SIR EDWARD

Fit M. Mamon, would heeres a goodly day nigh. What news at court? would, would, now Jesu God, Fetch me some Burdeux wine, what news at court? Reprobate fashion, when each ragged clout, Each Cobblers spawn, and yeasty bowzing bench, Reeks in the face of sacred majesty His stinking breath of censure, Out-vpont, Why by this Burdeux juice, 'tis now become The shewing-horne of Bezelers discourse, The common food of prate: what news at court? But in these stiff nekt times when every Jade Huffs his upreared crest, the zealous bent Of Councillors solid cares is trampled on By every hackneys heals: O I could burst At the conjectures fears, preventions And restless tumbling of our tossed brains: You shall have me and empty cask thats furd With nought but barmy froth, that never traveled Beyond the confines of his Mistress lips, Discourse as confident of peace with Spain As if the Genius of quick Machiavel Vsherd his speech. Hath not the liquour taken them? Why Jack, is not that sufficient? Peace knave peace. Daughter, lay your express commandment upon the stay of master Mamon, what 'tis women's year, Dian does rule, and you must domineer. Faith as it please you for going, and her for wooing, I will enforce neither. Nay be free my daughters in election, O, how my soul abhors enforced yokes, Chiefly in love, where the affections bent: Should wholly sway the Father's kind consent. Foregod when I was bachelor, had a friend, Nay had my Father wished me to a wife, That might have liked me, yet their very wish Made me mistrust my Love had not true course, But had some sway from duty which might hold For some slight space: but o when time shall search The strength of love, then virtue, and your eye, Must knit his sinews: I choosed my self a wife Poor, but of good dissent, and we did live Till death divorced us, as a man would wish: I made a woman, now wenches make a man: Choose one either of valour, wit, honesty, or wealth, So he begentle, and you have my heart, I faith you have: What, I have land for you both, You have love for your selves. Heeres M. Mamon now. Nay sir, weel bring you a little of the way. What outrage have we here so early up? Sir you do wrong the quiet of my house. Enter Camelia. I faith you do, and 'tis but rudely done, Go too 'tis not. Is this a place to brawl? Go too sir boy forbear, you wrong my Love, And you forget your self to use such Jests, Such nasty rybauldry upon my daughter: I tell you M. Brabant, does she love Any that merits the name of man? Speak softly, God forbid, my daughter hears, Tell me the circumstance, I pray you Sir. God for his mercy, what mischance is here? A good youth, a virtuous modest youth, I faith he was. And I can tell your sir, My daughter Katherine, where is she now? Whithers she gone? Drum call her hither strait. And as I told you sir, my daughter Katherine Affected him right dearly: by my peace of soul, If he had lived, I could have heartily wished He had be my son in law, I faith I could: But see the will of God. How now Drum, Where's my daughter? Body of me, my heart misgives me now, Look, call, search, run all about. My daughter gone? Go all and search her out. Here's Pasquil would? Is this the man thats dead? Well, I would you had not feigned. O no, but I have lost my child I fear, By your strange feigning, she no sooner herd The tidings of your death, but gone she was, And God knows whither. Would what news now? Broach me a fresh Butt of Canary Sack, Lets sing, drink, sleep, for thats the best relief: To drown all care, and overwhelm all grief. Pour Wine, found Music, let our bloods not freeze, Drink Duch Like gallants, lets drink vpsey freeze. Tush show me no Items, and she love you, a God name: I'll not be cursed by my daughter for forcing her to clip a loathed, abhorred match: and see how fortunate we are; Look where she stands. Daughter give me your hand, with your consent, I give you to this Gentleman. God pardon me, not I: why M. Else would? Had you her consent, speak freely man? Fie daughter, you are too plain with him. Alas my son Simily is out of countenance. Marry godforbid, what frolic, frolic man, weel have a Cup of Sack and Sugar soon, shall quite expel these musty humours of stale melancholy. Alas kind youth, how came he thus di aught? Come, come, lets entice him by some good means, I'll labour to reclaim him to his wits. Oh now my daughter Katherine remembers me, Where art thou girl? heaven give me patience. Hold hairbrainde youth, what mischief maddes thy thoughts? I am turned wild in wonder of this act. I will dissolve and melt my soul to night, In influent laughter. Come' my Jocund spirit Presages some vnhopte for happiness: We'll crown this evening with triumphant joy, I'll sup upon this Green, here's room enough To draw a liberal breath, and laugh aloud: Drum fetch the Table: Twedle scour your Pipe, For my old bones will have a Round to night. Now by my troth and I had thought ont too, I would have had a play: I faith I would. I saw the Children of Powles last night, And troth they pleased me pretty, pretty well, The Apes in time will do it handsomely. Gallants I have no judgement in these things, But will it please you fit? Camelia Call these same Gentlemen unto thee wench: Oh there with thee my Katherine was wont To fit with graceful presence, well let't pass: Fetch me a Cup of Sack. Come Gallants fit, M. Brabant, M. Planet, I pray you fit. Young M. Brabant, and Gods precious M. John, Fit all, and consecrate this night to mirth. Here is old Neds place: Come, found Music there, What Gallants have you never a Page can entertain This pleasing time with some French brawl or Song? What shall we have a Galliard? troth 'tis well. A Galliard. Good Boy I faith, I would thou hadst more room. Gallants I drink this to Ned Pasquils health. And I my daughter. Fill me one Cup more: No grief so potent, but neat sparkling wine Can conquer him: O this is Juice divine. I am quite sunk with grief, what shall we do To get recovery of his wits again? Found Music, then pray God it take effect. Oh pardon me thou dread omnipotence, I thought thou couldst not thus have blessed me. Oh thou hast deaw'd my grey hairs with thy love, And made my old heart sprout with fertile joy. No more, no more, I know what thou wouldst say Daughter, there's nothing but salvation, Could come unto my heart more gracious Then is the sighed of my deer Katherine. Son Pasquill now, for thou shalt be my son, What frolic gentle youth. Why? did he cast you in the labyrinth Of these strange crosses? But no body will have thee, this is the plague of light inconstancy. Go Twedle, bid the Butler broach fresh wine, Set up wax lights, and furnish new the boards, Knock down a score of Beefs, Invite my neighbours straight, And make my Dressers groan with weight of meat. M. Else, pray you let us hear your high Dutch Song, You are admired for it: Good lets hear it. Pray God he have not brewed a heady Jest indeed. Why faith 'tis valorously spoke fair Sir, Weel solemnise your Coronation With royal pomp. Now Gentlemen prepare A liberal spirit to entertain a Jest, Where free light Jocund mirth shall be enthroand With sumptuous state. Now Music Beatrice the air, Intrance our thoughts with your harmonious sounds, Our Fortune laughs, and all content abounds. Nay M Mamon, misinterpret not, I only burn the bauen heath of youth, That cannot court the presence of fair time With ought but with, what news at Court sweet sir? I had rather that Kemps Morris were their chat, For of foolish actions, may be theyle talk wisely, but of Wise intendments, most partly talk Like fools. The sum is this, bear only this good thought, The Counsel-chamber is the Phoenix nest, Who wastes it self, to give us peace and rest. Nor necessity no right, Drum down with them into the Cellar, rest content, rest continued ̄ tent, one bout more and then away. Or what? tush, tush, your life hath lost his taste, O madness still to sweat in hot pursuit Of cold abhorred sluttish niggardise, To exile ones Fortune's from their native use, To entertain a present poverty, A willing want, for Infidel mistrust Of gracious providence: O Lunacy, I have two thousand pound a year, and but two Girls, I owe nothing, live in all men's love, Why should I now go make my self a slave Unto the God of fools; put worst: then here's my rest. I had rather live rich to die poor, then live poor to die rich. Would, I was not born to be my Cradles drudge, To choke and stifle up my pleasures breath, To poison with the venomed cares of thrift My private sweet of life: only to scrape A heap of muck, to fatten and manure The barren virtues of my progeny, And make them sprowt, spite of their want of worth: No, I do love my Girls should wish me live, Which few do wish that have a greedy Sire: But still expect and gape with hungry lip, When heel give up his gouty stewardship. Worse and worse, I am not yet distracted, I long not to be squeasd with mine own weight: Nor hoist up all my sails to catch the wind Of the drunk reeling Commons: I labour not To have and awful presence, nor be feared (Since who is feared, still fears to be so feared) I care not to be Like the Horeb Calf, One day adored, and next pashed all in pieces: Nor do I envy Poliphemia ̄ puffs, Swizars slopped greatness: I adore the Sun, Yet love to live within a temperate zone, Let who will climb ambitious glibbery rounds, And lean upon the vulgars rotten love, I'll not corrival him: The Sun will give As great a shadow to my trunk as his: And after death Like Chesmen having stood In play for Bishops, some for Knights, and Pawns, We all together shall be tumbled up, into one bag, Let hushed calm quiet, rock my life a sleep: And being dead, my own ground press my bones, Whilst some old Beldame hobbling over my graven, May mumble thus: Here lies a knight whose money Was his slave. Now Jack what news? Thats nothing hard. Nay not to London Sir to night, I'faith at least stay supper. Well, well, no more; my house, my self, my love, Opens their hearts with liberal embrace To entertain your presence: I or any men So they'le be civil, modest, not profane, Not Like to those that make it their chief grace, To be quite graceless. O a Morris is come, observe our country sport, 'Tis Whitson-tyde, and we must frolic it. Well said my boys, I must have my Lords livery, what is't, a Maypole? troth it a good body for a courtiers imprezza, if it had but this life, Frustra florescit. Hold Cozen hold. A wealthy, careful, thriving Citizen. Well done, I faith it chanted merrily: What my Gallants, never a tickling Jest To make us sown with mirth ere we go in? Very well, he read French to my daughters. See even on your wish he's come.