainted with this madness? Marry thank God for it; for otherwise, he would doubtless have Cut thee out in Rashers to have eaten thee; thou lookest as thou weart through broiled already. 'Tis Midsomer-Moone with him: let him alone, He call's Ned Walgraue, Master Vandalle. Marry and shall; a right good motion: Sirrs, old Pisaro is grown kind of late, And in pure love, hath bid us home to dinner. Tut never doubt, keep stomachs till anon, And then we shall have cates to feed upon. Many Pisaros here: Why how now Ned ; Where is your Matt your welcome, and good cheer? Heer'le be a gallantiest, when we come there, To see how mazed the greedy chuff will look Upon the nations, sects, and factions, That now have born him company to dinner: But hark you, lets not go to vex the man; Prithee sweet Ned lets tarry, do not go. Higher a Poast-horse for him (gentle Frank ) Here's haste, and more haste then a hasty Pudding: You madman, madcap, wild-oates; we are for you, It boots not stay, when you intend to go. Hark you Monsieur, you would wish your self half hanged, you were as sure to be let in as he. But by your patience sir, me thinks none should know better who's Lord, then the Lady. Marry sir, the Lady let her alone: one that means to let you alone for fear of trouble. To see the luck of a good fellow, poor Anthony Could never have sorted out a worse time: Now will the pack of all our sly devises Be quite laid open, as one undoes and Oyster: Frank, Heigham, and mad Ned, fallen to your muses, To help poor Anthony now at a pinch, Or all our market will be spoiled and marred. France. Then put a Sword into a madmans hand: Thou art so hasty, that but cross thy humour, And thou'lt be ready cross them over the pates: Therefore for this time, I'll supply the room. Well, I am content to save your longing. But soft, where are we? Would, here's the house, Come let us take our stands: France stand you there, And Ned and I will cross tother side. Nor durst you be so bold as to stand there, If once the Master of the House did know it. Farewell and be hanged Signor: Now for your fellow, if the Ass would come. Hark Ned, there's thy substance One of thy mettle Ned, would surely do it: But peace, and hark to the rest. Hark Ned yonders good greeting. I sir, and will give you a lick of my Cudgel, if ye stay long and trouble the whole street with your bawling: hence dolt, and go seek M. Pisaros House. My Dutchman's out his Compass & his Carded; He's reckoning what Wind hath drove him hither: I'll swear he thinks never to see Pisaros. It well, it well: But now let's cast about, To set these Woodcocks farther from the House, And afterwards return unto our Girls. O beware what love is? Ned hath found the scent; And if the Connie chance to miss her Burrough, She's overborne y faith, she cannot stand it. Be not so wilful, prithee let him lie. Marina. Master Pisaro, hear a dead man speak, Who sings the woeful accents of his end. I do confess I love; then let not love Prove the sad engine of my lives remove: Marina's rich Possession was my bliss? Then in her lose, all joy eclipsed is: As every Plant takes virtue of the Sun; So from her Eyes, this life and being sprung: But now debarred of those clear shining Rays, Death for Earth gapes, and Earth to Death obeys: Each word thou spakest, (o speak not so again) Boar Death's true image on the Word engraved; Which as it slew mixed with Heavens airy breath, Summoned the dreadful Sessions of my death: I leave thee to thy wish, and may th'euent Prove equal to thy hope and hearts content. Marina to that hap, that happiest is; My Body to the Grave, my Soul to bliss. Have I done well? Stay, stay good sir, forbear this idle work, My soul, is labouring for a higher place, Then this vain transitory world can yield: What, would you wed your Daughter to a Grave? For this is but Death's model in men shape: You and Alvaro happy live together: Happy were I, to see you live together. Are all things sure Father, is all dispatched? Nay Father, nothing does remain, but thanks: Thanks to your self first, that disdaining me, Yet loud my Lands, and for them gave a Wife. But next, unto Alvaro let me turn, To courteous gentle loving kind Alvaro, That rather then to see me die for love, For very love, would lose his beawtious Love. I hope more happy Stars will reign to day, And done Alvaro have more company. O blame him not, his grief is quickly spied, That is a Bridegroom, and yet wants his Bride. You come too late, the Marriage rites are done: Yet welcome twentyfold unto the Feast. How say you sirs, did not I tell you true, These Wenches would have us, and none of you. Goes the case so well signor bottlenose It may be we shall overreach your drift; This is the time the Wenches sent us word Our bombast Dutchman and his mates will come. Well neat Italian, you must done my shape: Play your partly well, or I may haps pay you. What, speechless Ned? faith whereon musest thou? 'Tis on your French corrival, for my life: He come eat vostre, and so forth, Till he hath foisted in a Brat or two? How then, how then? Why sir, if you please, you shall have us here at two a clock, at three a clock, at four a clock; nay till to morrow this time: yet I assure you sir, we came not to your house without inviting. Master Pisaro, twenty times God morrow Nay faith Father, it's very certain true, I am as well as any man on earth: Am I sick sirres? Look here, is Harvey sick? Nay by your leave sir, but I'll hold your worship. This stir we should have had, had you stood there. The Wench hath taken him down, He hangs his head.