311 Sia,- My hope is not so nourished by example, as it will conclude, this dumb piece should please you, because i hath pleased others before; but by trust, that when you have read it, you will and it worthy to have displeased none This makes that I now number you, not only in the names of favor, but the names of Justice to what I write; and dc presently call you to the exercise of that noblest, and manliest virtue; as rodagi to be freed in my fame, by the authority of a judge, than the credit of an undertaker. Read, therefore you and censure. There is not a line or syllable in it, changed from the simplicity of the first copy. And hatred of some, how much a man's innocency may be endangered by begin to hate the iniquity of such natures, as I shall love the contin wiped off by your sentence. Your unprofitable, het when you shall consider, through the certain uncertain accusation; you will, I doubt not, st dhe, whose end was so honorable as to be er, BEN. JONSON SCENE LA Room in CLERIMONT's House. Enter CLERMONT, making himself ready, followed by his Page. Cler. Have you got the song yet perfect, I gave you, boy Page. Yes, sir.mtence, let Cler. Let me hear it. True. Yes; as if a man should sleep all the term, and think to effect his business the last day. O, Clerimont, this time, because it is an incorporeal thing, and not subject to sense, we mock ourselves the fineliest out of it, with vanity and misery indeed! not seeking an end of wretchedness, but only changing the matter still. Cler. Nay, thou'lt not leave now True. See but our common disease! with what justice can we complain, that great men will not look upon us, nor be at leisure to give our affairs such dispatch as we expect, when we will never Page. You shall, sir; but i'faith let nobody do it to ourselves? nor hear, nor regard ourelse. a goiq danb Cler. Why, I pray? bna li Page. It will get you the dangerous name of a poet in town, sir; besides me a perfect deal of ll-will at the mansion you wotwo Tady is the argument of it; where now as thdwelcomest thing under a man that comes there Cler. I think; and above a man too, if the truth were rack'd out of you. Page. No, faith, I'll confess before, she gentlewomen play with me, and throw me on he bed, and carry me in to my lady: and he Kisses me with her oil'd face, and puts a peruke on my head; and asks me an I will wear her gown? and I say no: and then she hits me a blow o' the ear, and calls me Innocent! and lets me go. Cler. No marvel if the door be kept shut against your master, when the entrance is so easy to you well, sir, you shall go there no more, lest I be fain to seek your voice in my lady's rushes, a fortnight hence. Sing, sir. Enter TRUEWIT. True. Why, here's the man that can melt away his time and never feels it! What between his mistress abroad and his ingle at home, high fare, soft lodging, fine clothes, and his fiddle; he thinks the hours have no wings, or the day no post-horse. Well, sir gallant, were you struck with the plague this minute, or condemn'd to any capital punishment to-morrow, you would begin then to think, and value every article of your time, esteem it at the true rate, and give all for it. Cler. Why what should a man do? True. Why, nothing; or that which, when 'tis done, is as idle. Hearken after the next horserace, or hunting-match, lay wagers, praise Puppy, or Peppercorn, White-foot, Franklin; swear upon Whitemane's party; speak aloud, that my lords may hear you; visit my ladies at night, and be able to give them the character of every bowler or better on the green. These be the things wherein your fashionable men exercise themselves, and I for company. Cler. Nay, if I have thy authority, I'll not leave yet. Come, the other are considerations, when we come to have gray heads and weak hams, moist eyes and shrunk members. We'll think on 'em then; then we'll pray and fast. True. Ay, and destine only that time of age to goodness, which our want of ability will not let us employ in evil! Cler. Why, then 'tis time enough. 311 short clothes; a good hand, discover it often: practice any art to mend breath, cleanse teeth, repair eye-brows; paint, and profess it. Cler. How! publicly? True. The doing of it, not the manner that must be private. Many things that seem foul in the doing, do please done. A lady should, indeed, study her face, when we think she sleeps; nor, when the doors are shut, should men be enquiring; all is sacred within, then. Is it for us to see their perukes put on, their false teeth, their complexion, their eye-brows, their nails? You see gilders will not work, but inclosed. They must not discover how little serves, with the help of art, to adorn a great deal. How long did the canvas hang afore Aldgate? Were the people suffered to see the city's Love and Charity, while they were rude stone, before they were painted and burnish'd? No; no more should servants approach their mistresses, but when they are complete and finish'd. Cler. Well said, my Truewit. True. And a wise lady will keep a guard always upon the place, that she may do things securely. I once followed a rude fellow into a chamber, where the poor madam, for haste, and troubled, snatch'd at her peruke to cover her baldness; and put it on the wrong way. Cler. O prodigy! Trus. And the unconscionable knave held her in compliment an hour with that reverst face, when I still look'd when she should talk from the t'other side. Cler. Why, thou shouldst have relieved her. True. No, faith, I let her alone, as we'll let this argument, if you please, and pass to another. When saw you Dauphine Eugenie? Cler. Not these three days. Shall we go to him this morning? he is very melancholy, I hear. True. Sick of the uncle, is he? I met that stiff piece of formality, his uncle, yesterday, with a huge turban of night-caps on his head, buckled over his ears. Cler. O, that's his custom when he waiks abroad. He can endure no noise, man. True. So I have heard. But is the disease so ridiculous in him as it is made? They say he has been upon divers treaties with the fish-wives and orange-women; and articles propounded between them: marry, the chimney-sweepers will not be drawn in. Cler. No, nor the broom-men: they stand out stiffly. He cannot endure a costard-monger, he swoons if he hear one. True. Methinks a smith should be ominous. Cier. Or any hammer-man. A brasier is not suffer'd to dwell in the parish, nor an armorer. He would have hang'd a pewterer's prentice once upon a Shrove-tuesday's riot, for being of that trade, when the rest were quit. True. A trumpet should fright him terribly, the hautboys. Cler. Out of his senses. The waights of the city have a pension of him not to come near that ward. This youth practised on him one night like the bell-man; and never left till he had brought him down to the door with a long sword; and there left him flourishing with Ute air. : Page. Why, sir, he hath chosen a street to lic in so narrow at both ends, that it will receive no coaches, nor carts, nor any of these common noises and therefore we that love him, devise to bring him in such as we may, now and then, for his exercise, to breathe him. He would grow resty else in his ease: his virtue would rust without action. I entreated a bearward, one day, to come down with the dogs of some four parishes that way, and I thank him he did; and cried his games under master Morose's window. till he was sent crying away, with his head made a most bleeding spectacle to the multitude. And, another time, a fencer marching to his prize, had his drum most tragically run through, for taking that street in his way at my request. True. A good wag! How does he for the bells? Cler. O, in the Queen's time, he was wont to go out of town every Saturday at ten o'clock, or on holy day eves. But now, by reason of the sickness, the perpetuity of ringing has made him devise a room, with double walls and treble ceilings; the windows close shut and caulk'd: and there he lives by candle-light. He turn'd away a man, last week, for having a pair of new shoes that creak'd. And this fellow waits on him now in tennis-court socks, or slippers soled with wool: and they talk each to other in a trunk. See, who comes here! Enter Sir DAUPHINE EUGENIE. Daup. How now! what ail you, sirs? dumb! True. Struck into stone, almost, I am here, with tales o' thine uncle. There was never such a prodigy heard of. Daup. I would you would once lose this subject, my masters, for my sake. They are such as you are, that have brought me into that pre dicament I am with him. True. How is that? Daup. Marry, that he will disinherit me; no more. He thinks, I and my company are authors of all the ridiculous Acts and Monuments are told of him. True. 'Slid, I would be the author of more to vex him; that purpose deserves it: it gives the law of plaguing him. I'll tell thee what I would do. I would make a false almanack, get it printed; and then have him drawn out on a coronation day to the Tower-wharf, and kill him with the noise of the ordnance. Disinherit thee! he cannot, man. Art not thou next of blood, and his sister's son ? Daup. Ay, but he will thrust me out of it, h vows, and marry. True. How! that's a more portent. Can he endure no noise, and will venture on a wife? Cler. Yes: why thou art a stranger, it seems, to his best trick, yet. He has employed a fellow this half year all over England to hearken him out a dumb woman; be she of any form, or any quality, so she be able to bear children: her silence is dowry enough, he says. True. But I trust to God he has found none. Cler. No; but he has heard of one that's lodged in the next street to him, who is excecingly soft spoken; thrifty of her speech; tha spends but six words a day. And her he's about now, and shall have her. True. Ist possible! who is his agent in the business? Cler. Marry, a barber, one Cutbeard; an honest fellow, one that tells Dauphine all here. True. Why you oppress me with wonder: a woman, and a barber, and love no noise ! Cler. Yes, faith. The fellow trims him silently, and has not the knack with his sheers or his fingers; and that continence in a barber he thinks so eminent a virtue, as it has made him chief of his counsel. True. Is the barber to be seen, or the wench? True. I prithee, Dauphine, let's go thither. True. You shall have no business shall make you neglect this, sir: we'll make her talk, believe it; or, if she will not, we can give out at least so much as shall interrupt the treaty; we will break it. Thou art bound in conscience, when he suspects thee without cause, to torment him. Daup. Not I, by any means. I'll give no suffrage to't. He shall never have that plea against me, that I opposed the least phant'sy of his. Let it lie upon my stars to be guilty, I'll | be innocent. True. Yes, and be poor, and beg; do, innocent when some groom of his has got him an heir, or this barber, if he himself cannot. Innocent! I prithee, Ned, where lies she? let him be innocent still. 1 Cler. Why, right over against the barber's; in the house where sir John Daw lies. True. You do not mean to confound me! Daup. Come, you are a strange open man, to tell every thing thus. Cler. Why, believe it, Dauphine, Truewit's 2 very honest fellow. Daup. I think no other: but this frank nature of his is not for secrets. Cler. Nay, then, you are mistaken. Dauphine: I know where he has been well trusted, and discharged the trust very truly, and heartily. Daup. I contend not, Ned; but with the fewer a business is carried, it is ever the safer. Now we are alone, if you'll go thither, I am for you Cler. When were you there? Daup. Last night: and such a Decameron of sport fallen out! Boccace never thought of the like. Daw does nothing but court her; and the wrong way. He would lie with her, and praises her modesty; desires that she would talk and be free, and commends her silence in verses; which he reads, and swears are the best that ever man made. Then rails at his fortunes, stamps, and mutines, why he is not made a counsellor, and call'd to affairs of state. Cler. I prithee let's go. I would fain partake Cler. O, that's a precious mannikin ! Cler. Ay, and he will know you too, if e'er he saw you but once, though you should meet him at church in the midst of prayers. He is one of the braveries, though he be none of the wits. He will salute a judge upon the bench, and a bishop in the pulpit, a lawyer when he is pleading at the bar, and a lady when she is dancing in a masque, and put her out. He does give True. Does he that would marry her know so plays, and suppers, and invites his guests to much? Cler. I cannot tell. them, aloud, out of his window, as they ride by in coaches. He has a lodging in the Strand for True. "Twere enough of imputation to her the purpose: or to watch when ladies are gone with him. Cler. Why? True. The only talking sir in the town! Jack Daw! and he teach her not to speak! God be wi' you. I have some business too. Cler. Will you not go thither, then? True. Not with the danger to meet Daw, for mine cars. Cler. Why, I thought you two had been upon very good terms. True. Yes, of keeping distance. Cler. They say, he is a very good scholar. True. Ay, and he says it first. A pox on him, a fellow that pretends only to learning, buys titles, and nothing else of books in him! Cler. The world reports him to be very learned. True. I am sorry the world should so conspire to belie him. Cler. Good faith, I have heard very good things come from him. True. You may; there's none so desperately gnorant to deny that: would they were his own! God be wi' you, gentlemen. Cler. This is very abrupt! [Exit hastily. to the china-houses, or the Exchange, that he may meet them by chance, and give them presents, some two or three hundred pounds' worth of toys, to be laugh'd at. He is never without a spare banquet, or sweet-meats in his chamber, for their women to alight at, and come up to for a bait. Daup. Excellent! he was a fine youth last night; but now he is much finer!. what is his Christian name? I have forgot. after, my lady's gentleman-usher, who got me knighted in Ireland, since it pleased my eider brother to dic. - I had as fair a gold jerkin on that day, as any worn in the island voyage, or at Cadiz, none dispraised; and I came over in it hither, shew'd myself to my friends in court, and after went down to my tenants in the country, and surveyed my lands, let new leases, took their money, spent it in the eye o' the land here, upon ladies: - and now I can take up at my pleasure. Daup. Can you take up ladies, sir? Cler. O, let him breathe, he has not recover'd. Dep. Would I were your half in that commodity! La-F. No, sir, excuse me: I meant money, which can take up any thing. I have another guest or two, to invite, and say as much to, gentlemen. I'll take my leave abruptly, in hope you will not fail- Your servant. [Exit. Daup. We will not fail you, sir precious LaFoole; but she shall, that your ladies come to see, if I have credit afore sir Daw. Cler. Did you ever hear such a wind-sucker, as this? Daup. Or such a rook as the other, that will betray his mistress to be seen! Come, 'tis time we prevented it. Cler. Go. [Exeunt. SCENE I.- A Room in MOROSE's House. Enter MOROSE, with a tube in his hand, followed by MUTE. Mor. Cannot I, yet, find out a more compendious method, than by this trunk, to save my servants the labor of speech, and mine ears the discords of sounds? Let me see: all discourses but my own afflict me; they seem harsh, im[Aside. pertinent, and irksome. Is it not possible, that La-B. They all come out of our house, the thou shouldst answer me by signs, and I appreLa-Fontes de the north, the La-Fooles of the hend thee, fellow? Speak not, though I queswesty the La-Pooles of the east and south-we tion you. You have taken the ring off from are as ancient family as any is in Europe- but the street door, as I bade you? answer me not I myself and descended lineally of the French by speech, but by silence; unless it be otherLa-Foolestad, we do bear for our coat yel- wise. [MUTE makes a leg.- very good. And low, or or hacker'd azure, and gules, and some you have fastened on a thick quilt, or flock-bed, three or four colors more, which is a very noted on the outside of the door; that if they knock coat, and has sometimes, been solemnly worn with their daggers, or with brick-bats, they can by divers nobility of our house- but let that make no noise?-But with your leg, your ango, antiquity is not respected now. I had a swer, unless it be otherwise. [makes a leg.]brace of fat does sent me, gentlemen, and half Very good. This is not only fit modesty in a a dozen of pheasants, a dozen or two of god- servant, but good state and discretion in a maswits, and some other fowl, which I would have ter. And you have been with Cutbeard the eaten, while they are good, and in good com- barber, to have him come to me? [makes a leg.] pany: there will be a great lady or two, my-Good. And, he will come presently? Anlady Haughty lady Centaure, mistress Dol swer me not but with your leg, unless it be otherMavis and they come o' purpose to see the wise: if it be otherwise, shake your head, or silent gentlewoman, mistress Epicone, that shrug. [makes a leg.]-So! Your Italian and honest sirado Daw has promised to bring Spaniard are wise in these: and it is a frugal thither and then, mistress Trusty, my lady's and comely gravity. How long will it be woman will be there too, and this honorable ere Cutbeard come? Stay; if an hour, hold up kuightdated Dauphine, with yourself, master your whole hand; if half an hour, two fingers; Clerihon and we'll be very merry, and have if a quarter, one; [holds up a finger bent.] Halets and dance. I have been a mad wag in Good: half a quarter? 'tis well. And have ety time, and have spent some crowns since I you given him a key, to come in without knockusage in court, to my lord Lofty, and ing? [makes a leg.]-Good. And, is the lock |