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Harlot, if that be all; didst thou not sell him
Nurse. I did, good master, and I crave your pardon : But 'tis my daughter, and a girl.
Host. Why saidst thou
It was a boy, and sold'st him then to me
Nurse. Because you were a charitable man,
Host. Sure thou speak'st
Quite like another creature than thou hast lived
Nurse. So I am, God help me.
Host. What art thou? tell: the match is a good match,3
For aught I see; ring the bells once again. [Music. Lord B. Stint, I say, fidlers.
Lady F. No going off, my lord.
3 The match is a good match, &c.] Something like this occurs. in the Widow, a comedy, said to be written by Fletcher, Middleton, and our poet in conjunction: there, as here, a supposed male in female habiliments is wooed and won, and much good mirth is spoiled by the instantaneous discovery of the bride's sex.
"Vide. Ha ha! here they come, one man married to another, Val. How! man to man?
Muck. Why, this is my daughter, Martha."
The Widow was not published during Jonson's life, though it appeared on the stage so early as 1618.
Lord B. Nor coming on, sweet lady, things thus
Fly. But what's the heinousness of my offence,
Lord B. Was that your plot, Fly?
Give me a cloke, take her again among you.
I'll none of your Light Heart fosterlings, no inmates,
And his Fly's hatching, to be put upon me.
Will scatter all these mists, disperse these vapours, And clear the truth: Let beggars match with beggars
That shall decide it; I will try it there.
Nurse. Nay then, my lord, it's not enough, I see,
You would repudiate and cast her off,
Should dare to except against, her poverty;
Lord B. The age counts it so.
Nurse. God help your lordship, and your peers that think so,
If any be: if not, God bless them all,
And better blood, running in those small veins,
Host. Old mother of records,
Thou know'st her pedigree then: whose daughter is she?
Nurse. The daughter and co-heir to the lord Frampul, This lady's sister.
Lady F. Mine! what is her name?
Lady F. That was lost!
Nurse. The true Lætitia.
Lady F. Sister, O gladness! Then you are our
Nurse. I am, dear daughter.
Lady F. On my knees I bless
The light I see you by.
Nurse. And to the author
Of that blest light, I ope my other eye,
Which hath almost, now, seven years been shut,
Lord B. Give me my wife, I own her now, and will have her.
Host. But you must ask my leave first, my young lord.
Leave is but light.—Ferret, go bolt your master, Here's gear will startle him. [Exit FERRET.I cannot keep
▲ Than all the race of Beauforts, &c.] "The children of John o' Gaunt, by his third wife, Catherine Swinford, widow of sir Hugh Swinford, Bt. and daughter to sir Paen Roet, Kt. Guyen king at arms, took their name from the castle of Beaufort in France, which came to the house of Lancaster by Blanch of Artois, wife to Edmund Crouchback, the first earl of Lancaster. They were legitimated by Act of Parliament in the 20th of Richard II.”
The passion in me, I am e'en turn'd child,
And I must weep.-Fly, take away mine host,
[Pulls off his disguise. My beard and cap here from me, and fetch_my
I am her father, sir, and you shall now
Ask my consent, before you have her.-Wife!
Have measured all the shires of England over,
Their pipers, fidlers, rushers, puppet-masters,
To search their natures, and make odd discoveries :
Ventured in disquisition after me.
Re-enter FLY with lord FRAMPUL'S robes.
Nurse. I may look up, admire, I cannot speak Yet to my lord.
Host. Take heart, and breathe, recover,
Thou hast recover'd me, who here had coffin'd
my wrongs done unto thee,
Whom I long since gave lost.
Nurse. So did I you,
Till stealing mine own daughter from her sister,
I lighted on this error hath cured all.
Lord B. And in that cure, include my trespass,
And father, for my wife
Host. No, the Star-chamber.
Lord B. Away with that, you sour the sweetest
Was ever tasted.
Host. Give you joy, my son,
Cast her not off again.
O call me father,
Lovel, and this your mother, if you like.
But take your mistress, first, my child; I have power
Lov. Is this a dream now, after my first sleep,
Host. Best go to bed,
And dream it over all. Let's all go sleep,
Each with his turtle. Fly, provide us lodgings,
Indeed, were gipsies, tapsters, ostlers, chamberlains,
But here stands Prue, neglected, best deserving
Lord B. And I as much.
Host. There's somewhat yet, four thousand pound! that's better,
Than sounds the proverb, four bare legs in a bed. Lov. Me and her mistress, she hath power to coin Up into what she will.
5 Than sounds the proverb.] The proverb, at full is, "There goes more to matrimony than four bare legs," &c.