LODOVICO

G Ood day, Gallants. How dost thou Carolo. Mine is as tall a felt as any is this day in Milan, and therefore I love it, for the block was cleft out for my head, and fits me to a hair. O, a morning to tempt Jove from ̄ his Ningle Ganymede, which is but to give Dary Wenches green gowns as they are going a milking; what, is thy Lord stirring yet? How now, is thy Lord ready? Footman, does my Lord ride y'th Coach with my Lady, or on horseback? My Lady sheet in de toder side: did you ever here a Rascal talk so Like a Pagan? Is't not strange that a fellow of his star, should be seen here so long in Italy, yet speak so from a Christian? Nay Carolo, this is more strange, I would been in France, theres few of them: Marry, England they count a warm chimney corner, and there they swarm Like Crickets to the crevice of a Brewhouse; but Sir, in England I have noted one thing. Marry this Sir, what's he yonder? In England, Sir, troth I ever laugh when I think on't: to see a whole Nation should be marked i'th forehead, as a man may say, with one Iron: why Sir, there all Coster mongers are Irishmen. Why then, should all your Chimney-sweepers Like wise be Irishmen? answer that now, come, your wit. Then, Sir, have you many of them (Like this fellow) (especially those of his hair) Footmen to Noblemen and oh the, and the Knaves are very faithful where they love, by my faith very proper men many of them, and as active as the clouds, whir, hah. And stout! exceeding stout; Why, I warrant, this precious wild Villain, if he were put to't, would fight more desperately then sixteen Dunkerkes. No, no, our Country Bona Roba's o! are the sum grest delicious Rogues. Not I, I protest, there's a saying when they come mend Nations: It goes, the Irishman for his hand, Welsh man for a leg, the Englishman for a face, the Dutchman for beard. The Spaniard, let me see, for a little foot (I take it) the Frenchman, what a pox hath he? and so of the rest. Are they at breakfast yet? come walk. How now, what's this, a Nurse's Bill? hath any here God thee with child, and now will not keep it? He's about his own wife now, he'll hardly dis patch two causes in a morning. A pox on her, I was sure her name was in my Table book once, I know not of what cut her die is now, but she has been more common then Tobacco: this is she that had the name of the Honest Whore. This is the Blackamoor that by washing was turned white: this is the Birding Piece new scoured: this is she that (if any of her religion can be saved) was saved by my Lord Hipolito. She has been! that's the Epitaph of all Whores, I'm well acquainted with the poor Gentleman her Husband, Lord! what Fortune's that man has overreached? She knows not me, yet I have been in her company, I scarce know her, for the beauty of her cheek hath (Like the Moon) suffered strange Eclipses since I beheld it: but women are Like Med lars (no sooner ripe but rotten.) A woman last was made, but is spent first, Yet man is oft proved, in performance worst. Morrow Madam. What stockings have you put on this morning, Ma dam? if they be not yellow, change them; that paper is a Letter from some Wench to your Husband. 'Sfoot, my Lord, your Lady asks if you have not left your Wench yet? When you get in once, you never have done: come, come, come, pay your old score, and send her packing, come. Your Lady swears she'll have no riding on before, without you. My Lord pray hasten. Gods so, Gentlemen, what do we forget? Are not we all enjoined as this day, Thursday is't not? I as that day to be at the Linendrapers house at din ner? O it's rare sucking a sweet Honeycomb; pray Heaven his old wife be buried deep enough, that she rise not up to call for her dance, the poor Fiddlers Instruments would crack for it, shee'd tickle them: at any hand lets try what mettle is in his new Bride, if there be none, we'll put in some; troth it's a very noble Citizen, I pity he should marry again, I'll walk along, for it is a good old fellow. O fie vpon't, 'twould undo all us that are Courti ers, we should have no who with the wenches then. Your Lady is with the Duke her Father. Carolo, didst ere see such a nest of Caps? What does he 'ith middle look Like? It's rather a long pike staff against so many buck le without pikes; they fit for all the world Like a pair of Organs, and he's the tall great roaring pipe'ith midst. Troth shall I tell you, and aloud I'll tell it, We laugh to see (yet laugh we not in scorn) Amongst so many Caps that long Hat worn. Prithee sweet Bridegroom doo't. Proceed. That close shaving made Barbers a Company, And now every Citizen uses it. Nay, that's flat. Since his Cap's round, that Shall go round. Be bore, For in the Caps praise all of you have share. The Bride's at cuffs. Look what your Mistress ails. A word with you: do you hear? This wench (your new wife) will take you down in your wedding shoes, unless you hang her up in her wedding garters. Will you be a rame Pigeon still? shall your back be Like a Tortoys shell, to let Carts go over it, yet not to break? This Shee-cat will have more lives then your last Pusse had, and will scratch worse, and mouze you worse: look toot. What would I have you do? Swear, swagger, brawl, fling; for fighting it's no matter, we would had knocking Pusses enough already; you know, that a woman was made of the rib of a man, and that rib was crooked. The Moral of which is, that a man must from his beginning be crooked to his wife; be you Like and Oram ̄ ge to her, let her cut you never so fair, be you sour as vinegar; will you be ruled by me? Have you ever a Prentices suit will fit me? I'll send my man for't within this half hour, and within this two hours I'll be your Prentice: the Hen shall not overcrow the Cock, I'll sharpen your spurs. Only a jest: farewell, come Carolo: Come, come, come, what do ye lack, sir? what do you lack, sir? what is't you lack, sir? is not my Worship well suited? did you ever see a Gentleman better disguised? Yes: but when he has been drunk, there be Prenti ces would make mad Gallants, for they would spend all, and drink, and whore, and so forth; and I see we Gallants could make mad Prentices. How does thy wife Like me? Nay, I must not be so saucy, then I spoil all: pray you how does my Mistress Like me? And they that are taken for such, are commonly the arrantest knaves: but to our Comedy, come. 'Sblood, cannot you do as all the world does? counterfeit. Remember you're a Linen Draper, and that if you give your wife a yard, she'll take and ell: give her not there before a quarter of your yard, not a nail. Well, say she's nipped. Die? never, never; I do not bid you Beatrice her, nor give her black eyes, nor pinch her sides: but cross her humours. Are not Bakers arms the scales of Justice? yet is not their bred light? and may not you I pray bridle her with a sharp bit, yet ride her gently? Come, come, I'll prompt you. Do, do, bravely. Lycia, I pray bid your Mistress to come hither. La you, there's the echo, she comes. Yes indeed, sir, I would deal in Linen, if my Mi stris Like me so well as I Like her? Swear, cry Zounds. That your great oath? Well said. Call her arrant whore. Excellent well, I'll go look to the shop, sir. Fine Cambricks, Lawns, what do you lack. A Yard for my Master. What will you do, sir? No, he'll but measure you out, forsooth. And ell for my Mistress. Keep the laws of the Noble Science, sir, & measure weapons with her; your yard is a plain Heathenish weapon; it's too short, she may give you a handful, & yet you'll not reach her. It's for the breeches, is't not? Let her ha'te. If she strike hard, in to her, and break her pate. Nay, if your service be so hight, a man cannot keep his hair on, I'll serve you no longer. Yes faith, wench, I taught him to take thee down: I hope thou canst take him down without teaching; you would God the conquest, and you both are friends. My Prenticeship then ends. I thank you Master. I'll kiss my Mistress now, that she may say, My man was bound, and free all in one day. Where's this Gallant? And how dost, frolic? Save you fair Lady. Thou lookest smug and bravely, Noble Mat. Is this thy wife? Pay custom to your lips, sweet Lady. I'll send for't then i'faith. Here, or I'll not stay, I protest; trouble the Gentle woman too much? And what news flies abroad, Matheo? And no doubt shall again. The Divine powers never shoot Darts at men Mortal, to kill them. Why should we grieve at want? Say the world made thee her Minion, that Thy head 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 partly cannot fill up one corner of thy heart. Say, the three corners were all filled, alas! Of what art thou possessed, a thin blown glass: Such as by Boys is 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 wantest, thus make that want thy pleasure, No man wants all things, nor has all in measure. Thanks, good Matheo. To your own sweet self. Is this your man, Matheo? And old Servingman. What hast there, gold? A word, Matheo: be not angry with me, Believe it that I know the touch of time, And can partly copper (though it be gilded over) From the true gold: the sails which thou dost spread, Would show well, if they were not borrowed. The found of thy low Fortune's 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. Call on me when you please, Till then farewell. Hist, hist, Lieutenant Bots, how dost, man? And faith, what flesh have you at home? A pox on't. Stay, is not that my patient Linen Draper yonder, and my fine young smug Mistress, his wife? Doo't presently; we'll would some sport. Too't: if we come into the shop to do you grace, wee'll call you Madam. How does my Noble Master? how my fair Mistress? What, will she do? Is't gold, and right stones? She nibbled, but would not swallow the hook, because the Cunger-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. Is this no lie now? O prithee stay there. Before he has his work done? but on my Knightly word, he shall pay't thee. The Garden-house you say? wee'll boult out your roguery. Do you hear? 1. 2. 3. 'Sfoot, there came in 4. Gallants, sure your wife is slipped up, and the 4 that . man I hold my life, is grafting your Warden tree. Have you so? nay then— Marry he says we are Like to have the best wares. To attach him upon felony, for 2. Pedlars: is't not so? So she had needs, for the Turks make them whores. Signior Friscabaldo. Uds so, Pacheco? wee'll have some sport with this Warrant: it's to apprehend all suspected persons in the house: Beside, there's one Bots a Pander, and one Madam Horsleach a Bawd, that have abused my friend, those two Coneyes will we ferret into the pursenet. Do you hear, Gallants? meet me anon at Matheos. We'll trouble your house (Matheo) but as Dutchmen do in Taverns (drink, be merry, and be gone.) See, the Couy is sprung. Gentlemen, you all know Signior Candido, the Linen Draper, he that's more patient then a brown Baker, upon the day when he heats his Oven, and has forty Scolds a bout him. Would it not be a good fit of mirth, to make a piece of English cloth of him, and to stretch him on the Tainters, till the threads of his own natural humour crack, by ma king him drink healths, Tobacco, dance, sing bawdy songs, or to run any bias according as we think good to cast him? Peace, two dishes of stewed prunes, a Bawd and a Pander. My worthy Lieutenant Bots; why, now I see th'art a-man of thy word, welcome; welcome Mistress Horsleach: Pray Gentlemen, salute this reverend Matron. Bade a Drawer send in wine too: did none come along with thee (Grannam) but the Lieutenant? Are you come? that's well. Come, repeat, read this Inventory. You're paid? Give fire, Lieutenant. My noble Linen Draper! Some wine: Welcome old Lad. Because you are and old Lady, I will have you be ac quainted with this graven Citizen, pray bestow your lips upon him, and bid him welcome. A woman of a good house, and and ancient, she's a Bawd. Why does your hand shake so? How now? To the Garden house. Bots, are we even with you? Wee'll go before. Yonder's the Lord Hipollito, by any means leave him and me together: Now will I turn him to a Madman. I would strange news to tell you. Your Mare's i'th pound. Your Nightingale is in a Limebush. Your Puritanical Honest Whore sits in a blue gown. She'll chalk out your way to her now: she beats chalk. Do you know the Brick-house of Castigation, by the River side that runs by Milan: the School where they pronounce no letter well but Oh? Any man that has born Office of Constable, or any woman that has fallen from a Horseload to a Cartload, or Like and old Hen that has had none but rotten eggs in her nest, can direct you to her: there you shall see your Punk amongst her back-friends, there you may have her at your will, for there she beats Chalk, or grinds in the Mill, with a whip deedle, deedle, deedle, deedle; ah little monkey. Some Worshipful Rascal, I lay my life. So you may bring and old house over her head. O me! what Monsters are men made by whores? If this false fire do Kindle him, there's one Faggot More to the bonfire, now to my Bridewell Birds, What Song will they sing? Your Son (the Lord Hipollito) is entered. These, I told him—his Lark whom he loved, was a Bridewell Bird, he's mad that this Cage should hold her, and is come to let her out. My Lord, it's true, we all know him, it's Lieutenant Bots. Are not you a Bride, forsooth? Fashion? pox a your fashions, art not a whore? Her Target against any Pike in Milan. Farewell Doll. Bail thee, art in for debt? Well said, belike this Devil spares no man. Dee ye hear ye Madam? why does your Ladyship swagger thus? you're very brave, me thinks. Oh fie, fie, do not vex her. And yet me thinks a creature of more scurvy conditions Should not know what a good Petticoat were.