YALE STUDIES IN ENGLISH
ALBERT S. COOK, Editor

XXIX

THE DEVIL IS AN ASS

BY
BEN JONSON

Edited with Introduction, Notes, and Glossary

BY
WILLIAM SAVAGE JOHNSON, Ph.D.
Instructor in English in Yale University

A Thesis presented to
the Faculty of the Graduate School of Yale University
in Candidacy for the Degree of
Doctor of Philosophy

NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1905

Copyright by William Savage Johnson, 1905
PRESS OF THE TUTTLE, MOREHOUSE & TAYLOR COMPANY

TO MY MOTHER

PREFACE

In The Devil is an Ass Jonson may be studied, first, as a student; secondly, as an observer. Separated by only two years from the preceding play, Bartholomew Fair, and by nine from the following, The Staple of News, the present play marks the close of an epoch in the poet’s life, the period of his vigorous maturity. Its relations with the plays of his earlier periods are therefore of especial interest.

The results of the present editor’s study of these and other literary connections are presented, partly in the Notes, and partly in the Introduction to this book. After the discussion of the purely technical problems in Sections A and B, the larger features are taken up in Section C, I and II. These involve a study of the author’s indebtedness to English, Italian, and classical sources, and especially to the early English drama; as well as of his own dramatic methods in previous plays. The more minute relations to contemporary dramatists and to his own former work, especially in regard to current words and phrases, are dealt with in the Notes.

As an observer, Jonson appears as a student of London, and a satirist of its manners and vices; and, in a broader way, as a critic of contemporary England. The life and aspect of London are treated, for the most part, in the Notes; the issues of state involved in Jonson’s satire are presented in historical discussions in Section C, III. Personal satire is treated in the division following.

I desire to express my sincere thanks to Professor Albert S. Cook for advice in matters of form and for inspiration in the work; to Professor Henry A. Beers for painstaking discussion of difficult questions; to Dr. De Winter for help and criticism; to Dr. John M. Berdan for the privilege of consulting his copy of the Folio; to Mr. Andrew Keogh and to Mr. Henry A. Gruener, for aid in bibliographical matters; and to Professor George L. Burr for the loan of books from the Cornell Library.

A portion of the expense of printing this book has been borne by the Modern Language Club of Yale University from funds placed at its disposal by the generosity of Mr. George E. Dimock of Elizabeth, New Jersey, a graduate of Yale in the Class of 1874.

W. S. J.

Yale University,
August 30, 1905.

CONTENTS Introduction   PAGE

A.

Editions of the Text xi

B.

Date and Presentation xvii

C.

The Devil is an Ass xix

I.

The Devil Plot xx

1. The Devil in the pre-Shakespearian Drama

xxii

2. Jonson’s Treatment of the Devil

xxiii

3. The Influence of Robin Goodfellow and of Popular Legend

xxvi

4. Friar Rush and Dekker

xxvii

5. The Novella of

Belfagor

and the Comedy of

Grim xxx

6. Summary

xxxiv

7. The Figure of the Vice

xxxiv

8. Jonson’s Use of the Vice

  xxxvii

II.

The Satirical Drama xli

1. General Treatment of the Plot

xli

2. Chief Sources of the Plot

xlv

3. Prototypes of the leading Characters

lii

4. Minor Sources

liii

III.

Specific Objects of Satire liv

1. The Duello

liv

2. The Monopoly System

lviii

3. Witchcraft

lxii

IV.

Personal Satire lxv

Mrs. Fitzdottrel

lxvi

Fitzdottrel

lxx

Wittipol

lxxi

Justice Eitherside

lxxi

Merecraft

lxxii

Plutarchus Guilthead

lxxiii

The Noble House

lxxiv

D.

After-Influence of the Devil is an Ass lxxiv Appendix—Extracts from the Critics lxxvi Text  1 Notes 123 Glossary 213 Bibiliography 237 Index 243

INTRODUCTION

A. EDITIONS OF THE TEXT

The Devil is an Ass was first printed in 1631, and was probably put into circulation at that time, either as a separate pamphlet or bound with Bartholomew Fair and The Staple of News. Copies of this original edition were, in 1640-1, bound into the second volume of the First Folio of Jonson’s collected works.[1] In 1641 a variant reprint edition of The Devil is an Ass, apparently small, was issued in pamphlet form. The play reappears in all subsequent collected editions. These are: (1) the ‘Third Folio’, 1692; (2) a bookseller’s edition, 1716 [1717]; (3) Whalley’s edition, 1756; (4) John Stockdale’s reprint of Whalley’s edition (together with the works of Beaumont and Fletcher), 1811; (5) Gifford’s edition, 1816; (6) Barry Cornwall’s one-volume edition, 1838; (7) Lieut. Col. Francis Cunningham’s three-volume reissue (with some minor variations) of Gifford’s edition, 1871; (8) another reissue by Cunningham, in nine volumes (with additional notes), 1875. The Catalogue of the British Museum shows that Jonson’s works were printed in two volumes at Dublin in 1729. Of these editions only the first two call for detailed description, and of the others only the first, second, third, fifth, and eighth will be discussed.

1631. Owing to irregularity in contents and arrangement in different copies, the second volume of the First Folio has been much discussed. Gifford speaks of it as the edition of 1631-41.[2] Miss Bates, copying from Lowndes, gives it as belonging to 1631, reprinted in 1640 and in 1641.[3] Ward says substantially the same thing.[4] In 1870, however, Brinsley Nicholson, by a careful collation,[5] arrived at the following results. (1) The so-called editions of the second volume assigned to 1631, 1640, and 1641 form only a single edition. (2) The belief in the existence of ‘the so-called first edition of the second volume in 1631’ is due to the dates prefixed to the opening plays. (3) The belief in the existence of the volume of 1641 arose from the dates of Mortimer and the Discoveries, ‘all the copies of which are dated 1641’, and of the variant edition of The Devil is an Ass, which will next be described. (4) The 1640 edition supplies for some copies a general title-page, ‘R. Meighen, 1640’, but the plays printed in 1631 are reprinted from the same forms. Hazlitt arrives at practically the same conclusions.[6]

The volume is a folio by measurement, but the signatures are in fours.

Collation: Five leaves, the second with the signature A_3 B-M in fours. Aa-Bb; Cc-Cc_2 (two leaves); C_3 (one leaf); one leaf; D-I in fours; two leaves. [N]-Y in fours; B-Q in fours; R (two leaves); S-X in fours; Y (two leaves); Z-Oo in fours. Pp (two leaves). Qq; A-K in fours. L (two leaves). [M]-R in fours. A-P in fours. Q (two leaves). [R]-V in fours.

The volume opens with Bartholomew Fayre, which occupies pages [1-10], 1-88 (pages 12, 13, and 31 misnumbered), or the first group of signatures given above.

2. The Staple of Newes, paged independently, [1]-[76] (pages 19, 22, and 63 misnumbered), and signatured independently as in the second group above.

3. The Diuell is an Asse, [N]-Y, paged [91]-170 (pages 99, 132, and 137 misnumbered). [N] recto contains the title page (verso blank). N_2 contains a vignette and the persons of the play on the recto, a vignette and the prologue on the verso. N_3 to the end contains the play proper; the epilogue being on the last leaf verso.

One leaf (pages 89-90) is thus unaccounted for; but it is evident from the signatures and pagination that The Diuell is an Asse was printed with a view to having it follow Bartholomew Fayre. These three plays were all printed by I. B. for Robert Allot in 1631. Hazlitt says that they are often found together in a separate volume, and that they were probably intended by Jonson to supplement the folio of 1616.[7]

Collation made from copy in the library of Yale University at New Haven.

It was the opinion of both Whalley and Gifford that the publication of The Devil is an Ass in 1631 was made without the personal supervision of the author. Gifford did not believe that Jonson ‘concerned himself with the revision of the folio, ... or, indeed, ever saw it’. The letter to the Earl of Newcastle (Harl. MS. 4955), quoted in Gifford’s memoir, sufficiently disproves this supposition, at least so far as Bartholomew Fair and The Devil is an Ass are concerned. In this letter, written according to Gifford about 1632, Jonson says: ‘It is the lewd printer’s fault that I can send your lordship no more of my book. I sent you one piece before, The Fair, ... and now I send you this other morsel, The fine gentleman that walks the town, The Fiend; but before he will perfect the rest I fear he will come himself to be a part under the title of The Absolute Knave, which he hath played with me’. In 1870 Brinsley Nicholson quoted this letter in Notes and Queries (4th S. 5. 574), and pointed out that the jocular allusions are evidently to Bartholomew Fair and The Devil is an Ass.

Although Gifford is to some extent justified in his contempt for the edition, it is on the whole fairly correct.

The misprints are not numerous. The play is overpunctuated. Thus the words ‘now’ and ‘again’ are usually marked off by commas. Occasionally the punctuation is misleading. The mark of interrogation is generally, but not invariably, used for that of exclamation. The apostrophe is often a metrical device, and indicates the blending of two words without actual elision of either. The most serious defect is perhaps the wrong assignment of speeches, though later emendations are to be accepted only with caution. The present text aims to be an exact reproduction of that of the 1631 edition.

1641. The pamphlet quarto of 1641 is merely a poor reprint of the 1631 edition. It abounds in printer’s errors. Few if any intentional changes, even of spelling and punctuation, are introduced. Little intelligence is shown by the printer, as in the change 5. I. 34 SN. (references are to act, scene, and line) He flags] He stags. It is however of some slight importance, inasmuch as it seems to have been followed in some instances by succeeding editions (cf. the omission of the side notes 2. I. 20, 22, 33, followed by 1692, 1716, and W; also 2. I. 46 his] a 1641, f.).

The title-page of this edition is copied, as far as the quotation from Horace, from the title-page of the 1631 edition. For the wood-cut of that edition, however, is substituted the device of a swan, with the legend ‘God is my helper’. Then follow the words: ‘Imprinted at London, 1641.’

Folio by measurement; signatures in fours.

Collation: one leaf, containing the title-page on the recto, verso blank; second leaf with signature A_2 (?), containing a device (St. Francis preaching to the birds [?]), and the persons of the play on the recto, and a device (a saint pointing to heaven and hell) and the prologue on the verso. Then the play proper; B-I in fours; K (one leaf). The first two leaves are unnumbered; then 1-66 (35 wrongly numbered 39).

1692. The edition of 1692[8] is a reprint of 1631, but furnishes evidence of some editing. Most of the nouns are capitalized, and a change of speaker is indicated by breaking the lines; obvious misprints are corrected: e. g., 1. 1. 98, 101; the spelling is modernized: e. g., 1. 1. 140 Tiborne] Tyburn; and the punctuation is improved. Sometimes a word undergoes a considerable morphological change: e. g., 1. 1. 67 Belins-gate] Billings-gate; 1. 6. 172, 175 venter] venture. Etymology is sometimes indicated by an apostrophe, not always correctly: e. g., 2. 6. 75 salts] ’salts. Several changes are uniform throughout the edition, and have been followed by all later editors. The chief of these are: inough] enough; tother] t’other; coozen] cozen; ha’s] has; then] than; ’hem] ’em (except G sometimes); injoy] enjoy. Several changes of wording occur: e.g., 2. 1. 53 an] my; etc.

1716. The edition of 1716 is a bookseller’s reprint of 1692. It follows that edition in the capitalization of nouns, the breaking up of the lines, and usually in the punctuation. In 2. 1. 78-80 over two lines are omitted by both editions. Independent editing, however, is not altogether lacking. We find occasional new elisions: e. g., 1. 6. 121 I’have] I’ve; at least one change of wording: 2. 3. 25 where] were; and one in the order of words: 4. 2. 22 not love] love not. In 4. 4. 75-76 and 76-78 it corrects two wrong assignments of speeches. A regular change followed by all editors is wiues] wife’s.

1756. The edition of Peter Whalley, 1756, purports to be ‘collated with all the former editions, and corrected’, but according to modern standards it cannot be called a critical text. Not only does it follow 1716 in modernization of spelling; alteration of contractions: e. g., 2. 8. 69 To’a] T’a; 3. 1. 20 In t’one] Int’ one; and changes in wording: e. g., 1. 1. 24 strengths] strength: 3. 6. 26 Gentleman] Gentlewoman; but it is evident that Whalley considered the 1716 edition as the correct standard for a critical text, and made his correction by a process of occasional restoration of the original reading. Thus in restoring ‘Crane’, 1. 4. 50, he uses the expression,—‘which is authorized by the folio of 1640.’ Again in 2. 1. 124 he retains ‘petty’ from 1716, although he says: ‘The edit. of 1640, as I think more justly,—Some pretty principality.’ This reverence for the 1716 text is inexplicable. In the matter of capitalization Whalley forsakes his model, and he makes emendations of his own with considerable freedom. He still further modernizes the spelling; he spells out elided words: e. g., 1. 3. 15 H’ has] he has; makes new elisions: e. g., 1. 6. 143 Yo’ are] You’re; 1. 6. 211 I am] I’m; grammatical changes, sometimes of doubtful correctness: e. g., 1. 3. 21 I’le] I’d; morphological changes: e. g., 1. 6. 121 To scape] T’escape; metrical changes by insertions: e. g., 1. 1. 48 ‘to’; 4. 7. 38 ‘but now’; changes of wording: e. g., 1. 6. 195 sad] said; in the order of words: e. g., 3. 4. 59 is hee] he is; and in the assignment of speeches: e. g., 3. 6. 61. Several printer’s errors occur: e. g., 2. 6. 21 and 24.

1816. William Gifford’s edition is more carefully printed than that of Whalley, whom he criticizes freely. In many indefensible changes, however, he follows his predecessor, even to the insertion of words in 1. 1. 48 and 4. 7. 38, 39 (see above). He makes further morphological changes, even when involving a change of metre: e.g., 1. 1. 11 Totnam] Tottenham; 1. 4. 88 phantsie] phantasie; makes new elisions: e. g., 1. 6. 226 I ha’] I’ve; changes in wording: e. g., 2. 1. 97 O’] O!; and in assignment of speeches: e. g., 4. 4. 17. He usually omits parentheses, and the following changes in contracted words occur, only exceptions being noted in the variants: fro’] from; gi’] give; h’] he; ha’] have; ’hem] them (but often ’em); i’] in; o’] on, of; t’] to; th’] the; upo’] upon; wi’] with, will; yo’] you. Gifford’s greatest changes are in the stage directions and side notes of the 1631 edition. The latter he considered as of ‘the most trite and trifling nature’, and ‘a worthless incumbrance’. He accordingly cut or omitted with the utmost freedom, introducing new and elaborate stage directions of his own. He reduced the number of scenes from thirty-six to seventeen. In this, as Hathaway points out, he followed the regular English usage, dividing the scenes according to actual changes of place. Jonson adhered to classical tradition, and looked upon a scene as a situation. Gifford made his alterations by combining whole scenes, except in the case of Act 2. 3, which begins at Folio Act 2. 7. 23 (middle of line); of Act 3. 2, which begins at Folio Act 3. 5. 65 and of Act 3. 3, which begins at Folio Act 3. 5. 78 (middle of line). He considered himself justified in his mutilation of the side notes on the ground that they were not from the hand of Jonson. Evidence has already been adduced to show that they were at any rate printed with his sanction. I am, however, inclined to believe with Gifford that they were written by another hand. Gifford’s criticism of them is to a large extent just. The note on ‘Niaise’, 1. 6. 18, is of especially doubtful value (see note).

1875. ‘Cunningham’s reissue, 1875, reprints Gifford’s text without change. Cunningham, however, frequently expresses his disapproval of Gifford’s licence in changing the text’ (Winter).

B. DATE AND PRESENTATION

We learn from the title-page that this comedy was acted in 1616 by the King’s Majesty’s Servants. This is further confirmed by a passage in 1. 1. 80-81:

Now? As Vice stands this present yeere? Remember, What number it is. Six hundred and sixteene.

Another passage (1. 6. 31) tells us that the performance took place in the Blackfriars Theatre:

Today, I goe to the Black-fryers Play-house.

That Fitzdottrel is to see The Devil is an Ass we learn later (3. 5. 38). The performance was to take place after dinner (3. 5. 34).

At this time the King’s Men were in possession of two theatres, the Globe and the Blackfriars. The former was used in the summer, so that The Devil is an Ass was evidently not performed during that season.[9] These are all the facts that we can determine with certainty.

Jonson’s masque, The Golden Age Restored, was presented, according to Fleay, on January 1 and 6. His next masque was Christmas, his Masque, December 25, 1616. Between these dates he must have been busy on The Devil is an Ass. Fleay, who identifies Fitzdottrel with Coke, conjectures that the date of the play is probably late in 1616, after Coke’s discharge in November. If Coke is satirized either in the person of Fitzdottrel or in that of Justice Eitherside (see Introduction, pp. lxx, lxxii), the conjecture may be allowed to have some weight.

In 1. 2. 1 Fitzdottrel speaks of Bretnor as occupying the position once held by the conspirators in the Overbury case. Franklin, who is mentioned, was not brought to trial until November 18, 1615. Jonson does not speak of the trial as of a contemporary or nearly contemporary event.

Act 4 is largely devoted to a satire of Spanish fashions. In 4. 2. 71 there is a possible allusion to the Infanta Maria, for whose marriage with Prince Charles secret negotiations were being carried on at this time. We learn that Commissioners were sent to Spain on November 9 (Cal. State Papers, Dom. Ser.), and from a letter of January 1, 1617, that ‘the Spanish tongue, dress, etc. are all in fashion’ (ibid.).

These indications are all of slight importance, but from their united evidence we may feel reasonably secure in assigning the date of presentation to late November or early December, 1616.

The play was not printed until 1631. It seems never to have been popular, but was revived after the Restoration, and is given by Downes[10] in the list of old plays acted in the New Theatre in Drury Lane after April 8, 1663. He continues: ‘These being Old Plays, were Acted but now and then; yet being well Perform’d were very Satisfactory to the Town’. The other plays of Jonson revived by this company were The Fox, The Alchemist, Epicoene, Catiline, Every Man out of his Humor, Every Man in his Humor, and Sejanus. Genest gives us no information of any later revival.

C. THE DEVIL IS AN ASS

Jonson’s characteristic conception of comedy as a vehicle for the study of ‘humors’ passed in Every Man out of his Humor into caricature, and in Cynthia’s Revels and Poetaster into allegory. The process was perfectly natural. In the humor study each character is represented as absorbed by a single vice or folly. In the allegorical treatment the abstraction is the starting-point, and the human element the means of interpretation. Either type of drama, by a shifting of emphasis, may readily pass over into the other. The failure of Cynthia’s Revels, in spite of the poet’s arrogant boast at its close, had an important effect upon his development, and the plays of Jonson’s middle period, from Sejanus to The Devil is an Ass, show more restraint in the handling of character, as well as far greater care in construction. The figures are typical rather than allegorical, and the plot in general centres about certain definite objects of satire. Both plot and characterization are more closely unified.

The Devil is an Ass marks a return to the supernatural and allegorical. The main action, however, belongs strictly to the type of the later drama, especially as exemplified by The Alchemist. The fanciful motive of the infernal visitant to earth was found to be of too slight texture for Jonson’s sternly moral and satirical purpose. In the development of the drama it breaks down completely, and is crowded out by the realistic plot. Thus what promised at first to be the chief, and remains in some respects the happiest, motive of the play comes in the final execution to be little better than an inartistic and inharmonious excrescence. Yet Jonson’s words to Drummond seem to indicate that he still looked upon it as the real kernel of the play.[11]

The action is thus easily divisible into two main lines; the devil-plot, involving the fortunes of Satan, Pug and Iniquity, and the satirical or main plot. This division is the more satisfactory, since Satan and Iniquity are not once brought into contact with the chief actors, while Pug’s connection with them is wholly external, and affects only his own fortunes. He is, as Herford has already pointed out, merely ‘the fly upon the engine-wheel, fortunate to escape with a bruising’ (Studies, p. 320). He forms, however, the connecting link between the two plots, and his function in the drama must be regarded from two different points of view, according as it shares in the realistic or the supernatural element.

I. The Devil-Plot

Jonson’s title, The Devil is an Ass, expresses with perfect adequacy the familiarity and contempt with which this once terrible personage had come to be regarded in the later Elizabethan period. The poet, of course, is deliberately archaizing, and the figures of devil and Vice are made largely conformable to the purposes of satire. Several years before, in the Dedication to The Fox,[12] Jonson had expressed his contempt for the introduction of ‘fools and devils and those antique relics of barbarism’, characterizing them as ‘ridiculous and exploded follies’. He treats the same subject with biting satire in The Staple of News.[13] Yet with all his devotion to realism in matters of petty detail, of local color, and of contemporary allusion, he was, as we have seen, not without an inclination toward allegory. Thus in Every Man out of his Humor the figure of Macilente is very close to a purely allegorical expression of envy. In Cynthia’s Revels the process was perfectly conscious, for in the Induction to that play the characters are spoken of as Virtues and Vices. In Poetaster again we have the purging of Demetrius and Crispinus. Jonson’s return to this field in The Devil is an Ass is largely prophetic of the future course of his drama. The allegory of The Staple of News is more closely woven into the texture of the play than is that of The Devil is an Ass; and the conception of Pecunia and her retinue is worked out with much elaboration. In the Second Intermean the purpose of this play is explained as a refinement of method in the use of allegory. For the old Vice with his wooden dagger to snap at everybody he met, or Iniquity, appareled ‘like Hokos Pokos, in a juggler’s jerkin’, he substitutes ‘vices male and female’, ‘attired like men and women of the time’. This of course is only a more philosophical and abstract statement of the idea which he expresses in The Devil is an Ass (1. 1. 120 f.) of a world where the vices are not distinguishable by any outward sign from the virtues:

They weare the same clothes, eate the same meate, Sleep i’ the self-same beds, ride i’ those coaches. Or very like, foure horses in a coach, As the best men and women.

The New Inn and The Magnetic Lady are also penetrated with allegory of a sporadic and trivial nature. Jonson’s use of devil and Vice in the present play is threefold. It is in part earnestly allegorical, especially in Satan’s long speech in the first scene; it is in part a satire upon the employment of what he regarded as barbarous devices; and it is, to no small extent, itself a resort for the sake of comic effect to the very devices which he ridiculed.

Jonson’s conception of the devil was naturally very far from mediæval, and he relied for the effectiveness of his portrait upon current disbelief in this conception. Yet mediævalism had not wholly died out, and remnants of the morality-play are to be found in many plays of the Elizabethan and Jacobean drama. Rev. John Upton, in his Critical Observations on Shakespeare, 1746, was the first to point out the historical connection between Jonson’s Vice and devils and those of the pre-Shakespearian drama. In modern times the history of the devil and the Vice as dramatic figures has been thoroughly investigated, the latest works being those of Dr. L.W. Cushman and Dr. E. Eckhardt, at whose hands the subject has received exhaustive treatment. The connection with Machiavelli’s novella of Belfagor was pointed out by Count Baudissin,[14] Ben Jonson und seine Schule, Leipzig 1836, and has been worked out exhaustively by Dr. E. Hollstein in a Halle dissertation, 1901. Dr. C.H. Herford, however, had already suggested that the chief source of the devil-plot was to be found in the legend of Friar Rush.

1. The Devil in the pre-Shakespearian Drama

The sources for the conception of the devil in the mediæval drama are to be sought in a large body of non-dramatic literature. In this literature the devil was conceived of as a fallen angel, the enemy of God and his hierarchy, and the champion of evil. As such he makes his appearance in the mystery-plays. The mysteries derived their subjects from Bible history, showed comparatively little pliancy, and dealt always with serious themes. In them the devil is with few exceptions a serious figure. Occasionally, however, even at this early date, comedy and satire find place. The most prominent example is the figure of Titivillus in the Towneley cycle.

In the early moralities the devil is still of primary importance, and is always serious. But as the Vice became a more and more prominent figure, the devil became less and less so, and in the later drama his part is always subordinate. The play of Nature (c. 1500) is the first morality without a devil. Out of fifteen moralities of later date tabulated by Cushman, only four are provided with this character.

The degeneration of the devil as a dramatic figure was inevitable. His grotesque appearance, at first calculated to inspire terror, by its very exaggeration produced, when once familiar, a wholly comic effect. When the active comic parts were assumed by the Vice, he became a mere butt, and finally disappears.

One of the earliest comic figures in the religious drama is that of the clumsy or uncouth servant.[15] Closely allied to him is the under-devil, who appears as early as The Harrowing of Hell, and this figure is constantly employed as a comic personage in the later drama.[16] The figure of the servant later developed into that of the clown, and in this type the character of the devil finally merged.[17]

2. Jonson’s Treatment of the Devil

In the present play the devil-type is represented by the arch-fiend Satan and his stupid subordinate, Pug. Of these two Satan received more of the formal conventional elements of the older drama, while Pug for the most part represents the later or clownish figure. As in the morality-play Satan’s chief function is the instruction of his emissary of evil. In no scene does he come into contact with human beings, and he is always jealously careful for the best interests of his state. In addition Jonson employs one purely conventional attribute belonging to the tradition of the church- and morality-plays. This is the cry of ‘Ho, ho!’, with which Satan makes his entrance upon the stage in the first scene.[18] Other expressions of emotion were also used, but ‘Ho, ho!’ came in later days to be recognized as the conventional cry of the fiend upon making his entrance.[19]

How the character of Satan was to be represented is of course impossible to determine. The devil in the pre-Shakespearian drama was always a grotesque figure, often provided with the head of a beast and a cow’s tail.[20] In the presentation of Jonson’s play the ancient tradition was probably followed. Satan’s speeches, however, are not undignified, and too great grotesqueness of costume must have resulted in considerable incongruity.

In the figure of Pug few of the formal elements of the pre-Shakespearian devil are exhibited. He remains, of course, the ostensible champion of evil, but is far surpassed by his earthly associates, both in malice and in intellect. In personal appearance he is brought by the assumption of the body and dress of a human being into harmony with his environment. A single conventional episode, with a reversal of the customary proceeding, is retained from the morality-play. While Pug is languishing in prison, Iniquity appears, Pug mounts upon his back, and is carried off to hell. Iniquity comments upon it:

The Diuell was wont to carry away the euill; But, now, the Euill out-carries the Diuell.

That the practice above referred to was a regular or even a frequent feature of the morality-play has been disputed, but the evidence seems fairly conclusive that it was common in the later and more degenerate moralities. At any rate, like the cry of ‘Ho, ho!’ it had come to be looked upon as part of the regular stock in trade, and this was enough for Jonson’s purpose.[21] This motive of the Vice riding the devil had changed from a passive to an active comic part. Instead of the devil’s prey he had become in the eyes of the spectators the devil’s tormentor. Jonson may be looked upon as reverting, perhaps unconsciously, to the original and truer conception.

In other respects Pug exhibits only the characteristics of the inheritor of the devil’s comedy part, the butt or clown. As we have seen, one of the chief sources, as well as one of the constant modes of manifestation, of this figure was the servant or man of low social rank. Pug, too, on coming to earth immediately attaches himself to Fitzdottrel as a servant, and throughout his brief sojourn on earth he continues to exhibit the wonted stupidity and clumsy uncouthness of the clown. He appears, to be sure, in a fine suit of clothes, but he soon shows himself unfit for the position of gentleman-usher, and his stupidity appears at every turn. The important element in the clown’s comedy part, of a contrast between intention and accomplishment, is of course exactly the sort of fun inspired by Pug’s repeated discomfiture. With the clown it often takes the form of blunders in speech, and his desire to appear fine and say the correct thing frequently leads him into gross absurdities. This is brought out with broad humor in 4. 4. 219, where Pug, on being catechized as to what he should consider ‘the height of his employment’, stumbles upon the unfortunate suggestion: ‘To find out a good Corne-cutter’. His receiving blows at the hand of his master further distinguishes him as a clown. The investing of Pug with such attributes was, as we have seen, no startling innovation on Jonson’s part. Moreover, it fell into line with his purpose in this play, and was the more acceptable since it allowed him to make use of the methods of realism instead of forcing him to draw a purely conventional figure. Pug, of course, even in his character of clown, is not the unrelated stock-figure, introduced merely for the sake of inconsequent comic dialogue and rough horse-play. His part is important and definite, though not sufficiently developed.

3. The Influence of Robin Goodfellow and of Popular Legend

A constant element of the popular demonology was the belief in the kobold or elfish sprite. This figure appears in the mysteries in the shape of Titivillus, but is not found in the moralities. Robin Goodfellow, however, makes his appearance in at least three comedies, Midsummer Night’s Dream, 1593-4, Grim, the Collier of Croyden, c 1600, and Wily Beguiled, 1606. The last of these especially approaches Jonson’s conception. Here Robin Goodfellow is a malicious intriguer, whose nature, whether human or diabolical, is left somewhat in doubt. His plans are completely frustrated, he is treated with contempt, and is beaten by Fortunatus. The character was a favorite with Jonson. In the masque of The Satyr, 1603,[22] that character is addressed as Pug, which here seems evidently equivalent to Puck or Robin Goodfellow. Similarly Thomas Heywood makes Kobald, Hobgoblin, Robin Goodfellow, and Pug practically identical.[23] Butler, in the Hudibras,[24] gives him the combination-title of good ‘Pug-Robin’. Jonson’s character of Pug was certainly influenced in some degree both by the popular and the literary conception of this ‘lubber fiend’.

The theme of a stupid or outwitted devil occurred also both in ballad literature[25] and in popular legend. Roskoff[26] places the change in attitude toward the devil from a feeling of fear to one of superiority at about the end of the eleventh century. The idea of a baffled devil may have been partially due to the legends of the saints, where the devil is constantly defeated, though he is seldom made to appear stupid or ridiculous. The notion of a ‘stupid devil’ is not very common in English, but occasionally appears. In the Virgilius legend the fiend is cheated of his reward by stupidly putting himself into the physical power of the wizard. In the Friar Bacon legend the necromancer delivers an Oxford gentleman by a trick of sophistry.[27] In the story upon which the drama of The Merry Devil of Edmonton was founded, the devil is not only cleverly outwitted, but appears weak and docile in his indulgence of the wizard’s plea for a temporary respite. It may be said in passing, in spite of Herford’s assertion to the contrary, that the supernatural machinery in this play has considerably less connection with the plot than in The Devil is an Ass. Both show a survival of a past interest, of which the dramatist himself realizes the obsolete character.

4. Friar Rush and Dekker

It was the familiar legend of Friar Rush which furnished the groundwork of Jonson’s play. The story seems to be of Danish origin, and first makes its appearance in England in the form of a prose history during the latter half of the sixteenth century. It is entered in the Stationer’s Register 1567-8, and mentioned by Reginald Scot in 1584.[28] As early as 1566, however, the figure of Friar Rush on a ‘painted cloth’ was a familiar one, and is so mentioned in Gammer Gurton’s Needle.[29] The first extant edition dates from 1620, and has been reprinted by W. J. Thoms.[30] The character had already become partially identified with that of Robin Goodfellow,[31] and this identification, as we have seen, Jonson was inclined to accept.

In spite of many variations of detail the kernel of the Rush story is precisely that of Jonson’s play, the visit of a devil to earth with the purpose of corrupting men. Both Rush and Pug assume human bodies, the former being ‘put in rayment like an earthly creature’, while the latter is made subject ‘to all impressions of the flesh’.

Rush, unlike his counterpart, is not otherwise bound to definite conditions, but he too becomes a servant. The adventure is not of his own seeking; he is chosen by agreement of the council, and no mention is made of the emissary’s willingness or unwillingness to perform his part. Later, however, we read that he stood at the gate of the religious house ‘all alone and with a heavie countenance’. In the beginning, therefore, he has little of Pug’s thirst for adventure, but his object is at bottom the same, ‘to goe and dwell among these religious men for to maintaine them the longer in their ungracious living’. Like Pug, whose request for a Vice is denied him, he goes unaccompanied, and presents himself at the priory in the guise of a young man seeking service: ‘Sir, I am a poore young man, and am out of service, and faine would have a maister’.[32]

Most of the remaining incidents of the Rush story could not be used in Jonson’s play. Two incidents may be mentioned. Rush furthers the amours of his master, as Pug attempts to do those of his mistress. In the later history of Rush the motive of demoniacal possession is worked into the plot. In a very important respect, however, the legend differs from the play. Up to the time of discovery Rush is popular and successful. He is nowhere made ridiculous, and his mission of corruption is in large measure fulfilled. The two stories come together in their conclusion. The discovery that a real devil has been among them is the means of the friars’ conversion and future right living. A precisely similar effect takes place in the case of Fitzdottrel.

The legend of Friar Rush had already twice been used in the drama before it was adopted by Jonson. The play by Day and Haughton to which Henslowe refers[33] is not extant; Dekker’s drama, If this be not a good Play, the Diuell is in it, appeared in 1612. Jonson in roundabout fashion acknowledged his indebtedness to this play by the closing line of his prologue.

If this Play doe not like, the Diuell is in’t.

Dekker’s play adds few new elements to the story. The first scene is in the infernal regions; not, however, the Christian hell, as in the prose history, but the classical Hades. This change seems to have been adopted from Machiavelli. Three devils are sent to earth with the object of corrupting men and replenishing hell. They return, on the whole, successful, though the corrupted king of Naples is finally redeemed.

In certain respects, however, the play stands closer to Jonson’s drama than the history. In the first place, the doctrine that hell’s vices are both old-fashioned and outdone by men, upon which Satan lays so much stress in his instructions to Pug in the first scene, receives a like emphasis in Dekker:

... ’tis thought That men to find hell, now, new waies have sought, As Spaniards did to the Indies.

and again:

... aboue vs dwell, Diuells brauer, and more subtill then in Hell.[34]

and finally:

They scorne thy hell, hauing better of their owne.

In the second place Lurchall, unlike Rush, but in the same way as Pug, finds himself inferior to his earthly associates. He acknowledges himself overreached by Bartervile, and confesses:

I came to teach, but now (me thinkes) must learne.

A single correspondence of lesser importance may be added. Both devils, when asked whence they come, obscurely intimate their hellish origin. Pug says that he comes from the Devil’s Cavern in Derbyshire. Rufman asserts that his home is Helvetia.[35]

5. The Novella of Belfagor and the Comedy of Grim

The relation between Jonson’s play and the novella attributed to Niccolò Machiavelli (1469-1522) has been treated in much detail by Dr. Ernst Hollstein. Dr. Hollstein compares the play with the first known English translation, that by the Marquis of Wharton in 1674.[36] It is probable, however, that Jonson knew the novella in its Italian shape, if he knew it at all.[37] The Italian text has therefore been taken as the basis of the present discussion, while Dr. Hollstein’s results, so far as they have appeared adequate or important, have been freely used.

Both novella and play depart from the same idea, the visit of a devil to earth to lead a human life. Both devils are bound by certain definite conditions. Belfagor must choose a wife, and live with her ten years; Pug must return at midnight. Belfagor, like Pug, must be subject to ‘ogni infortunio nel quale gli uomini scorrono’.

In certain important respects Machiavelli’s story differs essentially from Jonson’s. Both Dekker and Machiavelli place the opening scene in the classical Hades instead of in the Christian hell. But Dekker’s treatment of the situation is far more like Jonson’s than is the novella’s. Herford makes the distinction clear: ‘Macchiavelli’s Hades is the council-chamber of an Italian Senate, Dekker’s might pass for some tavern haunt of Thames watermen. Dekker’s fiends are the drudges of Pluto, abused for their indolence, flogged at will, and peremptorily sent where he chooses. Machiavelli’s are fiends whose advice he requests with the gravest courtesy and deference, and who give it with dignity and independence’. Further, the whole object of the visit, instead of being the corruption of men, is a mere sociological investigation. Pug is eager to undertake his mission; Belfagor is chosen by lot, and very loath to go. Pug becomes a servant, Belfagor a nobleman.

But in one very important matter the stories coincide, that of the general character and fate of the two devils. As Hollstein points out, each comes with a firm resolve to do his best, each finds at once that his opponents are too strong for him, each through his own docility and stupidity meets repulse after repulse, ending in ruin, and each is glad to return to hell. This, of course, involves the very essence of Jonson’s drama, and on its resemblance to the novella must be based any theory that Jonson was familiar with the latter.

Of resemblance of specific details not much can be made. The two stories have in common the feature of demoniacal possession, but this, as we have seen, occurs also in the Rush legend. The fact that the princess speaks Latin, while Fitzdottrel surprises his auditors by his ‘several languages’, is of no more significance. This is one of the stock indications of witchcraft. It is mentioned by Darrel, and Jonson could not have overlooked a device so obvious. Certain other resemblances pointed out by Dr. Hollstein are of only the most superficial nature. On the whole we are not warranted in concluding with any certainty that Jonson knew the novella at all.

On the other hand, he must have been acquainted with the comedy of Grim, the Collier of Croydon (c 1600). Herford makes no allusion to this play, and, though it was mentioned as a possible source by A. W. Ward,[38] the subject has never been investigated. The author of Grim uses the Belfagor legend for the groundwork of his plot, but handles his material freely. In many respects the play is a close parallel to The Devil is an Ass. The same respect for the vices of earth is felt as in Dekker’s and Jonson’s plays. Belphegor sets out to

... make experiment If hell be not on earth as well as here.

The circumstances of the sending bear a strong resemblance to the instructions given to Pug:

Thou shalt be subject unto human chance, So far as common wit cannot relieve thee. But whatsover happens in that time, Look not from us for succour or relief. This shalt thou do, and when the time’s expired, Bring word to us what thou hast seen and done.

So in Jonson:

... but become subject To all impression of the flesh, you take, So farre as humane frailty: ... But as you make your soone at nights relation, And we shall find, it merits from the State, You shall haue both trust from vs, and imployment.

Belphegor is described as ‘patient, mild, and pitiful’; and during his sojourn on earth he shows little aptitude for mischief, but becomes merely a butt and object of abuse. Belphegor’s request for a companion, unlike that of Pug, is granted. He chooses his servant Akercock, who takes the form of Robin Goodfellow. Robin expresses many of the sentiments to be found in the mouth of Pug. With the latter’s monologue (Text, 5. 2) compare Robin’s exclamation:

Zounds, I had rather be in hell than here.

Neither Pug (Text, 2. 5. 3-4) nor Robin dares to return without authority:

What shall I do? to hell I dare not go, Until my master’s twelve months be expir’d.

Like Pug (Text, 5. 6. 3-10) Belphegor worries over his reception in hell:

How shall I give my verdict up to Pluto Of all these accidents?

Finally Belphegor’s sensational disappearance through the yawning earth comes somewhat nearer to Jonson than does the Italian original. The English comedy seems, indeed, to account adequately for all traces of the Belfagor story to be found in Jonson’s play.

6. Summary

It is certain that of the two leading ideas of Jonson’s comedy, the sending of a devil to earth with the object of corrupting men is derived from the Rush legend. It is probable that the no less important motive of a baffled devil, happy to make his return to hell, is due either directly or indirectly to Machiavelli’s influence. This motive, as we have seen, was strengthened by a body of legend and by the treatment of the devil in the morality play.

7. The Figure of the Vice

It is the figure of the Vice which makes Jonson’s satire on the out-of-date moralities most unmistakable. This character has been the subject of much study and discussion, and there is to-day no universally accepted theory as to his origin and development. In the literature of Jonson’s day the term Vice is almost equivalent to harlequin. But whether this element of buffoonery is the fundamental trait of the character, and that of intrigue is due to a confusion in the meaning of the word, or whether the element of intrigue is original, and that of buffoonery has taken its place by a process of degeneration in the Vice himself, is still a disputed question.

The theory of Cushman and of Eckhardt is substantially the same, and may be stated as follows. Whether or not the Vice be a direct descendant of the devil, it is certain that he falls heir to his predecessor’s position in the drama, and that his development is strongly influenced by that character. Originally, like the devil, he represents the principle of evil and may be regarded as the summation of the seven deadly sins. From the beginning, however, he possessed more comic elements, much being ready made for him through the partial degeneration of the devil, while the material of the moralities was by no means so limited in scope as that of the mysteries. This comic element, comparatively slight at first, soon began to be cultivated intentionally, and gradually assumed the chief function, while the allegorical element was largely displaced. In course of time the transformation from the intriguer to the buffoon became complete.[39] Moreover, the rapidity of the transformation was hastened by the influence of the fool, a new dramatic figure of independent origin, but the partial successor upon the stage of the Vice’s comedy part. As early as 1570 the union of fool and Vice is plainly visible.[40] In 1576 we find express stage directions given for the Vice to fill in the pauses with improvised jests.[41] Two years later a Vice plays the leading rôle for the last time.[42] By 1584 the Vice has completely lost his character of intriguer[43], and in the later drama he appears only as an antiquated figure, where he is usually considered as identical with the fool or jester.[44] Cushman enumerates the three chief rôles of the Vice as the opponent of the Good; the corrupter of man; and the buffoon.

The Vice, however, is not confined to the moralities, but appears frequently in the comic interludes. According to the theory of Cushman, the name Vice stands in the beginning for a moral and abstract idea, that of the principle of evil in the world, and must have originated in the moralities; and since it is applied to a comic personage in the interludes, this borrowing must have taken place after the period of degeneration had already begun. To this theory Chambers[45] offers certain important objections. He points out that, although ‘vices in the ordinary sense of the word are of course familiar personages in the morals’, the term Vice is not applied specifically to a character in ‘any pre-Elizabethan moral interlude except the Marian Respublica’, 1553. Furthermore, ‘as a matter of fact, he comes into the interlude through the avenue of the farce’. The term is first applied to the leading comic characters in the farces of John Heywood, Love and The Weather, 1520-30. These characters have traits more nearly resembling those of the fool and clown than those of the intriguer of the moralities. Chambers concludes therefore that ‘the character of the vice is derived from that of the domestic fool or jester’, and that the term was borrowed by the authors of the moralities from the comic interludes.

These two views are widely divergent, and seem at first wholly irreconcilable. The facts of the case, however, are, I believe, sufficiently clear to warrant the following conclusions: (1) The early moralities possessed many allegorical characters representing vices in the ordinary sense of the word. (2) From among these vices we may distinguish in nearly every play a single character as in a preëminent degree the embodiment of evil. (3) To this chief character the name of Vice was applied about 1553, and with increasing frequency after that date. (4) Whatever may have been the original meaning of the word, it must have been generally understood in the moralities in the sense now usually attributed to it; for (5) The term was applied in the moralities only to a character in some degree evil. Chambers instances The Tide tarrieth for No Man and the tragedy of Horestes, where the Vice bears the name of Courage, as exceptions. The cases, however, are misleading. In the former, Courage is equivalent to ‘Purpose’, ‘Desire’, and is a distinctly evil character.[46] In the latter he reveals himself in the second half of the play as Revenge, and although he incites Horestes to an act of justice, he is plainly opposed to ‘Amyte’, and he is finally rejected and discountenanced. Moreover he is here a serious figure, and only occasionally exhibits comic traits. He cannot therefore be considered as supporting the theory of the original identity of the fool and the Vice. (6) The Vice of the comic interludes and the leading character of the moralities are distinct figures. The former was from the beginning a comic figure or buffoon;[47] the latter was in the beginning serious, and continued to the end to preserve serious traits. With which of these two figures the term Vice originated, and by which it was borrowed from the other, is a matter of uncertainty and is of minor consequence. These facts, however, seem certain, and for the present discussion sufficient: that the vices of the earlier and of the later moralities represent the same stock figure; that this figure stood originally for the principle of evil, and only in later days became confused with the domestic fool or jester; that the process of degeneration was continuous and gradual, and took place substantially in the manner outlined by Cushman and Eckhardt; and that, while to the playwright of Jonson’s day the term was suggestive primarily of the buffoon, it meant also an evil personage, who continued to preserve certain lingering traits from the character of intriguer in the earlier moralities.

8. Jonson’s Use of the Vice

The position of the Vice has been discussed at some length because of its very important bearing on Jonson’s comedy. It is evident, even upon a cursory reading, that Jonson has not confined himself to the conception of the Vice obtainable from a familiarity with the interludes alone, as shown in Heywood’s farces or the comedy of Jack Juggler. The character of Iniquity, though fully identified with the buffoon of the later plays, is nevertheless closely connected in the author’s mind with the intriguer of the old moralities. This is clear above all from the use of the name Iniquity, from his association with the devil, and from Pug’s desire to use him as a means of corrupting his playfellows. Thus, consciously or unconsciously on Jonson’s part, Iniquity presents in epitome the history of the Vice.

His very name, as we have said, links him with the morality-play. In fact, all the Vices suggested, Iniquity, Fraud, Covetousness, and Lady Vanity, are taken from the moralities. The choice of Iniquity was not without meaning, and was doubtless due to its more general and inclusive significance. In Shakespeare’s time Vice and Iniquity seem to have been synonymous terms (see Schmidt), from which it has been inferred that Iniquity was the Vice in many lost moralities.[48]

Of the original Vice-traits Iniquity lays vigorous claim to that of the corrupter of man. Pug desires a Vice that he may ‘practice there-with any play-fellow’, and Iniquity comes upon the stage with voluble promises to teach his pupil to ‘cheat, lie, cog and swagger’. He offers also to lead him into all the disreputable precincts of the city. Iniquity appears in only two scenes, Act 1. Sc. 1 and Act 5. Sc. 6. In the latter he reverses the usual process and carries away the devil to hell. This point has already been discussed (p. xxiv).

Aside from these two particulars, Iniquity is far nearer to the fool than to the original Vice. As he comes skipping upon the stage in the first scene, reciting his galloping doggerel couplets, we see plainly that the element of buffoonery is uppermost in Jonson’s mind. Further evidence may be derived from the particularity with which Iniquity describes the costume which he promises to Pug, and which we are doubtless to understand as descriptive of his own. Attention should be directed especially to the wooden dagger, the long cloak, and the slouch hat. Cushman says (p. 125): ‘The vice enjoys the greatest freedom in the matter of dress; he is not confined to any stereotyped costume; ... the opinion that he is always or usually dressed in a fool’s costume has absolutely no justification’. The wooden dagger, a relic of the Roman stage,[49] is the most frequently mentioned article of equipment. It is first found (1553-8) as part of the apparel of Jack Juggler in a print illustrating that play, reproduced by Dodsley. It is also mentioned in Like Will to Like, Hickescorner, King Darius, etc. The wooden dagger was borrowed, however, from the fool’s costume, and is an indication of the growing identification of the Vice with the house-fool. That Jonson recognized it as such is evident from his Expostulation with Inigo Jones:

No velvet suit you wear will alter kind; A wooden dagger is a dagger of wood.

The long cloak, twice mentioned (1. 1. 51 and 85), is another property borrowed from the fool. The natural fool usually wore a long gown-like dress,[50] and this was later adopted as a dress for the artificial fool. Muckle John, the court fool of Charles I., was provided with ‘a long coat and suit of scarlet-colour serge’.[51]

Satan’s reply to Pug’s request for a Vice is, however, the most important passage on this subject. He begins by saying that the Vice, whom he identifies with the house fool, is fifty years out of date. Only trivial and absurd parts are left for Iniquity to play, the mountebank tricks of the city and the tavern fools. Douce (pp. 499 f.) mentions nine kinds of fools, among which the following appear: 1. The general domestic fool. 4. The city or corporation fool. 5. Tavern fools. Satan compares Iniquity with each of these in turn. The day has gone by, he says:

When euery great man had his Vice stand by him, In his long coat, shaking his wooden dagger.

Then he intimates that Iniquity may be able to play the tavern fool:

Where canst thou carry him? except to Tauernes? To mount vp ona joynt-stoole, with a Iewes-trumpe, To put downe Cokeley, and that must be to Citizens?

And finally he compares him with the city fool:

Hee may perchance, in taile of a Sheriffes dinner, Skip with a rime o’ the table, from New-nothing, And take his Almaine-leape into a custard.

Thus not only does Jonson identify the Vice with the fool, but with the fool in his senility. The characteristic functions of the jester in the Shakespearian drama, with his abundant store of improvised jests, witty retorts, and irresistible impudence, have no part in this character. He is merely the mountebank who climbs upon a tavern stool, skips over the table, and leaps into corporation custards.

Iniquity, then, plays no real part in the drama. His introduction is merely for the purpose of satire. In The Staple of News the subject is renewed, and treated with greater directness:

‘Tat. I would fain see the fool, gossip; the fool is the finest man in the company, they say, and has all the wit: he is the very justice o’ peace o’ the play, and can commit whom he will and what he will, error, absurdity, as the toy takes him, and no man say black is his eye, but laugh at him’.

In Epigram 115, On the Town’s Honest Man, Jonson again identifies the Vice with the mountebank, almost in the same way as he does in The Devil is an Ass:

... this is one Suffers no name but a description Being no vicious person but the Vice About the town; ... At every meal, where it doth dine or sup, The cloth’s no sooner gone, but it gets up, And shifting of its faces, doth play more Parts than the Italian could do with his door. Acts old Iniquity and in the fit Of miming gets the opinion of a wit.

II. THE SATIRICAL DRAMA

It was from Aristophanes[52] that Jonson learned to combine with such boldness the palpable with the visionary, the material with the abstract. He surpassed even his master in the power of rendering the combination a convincing one, and his method was always the same. Fond as he was of occasional flights of fancy, his mind was fundamentally satirical, so that the process of welding the apparently discordant elements was always one of rationalizing the fanciful rather than of investing the actual with a far-away and poetic atmosphere. Thus even his purely supernatural scenes present little incongruity. Satan and Iniquity discuss strong waters and tobacco, Whitechapel and Billingsgate, with the utmost familiarity; even hell’s ‘most exquisite tortures’ are adapted in part from the homely proverbs of the people. In the use of his sources three tendencies are especially noticeable: the motivation of borrowed incidents; the adjusting of action on a moral basis: the reworking of his own favorite themes and incidents.

1. General Treatment of the Plot

For the main plot we have no direct source. It represents, however, Jonson’s typical method. It has been pointed out[53] that the characteristic Jonsonian comedy always consists of two groups, the intriguers and the victims. In The Devil is an Ass the most purely comic motive of the play is furnished by a reversal of the usual relation subsisting between these two groups. Here the devil, who was wont to be looked upon as arch-intriguer, is constantly ‘fooled off and beaten’, and thus takes his position as the comic butt. Pug, in a sense, represents a satirical trend. Through him Jonson satirizes the outgrown supernaturalism which still clung to the skirts of Jacobean realism, and at the same time paints in lively colors the vice of a society against which hell itself is powerless to contend. It is only, however, in a general way, where the devil stands for a principle, that Pug may be considered as in any degree satirical. In the particular incident he is always a purely comic figure, and furnishes the mirth which results from a sense of the incongruity between anticipation and accomplishment.

Fitzdottrel, on the other hand, is mainly satirical. Through him Jonson passes censure upon the city gallant, the attendant at the theatre, the victim of the prevalent superstitions, and even the pretended demoniac. His dupery, as in the case of his bargain with Wittipol, excites indignation rather than mirth, and his final discomfiture affords us almost a sense of poetic justice. This character stands in the position of chief victim.

In an intermediate position are Merecraft and Everill. They succeed in swindling Fitzdottrel and Lady Tailbush, but are in turn played upon by the chief intriguer, Wittipol, with his friend Manly. Jonson’s moral purpose is here plainly visible, especially in contrast to Plautus, with whom the youthful intriguer is also the stock figure. The motive of the young man’s trickery in the Latin comedy is usually unworthy and selfish. That of Wittipol, on the other hand, is wholly disinterested, since he is represented as having already philosophically accepted the rejection of his advances at the hands of Mrs. Fitzdottrel.

In construction the play suffers from overabundance of material. Instead of a single main line of action, which is given clear precedence, there is rather a succession of elaborated episodes, carefully connected and motivated, but not properly subordinated. The plot is coherent and intricate rather than unified. This is further aggravated by the fact that the chief objects of satire are imperfectly understood by readers of the present day.

Jonson observes unity of time, Pug coming to earth in the morning and returning at midnight. With the exception of the first scene, which is indeterminate, and seems at one moment to be hell, and the next London, the action is confined to the City, but hovers between Lincoln’s Inn, Newgate, and the house of Lady Tailbush. Unity of action is of course broken by the interference of the devil-plot and the episodic nature of the satirical plot. The main lines of action may be discussed separately.

In the first act chief prominence is given to the intrigue between Wittipol and Mrs. Fitzdottrel. This interest is continued through the second act, but practically dropped after this point. In Act 4 we find that both lovers have recovered from their infatuation, and the intrigue ends by mutual consent.

The second act opens with the episode of Merecraft’s plot to gull Fitzdottrel. The project of the dukedom of Drownedland is given chief place, and attention is centred upon it both here and in the following scenes. Little use, however, is made of it in the motivation of action. This is left for another project, the office of the Master of Dependencies (quarrels) in the next act. This device is introduced in an incidental way, and we are not prepared for the important place which it takes in the development of the plot. Merecraft, goaded by Everill, hits upon it merely as a temporary makeshift to extort money from Fitzdottrel. The latter determines to make use of the office in prosecuting his quarrel with Wittipol. In preparation for the duel, and in accordance with the course of procedure laid down by Everill, he resolves to settle his estate. Merecraft and Everill endeavor to have the deed drawn in their own favor, but through the interference of Wittipol the whole estate is made over to Manly, who restores it to Mrs. Fitzdottrel. This project becomes then the real turning-point of the play.

The episode of Guilthead and Plutarchus in Act 3 is only slightly connected with the main plot. That of Wittipol’s disguise as a Spanish lady, touched upon in the first two acts, becomes the chief interest of the fourth. It furnishes much comic material, and the characters of Lady Tailbush and Lady Eitherside offer the poet the opportunity for some of his cleverest touches in characterization and contrast.[54] The scene, however, is introduced for incidental purposes, the satirization of foreign fashions and the follies of London society, and is overelaborated. The catalogue of cosmetics is an instance of Jonson’s intimate acquaintance with recondite knowledge standing in the way of his art.

Merecraft’s ‘after game’ in the fifth act is of the nature of an appendix. The play might well have ended with the frustration of his plan to get possession of the estate. This act is introduced chiefly for the sake of a satire upon pretended demoniacs and witch-finders. It also contains the conclusion of the devil-plot.

The Devil is an Ass will always remain valuable as a historical document, and as a record of Jonson’s own attitude towards the abuses of his times. In the treatment of Fitzdottrel and Merecraft among the chief persons, and of Plutarchus Guilthead among the lesser, this play belongs to Jonson’s character-drama.[55] It does not, however, belong to the pure humor-comedy. Like The Alchemist, and in marked contrast to Every Man out of his Humor, interest is sought in plot development. In the scene between Lady Tailbush and Lady Eitherside, the play becomes a comedy of manners, and in its attack upon state abuses it is semi-political in nature. Both Gifford and Swinburne have observed the ethical treatment of the main motives.

With the exception of Prologue and Epilogue, the doggerel couplets spoken by Iniquity, Wittipol’s song (2. 6. 94), and some of the lines quoted by Fitzdottrel in the last scene, the play is written in blank verse throughout. Occasional lines of eight (2. 2. 122), nine (2. 1. 1), twelve (1. 1. 33) or thirteen (1. 1. 113) syllables are introduced. Most of these could easily be normalized by a slight emendation or the slurring of a syllable in pronunciation. Many of the lines, however, are rough and difficult of scansion. Most of the dialogue is vigorous, though Wittipol’s language is sometimes affected and unnatural (cf. Act 1. Sc. 1). His speech, 1. 6. 111-148, is classical in tone, but fragmentary and not perfectly assimilated. The song already referred to possesses delicacy and some beauty of imagery, but lacks Jonson’s customary polish and smoothness.

As a work of art the play must rely chiefly upon the vigor of its satiric dialogue and the cleverness of its character sketches. It lacks the chief excellences of construction—unity of interest, subordination of detail, steady and uninterrupted development, and prompt conclusion.

2. Chief Sources of the Plot

The first source to be pointed out was that of Act 1. Sc. 4-6.[56] This was again noticed by Koeppel, who mentions one of the word-for-word borrowings, and points out the moralistic tendency in Jonson’s treatment of the husband, and his rejection of the Italian story’s licentious conclusion.[57] The original is from Boccaccio’s Decameron, the fifth novella of the third day. Boccaccio’s title is as follows: ‘Il Zima dona a messer Francesco Vergellesi un suo pallafreno, e per quello con licenzia di lui parla alla sua donna, ed ella tacendo, egli in persona di lei si risponde, e secondo la sua risposta poi l’effetto segue’. The substance of the story is this. Il Zima, with the bribe of a palfrey, makes a bargain with Francesco. For the gift he is granted an interview with the wife of Francesco and in the latter’s presence. This interview, however, unlike that in The Devil is an Ass, is not in the husband’s hearing. To guard against any mishap, Francesco secretly commands his wife to make no answer to the lover, warning her that he will be on the lookout for any communication on her part. The wife, like Mrs. Fitzdottrel, upbraids her husband, but is obliged to submit. Il Zima begins his courtship, but, though apparently deeply affected, she makes no answer. The young man then suspects the husband’s trick (e poscia s’incominciò ad accorgere dell’ arte usata dal cavaliere). He accordingly hits upon the device of supposing himself in her place and makes an answer for her, granting an assignation. As a signal he suggests the hanging out of the window of two handkerchiefs. He then answers again in his own person. Upon the husband’s rejoining them he pretends to be deeply chagrined, complains that he has met a statue of marble (una statua di marmo) and adds: ‘Voi avete comperato il pallafreno, e io non l’ho venduto’. Il Zima is successful in his ruse, and Francesco’s wife yields completely to his seduction.

A close comparison of this important source is highly instructive. Verbal borrowings show either that Jonson had the book before him, or that he remembered many of the passages literally. Thus Boccaccio’s ‘una statua di marmo’ finds its counterpart in a later scene[58] where Mrs. Fitzdottrel says: ‘I would not haue him thinke hee met a statue’. Fitzdottrel’s satisfaction at the result of the bargain is like that of Francesco: ‘I ha’ kept the contract, and the cloake is mine’ (omai è ben mio il pallafreno, che fu tuo). Again Wittipol’s parting words resemble Il Zima’s: ‘It may fall out, that you ha’ bought it deare, though I ha’ not sold it’.[59] In the mouths of the two heroes, however, these words mean exactly opposite things. With Il Zima it is a complaint, and means: ‘You have won the cloak, but I have got nothing in return’. With Wittipol, on the other hand, it is an open sneer, and hints at further developments. The display of handkerchiefs at the window is another borrowing. Fitzdottrel says sarcastically:

... I’ll take carefull order, That shee shall hang forth ensignes at the window.

Finally Wittipol, like Il Zima, suspects a trick when Mrs. Fitzdottrel refuses to answer:

How! not any word? Nay, then, I taste a tricke in’t.

But precisely here Jonson blunders badly. In Boccaccio’s story the trick was a genuine one. Il Zima stands waiting for an answer. When no response is made he begins to suspect the husband’s secret admonition, and to thwart it hits upon the device of answering himself. But in Jonson there is no trick at all. Fitzdottrel does indeed require his wife to remain silent, but by no means secretly. His command is placed in the midst of a rambling discourse addressed alternately to his wife and to the young men. There is not the slightest hint that any part of this speech is whispered in his wife’s ear, and Wittipol enters upon his courtship with full knowledge of the situation. This fact deprives Wittipol’s speech in the person of Mrs. Fitzdottrel of its character as a clever device, so that the whole point of Boccaccio’s story is weakened, if not destroyed. I cannot refrain in conclusion from making a somewhat doubtful conjecture. It is noticeable that while Jonson follows so many of the details of this story with the greatest fidelity he substitutes the gift of a cloak for that of the original ‘pallafreno’ (palfrey).[60] The word is usually written ‘palafreno’ and so occurs in Florio. Is it possible that Jonson was unfamiliar with the word, and, not being able to find it in a dictionary, conjectured that it was identical with ‘palla’, a cloak?

In other respects Jonson’s handling of the story displays his characteristic methods. Boccaccio spends very few words in description of either husband or suitor. Jonson, however, is careful to make plain the despicable character of Fitzdottrel, while Wittipol is represented as an attractive and high-minded young man. Further than this, both Mrs. Fitzdottrel and Wittipol soon recover completely from their infatuation.

Koeppel has suggested a second source from the Decameron, Day 3, Novella 3. The title is: ‘Sotto spezie di confessione e di purissima coscienza una donna, innamorata d’un giovane, induce un solenne frate, senza avvedersene egli, a dar modo che’l piacer di lei avessi intero effetto’. The story is briefly this. A lady makes her confessor the means of establishing an acquaintance with a young man with whom she has fallen in love. Her directions are conveyed to him under the guise of indignant prohibitions. By a series of messages of similar character she finally succeeds in informing him of the absence of her husband and the possibility of gaining admittance to her chamber by climbing a tree in the garden. Thus the friar becomes the unwitting instrument of the very thing which he is trying to prevent. So in Act 2. Sc. 2 and 6, Mrs. Fitzdottrel suspects Pug of being her husband’s spy. She dares not therefore send Wittipol a direct message, but requests him to cease his attentions to her

At the Gentlemans chamber-window in Lincolnes-Inne there, That opens to my gallery.

Wittipol takes the hint, and promptly appears at the place indicated.

Von Rapp[61] has mentioned certain other scenes as probably of Italian origin, but, as he advances no proofs, his suggestions may be neglected. It seems to me possible that in the scene above referred to, where the lover occupies a house adjoining that of his mistress, and their secret amour is discovered by her servant and reported to his master, Jonson had in mind the same incident in Plautus’ Miles Gloriosus, Act. 2. Sc. 1 f.

The trait of jealousy which distinguishes Fitzdottrel was suggested to some extent by the character of Euclio in the Aulularia, and a passage of considerable length[62] is freely paraphrased from that play. The play and the passage had already been used in The Case is Altered.

Miss Woodbridge has noticed that the scene in which Lady Tailbush and her friends entertain Wittipol disguised as a Spanish lady is similar to Act 3. Sc. 2 of The Silent Woman, where the collegiate ladies call upon Epicoene. The trick of disguising a servant as a woman occurs in Plautus’ Casina, Acts 4 and 5.

For the final scene, where Fitzdottrel plays the part of a bewitched person, Jonson made free use of contemporary books and tracts. The motive of pretended possession had already appeared in The Fox (Wks. 3. 312), where symptoms identical with or similar to those in the present passage are mentioned—swelling of the belly, vomiting crooked pins, staring of the eyes, and foaming at the mouth. The immediate suggestion in this place may have come either through the Rush story or through Machiavelli’s novella. That Jonson’s materials can be traced exclusively to any one source is hardly to be expected. Not only were trials for witchcraft numerous, but they must have formed a common subject of speculation and discussion. The ordinary evidences of possession were doubtless familiar to the well-informed man without the need of reference to particular records. And it is of the ordinary evidences that the poet chiefly makes use. Nearly all these are found repeatedly in the literature of the period.

We know, on the other hand, that Jonson often preferred to get his information through the medium of books. It is not surprising, therefore, that Merecraft proposes to imitate ‘little Darrel’s tricks’, and to find that the dramatist has resorted in large measure to this particular source.[63]

The Darrel controversy was carried on through a number of years between John Darrel, a clergyman (see note 5. 3. 6), on the one hand, and Bishop Samuel Harsnet, John Deacon and John Walker, on the other. Of the tracts produced in this controversy the two most important are Harsnet’s Discovery of the Fraudulent Practises of John Darrel,[64] 1599, and Darrel’s True Narration of the Strange and Grevous Vexation by the Devil of 7 Persons in Lancashire and William Somers of Nottingham, ... 1600. The story is retold in Francis Hutchinson’s Historical Essay concerning Witchcraft, London, 1720.

Jonson follows the story as told in these two books with considerable fidelity. The accompaniments of demonic possession which Fitzdottrel exhibits in the last scene are enumerated in two previous speeches. Practically all of these are to be found in Darrel’s account:

... roule but wi’ your eyes, And foam at th’ mouth. (Text, 5. 3. 2-3) ... to make your belly swell, And your eyes turne, to foame, to stare, to gnash Your teeth together, and to beate your selfe, Laugh loud, and faine six voices. (5. 5. 25 f.)

They may be compared with the description given by Darrel: ‘He was often seene ... to beate his head and other parts of his body against the ground and bedstead. In most of his fitts, he did swell in his body; ... if he were standing when the fit came he wold be cast headlong upon the ground, or fall doune, drawing then his lips awry, gnashing with his teeth, wallowing and foaming.... Presently after he would laughe loud and shrill, his mouth being shut close’. (Darrel, p. 181.) ‘He was also continually torne in very fearfull manner, and disfigured in his face ... now he gnashed with his teeth; now he fomed like to the horse or boare, ... not to say anything of his fearfull staring with his eyes, and incredible gaping’. (Darrel, p. 183.) The swelling, foaming, gnashing, staring, etc., are also mentioned by Harsnet (pp. 147-8), as well as the jargon of languages (p. 165).

The scene is prepared before Merecraft’s appearance (Text, 5. 5. 40. Cf. Detection, p. 92), and Fitzdottrel is discovered lying in bed (Text, 5. 5. 39; 5. 8. 40). Similarly, Somers performed many of his tricks ‘under a coverlet’ (Detection, p. 104). Sir Paul Eitherside then enters and ‘interprets all’. This is imitated directly from Harsnet, where we read: ‘So. [Somers] acting those gestures M. Dar. did expound them very learnedlye, to signify this or that sinne that raigned in Nott. [Nottingham].’ Paul’s first words are: ‘This is the Diuell speakes and laughes in him’. So Harsnet tells us that ‘M. Dar. vpon his first comming vnto Som. affirmed that it was not So. that spake in his fitts, but the diuell by him’. Both Fitzdottrel (Text, 5. 8. 115) and Somers (Narration, p. 182) talk in Greek. The devil in Fitzdottrel proposes to ‘break his necke in jest’ (Text, 5. 8. 117), and a little later to borrow money (5. 8. 119). The same threat is twice made in the True Narration (pp. 178 and 180). In the second of these passages Somers is met by an old woman, who tries to frighten him into giving her money. Otherwise, she declares, ‘I will throwe thee into this pit, and breake thy neck’. The mouse ‘that should ha’ come forth’ (Text, 5. 8. 144) is mentioned by both narrators (Detection, p. 140; Narration, p. 184), and the pricking of the body with pins and needles (Text, 5. 8. 49) is found in slightly altered form (Detection, p. 135; Narration, p. 174). Finally the clapping of the hands (Text. 5. 8. 76) is a common feature (Narration, p. 182). The last mentioned passage finds a still closer parallel in a couplet from the contemporary ballad, which Gifford quotes from Hutchinson (p. 249):

And by the clapping of his Hands He shew’d the starching of our Bands.

Of the apparatus supplied by Merecraft for the imposture, the soap, nutshell, tow, and touchwood (Text, 5. 3. 3-5), the bladders and bellows (Text, 5. 5. 48), some are doubtless taken from Harsnet’s Discovery, though Darrel does not quote these passages in the Detection. We find, however, that Darrel was accused of supplying Somers with black lead to foam with (Detection, p. 160), and Gifford says that the soap and bellows are also mentioned in the ‘Bishop’s book’.

Though Jonson drew so largely upon this source, many details are supplied by his own imagination. Ridiculous as much of it may seem to the modern reader, it is by no means overdrawn. In fact it may safely be affirmed that no such realistic depiction of witchcraft exists elsewhere in the whole range of dramatic literature.

3. Prototypes of the leading Characters

The position of the leading characters has already been indicated. Pug, as the comic butt and innocent gull, is allied to Master Stephen and Master Matthew of Every Man in his Humor, Dapper of The Alchemist, and Cokes of Bartholomew Fair. Fitzdottrel, another type of the gull, is more closely related to Tribulation Wholesome in The Alchemist, and even in some respects to Corvino and Voltore in The Fox. Wittipol and Manly, the chief intriguers, hold approximately the same position as Wellbred and Knowell in Every Man in his Humor, Winwife and Quarlous in Bartholomew Fair, and Dauphine, Clerimont, and Truewit in The Silent Woman. Merecraft is related in his character of swindler to Subtle in The Alchemist, and in his character of projector to Sir Politick Wouldbe in The Fox.

The contemptible ‘lady of spirit and woman of fashion’ is one of Jonson’s favorite types. She first appears in the persons of Fallace and Saviolina in Every Man out of his Humor; then in Cynthia’s Revels, where Moria and her friends play the part; then as Cytheris in Poetaster, Lady Politick in The Alchemist, the collegiate ladies in The Silent Woman, and Fulvia and Sempronia in Catiline. The same affectations and vices are satirized repeatedly. An evident prototype of Justice Eitherside is found in the person of Adam Overdo in Bartholomew Fair. Both are justices of the peace, both are officious, puritanical, and obstinate. Justice Eitherside’s denunciation of the devotees of tobacco finds its counterpart in a speech in Bartholomew Fair, and his repeated ‘I do detest it’ reminds one of Overdo’s frequent expressions of horror at the enormities which he constantly discovers.

4. Minor Sources

The Devil is an Ass is not deeply indebted to the classics. Jonson borrows twice from Horace, 1. 6. 131, and 2. 4. 27 f. The half dozen lines in which the former passage occurs (1. 6. 126-132) are written in evident imitation of the Horatian style. Two passages are also borrowed from Plautus, 2. 1. 168 f., already mentioned, and 3. 6. 38-9. A single passage (2. 6. 104 f.) shows the influence of Martial. These passages are all quoted in the notes.

The source of Wittipol’s description of the ‘Cioppino’, and the mishap attendant upon its use, was probably taken from a contemporary book of travels. A passage in Coryat’s Crudities furnishes the necessary information and a similar anecdote, and was doubtless used by Jonson (see note 4. 4. 69). Coryat was patronized by the poet. Similarly, another passage in the Crudities seems to have suggested the project of the forks (see note 5. 4. 17).

A curious resemblance is further to be noted between several passages in The Devil is an Ass and Underwoods 62. The first draft of this poem may have been written not long before the present play (see Fleay, Chron. 1. 329-30) and so have been still fresh in the poet’s mind. The passage DA. 3. 2. 44-6 shows unmistakably that the play was the borrower, and not the poem. Gifford suggests that both passages were quoted from a contemporary posture-book, but the passage in the epigram gives no indication of being a quotation.

The chief parallels are as follows: U. 62. 10-14 and DA. 3. 3. 165-6; U. 62. 21-2 and DA. 3. 3. 169-72; U. 62. 25-6 and DA. 3. 2. 44-6; U. 62. 45-8 and DA. 2. 8. 19-22. These passages are all quoted in the notes. In addition, there are a few striking words and phrases that occur in both productions, but the important likenesses are all noted above. In no other poem except Charis, The Gipsies, and Underwoods 36,[65] where the borrowings are unmistakably intentional, is there any thing like the same reworking of material as in this instance.

III. Specific Objects of Satire

The Devil is an Ass has been called of all Jonson’s plays since Cynthia’s Revels the most obsolete in the subjects of its satire.[66] The criticism is true, and it is only with some knowledge of the abuses which Jonson assails that we can appreciate the keenness and precision of his thrusts. The play is a colossal exposé of social abuses. It attacks the aping of foreign fashions, the vices of society, and above all the cheats and impositions of the unscrupulous swindler. But we miss its point if we fail to see that Jonson’s arraignment of the society which permitted itself to be gulled is no less severe than that of the swindler who practised upon its credulity. Three institutions especially demand an explanation both for their own sake and for their bearing upon the plot. These are the duello, the monopoly, and the pretended demoniacal possession.

1. The Duello

The origin of private dueling is a matter of some obscurity. It was formerly supposed to be merely a development of the judicial duel or combat, but this is uncertain. Dueling flourished on the Continent, and was especially prevalent in France during the reign of Henry III. Jonson speaks of the frequency of the practice in France in The Magnetic Lady.

No private duel seems to have occurred in England before the sixteenth century, and the custom was comparatively rare until the reign of James I. Its introduction was largely due to the substitution of the rapier for the broadsword. Not long after this change in weapons fencing-schools began to be established and were soon very popular. Donald Lupton, in his London and the Countrey carbonadoed, 1632, says they were usually set up by ‘some low-country soldier, who to keep himself honest from further inconveniences, as also to maintain himself, thought upon this course and practises it’.[67]

The etiquette of the duel was a matter of especial concern. The two chief authorities seem to have been Jerome Carranza, the author of a book entitled Filosofia de las Armas,[68] and Vincentio Saviolo, whose Practise was translated into English in 1595. It contained two parts, the first ‘intreating of the vse of the rapier and dagger’, the second ‘of honor and honorable quarrels’. The rules laid down in these books were mercilessly ridiculed by the dramatists; and the duello was a frequent subject of satire.[69]

By 1616 dueling must have become very common. Frequent references to the subject are found about this time in the Calendar of State Papers. Under date of December 9, 1613, we read that all persons who go abroad to fight duels are to be censured in the Star Chamber. On February 17, 1614, ‘a proclamation, with a book annexed’, was issued against duels, and on February 13, 1617, the King made a Star Chamber speech against dueling, ‘on which he before published a sharp edict’.

The passion for dueling was turned to advantage by a set of improvident bravos, who styled themselves ‘sword-men’ or ‘masters of dependencies,’ a dependence being the accepted name for an impending quarrel. These men undertook to examine into the causes of a duel, and to settle or ‘take it up’ according to the rules laid down by the authorities on this subject. Their prey were the young men of fashion in the city, and especially ‘country gulls’, who were newly come to town and were anxious to become sophisticated. The profession must have been profitable, for we hear of their methods being employed by the ‘roaring boys’[70] and the masters of the fencing schools.[71] Fletcher in The Elder Brother, Wks. 10. 283, speaks of

... the masters of dependencies That by compounding differences ’tween others Supply their own necessities,

and Massinger makes similar comment in The Guardian, Wks., p. 343:

When two heirs quarrel, The swordsmen of the city shortly after Appear in plush, for their grave consultations In taking up the difference; some, I know, Make a set living on’t.

Another function of the office is mentioned by Ford in Fancies Chaste and Noble, Wks. 2. 241. The master would upon occasion ‘brave’ a quarrel with the novice for the sake of ‘gilding his reputation’, and Massinger in The Maid of Honor, Wks., p. 190, asserts that he would even consent ‘for a cloak with thrice-died velvet, and a cast suit’ to be ‘kick’d down the stairs’. In A King and No King, B. & Fl., Wks. 2. 310 f., Bessus consults with two of these ‘Gentlemen of the Sword’ in a ridiculous scene, in which the sword-men profess the greatest scrupulousness in examining every word and phrase, affirming that they cannot be ‘too subtle in this business’.

Jonson never loses an opportunity of satirizing these despicable bullies, who were not only ridiculous in their affectations, but who proved by their ‘fomenting bloody quarrels’ to be no small danger to the state. Bobadill, who is described as a Paul’s Man, was in addition a pretender to this craft. Matthew complains that Downright has threatened him with the bastinado, whereupon Bobadill cries out immediately that it is ‘a most proper and sufficient dependence’ and adds: ‘Come hither, you shall chartel him; I’ll shew you a trick or two, you shall kill him with at pleasure’.[72] Cavalier Shift, in Every Man out of his Humor, among various other occupations has the reputation of being able to ‘manage a quarrel the best that ever you saw, for terms and circumstances’. We have an excellent picture of the ambitious novice in the person of Kastrill in The Alchemist. Kastrill, who is described as an ‘angry boy’, comes to consult Subtle as to how to ‘carry a business, manage a quarrel fairly’. Face assures him that Dr. Subtle is able to ‘take the height’ of any quarrel whatsoever, to tell ‘in what degree of safety it lies’, ‘how it may be borne’, etc.

From this description of the ‘master of dependencies’ the exquisite humor of the passage in The Devil is an Ass (3. 3. 60 f.) can be appreciated. Merecraft assures Fitzdottrel that this occupation, in reality the refuge only of the Shifts and Bobadills of the city, is a new and important office about to be formally established by the state. In spite of all their speaking against dueling, he says, they have come to see the evident necessity of a public tribunal to which all quarrels may be referred. It is by means of this pretended office that Merecraft attempts to swindle Fitzdottrel out of his entire estate, from which disaster he is saved only by the clever interposition of Wittipol.

2. The Monopoly System

Jonson’s severest satire in The Devil is an Ass is directed against the projector. Through him the whole system of Monopolies is indirectly criticised. To understand the importance and timeliness of this attack, as well as the poet’s own attitude on the subject, it is necessary to give a brief historical discussion of the system as it had developed and then existed.

Royal grants with the avowed intention of instructing the English in a new industry had been made as early as the fourteenth century,[73] and the system had become gradually modified during the Tudor dynasty. In the sixteenth century a capitalist middle class rose to wealth and political influence. During the reign of Elizabeth a large part of Cecil’s energies was directed toward the economic development of the country. This was most effectually accomplished by granting patents to men who had enterprise enough to introduce a new art or manufacture, whether an importation from a foreign country or their own invention. The capitalist was encouraged to make this attempt by the grant of special privileges of manufacture for a limited period.[74] The condition of monopoly did not belong to the mediaeval system, but was first introduced under Elizabeth. So far the system had its economic justification, but unfortunately it did not stop here. Abuses began to creep in. Not only the manufacture, but the exclusive trade in certain articles, was given over to grantees, and commodities of the most common utility were ‘ingrossed into the hands of these blood-suckers of the commonwealth.[75] A remonstrance of Parliament was made to Elizabeth in 1597, and again in 1601, and in consequence the Queen thought best to promise the annulling of all monopolies then existing, a promise which she in large measure fulfilled. But the immense growth of commerce under Elizabeth made it necessary for her successor, James I., to establish a system of delegation, and he accordingly adapted the system of granting patents to the existing needs.[76] Many new monopolies were granted during the early years of his reign, but in 1607 Parliament again protested, and he followed Elizabeth’s example by revoking them all. After the suspension of Parliamentary government in 1614 the system grew up again, and the old abuses became more obnoxious than ever. In 1621 Parliament addressed a second remonstrance to James. The king professed ignorance, but promised redress, and in 1624 all the existing monopolies were abolished by the Statute 21 James I. c. 3. In Parliament’s address to James ‘the tender point of prerogative’ was not disturbed, and it was contrived that all the blame and punishment should fall on the patentees.[77]

Of all the patents granted during this time, that which seems to have most attracted the attention of the dramatists was one for draining the Fens of Lincolnshire. Similar projects had frequently been attempted during the sixteenth century. In the list of patents before 1597, catalogued by Hulme, seven deal with water drainage in some form or other. The low lands on the east coast of England are exposed to inundation.[78] During the Roman occupation large embankments had been built, and during the Middle Ages these had been kept up partly through a commission appointed by the Crown, and partly through the efforts of the monasteries at Ramsey and Crowland. After the dissolution of these monasteries it became necessary to take up anew the work of reclaiming the fen-land. An abortive attempt by the Earl of Lincoln had already been made when the Statute 43 Eliz. c. 10. 11. was passed in the year 1601. This made legal the action of projectors in the recovery of marsh land. Many difficulties, however, such as lack of funds and opposition on the part of the inhabitants and neighbors of the fens, still stood in their way. In 1605 Sir John Popham and Sir Thomas Fleming headed a company which undertook to drain the Great Level of the Cambridgeshire fens, consisting of more than 300,000 acres, at their own cost, on the understanding that 130,000 acres of the reclaimed land should fall to their share. The project was a complete failure. Another statute granting a patent for draining the fens is found in the seventh year of Jac. I. c. 20, and the attempt was renewed from time to time throughout the reigns of James and Charles I. It was not, however, until the Restoration that these efforts were finally crowned with success.

When the remonstrance was made to James in 1621, the object of the petitioners was gained, as we have seen, by throwing all the blame upon the patentees and projectors. Similarly, the dramatists often prefer to make their attack, not by assailing the institution of monopolies, but by ridicule of the offending subjects.[79] Two agents are regularly distinguished. There is the patentee, sometimes also called the projector, whose part it is to supply the funds for the establishment of the monopoly, and, if possible, the necessary influence at Court; and the actual projector or inventor, who undertakes to furnish his patron with various projects of his own device.

Jonson’s is probably the earliest dramatic representation of the projector. Merecraft is a swindler, pure and simple, whose schemes are directed not so much against the people whom he aims to plunder by the establishment of a monopoly as against the adventurer who furnishes the funds for putting the project into operation:

... Wee poore Gentlemen, that want acres, Must for our needs, turne fooles vp and plough Ladies.

Both Fitzdottrel and Lady Tailbush are drawn into these schemes so far as to part with their money. Merecraft himself pretends that he possesses sufficient influence at Court. He flatters Fitzdottrel, who is persuaded by the mere display of projects in a buckram bag, by demanding of him ‘his count’nance, t’appeare in’t to great men’ (2. 1. 39). Lady Tailbush is not so easily fooled, and Merecraft has some difficulty in persuading her of the power of his friends at Court (Act 4. Sc. 1).

Merecraft’s chief project, the recovery of the drowned lands, is also satirized by Randolph:

I have a rare device to set Dutch windmills Upon Newmarket Heath, and Salisbury Plain, To drain the fens.[80]

and in Holland’s Leaguer, Act 1. Sc. 5 (cited by Gifford):

Our projector Will undertake the making of bay salt, For a penny a bushel, to serve all the state; Another dreams of building waterworkes, Drying of fenns and marshes, like the Dutchmen.

In the later drama the figure of the projector appears several times, but it lacks the timeliness of Jonson’s satire, and the conception must have been largely derived from literary sources. Jonson’s influence is often apparent. In Brome’s Court Beggar the patentee is Mendicant, a country gentleman who has left his rustic life and sold his property, in order to raise his state by court-suits. The projects which he presents at court are the invention of three projectors. Like Merecraft, they promise to make Mendicant a lord, and succeed only in reducing him to poverty. The character of the Court Beggar is given in these words: ‘He is a Knight that hanckers about the court ambitious to make himselfe a Lord by begging. His braine is all Projects, and his soule nothing but Court-suits. He has begun more Knavish suits at Court, then ever the Kings Taylor honestly finish’d, but never thriv’d by any: so that now hee’s almost fallen from a Palace Begger to a Spittle one’.

In the Antipodes Brome introduces ‘a States-man studious for the Commonwealth, solicited by Projectors of the Country’. Brome’s list of projects (quoted in Gifford’s edition) is a broad caricature. Wilson, in the Restoration drama, produced a play called The Projectors, in which Jonson’s influence is apparent (see Introduction, p. lxxv).

Among the characters, of which the seventeenth century writers were so fond, the projector is a favorite figure. John Taylor,[81] the water-poet, furnishes us with a cartoon entitled ‘The complaint of M. Tenterhooke the Projector and Sir Thomas Dodger the Patentee’. In the rimes beneath the picture the distinction between the projector, who ‘had the Art to cheat the Common-weale’, and the patentee, who was possessed of ‘tricks and slights to pass the seale’, is brought out with especial distinctness. Samuel Butler’s character[82] of the projector is of less importance, since it was not published until 1759. The real importance of Jonson’s satire lies in the fact that it appeared in the midst of the most active discussion on the subject of monopolies. Drummond says that he was ‘accused upon’ the play, and that the King ‘desired him to conceal it’.[83] Whether the subject which gave offense was the one which we have been considering or that of witchcraft, it is, however, impossible to determine.

3. Witchcraft

Witchcraft in Jonson’s time was not an outworn belief, but a living issue. It is remarkable that the persecutions which followed upon this terrible delusion were comparatively infrequent during the Middle Ages, and reached their maximum only in the seventeenth century.

The first English Act against witchcraft after the Norman Conquest was passed in 1541 (33 Hen. VIII. c. 8). This Act, which was of a general nature, and directed against various kinds of sorceries, was followed by another in 1562 (5 Eliz. c. 16). At the accession of James I. in 1603 was passed 1 Jac. I. c. 12, which continued law for more than a century.

During this entire period charges of witchcraft were frequent. In Scotland they were especially numerous, upwards of fifty being recorded during the years 1596-7.[84] The trial of Anne Turner in 1615, in which charges of witchcraft were joined with those of poisoning, especially attracted the attention of Jonson. In 1593 occurred the trial of the ‘three Witches of Warboys’, in 1606 that of Mary Smith, in 1612 that of the earlier Lancashire Witches, and of the later in 1633. These are only a few of the more famous cases. Of no less importance in this connection is the attitude of the King himself. In the famous Demonology[85] he allied himself unhesitatingly with the cause of superstition. Witchcraft was of course not without its opponents, but these were for the most part obscure men and of little personal influence. While Bacon and Raleigh were inclining to a belief in witchcraft, and Sir Thomas Browne was offering his support to persecution, the cause of reason was intrusted to such champions as Reginald Scot, the author of the famous Discovery of Witchcraft, 1584, a work which fearlessly exposes the prevailing follies and crimes. It is on this side that Jonson places himself. That he should make a categorical statement as to his belief or disbelief in witchcraft is not to be expected. It is enough that he presents a picture of the pretended demoniac, that he makes it as sordid and hateful as possible, that he draws for us in the person of Justice Eitherside the portrait of the bigoted, unreasonable, and unjust judge, and that he openly ridicules the series of cases which he used as the source of his witch scenes (cf. Act. 5. Sc. 3).

To form an adequate conception of the poet’s satirical purpose in this play one should compare the methods used here with the treatment followed in Jonson’s other dramas where the witch motive occurs. In The Masque of Queens, 1609, and in The Sad Shepherd, Jonson employed the lore of witchcraft more freely, but in a quite different way. Here, instead of hard realism with all its hideous details, the more picturesque beliefs and traditions are used for purely imaginative and poetical purposes.

The Masque of Queens was presented at Whitehall, and dedicated to Prince Henry. Naturally Jonson’s attitude toward witchcraft would here be respectful. It is to be observed, however, that in the copious notes which are appended to the masque no contemporary trials are referred to. The poet relies upon the learned compilations of Bodin, Remigius, Cornelius Agrippa, and Paracelsus, together with many of the classical authors. He is clearly dealing with the mythology of witchcraft. Nightshade and henbane, sulphur, vapors, the eggshell boat, and the cobweb sail are the properties which he uses in this poetic drama. The treatment does not differ essentially from that of Middleton and Shakespeare.

In The Sad Shepherd the purpose is still different. We have none of the wild unearthliness of the masque. Maudlin is a witch of a decidedly vulgar type, but there is no satirical intent. Jonson, for the purpose of his play, accepts for the moment the prevailing attitude toward witchcraft, and the satisfaction in Maudlin’s discomfiture doubtless assumed an acquiescence in the popular belief. At the same time the poetical aspect is not wholly forgotten, and appears with especial prominence in the beautiful passage which describes the witch’s forest haunt, beginning: ‘Within a gloomy dimble she doth dwell’. The Sad Shepherd and the masque are far more akin to each other in their treatment of witchcraft than is either to The Devil is an Ass.

IV. Personal Satire

The detection of personal satire in Jonson’s drama is difficult, and at best unsatisfactory. Jonson himself always resented it as an impertinence.[86] In the present case Fleay suggests that the motto, Ficta, voluptatis causa, sint proxima veris, is an indication that we are to look upon the characters as real persons. But Jonson twice took the pains to explain that this is precisely the opposite of his own interpretation of Horace’s meaning.[87] The subject of personal satire was a favorite one with him, and in The Magnetic Lady he makes the sufficiently explicit statement: ‘A play, though it apparel and present vices in general, flies from all particularities in persons’.

On the other hand we know that Jonson did occasionally indulge in personal satire. Carlo Buffone,[88] Antonio Balladino,[89] and the clerk Nathaniel[90] are instances sufficiently authenticated. Of these Jonson advances a plea of justification: ‘Where have I been particular? where personal? except to a mimic, cheater, bawd or buffoon, creatures, for their insolencies, worthy to be taxed? yet to which of these so pointingly, as he might not either ingenuously have confest, or wisely dissembled his disease?’[91]

In only one play do we know that the principal characters represent real people. But between Poetaster and The Devil is an Ass there is a vast difference of treatment. In Poetaster (1) the attitude is undisguisedly satirical. The allusions in the prologues and notices to the reader are direct and unmistakable. (2) The character-drawing is partly caricature, partly allegorical. This method is easily distinguishable from the typical, which aims to satirize a class. (3) Jonson does not draw upon historical events, but personal idiosyncrasies. (4) The chief motive is in the spirit of Aristophanes, the great master of personal satire. These methods are what we should naturally expect in a composition of this sort. Of such internal evidence we find little or nothing in The Devil is an Ass. Several plausible identifications, however, have been proposed, and these we must consider separately.

The chief characters are identified by Fleay as follows: Wittipol is Jonson. He has returned from travel, and had seen Mrs. Fitzdottrel before he went. Mrs. Fitzdottrel is the Lady Elizabeth Hatton. Fitzdottrel is her husband, Sir Edward Coke.

Mrs. Fitzdottrel. The identification is based upon a series of correspondences between a passage in The Devil is an Ass (2. 6. 57-113) and a number of passages scattered through Jonson’s works. The most important of these are quoted in the note to the above passage. To them has been added an important passage from A Challenge at Tilt, 1613. Fleay’s deductions are these: (1) Underwoods 36 and Charis must be addressed to the same lady (cf. especially Ch., part 5). (2) Charis and Mrs. Fitzdottrel are identical. The song (2. 6. 94 f.) is found complete in the Celebration of Charis. In Wittipol’s preceding speech we find the phrases ‘milk and roses’ and ‘bank of kisses’, which occur in Charis and in U. 36, and a reference to the husband who is the ‘just excuse’ for the wife’s infidelity, which occurs in U. 36. (3) Charis is Lady Hatton. Fleay believes that Charis, part 1, in which the poet speaks of himself as writing ‘fifty years’, was written c 1622-3; but that parts 2-10 were written c 1608. In reference to these parts he says: ‘Written in reference to a mask in which Charis represented Venus riding in a chariot drawn by swans and doves (Charis, part 4), at a marriage, and leading the Graces in a dance at Whitehall, worthy to be envied of the Queen (6), in which Cupid had a part (2, 3, 5), at which Charis kissed him (6, 7), and afterwards kept up a close intimacy with him (8, 9, 10). The mask of 1608, Feb. 9, exactly fulfils these conditions, and the Venus of that mask was probably L. Elizabeth Hatton, the most beautiful of the then court ladies. She had appeared in the mask of Beauty, 1608, Jan. 10, but in no other year traceable by me. From the Elegy, G. 36, manifestly written to the same lady (compare it with the lines in 5 as to “the bank of kisses” and “the bath of milk and roses”), we learn that Charis had “a husband that is the just excuse of all that can be done him”. This was her second husband, Sir Edward Coke, to whom she was married in 1593’.

Fleay’s theory rests chiefly upon (1) his interpretation of The Celebration of Claris; (2) the identity of Charis and Mrs. Fitzdottrel. A study of the poem has led me to conclusions of a very different nature from those of Fleay. They may be stated as follows:

Charis 1. This was evidently written in 1622-3. Jonson plainly says: ‘Though I now write fifty years’. Charis is here seemingly identified with Lady Purbeck, daughter of Lady Hatton. Compare the last two lines with the passage from The Gipsies. Fleay believes the compliments were transferred in the masque at Lady Hatton’s request.

Charis 4 and 7 have every mark of being insertions. (1) They are in different metres from each other and from the other sections, which in this respect are uniform. (2) They are not in harmony with the rest of the poem. They entirely lack the easy, familiar, half jocular style which characterizes the eight other parts. (3) Each is a somewhat ambitious effort, complete in itself, and distinctly lyrical. (4) In neither is there any mention of or reference to Charis. (5) It is evident, therefore, that they were not written for the Charis poem, but merely interpolated. They are, then, of all the parts the least valuable for the purpose of identification, nor are we justified in looking upon them as continuing a definite narrative with the rest of the poem. (6) The evident reason for introducing them is their own intrinsic lyrical merit.

Charis 4 was apparently written in praise of some pageant, probably a court masque. The representation of Venus drawn in a chariot by swans and doves, the birds sacred to her, may have been common enough. That this is an accurate description of the masque of February 9, 1608 is, however, a striking fact, and it is possible that the lady referred to is the same who represented Venus in that masque. But (1) we do not even know that Jonson refers to a masque of his own, or a masque at all. (2) We have no trustworthy evidence that Lady Hatton was the Venus of that masque. Fleay’s identification is little better than a guess. (3) Evidence is derived from the first stanza alone. This does not appear in The Devil is an Ass, and probably was not written at the time. Otherwise there is no reason for its omission in that place. It seems to have been added for the purpose of connecting the lyric interpolation with the rest of the poem.

Charis 5 seems to be a late production. (1) Jonson combines in this single section a large number of figures used in other places. (2) That it was not the origin of these figures seems to be intimated by the words of the poem. Cupid is talking. He had lately found Jonson describing his lady, and Jonson’s words, he says, are descriptive of Cupid’s own mother, Venus. So Homer had spoken of her hair, so Anacreon of her face. He continues:

By her looks I do her know Which you call my shafts.

The italicized words may refer to U. 36. 3-4. They correspond, however, much more closely to Challenge, 2 Cup. The ‘bath your verse discloses’ (l. 21) may refer to DA. 2. 6. 82-3. U. 36. 7-8 or Gipsies 15-6.

... the bank of kisses, Where you say men gather blisses

is mentioned in U. 36. 9-10. ‘The passages in DA. and Gipsies[92] are less close. The ‘valley called my nest’ may be a reference to DA. 2. 6. 74 f. Jonson had already spoken of the ‘girdle ’bout her waist’ in Challenge, 2 Cup. Charis 5 seems then to have been written later than U. 36, Challenge, 1613, and probably Devil is an Ass, 1616. The evidence is strong, though not conclusive.

Charis 6 evidently refers to a marriage at Whitehall. That Cupid, who is referred to in 2, 3, 5, had any part in the marriage of Charis 6 is nowhere even intimated. That Charis led the Graces in a dance is a conjecture equally unfounded. Jonson of course takes the obvious opportunity (ll. 20, 26) of playing on the name Charis. That this occasion was the same as that celebrated in 4 we have no reason to believe. It applies equally well, for instance, to A Challenge at Tilt, but we are by no means justified in so limiting it. It may have been imaginary.

Charis 7 was written before 1618, since Jonson quoted a part of it to Drummond during his visit in Scotland (cf. Conversations 5). It was a favorite of the poet’s and this furnishes sufficient reason for its insertion here. It is worthy of note that the two sections of Charis, which we know by external proof to have been in existence before 1623, are those which give internal evidence of being interpolations.

Summary. The poem was probably a late production and of composite nature. There is no reason for supposing that the greater part was not written in 1622-3. The fourth and seventh parts are interpolations. The first stanza of the fourth part, upon which the identification largely rests, seems not to have been written until the poem was put together in 1622-3. If it was written at the same time as the other two stanzas, we cannot expect to find it forming part of a connected narrative. The events described in the fourth and sixth parts are not necessarily the same. There is practically no evidence that Lady Hatton was the Venus of 1608, or that Charis is addressed to any particular lady.

The other link in Fleay’s chain of evidence is of still weaker substance. The mere repetition of compliments does not necessarily prove the recipient to be the same person. In fact we find in these very pieces the same phrases applied indiscriminately to Lady Purbeck, Lady Frances Howard, Mrs. Fitzdottrel, perhaps to Lady Hatton, and even to the Earl of Somerset. Of what value, then, can such evidence be?

Fleay’s whole theory rests on this poem, and biographical evidence is unnecessary. It is sufficient to notice that Lady Hatton was a proud woman, that marriage with so eminent a man as Sir Edward Coke was considered a great condescension (Chamberlain’s Letters, Camden Soc., p. 29), and that an amour with Jonson is extremely improbable.

Fitzdottrel. Fleay’s identification of Fitzdottrel with Coke rests chiefly on the fact that Coke was Lady Hatton’s husband. The following considerations are added. Fitzdottrel is a ‘squire of Norfolk’. Sir E. Coke was a native of Norfolk, and had held office in Norwich. Fitzdottrel’s rôle as sham demoniac is a covert allusion to Coke’s adoption of the popular witch doctrines in the Overbury trial. His jealousy of his wife was shown in the same trial, where he refused to read the document of ‘what ladies loved what lords’, because, as was popularly supposed, his own wife’s name headed the list. Jonson is taking advantage of Coke’s disgrace in November, 1616. He had flattered him in 1613 (U. 64).

Our reasons for rejecting this theory are as follows: (1) The natural inference is that Jonson would not deliberately attack the man whom he had highly praised three years before. I do not understand Fleay’s assertion that Jonson was always ready to attack the fallen. (2) The compliment paid to Coke in 1613 (U. 64) was not the flattery of an hour of triumph. The appointment to the king’s bench was displeasing to Coke, and made at the suggestion of Bacon with the object of removing him to a place where he would come less often into contact with the king. (3) Fitzdottrel is a light-headed man of fashion, who spends his time in frequenting theatres and public places, and in conjuring evil spirits. Coke was sixty-four years old, the greatest lawyer of his time, and a man of the highest gifts and attainments. (4) The attempted parallel between Fitzdottrel, the pretended demoniac, and Coke, as judge in the Overbury trial, is patently absurd. (5) If Lady Hatton had not been selected for identification with Mrs. Fitzdottrel, Coke would never have been dreamed of as a possible Fitzdottrel.

Wittipol. He is a young man just returned from travel, which apparently has been of considerable duration. He saw Mrs. Fitzdottrel once before he went, and upon returning immediately seeks her out. How does this correspond to Jonson’s life? The Hue and Cry was played February 9, 1608. According to Fleay’s interpretation, this was followed by an intimacy with Lady Hatton. Five years later, in 1613, Drummond tells us that Jonson went to France with the son of Sir Walter Raleigh. He returned the same year in time to compose A Challenge at Tilt, December 27. Three years later he wrote The Devil is an Ass at the age of forty-three.

Wittipol intimates that he is Mrs. Fitzdottrel’s equal in years, in fashion (1. 6. 124-5), and in blood (1. 6. 168). For Jonson to say this to Lady Hatton would have been preposterous.

Justice Eitherside. Only the desire to prove a theory at all costs could have prevented Fleay from seeing that Coke’s counterpart is not Fitzdottrel, but Justice Eitherside. In obstinacy, bigotry, and vanity this character represents the class of judges with which Coke identified himself in the Overbury trial. Nor are these merely class-traits. They are distinctly the faults which marred Coke’s career from the beginning. It is certain that Coke is partially responsible for this portraiture. Overbury was a personal friend of the poet, and the trial, begun in the previous year, had extended into 1616. Jonson must have followed it eagerly. On the other hand, it is improbable that the picture was aimed exclusively at Coke. He merely furnished traits for a typical and not uncommon character. As we have seen, it is in line with Jonson’s usual practise to confine personal satire to the lesser characters.

Merecraft. Fleay’s identification with Sir Giles Mompesson has very little to commend it. Mompesson was connected by marriage with James I.’s powerful favorite, George Villiers, later Duke of Buckingham. In 1616 he suggested to Villiers the creation of a special commission for the purpose of granting licenses to keepers of inns and ale-houses. The suggestion was adopted by Villiers; Mompesson was appointed to the Commission in October, 1616, and knighted on November 18 of that year. The patent was not sealed until March, 1617. His high-handed conduct soon became unpopular, but he continued in favor with Villiers and James, and his disgrace did not come until 1621.

It will readily be seen that Mompesson’s position and career conform in no particular to those of Merecraft in the present play. Mompesson was a knight, a friend of the king’s favorite, and in favor with the king. Merecraft is a mere needy adventurer without influence at court, and the associate of ruffians, who frequent the ‘Straits’ and the ‘Bermudas’. Mompesson was himself the recipient of a patent (see section III. 2). Merecraft is merely the projector who devises clever projects for more powerful patrons. Mompesson’s project bears no resemblance to those suggested by Merecraft, and he could hardly have attracted any popular dislike at the time when The Devil is an Ass was presented, since, as we have seen, his patent was not even sealed until the following year. Finally, Jonson would hardly have attacked a man who stood so high at court as did Mompesson in 1616.

It is evident that Jonson had particularly in mind those projectors whose object it was to drain the fens of Lincolnshire. The attempts, as we have seen, were numerous, and it is highly improbable that Jonson wished to satirize any one of them more severely than another. In a single passage, however, it seems possible that Sir John Popham (see page lx) is referred to. In Act 4. Sc. 1 Merecraft speaks of a Sir John Monie-man as a projector who was able to ‘jump a business quickly’ because ‘he had great friends’. That Popham is referred to seems not unlikely from the fact that he was the most important personage who had embarked upon an enterprise of this sort, that his scheme was one of the earliest, that he was not a strict contemporary (d. 1607), and that his scheme had been very unpopular. This is proved by an anonymous letter to the king, in which complaint is made that ‘the “covetous bloody Popham” will ruin many poor men by his offer to drain the fens’ (Cal. State Papers, Mar. 14?, 1606).

Plutarchus Guilthead. Fleay’s identification with Edmund Howes I am prepared to accept, although biographical data are very meagre. Fleay says: ‘Plutarchus Gilthead, who is writing the lives of the great men in the city; the captain who writes of the Artillery Garden “to train the youth”, etc. [3. 2. 45], is, I think, Edmond Howes, whose continuation of Stow’s Chronicle was published in 1615.’

Howes’ undertaking was a matter of considerable ridicule to his acquaintances. In his 1631 edition he speaks of the heavy blows and great discouragements he received from his friends. He was in the habit of signing himself ‘Gentleman’ and this seems to be satirized in 3. 1, where Guilthead says repeatedly: ‘This is to make you a Gentleman’ (see N. & Q. 1st Ser. 6. 199.).

The Noble House. Two proposed identifications of the ‘noble house’, which pretends to a duke’s title, mentioned at 2. 4. 15-6. have been made. The expenditure of much energy in the attempt to fix so veiled an allusion is hardly worth while. Jonson of course depended upon contemporary rumor, for which we have no data.

Cunningham’s suggestion that Buckingham is referred to is not convincing. Buckingham’s father was Sir George Villiers of Brooksby in Leicestershire. He was not himself raised to the nobility until August 27, 1616, when he was created Viscount Villiers and Baron Waddon. It was not until January 5, 1617 (not 1616, as Cunningham says), that he became Earl of Buckingham, and it is unlikely that before this time any allusion to Villiers’ aspiration to a dukedom would have been intelligible to Jonson’s audience.

Fleay’s theory that the ‘noble house’ was that of Stuart may be accepted provisionally. Lodowick was made Earl of Richmond in 1613, and Duke in 1623. He was acceptable to king and people, and in this very year was made steward of the household.

D. AFTER-INFLUENCE OF THE DEVIL IS AN ASS

A few instances of the subsequent rehandling of certain motives in this play are too striking to be completely overlooked. John Wilson, 1627-c 1696, a faithful student and close imitator of Jonson, produced in 1690 a drama called Belphegor, or The Marriage of the Devil, a Tragi-comedy. While it is founded on the English translation of Machiavelli’s novella, which appeared in 1674, and closely adheres to the lines of the original, it shows clear evidence of Jonson’s influence. The subject has been fully investigated by Hollstein (cf. Verhältnis, pp. 22-24, 28-30, 35, 43, 50).

The Cheats, 1662, apparently refers to The Devil is an Ass in the Prologue. The characters of Bilboe and Titere Tu belong to the same class of low bullies as Merecraft and Everill, but the evident prototypes of these characters are Subtle and Face in The Alchemist.

A third play of Wilson’s, The Projectors, 1664, shows unmistakable influence of The Devil is an Ass. The chief object of satire is of course the same, and the character of Sir Gudgeon Credulous is modeled after that of Fitzdottrel. The scenes in which the projects are explained, 2. 1 and 3. 1, are similar to the corresponding passages in Jonson. The Aulularia of Plautus is a partial source, so that the play in some features resembles The Case is Altered. In 2. 1 Wilson imitates the passage in the Aulularia, which closes Act 2. Sc. 1 of The Devil is an Ass (see note 2. 1. 168).

Brome, Jonson’s old servant and friend, also handled the subject of monopolies (see page lxi). Jonson’s influence is especially marked in The Court Beggar. The project of perukes (Wks. 1. 192) should be compared with Merecraft’s project of toothpicks.

Mrs. Susanna Centlivre’s Busie Body uses the motives borrowed from Boccaccio (see pp. xlv ff.). The scenes in which these appear must have been suggested by Jonson’s play (Genest 2. 419), though the author seems to have been acquainted with the Decameron also. In Act. 1. Sc. 1 Sir George Airy makes a bargain with Sir Francis Gripe similar to Wittipol’s bargain with Fitzdottrel. In exchange for the sum of a hundred guineas he is admitted into the house for the purpose of moving his suit to Miranda. ‘for the space of ten minutes, without lett or molestation’, provided Sir Francis remain in the same room, though out of ear shot (2d ed., p. 8). In Act 2. Sc. 1 the bargain is carried out in much the same way as in Boccaccio and in Jonson. Miranda remaining dumb and Sir George answering for her.

In Act 3. Sc. 4 (2d ed., p. 38) Miranda in the presence of her guardian sends a message by Marplot not to saunter at the garden gate about eight o’clock as he has been accustomed to do, thus making an assignation with him (compare DA. 2. 2. 52).

Other motives which seem to show some influence of The Devil is an Ass are Miranda’s trick to have the estate settled upon her, Charles’ disguise as a Spaniard, and Traffick’s jealous care of Isabinda. The character of Marplot as comic butt resembles that of Pug.

The song in The Devil is an Ass 2. 6. 94 (see note) was imitated by Sir John Suckling.

APPENDIX Extracts from the Critics

Gifford: There is much good writing in this comedy. All the speeches of Satan are replete with the most biting satire, delivered with an appropriate degree of spirit. Fitzdottrel is one of those characters which Jonson delighted to draw, and in which he stood unrivalled, a gull, i. e., a confident coxcomb, selfish, cunning, and conceited. Mrs. Fitzdottrel possesses somewhat more interest than the generality of our author’s females, and is indeed a well sustained character. In action the principal amusement of the scene (exclusive of the admirable burlesque of witchery in the conclusion) was probably derived from the mortification of poor Pug, whose stupid stare of amazement at finding himself made an ass of on every possible occasion must, if portrayed as some then on the stage were well able to portray it, have been exquisitely comic.

This play is strictly moral in its conception and conduct. Knavery and folly are shamed and corrected, virtue is strengthened and rewarded, and the ends of dramatic justice are sufficiently answered by the simple exposure of those whose errors are merely subservient to the minor interests of the piece.

Herford (Studies in the Literary Relations of England and Germany, pp. 318-20): Jonson had in fact so far the Aristophanic quality of genius, that he was at once a most elaborate and minute student of the actual world, and a poet of the airiest and boldest fancy, and that he loved to bring the two rôles into the closest possible combination. No one so capable of holding up the mirror to contemporary society without distorting the slenderest thread of its complex tissue of usages; no one, on the other hand, who so keenly delighted in startling away the illusion or carefully undermining it by some palpably fantastic invention. His most elaborate reproductions of the everyday world are hardly ever without an infusion of equally elaborate caprice,—a leaven of recondite and fantastic legend and grotesque myth, redolent of old libraries and antique scholarship, furtively planted, as it were, in the heart of that everyday world of London life, and so subtly blending with it that the whole motley throng of merchants and apprentices, gulls and gallants, discover nothing unusual in it, and engage with the most perfectly matter of fact air in the business of working it out. The purging of Crispinus in the Poetaster, the Aristophanic motive of the Magnetic Lady, even the farcical horror of noise which is the mainspring of the Epicœne, are only less elaborate and sustained examples of this fantastic realism than the adventure of a Stupid Devil in the play before us. Nothing more anomalous in the London of Jonson’s day could be conceived; yet it is so managed that it loses all its strangeness. So perfectly is the supernatural element welded with the human, that it almost ceases to appear supernatural. Pug, the hero of the adventure, is a pretty, petulant boy, more human by many degrees than the half fairy Puck of Shakespeare, which doubtless helped to suggest him, and the arch-fiend Satan is a bluff old politician, anxious to ward off the perils of London from his young simpleton of a son, who is equally eager to plunge into them. The old savage horror fades away before Jonson’s humanising touch, the infernal world loses all its privilege of peculiar terror and strength, and sinks to the footing of a mere rival state, whose merchandise can be kept out of the market and its citizens put in the Counter or carted to Tyburn.

A. W. Ward (Eng. Dram. Lit., pp. 372-3): The oddly-named comedy of The Devil is an Ass, acted in 1616, seems already to exhibit a certain degree of decay in the dramatic powers which had so signally called forth its predecessor. Yet this comedy possesses a considerable literary interest, as adapting both to Jonson’s dramatic method, and to the general moral atmosphere of his age, a theme connecting itself with some of the most notable creations of the earlier Elizabethan drama.... The idea of the play is as healthy as its plot is ingenious; but apart from the circumstance that the latter is rather slow in preparation, and by no means, I think, gains in perspicuousness as it proceeds, the design itself suffers from one radical mistake. Pug’s intelligence is so much below par that he suffers as largely on account of his clumsiness as on account of his viciousness, while remaining absolutely without influence upon the course of the action. The comedy is at the same time full of humor, particularly in the entire character of Fitzdottrel.

Swinburne (Study of Ben Jonson, pp. 65-7): If The Devil is an Ass cannot be ranked among the crowning masterpieces of its author, it is not because the play shows any sign of decadence in literary power or in humorous invention. The writing is admirable, the wealth of comic matter is only too copious, the characters are as firm in outline or as rich in color as any but the most triumphant examples of his satirical or sympathetic skill in finished delineation and demarcation of humors. On the other hand, it is of all Ben Jonson’s comedies since the date of Cynthia’s Revels the most obsolete in subject of satire, the most temporary in its allusions and applications: the want of fusion or even connection (except of the most mechanical or casual kind) between the various parts of its structure and the alternate topics of its ridicule makes the action more difficult to follow than that of many more complicated plots: and, finally, the admixture of serious sentiment and noble emotion is not so skilfully managed as to evade the imputation of incongruity. [The dialogue between Lady Tailbush and Lady Eitherside in Act 4. Sc. 1 has some touches ‘worthy of Molière himself.’ In Act 4. Sc. 3 Mrs. Fitzdottrel’s speech possesses a ‘a noble and natural eloquence,’ but the character of her husband is ‘almost too loathsome to be ridiculous,’ and unfit ‘for the leading part in a comedy of ethics as well as of morals.’] The prodigality of elaboration lavished on such a multitude of subordinate characters, at the expense of all continuous interest and to the sacrifice of all dramatic harmony, may tempt the reader to apostrophize the poet in his own words:

You are so covetous still to embrace More than you can, that you lose all.

Yet a word of parting praise must be given to Satan: a small part as far as extent goes, but a splendid example of high comic imagination after the order of Aristophanes, admirably relieved by the low comedy of the asinine Pug and the voluble doggrel by the antiquated Vice.

TEXT

EDITOR’S NOTE

The text here adopted is that of the original edition of 1631. No changes of reading have been made; spelling, punctuation, capitalization, and italics are reproduced. The original pagination is inserted in brackets; the book-holder’s marginal notes are inserted where 1716 and Whalley placed them. In a few instances modern type has been substituted for archaic characters. The spacing of the contracted words has been normalized.

1641 = 

Pamphlet folio of 1641.

1692 = 

The Third Folio, 1692.

1716 = 

Edition of 1716 (17).

W  = 

Whalley’s edition, 1756.

G  = 

Gifford’s edition, 1816.

SD. = 

Stage directions at the beginning of a scene.

SN. = 

Side note, or book-holder’s note.

om. = 

omitted.

ret. = 

retained.

f. = 

and all later editions.

G§ = 

a regular change. After a single citation only

exceptions are noted. See Introduction,

page xvi

.

Mere changes of spelling have not been noted in the variants. All changes of form and all suggestive changes of punctuation have been recorded.

THE DIUELL

IS
AN ASSE:

A COMEDIE

ACTED IN THE
YEARE, 1616.

BY HIS MAIESTIES
Servants.

The Author BEN: IONSON.

HOR. de ART. POET.
Ficta voluptatis Cauſâ, ſint proxima veris.

[DEVICE OF A GRIFFIN’S HEAD ERASED]

LONDON.

Printed by I. B. for Robert Allot, and are
to be ſold at the ſigne of the Beare, in
Pauls Church-yard.
1631.

THE PERSONS
OF THE PLAY.

Satan. The great diuell.[93] Pvg.

The leſſe diuell.

Iniqvity.

The Vice.

Fitz-dottrell. A Squire of

Norfolk.

Miſtreſſe

Frances

.

His wife. 5 Meere-craft.

The Proiector.

Everill.

His champion.

Wittipol.

A young Gallant.

Manly.

His friend.

Ingine. A Broaker. 10 Traines.

The Proiectors man.

Gvilt-head.

A Gold-ſmith.

Plvtarchvs.

His ſonne.

Sir

Povle Either-side

.  

A Lawyer, and Iuſtice.

Lady

Either-side

.

His wife. 15

Lady

Taile-bvsh

.

The Lady Proiectreſſe.

Pit-fall.

Her woman.

Ambler.

Her Gentlemanvſher.

Sledge.

A Smith, the conſtable.

Shackles. Keeper of Newgate. 20

SERIEANTS.

The Scene, London.

 [93] Dramatis Personæ 1716, f. G places the women’s names after those of the men.

 [94] 1, 2 Devil 1692, f.

 [95] 4 Fabian Fitzdottrel G

 [96] 5 Mrs. Frances Fitzdottrel G || His wife] om. G

 [97] 9 Eustace Manly G

 [98] 10 Engine 1716, f.

 [99] 12 Thomas Gilthead G

[100] 15 His wife] om. G

[101] 18 Gentleman-usher to lady Tailbush G

[102] 21 Serjeants, officers, servants, underkeepers, &c. G

[103] 22 The] om. 1716, W

[94]

The Prologue.

The Divell is an Aſſe. That is, to day, The name of what you are met for, a new Play. Yet, Grandee’s, would you were not come to grace Our matter, with allowing vs no place. Though you preſume Satan a ſubtill thing, 5 And may haue heard hee’s worne in a thumbe-ring; Doe not on theſe preſumptions, force vs act, In compaſſe of a cheeſe-trencher. This tract Will ne’er admit our vice, becauſe of yours. Anone, who, worſe then you, the fault endures 10 That your ſelues make? when you will thruſt and ſpurne, And knocke vs o’ the elbowes, and bid, turne; As if, when wee had ſpoke, wee muſt be gone, Or, till wee ſpeake, muſt all runne in, to one, Like the young adders, at the old ones mouth? 15 Would wee could ſtand due North; or had no South, If that offend: or were Muſcouy glaſſe, That you might looke our Scenes through as they paſſe. We know not how to affect you. If you’ll come To ſee new Playes, pray you affoord vs roome, 20 And ſhew this, but the ſame face you haue done Your deare delight, the Diuell of Edmunton. Or, if, for want of roome it muſt miſ-carry, ’Twill be but Iuſtice, that your cenſure tarry, Till you giue ſome. And when ſixe times you ha’ ſeen’t, 25 If this Play doe not like, the Diuell is in’t.

[104] The Prologue.] follows the title-page 1716, W

[105] 5 subtle 1692 f.

[106] 10 than 1692, f. passim in this sense. Anon 1692, f.

[107] 12 o’] on G§

[108] 14 till] ’till 1716

[109] 25 ha’] have G§

[95]

THE DIVELL

IS

AN ASSE.

Act. I. Scene. I.

Divell. Pvg. Iniqvity.

Hoh, hoh, hoh, hoh, hoh, hoh, hoh, hoh, &c. To earth? and, why to earth, thou foooliſh Spirit? What wold’ſt thou do on earth?

Pvg. For that, great Chiefe! As time ſhal work. I do but ask my mon’th. Which euery petty pui’nee Diuell has; 5 Within that terme, the Court of Hell will heare Some thing, may gaine a longer grant, perhaps.

Sat. For what? the laming a poore Cow, or two? Entring a Sow, to make her caſt her farrow? Or croſſing of a Mercat-womans Mare, 10 Twixt this, and Totnam? theſe were wont to be Your maine atchieuements, Pug, You haue ſome plot, now, Vpon a tonning of Ale, to ſtale the yeſt, Or keepe the churne ſo, that the buttter come not; Spight o’ the houſewiues cord, or her hot ſpit? 15 Or ſome good Ribibe, about Kentiſh Towne, Or Hogſden, you would hang now, for a witch, Becauſe ſhee will not let you play round Robbin: And you’ll goe ſowre the Citizens Creame ’gainſt Sunday? That ſhe may be accus’d for’t, and condemn’d, 20 By a Middleſex Iury, to the ſatisfaction Of their offended friends, the Londiners wiues Whoſe teeth were ſet on edge with it? Fooliſh feind, Stay i’ your place, know your owne ſtrengths, and put not Beyond the ſpheare of your actiuity. 25 You are too dull a Diuell to be truſted [96]  Forth in thoſe parts, Pug, vpon any affayre That may concerne our name, on earth. It is not Euery ones worke. The ſtate of Hell muſt care Whom it imployes, in point of reputation, 30 Heere about London. You would make, I thinke An Agent, to be ſent, for Lancaſhire, Proper inough; or ſome parts of Northumberland, So yo’ had good inſtructions, Pug. Pvg. O Chiefe! You doe not know, deare Chiefe, what there is in mee. 35 Proue me but for a fortnight, for a weeke, And lend mee but a Vice, to carry with mee, To practice there-with any play-fellow, And, you will ſee, there will come more vpon’t, Then you’ll imagine, pretious Chiefe.

Sat. What Vice? 40 What kind wouldſt th’ haue it of?

Pvg. Why, any Fraud; Or Couetouſneſſe; or Lady Vanity; Or old Iniquity: I’ll call him hither.

Ini. What is he, calls vpon me, and would ſeeme to lack a Vice? Ere his words be halfe ſpoken, I am with him in a trice; 45 Here, there, and euery where, as the Cat is with the mice: True vetus Iniquitas. Lack’ſt thou Cards, friend, or Dice? I will teach thee cheate, Child, to cog, lye, and ſwagger, And euer and anon, to be drawing forth thy dagger: To ſweare by Gogs-nownes, like a lusty Iuuentus, 50 In a cloake to thy heele, and a hat like a pent-houſe. Thy breeches of three fingers, and thy doublet all belly, With a Wench that shall feede thee, with cock-ſtones and gelly.

Pvg. Is it not excellent, Chiefe? how nimble he is!

Ini. Child of hell, this is nothing! I will fetch thee a leape 55 From the top of Pauls-ſteeple, to the Standard in Cheepe: And lead thee a daunce, through the ſtreets without faile, Like a needle of Spaine, with a thred at my tayle. We will ſuruay the Suburbs, and make forth our ſallyes, Downe Petticoate-lane, and vp the Smock-allies, 60 To Shoreditch, Whitechappell, and so to Saint Kathernes. To drinke with the Dutch there, and take forth their patternes: From thence, wee will put in at Cuſtome-houſe key there, And ſee, how the Factors, and Prentizes play there, Falſe with their Maſters; and gueld many a full packe, 65 To ſpend it in pies, at the Dagger, and the Wool-ſacke.

Pvg. Braue, braue, Iniquity! will not this doe, Chiefe?

Ini. Nay, boy, I wil bring thee to the Bawds, and the Royſters, At Belins-gate, feaſting with claret-wine, and oyſters, From thence ſhoot the Bridge, childe, to the Cranes i’ the Vintry, 70 And ſee, there the gimblets, how they make their entry! Or, if thou hadſt rather, to the Strand downe to fall, ’Gainſt the Lawyers come dabled from Weſtminſter-hall [97]  And marke how they cling, with their clyents together, Like Iuie to Oake; so Veluet to Leather: 75 Ha, boy, I would ſhew thee.

Pvg. Rare, rare!

Div. Peace, dotard, And thou more ignorant thing, that ſo admir’ſt. Art thou the ſpirit thou ſeem’ſt? ſo poore? to chooſe This, for a Vice, t’aduance the cauſe of Hell, Now? as Vice ſtands this preſent yeere? Remember, 80 What number it is. Six hundred and ſixteene. Had it but beene fiue hundred, though ſome ſixty Aboue; that’s fifty yeeres agone, and ſix, (When euery great man had his Vice ſtand by him, In his long coat, ſhaking his wooden dagger) 85 I could conſent, that, then this your graue choice Might haue done that with his Lord Chiefe, the which Moſt of his chamber can doe now. But Pug, As the times are, who is it, will receiue you? What company will you goe to? or whom mix with? 90 Where canſt thou carry him? except to Tauernes? To mount vp ona joynt-ſtoole, with a Iewes-trumpe, To put downe Cokeley, and that muſt be to Citizens? He ne’re will be admitted, there, where Vennor comes. Hee may perchance, in taile of a Sheriffes dinner, 95 Skip with a rime o’ the Table, from New-nothing, And take his Almaine-leape into a cuſtard, Shall make my Lad Maioreſſe, and her ſiſters, Laugh all their hoods ouer their shoulders. But, This is not that will doe, they are other things 100 That are receiu’d now vpon earth, for Vices; Stranger, and newer: and chang’d euery houre. They ride ’hem like their horſes off their legges, And here they come to Hell, whole legions of ’hem, Euery weeke tyr’d. Wee, ſtill ſtriue to breed, 105 And reare ’hem vp new ones; but they doe not ſtand, When they come there: they turne ’hem on our hands. And it is fear’d they haue a ſtud o’ their owne Will put downe ours. Both our breed, and trade VVill ſuddenly decay, if we preuent not. 110 Vnleſſe it be a Vice of quality, Or faſhion, now, they take none from vs. Car-men Are got into the yellow ſtarch, and Chimney-ſweepers To their tabacco, and ſtrong-waters, Hum, Meath, and Obarni. VVe muſt therefore ayme 115 At extraordinary ſubtill ones, now, When we doe ſend to keepe vs vp in credit. Not old Iniquities. Get you e’ne backe, Sir, To making of your rope of ſand againe. You are not for the manners, nor the times: [98] 120 They haue their Vices, there, moſt like to Vertues; You cannnot know ’hem, apart, by any difference: They weare the ſame clothes, eate the ſame meate, Sleepe i’ the ſelfe-ſame beds, rid i’ thoſe coaches. Or very like, foure horſes in a coach, 125 As the beſt men and women. Tiſſue gownes, Garters and roſes, foureſcore pound a paire, Embroydred ſtockings, cut-worke ſmocks, and ſhirts, More certaine marks of lechery, now, and pride, Then ere they were of true nobility! 130 But Pug, ſince you doe burne with ſuch deſire To doe the Common-wealth of Hell ſome ſeruice; I am content, aſſuming of a body, You goe to earth, and viſit men, a day. But you muſt take a body ready made, Pug, 135 I can create you none: nor ſhall you forme Your ſelfe an aery one, but become ſubiect To all impreſſion of the fleſh, you take, So farre as humane frailty. So, this morning, There is a handſome Cutpurſe hang’d at Tiborne, 140 Whoſe ſpirit departed, you may enter his body: For clothes imploy your credit, with the Hangman, Or let our tribe of Brokers furniſh you. And, looke, how farre your ſubtilty can worke Thorow thoſe organs, with that body, ſpye 145 Amongſt mankind, (you cannot there want vices, And therefore the leſſe need to carry ’hem wi’ you) But as you make your ſoone at nights relation, And we ſhall find, it merits from the State, Your ſhall haue both truſt from vs, and imployment. 150

Pvg. Most gracious Chiefe!

Div. Onely, thus more I bind you, To ſerue the firſt man that you meete; and him I’le ſhew you, now: Obserue him. Yon’ is hee, He ſhewes Fitz-dottrel to him, comming forth. You ſhall ſee, firſt, after your clothing. Follow him: But once engag’d, there you muſt ſtay and fixe; Not ſhift, vntill the midnights cocke doe crow.

Pvg. Any conditions to be gone.

Div. Away, then. 157

[110] SD. Divell] Devil, 1692 || Satan 1716, W || Divell ...] Enter Satan and Pug. G

[111] 1 &c. om. G

[112] 9 entering G

[113] 10 Market 1641, 1692, 1716 || market W, G

[114] 11 Tottenham G

[115] 15 Housewive’s 1716 || housewife’s W, f.

[116] 23 with’t W, G

[117] 24 i’] in G§ || strength 1692, f.

[118] 30 employs W, G

[119] 33 enough 1692, f.

[120] 34 you ’ad 1716 you had W, G

[121] 38 there with 1692, f.

[122] 41 th’] thou G Why any, Fraud, 1716 Why any: Fraud, W, G

[123] 43 I’ll ...] Sat. I’ll ... W, G] Enter Iniquity. G

[124] 48 cheate] to cheat W [to] cheat G

[125] 57 Dance 1716 || dance 1641. W, G

[126] 69 Billings-gate 1692 Billingsgate 1716 Billingsgate W Billinsgate G

[127] 76 thee.] thee—G || Div.] Dev. 1692 || Sat. 1716, f.

[128] 79 t’] to G

[129] 84 5 () om. G§

[130] 98 Lady 1692, 1716 lady W, G

[131] 101 Vices 1641, 1692, 1716, G vices W

[132] 103 ’hem] ’em 1692, 1716, W passim them G§

[133] 106 ’hem om. G stand,] stand; G

[134] 107 there:] there W there, G

[135] 116 subtle 1692, f.

[136] 120 manner G

[137] 128 Embrothered 1641 Embroider’d 1716, f. stockins 1641

[138] 130 [Exit Iniq. G

[139] 137 airy 1692, f. passim

[140] 139 human W, G

[141] 140 Tyburn 1692, f. passim

[142] 142 employ W, G

[143] 146, 7 () ret. G

[144] 147 wi’] with G§

[145] 150 employment W, G

[146] 151, 157 Div.] Dev. 1692 Sat. 1716, f.

[147] 153 now] new 1716

[148] 153 SN.] Shews him Fitzdottrel coming out of his house at a distance. G

[149] 157 Exeunt severally. G

Act. I. Scene. II.

Fitz-Dottrell.

I, they doe, now, name Bretnor, as before, [97]   They talk’d of Greſham, and of Doctor Fore-man, Francklin, and Fiske, and Sauory (he was in too) But there’s not one of theſe, that euer could Yet ſhew a man the Diuell, in true ſort. 5 They haue their chriſtalls, I doe know, and rings, And virgin parchment, and their dead-mens ſculls Their rauens wings, their lights, and pentacles, With characters; I ha’ ſeene all theſe. But— Would I might ſee the Diuell. I would giue 10 A hundred o’ theſe pictures, to ſee him Once out of picture. May I proue a cuckold, (And that’s the one maine mortall thing I feare) If I beginne not, now, to thinke, the Painters Haue onely made him. ’Slight, he would be ſeene, 15 One time or other elſe. He would not let An ancient gentleman, of a good houſe, As moſt are now in England, the Fitz-Dottrel’s Runne wilde, and call vpon him thus in vaine, As I ha’ done this twelue mone’th. If he be not, 20 At all, why, are there Coniurers? If they be not, Why, are there lawes againſt ’hem? The beſt artiſts Of Cambridge, Oxford, Middlesex, and London, Essex, and Kent, I haue had in pay to raiſe him, Theſe fifty weekes, and yet h’appeares not. ’Sdeath, 25 I ſhall ſuſpect, they, can make circles onely Shortly, and know but his hard names. They doe ſay, H’will meet a man (of himſelfe) that has a mind to him. If hee would ſo, I haue a minde and a halfe for him: He ſhould not be long abſent. Pray thee, come 30 I long for thee. An’ I were with child by him, And my wife too; I could not more. Come, yet, He expreſſes a longing to ſee the Diuell Good Beelezebub. Were hee a kinde diuell, And had humanity in him, hee would come, but To ſaue ones longing. I ſhould vſe him well, 35 I ſweare, and with reſpect (would he would try mee) Not, as the Conjurers doe, when they ha’ rais’d him. Get him in bonds, and ſend him poſt, on errands. A thouſand miles, it is prepoſterous, that; And I beleeue, is the true cauſe he comes not. [100]  40 And hee has reaſon. Who would be engag’d, That might liue freely, as he may doe? I ſweare, They are wrong all. The burn’t child dreads the fire. They doe not know to entertaine the Diuell. I would ſo welcome him, obſerue his diet, 45 Get him his chamber hung with arras, two of ’hem, I’ my own houſe; lend him my wiues wrought pillowes: And as I am an honeſt man, I thinke, If he had a minde to her, too; I should grant him, To make our friend-ſhip perfect. So I would not 50 To euery man. If hee but heare me, now? And ſhould come to mee in a braue young ſhape, And take me at my word? ha! Who is this?

[150] SD. Act. I. om. 1716, f. (as regularly, after Sc. I. of each act.) Act ...] Scene II. The street before Fitzdottrel’s House. Enter Fitzdottrel. G

[151] 12 picture, 1641

[152] 17 a] as W [as] G || good] good a G

[153] 21, 22 comma om. after ‘why’ and ‘Why’ 1692 f.

[154] 25 h’] he G

[155] 26 circle 1641

[156] 30 Prithee G

[157] 31 An’] an G

[158] 32 SN. expresseth 1692, 1716, W || SN. om. G

Act. I. Scene. IIJ.

Pvg. Fitz-dottrell.

Sir, your good pardon, that I thus preſume Vpon your priuacy. I am borne a Gentleman, A younger brother; but, in ſome diſgrace, Now, with my friends: and want ſome little meanes, To keepe me vpright, while things be reconcil’d. 5 Pleaſe you, to let my ſeruice be of vſe to you, Sir.

Fit. Seruice? ’fore hell, my heart was at my mouth, Till I had view’d his ſhooes well: for, thoſe roſes Were bigge inough to hide a clouen foote. Hee lookes and ſuruay’s his feet: ouer and ouer. No, friend, my number’s full. I haue one ſeruant, 10 Who is my all, indeed; and, from the broome Vnto the bruſh: for, iuſt so farre, I truſt him. He is my Ward-robe man, my Cater, Cooke, Butler, and Steward; lookes vnto my horſe: And helpes to watch my wife. H’has all the places, 15 That I can thinke on, from the garret downward, E’en to the manger, and the curry-combe.

Pvg. Sir, I ſhall put your worſhip to no charge, More then my meate, and that but very little, I’le ſerue you for your loue.

Fit. Ha? without wages? 20 I’le harken o’ that eare, were I at leaſure. But now, I’m buſie. ’Pr’y the, friend forbeare mee, And’ thou hadſt beene a Diuell, I ſhould ſay [101]   Somewhat more to thee. Thou doſt hinder, now, My meditations.

Pvg. Sir, I am a Diuell. 25

Fit. How!

Pvg. A true Diuell, S^r.

Fit. Nay, now, you ly: Vnder your fauour, friend, for, I’ll not quarrell. I look’d o’ your feet, afore, you cannot coozen mee, Your ſhoo’s not clouen, Sir, you are whole hoof’d. He viewes his feete againe. Pvg. Sir, that’s a popular error, deceiues many: 30 But I am that, I tell you.

Fit. What’s your name?

Pvg. My name is Diuell, S^r.

Fit. Sai’ſt thou true.

Pvg. in-deed, S^r.

Fit. ’Slid! there’s ſome omen i’ this! what countryman?

Pvg. Of Derby-ſhire, S^r. about the Peake.

Fit. That Hole Belong’d to your Anceſtors?

Pvg. Yes, Diuells arſe, S^r. 35

Fit. I’ll entertaine him for the name ſake. Ha? And turne away my tother man? and ſaue Foure pound a yeere by that? there’s lucke, and thrift too! The very Diuell may come, heereafter, as well. Friend, I receiue you: but (withall) I acquaint you, 40 Aforehand, if yo’ offend mee, I muſt beat you. It is a kinde of exerciſe, I vſe. And cannot be without.

Pvg. Yes, if I doe not Offend, you can, ſure.

Fit. Faith, Diuell, very hardly: I’ll call you by your ſurname, ’cauſe I loue it. 45

[159] 46 ’hem] ’em G

[160] 47 Wife’s 1716 wife’s W, G passim

[161] 53 word?—Enter Pug handsomely shaped and apparelled. G

[162] SD. on. G

[163] 9 SN. on. G || Aside. G

[164] 13 m’acater W

[165] 15 He has W, G

[166] 17 Even G

[167] 21 I’d W, G

[168] 22 I am G ’Prythe 1692 ’Prithee 1716, W Prithee G

[169] 23 An’ 1716, W An G || hadſt] hast 1692, 1716

[170] 26 Sir 1641. f. passim

[171] 28 cozen 1692, f. passim

[172] 29 SN. om. G

[173] 31 that, I] that I 1692, f.

[174] 37 t’other 1692, f.

[175] 39 [Aside. G

[176] 41 you W, G

Act. I. Scene. IIII.

Ingine. Wittipol. Manly.
Fitzdottrell. Pvg.

Yonder hee walkes, Sir, I’ll goe lift him for you.

Wit. To him, good Ingine, raiſe him vp by degrees, Gently, and hold him there too, you can doe it. Shew your ſelfe now, a Mathematicall broker.

Ing. I’ll warrant you for halfe a piece.

Wit. ’Tis done, S^r. 5

Man. Is’t poſſible there ſhould be ſuch a man?

Wit. You ſhall be your owne witneſſe, I’ll not labour To tempt you paſt your faith.

Man. And is his wife So very handſome, ſay you?

Wit. I ha’ not ſeene her, Since I came home from trauell: and they ſay, 10 Shee is not alter’d. Then, before I went, I ſaw her once; but ſo, as ſhee hath ſtuck Still i’ my view, no obiect hath remou’d her.

Man. ’Tis a faire gueſt, Friend, beauty: and once lodg’d [102]   Deepe in the eyes, ſhee hardly leaues the Inne. 15 How do’s he keepe her?

Wit. Very braue. Howeuer, Himselfe be fordide, hee is ſenſuall that way. In euery dreſſing, hee do’s ſtudy her.

Man. And furniſh forth himselfe ſo from the Brokers?

Wit. Yes, that’s a hyr’d ſuite, hee now has one, 20 To ſee the Diuell is an Aſſe, to day, in: (This Ingine gets three or foure pound a weeke by him) He dares not miſſe a new Play, or a Feaſt, What rate ſoeuer clothes be at; and thinkes Himſelfe ſtill new, in other mens old.

Man. But ſtay, 25 Do’s he loue meat ſo?

Wit. Faith he do’s not hate it. But that’s not it. His belly and his palate Would be compounded with for reaſon. Mary, A wit he has, of that ſtrange credit with him, ’Gainſt all mankinde; as it doth make him doe 30 Iuſt what it liſt: it rauiſhes him forth, Whither it pleaſe, to any aſſembly’or place, And would conclude him ruin’d, ſhould hee ſcape One publike meeting, out of the beliefe He has of his owne great, and Catholike ſtrengths, 35 In arguing, and diſcourſe. It takes, I ſee: H’has got the cloak vpon him.

Ingine hath won Fitzdottrel, to ’ſay on the cloake.

Fit. A faire garment, By my faith, Ingine!

Ing. It was neuer made, Sir, For three ſcore pound, I aſſure you: ’Twill yeeld thirty. The pluſh, Sir, coſt three pound, ten ſhillings a yard! 40 And then the lace, and veluet.

Fit. I ſhall, Ingine, Be look’d at, pretitly, in it! Art thou ſure The Play is play’d to day?

Ing. O here’s the bill, S^r. Hee giues him the Play-bill. I’, had forgot to gi’t you.

Fit. Ha? the Diuell! I will not loſe you, Sirah! But, Ingine, thinke you, 45 The Gallant is ſo furious in his folly? So mad vpon the matter, that hee’ll part With’s cloake vpo’ theſe termes?

Ing. Truſt not your Ingine, Breake me to pieces elſe, as you would doe A rotten Crane, or an old ruſty Iacke, 50 That has not one true wheele in him. Doe but talke with him.

Fit. I ſhall doe that, to ſatisfie you, Ingine, And my ſelfe too. With your leaue, Gentlemen. Hee turnes to Wittipol. Which of you is it, is ſo meere Idolater To my wiues beauty, and ſo very prodigall 55 Vnto my patience, that, for the ſhort parlee? Of one ſwift houres quarter, with my wife, He will depart with (let mee ſee) this cloake here The price of folly? Sir, are you the man?

Wit. I am that vent’rer, Sir.

Fit. Good time! your name 60 Is Witty-pol?

Wit. The ſame, S^r.

Fit. And ’tis told me, [103]   Yo’ haue trauell’d lately?

Wit. That I haue, S^r.

Fit. Truly, Your trauells may haue alter’d your complexion; But ſure, your wit ſtood ſtill.

Wit. It may well be, Sir. All heads ha’ not like growth.

Fit. The good mans grauity, 65 That left you land, your father, neuer taught you Theſe pleaſant matches?

Wit. No, nor can his mirth, With whom I make ’hem, put me off.

Fit. You are Reſolu’d then?

Wit. Yes, S^r.

Fit. Beauty is the Saint, You’ll ſacrifice your ſelfe, into the ſhirt too? 70

Wit. So I may ſtill cloth, and keepe warme your wiſdome?

Fit. You lade me S^r!

Wit. I know what you wil beare, S^r.

Fit. Well, to the point. ’Tis only, Sir, you ſay, To ſpeake vnto my wife?

Wit. Only, to ſpeake to her.

Fit. And in my preſence?

Wit. In your very preſence. 75

Fit. And in my hearing?

Wit. In your hearing: ſo, You interrupt vs not.

Fit. For the ſhort ſpace You doe demand, the fourth part of an houre, I thinke I ſhall, with ſome conuenient ſtudy, And this good helpe to boot, bring my ſelfe to’t. 80 Hee ſhrugs himſelfe vp in the cloake. Wit. I aske no more.

Fit. Pleaſe you, walk to’ard my houſe, Speake what you liſt; that time is yours: My right I haue departed with. But, not beyond, A minute, or a ſecond, looke for. Length, And drawing out, ma’aduance much, to theſe matches. 85 And I except all kiſſing. Kiſſes are Silent petitions ſtill with willing Louers.

Wit. Louers? How falls that o’ your phantſie?

Fit. Sir. I doe know ſomewhat. I forbid all lip-worke.

Wit. I am not eager at forbidden dainties. 90 Who couets vnfit things, denies him ſelfe.

Fit. You ſay well, Sir, ’Twas prettily ſaid, that ſame, He do’s, indeed. I’ll haue no touches, therefore, Nor takings by the armes, nor tender circles Caſt ’bout the waſt, but all be done at diſtance. 95 Loue is brought vp with thoſe ſoft migniard handlings; His pulſe lies in his palme: and I defend All melting ioynts, and fingers, (that’s my bargaine) I doe defend ’hem, any thing like action. But talke, Sir, what you will. Vſe all the Tropes 100 And Schemes, that Prince Quintilian can afford you: And much good do your Rhetoriques heart. You are welcome, Sir. Ingine, God b’w’you.

Wit. Sir, I muſt condition To haue this Gentleman by, a witneſſe.

Fit. Well, I am content, ſo he be ſilent.

Man. Yes, S r. 105

Fit. Come Diuell, I’ll make you roome, ſtreight. But I’ll ſhew you Firſt, to your Miſtreſſe, who’s no common one, You muſt conceiue, that brings this game to ſee her. [104]   I hope thou’ſt brought me good lucke.

Pvg. I ſhall do’t. Sir.

[177] SD. Act. ...] Enter, behind, Engine, with a cloke on his arm, Wittipol, and Manly. G

[178] 5 [Engine goes to Fitzdottrel and takes him aside. G

[179] 19 Broker 1692, 1716 broker W

[180] 20 on 1641, f.

[181] 28 Marry 1692, f.

[182] 32 whether 1716

[183] 36 SN. ’say] say 1641, f. SN. om. G

[184] 37 Fitz. [after saying on the cloke.] G

[185] 42 prettily 1641. f.

[186] 44 I’, had] I’d 1716 I had W, G gi’t] give it G

[187] 48 upon 1716, f.

[188] 50 Cain 1692 Cane 1716

[189] 51 with him] with W

[190] 53 too. [comes forward.] G SN. om. G

[191] 60 venturer G

[192] 62 You G§

[193] 70 comma om. after ‘selfe’ 1692, f. to W, G

[194] 80 SN. Hee om. G

[195] 82 is om. 1641

[196] 85 may W, G

[197] 88 phant’sie W phantasy G o’ret. G

[198] 99 comma om. W, G

[199] 102 [Opens the door of his house. G

[200] 103 b’w’] be wi’ G

[201] 108 this om. 1641

[202] 109 [They all enter the house. G

Act. I. Scene. V.

VVittipol. Manly.

Ingine, you hope o’ your halfe piece? ’Tis there, Sir. Be gone. Friend Manly, who’s within here? fixed? Wittipol knocks his friend o’ the breſt. Man. I am directly in a fit of wonder What’ll be the iſſue of this conference!

Wit. For that, ne’r vex your ſelfe, till the euent. 5 How like yo’ him?

Man. I would faine ſee more of him.

Wit. What thinke you of this?

Man. I am paſt degrees of thinking. Old Africk, and the new America, With all their fruite of Monſters cannot ſhew So iuſt a prodigie.

Wit. Could you haue beleeu’d, 10 Without your ſight, a minde ſo ſordide inward, Should be ſo ſpecious, and layd forth abroad, To all the ſhew, that euer ſhop, or ware was?

Man. I beleeue any thing now, though I confeſſe His Vices are the moſt extremities 15 I euer knew in nature. But, why loues hee The Diuell ſo?

Wit. O S^r! for hidden treaſure, Hee hopes to finde: and has propos’d himſelfe So infinite a Maſſe, as to recouer, He cares not what he parts with, of the preſent, 20 To his men of Art, who are the race, may coyne him. Promiſe gold-mountaines, and the couetous Are ſtill moſt prodigall.

Man. But ha’ you faith, That he will hold his bargaine?

Wit. O deare, Sir! He will not off on’t. Feare him not. I know him. 25 One baſeneſſe ſtill accompanies another. See! he is heere already, and his wife too.

Man. A wondrous handſome creature, as I liue!

[203] SD. Act. ...] om. Scene III. A Room in Fitzdottrel’s House. Enter Wittipol, Manly, and Engine. G

[204] 2 SN.] gone. [Exit Engine.] || fixed! [knocks him on the breast. G

[205] 4 ’ll] will G

Act. I. Scene. VI. [105]

Fitz-dottrell. Miſtreſſe Fitz-dottrell.
Wittipol.  Manly.

Come wife, this is the Gentleman. Nay, bluſh not.

M^rs. Fi. Why, what do you meane Sir? ha’ you your reaſon?

Fit. Wife, I do not know, that I haue lent it forth To any one; at leaſt, without a pawne, wife: Or that I’haue eat or drunke the thing, of late, 5 That ſhould corrupt it. Wherefore gentle wife, Obey, it is thy vertue: hold no acts Of diſputation.

M^rs. Fi. Are you not enough The talke, of feaſts, and meetingy, but you’ll ſtill Make argument for freſh?

Fit. Why, carefull wedlocke, 10 If I haue haue a longing to haue one tale more Goe of mee, what is that to thee, deare heart? Why ſhouldſt thou enuy my delight? or croſſe it? By being ſolicitous, when it not concernes thee?

M^rs. Fi. Yes, I haue ſhare in this. The ſcorne will fall 15 As bittterly on me, where both are laught at.

Fit. Laught at, ſweet bird? is that the ſcruple? Come, come, Thou art a Niaiſe. A Niaiſe is a young Hawke, tane crying out of the neſt. Which of your great houſes, (I will not meane at home, here, but abroad) Your families in France, wife, ſend not forth 20 Something, within the ſeuen yeere, may be laught at? I doe not ſay ſeuen moneths, nor ſeuen weekes, Nor ſeuen daies, nor houres: but ſeuen yeere wife. I giue ’hem time. Once, within ſeuen yeere, I thinke they may doe ſomething may be laught at. 25 In France, I keepe me there, ſtill. Wherefore, wife, Let them that liſt, laugh ſtill, rather then weepe For me; Heere is a cloake coſt fifty pound, wife, Which I can ſell for thirty, when I ha’ ſeene All London in’t, and London has ſeene mee. 30 To day, I goe to the Black-fryers Play-houſe, Sit ithe view, ſalute all my acquaintance, Riſe vp betweene the Acts, let fall my cloake, Publiſh a handſome man, and a rich ſuite (As that’s a ſpeciall end, why we goe thither, 35 All that pretend, to ſtand for’t o’ the Stage) The Ladies aske who’s that? (For, they doe come [106]   To ſee vs, Loue, as wee doe to ſee them) Now, I ſhall loſe all this, for the falſe feare Of being laught at? Yes, wuſſe. Let ’hem laugh, wife, 40 Let me haue ſuch another cloake to morrow. And let ’hem laugh againe, wife, and againe, And then grow fat with laughing, and then fatter, All my young Gallants, let ’hem bring their friends too: Shall I forbid ’hem? No, let heauen forbid ’hem: 45 Or wit, if’t haue any charge on ’hem. Come, thy eare, wife, Is all, I’ll borrow of thee. Set your watch, Sir, Thou, onely art to heare, not ſpeake a word, Doue, To ought he ſayes. That I doe gi’ you in precept, No leſſe then councell, on your wiue-hood, wife, 50 Not though he flatter you, or make court, or Loue (As you muſt looke for theſe) or ſay, he raile; What ere his arts be, wife, I will haue thee Delude ’hem with a trick, thy obſtinate ſilence; I know aduantages; and I loue to hit 55 Theſe pragmaticke young men, at their owne weapons. Is your watch ready? Here my ſaile beares, for you: Tack toward him, ſweet Pinnace, where’s your watch?

He diſpoſes his wife to his place, and ſets his watch.

Wit. I’le ſet it. Sir, with yours.

M^rs. Fi. I muſt obey.

Man. Her modeſty ſeemes to ſuffer with her beauty, 60 And ſo, as if his folly were away, It were worth pitty.

Fit. Now, th’are right, beginne, Sir. But firſt, let me repeat the contract, briefely. Hee repeats his contract againe. I am, Sir, to inioy this cloake, I ſtand in, Freely, and as your gift; vpon condition 65 You may as freely, ſpeake here to my ſpouſe, Your quarter of an houre alwaies keeping The meaſur’d diſtance of your yard, or more, From my ſaid Spouſe: and in my ſight and hearing. This is your couenant?

Wit. Yes, but you’ll allow 70 For this time ſpent, now?

Fit. Set ’hem ſo much backe.

Wit. I thinke, I ſhall not need it.

Fit. Well, begin, Sir, There is your bound, Sir. Not beyond that ruſh.

Wit. If you interrupt me, Sir, I ſhall diſcloake you. Wittipol beginnes. The time I haue purchaſt, Lady, is but ſhort; 75 And, therefore, if I imploy it thriftily, I hope I ſtand the neerer to my pardon. I am not here, to tell you, you are faire, Or louely, or how well you dreſſe you, Lady, I’ll ſaue my ſelfe that eloquence of your glaſſe, 80 Which can ſpeake these things better to you then I. And ’tis a knowledge, wherein fooles may be As wiſe as a Count Parliament. Nor come I, With any preiudice, or doubt, that you [107]   Should, to the notice of your owne worth, neede 85 Leaſt reuelation. Shee’s a ſimple woman, Know’s not her good: (who euer knowes her ill) And at all caracts. That you are the wife, To ſo much blaſted fleſh, as ſcarce hath ſoule, In ſtead of ſalt, to keepe it ſweete; I thinke, 90 Will aske no witneſſes, to proue. The cold Sheetes that you lie in, with the watching candle, That ſees, how dull to any thaw of beauty, Pieces, and quarters, halfe, and whole nights, ſometimes, The Diuell-giuen Elfine Squire, your husband, 95 Doth leaue you, quitting heere his proper circle, For a much-worſe i’ the walks of Lincolnes Inne, Vnder the Elmes, t’expect the feind in vaine, there Will confeſſe for you.

Fit. I did looke for this geere.

Wit. And what a daughter of darkneſſe, he do’s make you, 100 Lock’d vp from all ſociety, or object; Your eye not let to looke vpon a face, Vnder a Conjurers (or ſome mould for one, Hollow, and leane like his) but, by great meanes, As I now make; your owne too ſenſible ſufferings, 105 Without the extraordinary aydes, Of ſpells, or ſpirits, may aſſure you, Lady. For my part, I proteſt ’gainſt all ſuch practice, I worke by no falſe arts, medicines, or charmes To be said forward and backward.

Fit. No, I except: 110

Wit. Sir I ſhall ease you.

He offers to diſcloake him.

Fit. Mum.

Wit. Nor haue I ends, Lady, Vpon you, more then this: to tell you how Loue Beauties good Angell, he that waits vpon her At all occaſions, and no leſſe then Fortune, Helps th’ aduenturous, in mee makes that proffer, 115 Which neuer faire one was ſo fond, to loſe; Who could but reach a hand forth to her freedome: On the firſt ſight, I lou’d you: ſince which time, Though I haue trauell’d, I haue beene in trauell More for this second blessing of your eyes 120 Which now I’haue purchas’d, then for all aymes elſe. Thinke of it, Lady, be your minde as actiue, As is your beauty: view your object well. Examine both my faſhion, and my yeeres; Things, that are like, are ſoone familiar: 125 And Nature ioyes, ſtill in equality. Let not the ſigne o’ the husband fright you, Lady. But ere your ſpring be gone, inioy it. Flowers, Though faire, are oft but of one morning. Thinke, All beauty doth not laſt vntill the autumne. 130 You grow old, while I tell you this. And ſuch, [108]   As cannot vſe the preſent, are not wiſe. If Loue and Fortune will take care of vs, Why ſhould our will be wanting? This is all. What doe you anſwer, Lady?

Shee stands mute.

Fit. Now, the sport comes. 135 Let him ſtill waite, waite, waite: while the watch goes, And the time runs. Wife!

Wit. How! not any word? Nay, then, I taſte a tricke in’t. Worthy Lady, I cannot be ſo falſe to mine owne thoughts Of your preſumed goodneſſe, to conceiue 140 This, as your rudeneſſe, which I ſee’s impos’d. Yet, ſince your cautelous Iaylor, here ſtands by you, And yo’ are deni’d the liberty o’ the houſe, Let me take warrant, Lady, from your ſilence, (Which euer is interpreted conſent) 145 To make your anſwer for you: which ſhall be To as good purpoſe, as I can imagine, And what I thinke you’ld ſpeake.

Fit. No, no, no, no.

Wit. I ſhall reſume, S^r.

Man. Sir, what doe you meane?

He ſets M^r. Manly, his friend, in her place.

Wit. One interruption more, Sir, and you goe 150 Into your hoſe and doublet, nothing ſaues you. And therefore harken. This is for your wife.

Man. You muſt play faire, S^r.

Wit. Stand for mee, good friend. And ſpeaks for her. Troth, Sir, tis more then true, that you haue vttred Of my vnequall, and ſo ſordide match heere, 155 With all the circumſtances of my bondage. I haue a husband, and a two-legg’d one, But ſuch a moon-ling, as no wit of man Or roſes can redeeme from being an Aſſe. H’is growne too much, the ſtory of mens mouthes, 160 To ſcape his lading: ſhould I make’t my ſtudy, And lay all wayes, yea, call mankind to helpe, To take his burden off, why, this one act Of his, to let his wife out to be courted, And, at a price, proclaimes his aſinine nature 165 So lowd, as I am weary of my title to him. But Sir, you ſeeme a Gentleman of vertue, No leſſe then blood; and one that euery way Lookes as he were of too good quality, To intrap a credulous woman, or betray her: 170 Since you haue payd thus deare, Sir, for a viſit, And made ſuch venter, on your wit, and charge Meerely to ſee mee, or at moſt to ſpeake to mee, I were too ſtupid; or (what’s worſe) ingrate Not to returne your venter. Thinke, but how, 175 I may with ſafety doe it; I ſhall truſt My loue and honour to you, and preſume; You’ll euer huſband both, againſt this huſband; [109]   Who, if we chance to change his liberall eares, To other enſignes, and with labour make 180 A new beaſt of him, as hee ſhall deſerue, Cannot complaine, hee is vnkindly dealth with. This day hee is to goe to a new play, Sir. From whence no feare, no, nor authority, Scarcely the Kings command, Sir, will reſtraine him, 185 Now you haue fitted him with a Stage-garment, For the meere names ſake, were there nothing elſe: And many more ſuch iourneyes, hee will make. Which, if they now, or, any time heereafter, Offer vs opportunity, you heare, Sir, 190 Who’ll be as glad, and forward to imbrace, Meete, and enioy it chearefully as you. I humbly thanke you, Lady.

Hee ſhifts to his owne place againe

Fit. Keepe your ground Sir.

Wit. Will you be lightned?

Fit. Mum.

Wit. And but I am, By the ſad contract, thus to take my leaue of you 195 At this ſo enuious distance, I had taught Our lips ere this, to ſeale the happy mixture Made of our ſoules. But we muſt both, now, yeeld To the neceſſity. Doe not thinke yet, Lady, But I can kiſſe, and touch, and laugh, and whiſper, 200 And doe those crowning court-ſhips too, for which, Day, and the publike haue allow’d no name But, now, my bargaine binds me. ’Twere rude iniury, T’importune more, or vrge a noble nature, To what of it’s owne bounty it is prone to: 205 Elſe, I ſhould ſpeake—But, Lady, I loue ſo well, As I will hope, you’ll doe ſo to. I haue done, Sir.

Fit. Well, then, I ha’ won?

Wit. Sir, And I may win, too.

Fit. O yes! no doubt on’t. I’ll take carefull order, That ſhee ſhall hang forth enſignes at the window, 210 To tell you when I am abſent. Or I’ll keepe Three or foure foote-men, ready ſtill of purpoſe, To runne and fetch you, at her longings, Sir. I’ll goe beſpeake me ſtraight a guilt caroch, For her and you to take the ayre in. Yes, 215 Into Hide-parke, and thence into Black-Fryers, Viſit the painters, where you may ſee pictures, And note the propereſt limbs, and how to make ’hem. Or what doe you ſay vnto a middling Goſſip To bring you aye together, at her lodging? 220 Vnder pretext of teaching o’ my wife Some rare receit of drawing almond milke? ha? It shall be a part of my care. Good Sir, God b’w’you. I ha’ kept the contract, and the cloake is mine.

Wit. Why, much good do’t you S^r; it may fall out, [110] 225 That you ha’ bought it deare, though I ha’ not ſold it.

Fit. A pretty riddle! Fare you well, good Sir. Wife, your face this way, looke on me: and thinke Yo’ haue had a wicked dreame, wife, and forget it.

Hee turnes his wife about.

Man. This is the ſtrangeſt motion I ere ſaw. 230

Fit. Now, wife, ſits this faire cloake the worſe vpon me, For my great ſufferings, or your little patience? ha? They laugh, you thinke?

M^rs. Fi. Why S^r. and you might ſee’t. What thought, they haue of you, may be ſoone collected By the young Genlemans ſpeache.

Fit. Youug Gentleman? 235 Death! you are in loue with him, are you? could he not Be nam’d the Gentleman, without the young? Vp to your Cabbin againe.

M^rs. Fi. My cage, yo’ were beſt To call it?

Fit. Yes, ſing there. You’ld faine be making Blanck Manger with him at your mothers! I know you. 240 Goe get you vp. How now! what ſay you, Diuell?

[206] SD. om. Enter Fitzdottrell, with Mrs. Frances his wife. G

[207] 9 Meetings 1692, 1716 meetings 1641, W, G

[208] 11 I haue] I’ve W haue a] a 1641. f.

[209] 18 SN. om. G

[210] 19 () ret. G

[211] 32 i’ the 1641, 1692, 1716, W in the G

[212] 44 ’hem] ’em G

[213] 46 ’t] it G || ’hem] ’em G

[214] 49 gi’] give G

[215] 51 though 1641, f.

[216] 52 () om. G

[217] 58 SN.] He disposes his wife to her place. G

[218] 59 [Aside. G

[219] 63 th’art 1641, 1692, 1716 they are W, G SN. om. G

[220] 64 enjoy 1692, f.

[221] 74 SN. om. G

[222] 76 employ W, G

[223] 83 came W

[224] 88 characts 1692 Characts 1716

[225] 99 jeer W, G

[226] 115 adventrous 1692, 1716 advent’rous W || th’] the G

[227] 117 forth] out 1641

[228] 121 I’ haue] I have 1692 I’ve 1716, f.

[229] 127 o’] of G

[230] 134, 5 misplaced t adjusted 1692. f.

[231] 135 SN. om. G

[232] 139 my G

[233] 143 you’re 1716, W you are G

[234] 149, 153 SN. [Sets Manly in his place, and speaks for the lady. (after ‘friend.’ 153) G

[235] 154 utt’red 1692 utter’d 1716, f.

[236] 160 He’s 1716, f.

[237] 161 T’ escape W To ’scape 1716

[238] 172, 5 venture 1692, f.

[239] 182 dealt 1692, f.

[240] 187 nothing] no things 1692, 1716

[241] 191 embrace 1692, f.

[242] 193 SN. om. 1641, 1692, 1716 || Hee om. G

[243] 194 lighten’d 1716, f.

[244] 195 sad] said W, G

[245] 211 I am] I’m W

[246] 223 be wi’ G

[247] 224 is mine] is mine owne 1641 is mine own 1692 ’s mine own 1716, W, G

[248] 226 I ha’] I’ve G [Exit. G

[249] 229 Ya’ have 1692 You’ve 1716 You W, G SN. om. G

[250] 230 [Exit. G

[251] 235 Youug] Young 1641, f. || Gentlmans 1641 Gentleman’s 1692, 1716 gentleman’s W, G

[252] 240 him] it 1641

[253] 241 up.—[Exit Mrs. Fitz. Enter Pug. G

Act. I. Scene. VII.

Pvg. Fitzdottrel. Ingine.

Heere is one Ingine, Sir, deſires to ſpeake with you.

Fit. I thought he brought ſome newes, of a broker! Well, Let him come in, good Diuell: fetch him elſe. O, my fine Ingine! what’s th’affaire? more cheats?

Ing. No Sir, the Wit, the Braine, the great Proiector, 5 I told you of, is newly come to towne.

Fit. Where, Ingine?

Ing. I ha’ brought him (H’is without) Ere hee pull’d off his boots, Sir, but ſo follow’d, For buſineſſes:

Fit. But what is a Proiector? I would conceiue.

Ing. Why, one Sir, that proiects 10 Wayes to enrich men, or to make ’hem great, By ſuites, by marriages, by vndertakings: According as he ſees they humour it.

Fit. Can hee not coniure at all?

Ing. I thinke he can, Sir. (To tell you true) but, you doe know, of late, 15 The State hath tane ſuch note of ’hem, and compell’d ’hem, To enter ſuch great bonds, they dare not practice.

Fit. ’Tis true, and I lie fallow for’t, the while!

Ing. O, Sir! you’ll grow the richer for the reſt.

Fit. I hope I ſhall: but Ingine, you doe talke 20 Somewhat too much, o’ my courſes. My Cloake-cuſtomer Could tell mee ſtrange particulars.

Ing. By my meanes? [111]

Fit. How ſhould he haue ’hem elſe?

Ing. You do not know, S^r, What he has: and by what arts! A monei’d man, Sir, And is as great with your Almanack-Men, as you are! 25

Fit. That Gallant?

Ing. You make the other wait too long, here: And hee is extreme punctuall.

Fit. Is he a gallant?

Ing. Sir, you ſhall ſee: He’is in his riding ſuit, As hee comes now from Court. But heere him ſpeake: Miniſter matter to him, and then tell mee. 30

[254] SD. om. G

[255] 3 Exit Pug. Re-enter Engine. G

[256] 4 th’] the G§

[257] 7 H’is] he’s 1716, f. () ret. G

[258] 9 businesse 1641

[259] 12 undertaking 1641

[260] 16 ’hem] ’em G

[261] 21 o’ ret. G

[262] 27 a om. 1692, 1716, W

[263] 28 He’is] He’s 1716 he’s W, G

[264] 30 [Exeunt. G

Act. IJ. Scene. I.

Meer-craft. Fitz-dottrel. Ingine.
Traines. Pvg.

Sir, money’s a whore, a bawd, a drudge; Fit to runne out on errands: Let her goe. Via pecunia! when ſhe’s runne and gone, And fled and dead; then will I fetch her, againe, With Aqua-vitæ, out of an old Hogs-head! 5 While there are lees of wine, or dregs of beere, I’le neuer want her! Coyne her out of cobwebs, Duſt, but I’ll haue her! Raiſe wooll vpon egge-ſhells, Sir, and make graſe grow out o’ marro-bones. To make her come. (Commend mee to your Miſtreſſe, 10 To a waiter. Say, let the thouſand pound but be had ready, And it is done) I would but ſee the creature (Of fleſh, and blood) the man, the prince, indeed, That could imploy ſo many millions As I would help him to.

Fit. How, talks he? millions? 15

Mer. (I’ll giue you an account of this to morrow.) Yes, I will talke no leſſe, and doe it too; To another. If they were Myriades: and without the Diuell, By direct meanes, it ſhall be good in law.

Ing. Sir. [112]  

Mer. Tell M^r. Wood-cock, I’ll not faile to meet him 20 To a third. Vpon th’ Exchange at night. Pray him to haue The writings there, and wee’ll diſpatch it. Sir, He turnes to Fitz-dottrel. You are a Gentleman of a good preſence, A handſome man (I haue conſidered you) As a fit ſtocke to graft honours vpon: 25 I haue a proiect to make you a Duke, now. That you muſt be one, within ſo many moneths, As I ſet downe, out of true reaſon of ſtate, You ſha’ not auoyd it. But you muſt harken, then.

Ing. Harken? why S^r, do you doubt his eares? Alas! 30 You doe not know Maſter Fitz-dottrel.

Fit. He do’s not know me indeed. I thank you, Ingine, For rectifying him.

Mer. Good! Why, Ingine, then He turnes to Ingine. I’le tell it you. (I see you ha’ credit, here, And, that you can keepe counſell, I’ll not queſtion.) 35 Hee ſhall but be an vndertaker with mee, In a moſt feaſible bus’neſſe. It shall cost him Nothing.

Ing. Good, S^r.

Mer. Except he pleaſe, but’s count’nance; (That I will haue) t’appeare in’t, to great men, For which I’ll make him one. Hee ſhall not draw 40 A ſtring of’s purſe. I’ll driue his pattent for him. We’ll take in Cittizens, Commoners, and Aldermen, To beare the charge, and blow ’hem off againe, Like ſo many dead flyes, when ’tis carryed. The thing is for recouery of drown’d land, 45 Whereof the Crowne’s to haue his moiety, If it be owner; Elſe, the Crowne and Owners To ſhare that moyety: and the recouerers T’enioy the tother moyety, for their charge.

Ing. Thorowout England?

Mer. Yes, which will ariſe 50 To eyghteene millions, ſeuen the firſt yeere: I haue computed all, and made my ſuruay Vnto an acre. I’ll beginne at the Pan, Not, at the skirts: as ſome ha’ done, and loſt, All that they wrought, their timber-worke, their trench, 55 Their bankes all borne away, or elſe fill’d vp By the next winter. Tut, they neuer went The way: I’ll haue it all.

Ing. A gallant tract Of land it is!

Mer. ’Twill yeeld a pound an acre. Wee muſt let cheape, euer, at firſt. But Sir, 60 This lookes too large for you, I ſee. Come hither, We’ll haue a leſſe. Here’s a plain fellow, you ſee him, Has his black bag of papers, there, in Buckram, Wi’ not be ſold for th’Earledome of Pancridge: Draw, Gi’ me out one, by chance. Proiect. 4. Dog-skinnes? 65 Twelue thouſand pound! the very worſt, at firſt. [113]  

Fit. Pray, you let’s ſee’t Sir.

Mer. ’Tis a toy, a trifle!

Fit. Trifle! 12. thouſand pound for dogs-skins?

Mer. Yes, But, by my way of dreſſing, you muſt know, Sir, And med’cining the leather, to a height 70 Of improu’d ware, like your Borachio Of Spaine, Sir. I can fetch nine thouſand for’t—

Ing. Of the Kings glouer?

Mer. Yes, how heard you that?

Ing. Sir, I doe know you can.

Mer. Within this houre: And reſerue halfe my ſecret. Pluck another; 75 See if thou haſt a happier hand: I thought ſo. Hee pluckes out the 2. Bottle-ale. The very next worſe to it! Bottle-ale. Yet, this is two and twenty thouſand! Pr’y thee Pull out another, two or three.

Fit. Good, ſtay, friend, By bottle-ale, two and twenty thouſand pound? 80

Mer. Yes, Sir, it’s caſt to penny-hal’penny-farthing, O’ the back-ſide, there you may ſee it, read, I will not bate a Harrington o’ the ſumme. I’ll winne it i’ my water, and my malt, My furnaces, and hanging o’ my coppers, 85 The tonning, and the ſubtilty o’ my yeſt; And, then the earth of my bottles, which I dig, Turne vp, and ſteepe, and worke, and neale, my ſelfe, To a degree of Porc’lane. You will wonder, At my proportions, what I will put vp 90 In ſeuen yeeres! for ſo long time, I aske For my inuention. I will ſaue in cork, In my mere ſtop’ling, ’boue three thouſand pound, Within that terme: by googing of ’hem out Iuſt to the ſize of my bottles, and not ſlicing, 95 There’s infinite loſſe i’ that. What haſt thou there? O’ making wine of raiſins: this is in hand, now, Hee drawes out another. Raiſines.

Ing. Is not that ſtrange, S^r, to make wine of raiſins?

Mer. Yes, and as true a wine, as the wines of France, Or Spaine, or Italy, Looke of what grape 100 My raiſin is, that wine I’ll render perfect, As of the muſcatell grape, I’ll render muſcatell; Of the Canary, his; the Claret, his; So of all kinds: and bate you of the prices, Of wine, throughout the kingdome, halfe in halfe. 105

Ing. But, how, S^r, if you raiſe the other commodity, Rayſins?

Mer. Why, then I’ll make it out of blackberries: And it ſhall doe the ſame. ’Tis but more art, And the charge leſſe. Take out another.

Fit. No, good Sir. Saue you the trouble, I’le not looke, nor heare 110 Of any, but your firſt, there; the Drown’d-land: If’t will doe, as you ſay.

Mer. Sir, there’s not place, To gi’ you demonſtration of theſe things. [114]   They are a little to ſubtle. But, I could ſhew you Such a neceſſity in’t, as you muſt be 115 But what you pleaſe: againſt the receiu’d hereſie, That England beares no Dukes. Keepe you the land, S^r, The greatneſſe of th’ eſtate ſhall throw’t vpon you. If you like better turning it to money, What may not you, S^r, purchaſe with that wealth? 120 Say, you ſhould part with two o’ your millions, To be the thing you would, who would not do’t? As I proteſt, I will, out of my diuident, Lay, for ſome pretty principality, In Italy, from the Church: Now, you perhaps, 125 Fancy the ſmoake of England, rather? But— Ha’ you no priuate roome, Sir, to draw to, T’enlarge our ſelues more vpon.

Fit. O yes, Diuell!

Mer. Theſe, Sir, are bus’neſſes, aske to be carryed With caution, and in cloud.

Fit. I apprehend, 130 They doe ſo, S^r. Diuell, which way is your Miſtreſſe?

Pvg. Aboue, S^r. in her chamber.

Fit. O that’s well. Then, this way, good, Sir.

Mer. I ſhall follow you; Traines, Gi’ mee the bag, and goe you preſently, Commend my ſeruice to my Lady Tail-buſh. 135 Tell her I am come from Court this morning; ſay, I’haue got our bus’neſſe mou’d, and well: Intreat her, That ſhee giue you the four-ſcore Angels, and ſee ’hem Diſpos’d of to my Councel, Sir Poul Eytherſide. Sometime, to day, I’ll waite vpon her Ladiſhip, 140 With the relation.

Ing. Sir, of what diſpatch, He is! Do you marke?

Mer. Ingine, when did you ſee My couſin Euer-ill? keepes he ſtill your quarter? I’ the Bermudas?

Ing. Yes, Sir, he was writing This morning, very hard.

Mer. Be not you knowne to him, That I am come to Towne: I haue effected 146 A buſineſſe for him, but I would haue it take him, Before he thinks for’t.

Ing. Is it paſt?

Mer. Not yet. ’Tis well o’ the way.

Ing. O Sir! your worſhip takes Infinit paines.

Mer. I loue Friends, to be actiue: 150 A ſluggish nature puts off man, and kinde.

Ing. And ſuch a bleſſing followes it.

Mer. I thanke My fate. Pray you let’s be priuate, Sir?

Fit. In, here.

Mer. Where none may interrupt vs.

Fit. You heare, Diuel, Lock the ſtreete-doores faſt, and let no one in 155 (Except they be this Gentlemans followers) To trouble mee. Doe you marke? Yo’ haue heard and ſeene Something, to day; and, by it, you may gather Your Miſtreſſe is a fruite, that’s worth the ſtealing And therefore worth the watching. Be you ſure, now [115]   Yo’ haue all your eyes about you; and let in 161 No lace-woman; nor bawd, that brings French-maſques, And cut-works. See you? Nor old croanes, with wafers, To conuey letters. Nor no youths, diſguis’d Like country-wiues, with creame, and marrow-puddings. 165 Much knauery may be vented in a pudding, Much bawdy intelligence: They’are ſhrewd ciphers. Nor turne the key to any neyghbours neede; Be’t but to kindle fire, or begg a little, Put it out, rather: all out, to an aſhe, 170 That they may ſee no ſmoake. Or water, ſpill it: Knock o’ the empty tubs, that by the ſound, They may be forbid entry. Say, wee are robb’d, If any come to borrow a ſpoone, or ſo. I wi’ not haue good fortune, or gods bleſſing 175 Let in, while I am buſie.

Pvg. I’le take care, Sir: They ſha’ not trouble you, if they would.

Fit. Well, doe ſo.

[265] SD. Meer. ...] A Room in Fitzdottrel’s House. Enter Fitzdottrel, Engine, and Meercraft, followed by Trains with a bag, and three or four Attendants. G

[266] 1 ’s] is G

[267] 10 SN. To ...] [To 1 Attendant.] G

[268] 12 done. [Exit 1 Attend.] G

[269] 14 employ W, G

[270] 15 How, talks] How talks 1716, f.

[271] 17 SN.] [To 2 Attendant.] [Exit 2 Atten. G || talke] take 1641, 1716, f.

[272] 18 Myriads 1716 Myriads W myriads G

[273] 20 SN. om. 1641, 1692. 1716, W [to 3 Atten.] G || M^r.] master G passim

[274] 22 it. [Exit 3 Atten.] G || SN. om. 1641, f.

[275] 24 () om. W

[276] 28 reasons G

[277] 29 sha’] shall G

[278] 33 SN. om. 1641. f.

[279] 34 it om. 1641

[280] 34, 35, 39 () ret. G

[281] 44 ’tis] it is G

[282] 46 his] a 1641, f.

[283] 50 Throughout 1641, 1692, 1716, W Thoroughout G

[284] 53 an] my 1692, f.

[285] 62 fellow, [points to Trains] G

[286] 64 Wi’] Will W, G

[287] 65 chance. [Trains gives him a paper out of the bag.] G || Project; foure 1641 Project: four 1692, 1716 Project four; W Project four: G || Dog-skinnes] dogs-skins 1641 Dogs Skins 1692, 1716 dogs skins W Dogs’ skins G

[288] 67 see’t] see it G

[289] 68 Mer. Yes,] included in line 69 1692, 1716, W

[290] 69 my om. 1641

[291] 76 SN. Hee ...] [Trains draws out another.] (after ‘hand:’ 76) G

[292] 78 Pr’y thee] Pry’thee W Prithee G

[293] 78-80 Pr’y thee—pound? om. 1692, 1716

[294] 81 hal’] half G

[295] 89 Proc’lane 1641 porcelane G

[296] 93 above G

[297] 97 O’] O! G || SN.] [Trains draws out another.] G

[298] 99 a om. 1641

[299] 103 Of the] Of 1641

[300] 114 subtile 1692, 1716, W

[301] 115 in’t] in it G

[302] 123 Dividend 1716 dividend W, G

[303] 124 petty 1692, 1716, W

[304] 131 so om. G sir.—Enter Pug. G

[305] 137 entreat W, G

[306] 141 relation. [Exit Trains. G

[307] 142 mark? [Aside to Fitz. G

[308] 150 love] love, 1716, W

[309] 154 us. [Exeunt Meer. and Engine. G

[310] 157, 161 Yo’haue] You’ve 1716, W

[311] 169 ’t] it G

[312] 175 will G§ good fortune, gods blessing] G capitalizes throughout.

[313] 177 Exit. G SD. om. G

Act. II. Scene. II.

Pvg. Miſtreſſe Fitzdottrell.

I haue no ſingular ſeruice of this, now? Nor no ſuperlatiue Maſter? I ſhall wiſh To be in hell againe, at leaſure? Bring, A Vice from thence? That had bin ſuch a ſubtilty, As to bring broad-clothes hither: or tranſport 5 Freſh oranges into Spaine. I finde it, now: My Chiefe was i’ the right. Can any feind Boaſt of a better Vice, then heere by nature, And art, th’are owners of? Hell ne’r owne mee, But I am taken! the fine tract of it 10 Pulls mee along! To heare men ſuch profeſſors Growne in our ſubtleſt Sciences! My firſt Act, now, Shall be, to make this Maſter of mine cuckold: The primitiue worke of darkneſſe, I will practiſe! I will deſerue ſo well of my faire Miſtreſſe, 15 By my diſcoueries, firſt; my counſells after; And keeping counſell, after that: as who, So euer, is one, I’le be another, ſure, I’ll ha’ my ſhare. Most delicate damn’d fleſh! Shee will be! O! that I could ſtay time, now, [116] 20 Midnight will come too faſt vpon mee, I feare, To cut my pleaſure—

M^rs. Fi. Looke at the back-doore, Shee ſends Diuell out. One knocks, ſee who it is.

Pvg. Dainty ſhe-Diuell!

M^rs. Fi. I cannot get this venter of the cloake, Out of my fancie; nor the Gentlemans way, 25 He tooke, which though ’twere ſtrange, yet ’twas handſome, And had a grace withall, beyond the newneſſe. Sure he will thinke mee that dull ſtupid creature, Hee ſaid, and may conclude it; if I finde not Some thought to thanke th’ attemp. He did preſume, 30 By all the carriage of it, on my braine, For anſwer; and will ſweare ’tis very barren, If it can yeeld him no returne. Who is it?

Diuell returnes.

Pvg. Miſtreſſe, it is, but firſt, let me aſſure The excellence, of Miſtreſſes, I am, 35 Although my Maſters man, my Miſstreſſe ſlaue, The ſeruant of her ſecrets, and ſweete turnes, And know, what fitly will conduce to either.

M^rs. Fi. What’s this? I pray you come to your ſelfe and thinke What your part is: to make an anſwer. Tell, 40 Who is it at the doore?

Pvg. The Gentleman, M^rs, Who was at the cloake-charge to ſpeake with you, This morning, who expects onely to take Some ſmall command’ments from you, what you pleaſe, Worthy your forme, hee ſaies, and gentleſt manners. 45

M^rs. Fi. O! you’ll anon proue his hyr’d man, I feare, What has he giu’n you, for this meſſage? Sir, Bid him put off his hopes of ſtraw, and leaue To ſpread his nets, in view, thus. Though they take Maſter Fitz-dottrell, I am no ſuch foule, 50 Nor faire one, tell him, will be had with ſtalking. And wiſh him to for-beare his acting to mee, At the Gentlemans chamber-window in Lincolnes-Inne there, That opens to my gallery: elſe, I ſweare T’acquaint my huſband with his folly, and leaue him 55 To the iuſt rage of his offended iealouſie. Or if your Maſters ſenſe be not ſo quicke To right mee, tell him, I ſhall finde a friend That will repaire mee. Say, I will be quiet. In mine owne houſe? Pray you, in thoſe words giue it him. 60

Pvg. This is ſome foole turn’d!

He goes out.

M^rs. Fi. If he be the Maſter, Now, of that ſtate and wit, which I allow him; Sure, hee will vnderſtand mee: I durſt not Be more direct. For this officious fellow, My husbands new groome, is a ſpie vpon me, 65 I finde already. Yet, if he but tell him This in my words, hee cannot but conceiue [117]   Himſelfe both apprehended, and requited. I would not haue him thinke hee met a ſtatue: Or ſpoke to one, not there, though I were ſilent. 70 How now? ha’ you told him?

Pvg. Yes.

M^rs. Fi. And what ſaies he?

Pvg. Sayes he? That which my ſelf would ſay to you, if I durſt. That you are proude, ſweet Miſtreſſe? and with-all, A little ignorant, to entertaine The good that’s proffer’d; and (by your beauties leaue) 75 Not all ſo wiſe, as ſome true politique wife Would be: who hauing match’d with ſuch a Nupſon (I ſpeake it with my Maſters peace) whoſe face Hath left t’accuſe him, now, for’t doth confeſſe him, What you can make him; will yet (out of ſcruple, 80 And a ſpic’d conſcience) defraud the poore Gentleman, At leaſt delay him in the thing he longs for, And makes it hs whole ſtudy, how to compaſſe, Onely a title. Could but he write Cuckold, He had his ends. For, looke you—

M^rs. Fi. This can be 85 None but my husbands wit.

Pvg. My pretious M^rs.

M. Fi. It creaks his Ingine: The groome neuer durſt Be, elſe, so ſaucy—

Pvg. If it were not clearely, His worſhipfull ambition; and the top of it; The very forked top too: why ſhould hee 90 Keepe you, thus mur’d vp in a back-roome, Miſtreſſe, Allow you ne’r a caſement to the ſtreete, Feare of engendering by the eyes, with gallants, Forbid you paper, pen and inke, like Rats-bane. Search your halfe pint of muſcatell, leſt a letter 95 Be ſuncke i’ the pot: and hold your new-laid egge Againſt the fire, leſt any charme be writ there? Will you make benefit of truth, deare Miſtreſſe, If I doe tell it you: I do’t not often? I am ſet ouer you, imploy’d, indeed, 100 To watch your ſteps, your lookes, your very breathings, And to report them to him. Now, if you Will be a true, right, delicate ſweete Miſtreſſe, Why, wee will make a Cokes of this Wiſe Maſter, We will, my Miſtreſſe, an abſolute fine Cokes, 105 And mock, to ayre, all the deepe diligences Of ſuch a ſolemne, and effectuall Aſſe, An Aſſe to ſo good purpoſe, as wee’ll vſe him. I will contriue it ſo, that you ſhall goe To Playes, to Maſques, to Meetings, and to Feaſts. 110 For, why is all this Rigging, and fine Tackle, Miſtris, If you neat handſome veſſells, of good ſayle, Put not forth euer, and anon, with your nets Abroad into the world. It is your fiſhing. [118]   There, you ſhal chooſe your friends, your ſeruants, Lady, Your ſquires of honour; I’le conuey your letters, 116 Fetch anſwers, doe you all the offices, That can belong to your bloud, and beauty. And, For the variety, at my times, although I am not in due ſymmetrie, the man 120 Of that proportion; or in rule Of phyſicke, of the iuſt complexion: Or of that truth of Picardill, in clothes, To boaſt a ſoueraignty o’re Ladies: yet I know, to do my turnes, ſweet Miſtreſſe. Come, kiſſe—

M^rs. Fi. How now!

Pvg. Deare delicate Miſt. I am your ſlaue, 126 Your little worme, that loues you: your fine Monkey; Your Dogge, your Iacke, your Pug, that longs to be Stil’d, o’ your pleaſures.

M^rs. Fit. Heare you all this? Sir, Pray you, Come from your ſtanding, doe, a little, ſpare 130 Shee thinkes her huſband watches. Your ſelfe, Sir, from your watch, t’applaud your Squire, That ſo well followes your inſtructions!

[314] 5 cloths G

[315] 9 they’re 1716, f. || never G

[316] 18 I will G

[317] 22 pleasure—Enter Mrs. Fitzdottrel. SN. om. G

[318] 23 [Aside and exit. G

[319] 24 venture 1692, f.

[320] 26 it was G

[321] 30 attempt 1641, f.

[322] 33 SN.] Re-enter Pug. G

[323] 34 it is,] it is—W

[324] 41 it om. 1692, f. || M^rs] Mistresse 1641 Mistris 1692 Mistress 1716 mistress W, G

[325] 48 put 1641, f.

[326] 59 Period om. after ‘quiet’ 1716, f.

[327] 61 SN.] [Exit. G

[328] 70 Re-enter Pug. G

[329] 78, 80, 81 () ret. G

[330] 79 ’t] it G

[331] 84 hs] his 1641, f.

[332] 86 M^rs. as in 2. 2. 41 || wit. [Aside. G

[333] 88 saucy. [Aside. G

[334] 91 black Room 1716

[335] 93 engendring 1641

[336] 100 employ’d 1716, f.

[337] 112 your G

[338] 123 Piccardell 1641

[339] 126 Mist.] as in 2. 2. 41

[340] 130 Mrs. Fitz. [aloud]

[341] 131 SN. om. G

Act. II. Scene. III.

Fitz-dottrell. Miſtreſſe Fitz-dottrel. Pvg.

How now, ſweet heart? what’s the matter?

M^rs. Fi. Good! You are a ſtranger to the plot! you ſet not Your fancy Diuell, here, to tempt your wife, With all the inſolent vnciuill language, Or action, he could vent?

Fit. Did you so, Diuell? 5

M^rs. Fit. Not you? you were not planted i’ your hole to heare him, Vpo’ the ſtayres? or here, behinde the hangings? I doe not know your qualities? he durſt doe it, And you not giue directions?

Fit. You shall ſee, wife, Whether he durſt, or no: and what it was, 10 I did direct.

Her huſband goes out, and enters presently with a cudgell vpon him.

Pvg. Sweet Miſtreſſe, are you mad?

Fit. You moſt mere Rogue! you open manifeſt Villaine! You Feind apparant you! you declar’d Hel-hound!

Pvg. Good S^r.

Fit. Good Knaue, good Raſcal, and good Traitor. Now, I doe finde you parcel-Diuell, indeed. 15 Vpo’ the point of truſt? I’ your firſt charge? The very day o’ your probation? To tempt your Miſtreſſe? You doe ſee, good wedlocke, How I directed him.

M^rs. Fit. Why, where S^r? were you? [119]

Fit. Nay, there is one blow more, for exerciſe: 20 After a pause. He ſtrikes him againe I told you, I ſhould doe it.

Pvg. Would you had done, Sir.

Fit. O wife, the rareſt man! yet there’s another To put you in mind o’ the laſt, ſuch a braue man, wife! Within, he has his proiects, and do’s vent ’hem, and againe. The gallanteſt! where you tentiginous? ha? 25 Would you be acting of the Incubus? Did her ſilks ruſtling moue you?

Pvg. Gentle Sir.

Fit. Out of my ſight. If thy name were not Diuell, Thou ſhouldſt not ſtay a minute with me. In, Goe, yet ſtay: yet goe too. I am reſolu’d. 30 What I will doe: and you ſhall know’t afore-hand. Soone as the Gentleman is gone, doe you heare? I’ll helpe your liſping. Wife, ſuch a man, wife! Diuell goes out. He has ſuch plots! He will make mee a Duke! No leſſe, by heauen! ſix Mares, to your coach, wife! 35 That’s your proportion! And your coach-man bald! Becauſe he ſhall be bare, inough. Doe not you laugh, We are looking for a place, and all, i’ the map What to be of. Haue faith, be not an Infidell. You know, I am not eaſie to be gull’d. 40 I ſweare, when I haue my millions, elſe. I’ll make Another Dutcheſſe: if you ha’ not faith.

M^rs. Fi. You’ll ha’ too much, I feare, in theſe falſe ſpirits.

Fit. Spirits? O, no such thing! wife! wit, mere wit! This man defies the Diuell, and all his works! 45 He dos’t by Ingine, and deuiſes, hee! He has his winged ploughes, that goe with ſailes, Will plough you forty acres, at once! and mills. Will ſpout you water, ten miles off! All Crowland Is ours, wife; and the fens, from vs, in Norfolke, 50 To the vtmoſt bound of Lincoln-ſhire! we haue view’d it, And meaſur’d it within all; by the ſcale! The richeſt tract of land, Loue, i’ the kingdome! There will be made ſeuenteene, or eighteene millions; Or more, as’t may be handled! wherefore, thinke, 55 Sweet heart, if th’ haſt a fancy to one place, More then another, to be Dutcheſſe of; Now, name it: I will ha’t what ere it coſt, (If’t will be had for money) either here, 59 Or’n France, or Italy.

M^rs. Fi. You ha’ ſtrange phantaſies!

[342] SD. om. Enter Fitzdottrel. G

[343] 1 ’s] is G

[344] 2 set] see W

[345] 7 upon G§

[346] 10, 11 Whether ... direct.] All in line 10. 1692, 1716

[347] 11 SN.] [Exit. Re-enter Fitzdottrel with a cudgel. G

[348] 18 mistress! [Beats Pug. G

[349] 20 SN.] [Strikes him again. G

[350] 22, 23 yet ... last] euclosed by () W, G

[351] 23 o’ ret. G

[352] 25 where] were 1716, W Were G

[353] 24 SN.] [Beats him again.] G

[354] 33 SN.] [Exit Pug.] G

[355] 46 Engine 1716 Engine W engine G

[356] 51 bounds 1692, f. || of] in G

[357] 56 th’] thou G

[358] 58 have ’t G

[359] 60 Or’n] Or’in 1692 Or in 1716, f.

Act. II. Scene. IV.

Mere-craft. Fitz-dottrell.
Ingine.

Where are you, Sir?

Fit. I ſee thou haſt no talent [120]   This way, wife. Vp to thy gallery; doe, Chuck, Leaue vs to talke of it, who vnderſtand it.

Mer. I thinke we ha’ found a place to fit you, now, Sir. Gloc’ſter.

Fit. O, no, I’ll none!

Mer. Why, S^r?

Fit. Tis fatall. 5

Mer. That you ſay right in. Spenſer, I thinke, the younger, Had his laſt honour thence. But, he was but Earle.

Fit. I know not that, Sir. But Thomas of Woodſtocke, I’m ſure, was Duke, and he was made away, At Calice; as Duke Humphrey was at Bury: 10 And Richard the third, you know what end he came too.

Mer. By m’faith you are cunning i’ the Chronicle, Sir.

Fit. No, I confeſſe I ha’t from the Play-bookes, And thinke they’are more authentique.

Ing. That’s ſure, Sir.

Mer. What ſay you (to this then)

He whiſpers him of a place.

Fit. No, a noble houſe. 15 Pretends to that. I will doe no man wrong.

Mer. Then take one propoſition more, and heare it As paſt exception.

Fit. What’s that?

Mer. To be Duke of thoſe lands, you ſhall recouer; take Your title, thence, Sir, Duke of the Drown’d lands, 20 Or Drown’d-land.

Fit. Ha? that laſt has a good ſound! I like it well. The Duke of Drown’d-land?

Ing. Yes; It goes like Groen-land, Sir, if you marke it.

Mer. I, And drawing thus your honour from the worke, You make the reputation of that, greater; 25 And ſtay’t the longer i’ your name.

Fit. ’Tis true. Drown’d-lands will liue in Drown’d-land!

Mer. Yes, when you Ha’ no foote left; as that muſt be, Sir, one day. And, though it tarry in your heyres, some forty, Fifty deſcents, the longer liuer, at laſt, yet, 30 Muſt thruſt ’hem out on’t: if no quirk in law, Or odde Vice o’ their owne not do’it firſt. Wee ſee thoſe changes, daily: the faire lands, That were the Clyents, are the Lawyers, now: And thoſe rich Mannors, there, of good man Taylors, 35 Had once more wood vpon ’hem, then the yard, By which th’ were meaſur’d out for the laſt purchaſe. [121]   Nature hath theſe viciſſitudes. Shee makes No man a ſtate of perpetuety, Sir.

Fit. Yo’ are i’ the right. Let’s in then, and conclude. 40 Hee ſpies Diuell. I my ſight, againe? I’ll talke with you, anon.

[360] SD. Act. ...] om. Enter Meercraft and Engine. G

[361] 3 [Exit Mrs. Fitz. G

[362] 6 comma after ‘thinke’ om. 1692, f.

[363] 12 m’] my W, G

[364] 13 have it G

[365] 14,18 ’s] is W, G

[366] 15 SN.] [whispers him.] G

[367] 15 period after ‘house’ om. 1716, f.

[368] 26 ’t] it G

[369] 32 do’t 1641

[370] 37 th’] they G

[371] 40 You’re 1716, W || SN.] Re-enter Pug. G

[372] 41 [Exeunt Fitz. Meer. and Engine. G || I] I’ 1716, W In G

Act. II. Scene. V.

Pvg.

Svre hee will geld mee, if I stay: or worſe, Pluck out my tongue, one o’ the two. This Foole, There is no truſting of him: and to quit him, Were a contempt againſt my Chiefe, paſt pardon. It was a ſhrewd diſheartning this, at firſt! 5 Who would ha’ thought a woman ſo well harneſs’d, Or rather well-capariſon’d, indeed, That weares ſuch petticoates, and lace to her ſmocks, Broad ſeaming laces (as I ſee ’hem hang there) And garters which are loſt, if ſhee can ſhew ’hem, 10 Could ha’ done this? Hell! why is ſhee ſo braue? It cannot be to pleaſe Duke Dottrel, ſure, Nor the dull pictures, in her gallery, Nor her owne deare reflection, in her glaſſe; Yet that may be: I haue knowne many of ’hem, 15 Beginne their pleaſure, but none end it, there: (That I conſider, as I goe a long with it) They may, for want of better company, Or that they thinke the better, ſpend an houre; Two, three, or foure, diſcourſing with their ſhaddow: 20 But ſure they haue a farther ſpeculation. No woman dreſt with ſo much care, and ſtudy, Doth dreſſe her ſelfe in vaine. I’ll vexe this probleme, A little more, before I leaue it, ſure.

[373] SD. om. G

[374] 5 disheartening G

[375] 9 () ret. G

[376] 17 () ret. G

[377] 24 [Exit. G

Act. IJ. Scene. VI.

Wittipol. Manly. Miſtreſſe Fitz-dottrel.
Pvg.

This was a fortune, happy aboue thought, [122]   That this ſhould proue thy chamber: which I fear’d Would be my greateſt trouble! this muſt be The very window, and that the roome.

Man. It is. I now remember, I haue often ſeene there 5 A woman, but I neuer mark’d her much.

Wit. Where was your ſoule, friend?

Man. Faith, but now, and then, Awake vnto thoſe obiects.

Wit. You pretend ſo. Let mee not liue, if I am not in loue More with her wit, for this direction, now, 10 Then with her forme, though I ha’ prais’d that prettily, Since I ſaw her, and you, to day. Read thoſe. Hee giues him a paper, wherein is the copy of a Song. They’ll goe vnto the ayre you loue ſo well. Try ’hem vnto the note, may be the muſique Will call her ſooner; light, ſhee’s here. Sing quickly. 15

M^rs. Fit. Either he vnderſtood him not: or elſe, The fellow was not faithfull in deliuery, Of what I bad. And, I am iuſtly pay’d, That might haue made my profit of his ſeruice, But, by miſ-taking, haue drawne on his enuy, 20 And done the worſe defeate vpon my ſelfe. Manly ſings, Pug enters perceiues it. How! Muſique? then he may be there: and is sure.

Pvg. O! Is it ſo? Is there the enter-view? Haue I drawne to you, at laſt, my cunning Lady? The Diuell is an Aſſe! fool’d off! and beaten! 25 Nay, made an inſtrument! and could not ſent it! Well, ſince yo’ haue ſhowne the malice of a woman, No leſſe then her true wit, and learning, Miſtreſſe, I’ll try, if little Pug haue the malignity To recompence it, and ſo ſaue his danger. 30 ’Tis not the paine, but the diſcredite of it, The Diuell ſhould not keepe a body intire.

Wit. Away, fall backe, ſhe comes.

Man. I’ll leaue you, Sir, The Maſter of my chamber. I haue buſineſſe.

Wit. M^rs!

M^rs. Fi. You make me paint, S^r.

Wit. The’are faire colours, 35 Lady, and naturall! I did receiue Some commands from you, lately, gentle Lady, [123]   This Scene is acted at two windo’s as out of two contiguous buildings. But ſo perplex’d, and wrap’d in the deliuery, As I may feare t’haue miſ-interpreted: But muſt make ſuit ſtill, to be neere your grace. 40

M^rs. Fi. Who is there with you, S^r?

Wit. None, but my ſelfe. It falls out. Lady, to be a deare friends lodging. Wherein there’s ſome conſpiracy of fortune With your poore ſeruants bleſ affections.

M^rs. Fi. Who was it ſung?

Wit. He, Lady, but hee’s gone, 45 Vpon my entreaty of him, ſeeing you Approach the window. Neither need you doubt him, If he were here. He is too much a gentleman.

M^rs. Fi. Sir, if you iudge me by this ſimple action, And by the outward habite, and complexion 50 Of eaſineſſe, it hath, to your deſigne; You may with Iuſtice, ſay, I am a woman: And a ſtrange woman. But when you ſhall pleaſe, To bring but that concurrence of my fortune, To memory, which to day your ſelfe did vrge: 55 It may beget ſome fauour like excuſe, Though none like reaſon.

Wit. No, my tune-full Miſtreſſe? Then, ſurely, Loue hath none: nor Beauty any; Nor Nature violenced, in both theſe: With all whoſe gentle tongues you ſpeake, at once. 60 I thought I had inough remou’d, already, That ſcruple from your breſt, and left yo’ all reaſon; When, through my mornings perſpectiue I ſhewd you A man ſo aboue excuſe, as he is the cauſe, Why any thing is to be done vpon him: 65 And nothing call’d an iniury, miſ-plac’d. I’rather, now had hope, to ſhew you how Loue By his acceſſes, growes more naturall: And, what was done, this morning, with ſuch force Was but deuis’d to ſerue the preſent, then. 70 That ſince Loue hath the honour to approach He grows more familiar in his Court-ſhip. Theſe ſiſter-ſwelling breſts; and touch this ſoft, And roſie hand; hee hath the skill to draw Their Nectar forth, with kiſſing; and could make More wanton ſalts, from this braue promontory, 75 Downe to this valley, then the nimble Roe; playes with her paps, kiſſeth her hands, &c. Could play the hopping Sparrow, ’bout theſe nets; And ſporting Squirell in theſe criſped groues; Bury himſelfe in euery Silke-wormes kell, Is here vnrauell’d; runne into the ſnare, 80 Which euery hayre is, caſt into a curle, To catch a Cupid flying: Bath himselfe In milke, and roſes, here, and dry him, there; Warme his cold hands, to play with this ſmooth, round, [124]   And well torn’d chin, as with the Billyard ball; 85 Rowle on theſe lips, the banks of loue, and there At once both plant, and gather kiſſes. Lady, Shall I, with what I haue made to day here, call All ſenſe to wonder, and all faith to ſigne The myſteries reuealed in your forme? 90 And will Loue pardon mee the blasphemy I vtter’d, when I ſaid, a glaſſe could ſpeake This beauty, or that fooles had power to iudge it?

Doe but looke, on her eyes! They doe light— All that Loue’s world comprizeth! 95 Doe but looke on her hayre! it is bright, As Loue’s ſtarre, when it riſeth! Doe but marke, her fore-head’s ſmoother, Then words that ſooth her! And from her arched browes, ſuch a grace 100 Sheds it ſelfe through the face; As alone, there triumphs to the life, All the gaine, all the good, of the elements ſtrife!

Haue you ſeene but a bright Lilly grow, Before rude hands haue touch’d it? 105 Haue you mark’d but the fall of the Snow, Before the ſoyle hath ſmuch’d it? Haue you felt the wooll o’ the Beuer? Or Swans downe, euer? Or, haue ſmelt o’ the bud o’ the Bryer? 110 Or the Nard i’ the fire? Or, haue taſted the bag o’ the Bee? O, ſo white! O, ſo ſoft! O, ſo ſweet is ſhee!

[378] SD. Act. ...] om. Scene II. Manly’s Chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, opposite Fitzdottrel’s House. Enter Wittipol and Manly. G

[379] 12 SN.] [Gives him the copy of a song. G

[380] 15 Mrs. Fitzdottrel appears at a window of her house fronting that of Manly’s Chambers. G

[381] 21 worst W || SN. enters] enters and 1716, W || Manly ...] Manly sings. Enter Pug behind. G

[382] 23 interview W, G

[383] 24 least W

[384] 27 you’ve 1716, W

[385] 32 entire W, G || [Aside and exit. G

[386] 33 I’ll] I W, G

[387] 34 [Exit. G

[388] 35 M^rs!] Mis! 1641 the rest as in 2. 2. 41 || They’re 1716, W they are G || Mrs. Fitz. [advances to the window.] G

[389] 35, 36 The’are ... receiue] one line 1692, 1716, W

[390] 37 SN. om. G

[391] 39 t’] to 1692, f.

[392] 62 y’all 1716, W

[393] 64 he’s W, G

[394] 71, 76 SN. om. G

[395] 75 ’salts 1692 ’saults 1716

[396] 81 is, cast] is cast 1716, W

[397] 88 I’ve W

[398] 98 head’s] head 1641

[399] 100 a om. 1641

[400] 106 of the] the 1641

[401] 108, 112 o’] of W

[402] 108 Beuer] beaver W, G

[403]110 smelt o’ret. G

Act. II. Scene. VII.

Fitz-dottrell. Wittipol. Pvg.

Her huſband appeares at her back. Is shee ſo, Sir? and, I will keepe her ſo. If I know how, or can: that wit of man Will doe’t, I’ll goe no farther. At this windo’ She ſhall no more be buz’d at. Take your leaue on’t. If you be ſweet meates, wedlock, or ſweet fleſh, 5 All’s one: I doe not loue this hum about you. A flye-blowne wife is not ſo proper, In: [125]   For you, S^r, looke to heare from mee.

Hee ſpeakes out of his wiues window.

Wit. So, I doe, Sir.

Fit. No, but in other termes. There’s no man offers This to my wife, but paies for’t.

Wit. That haue I, Sir.

Fit. Nay, then, I tell you, you are.

Wit. What am I, Sir? 11

Fit. Why, that I’ll thinke on, when I ha’ cut your throat.

Wit. Goe, you are an Aſſe.

Fit. I am reſolu’d on’t, Sir.

Wit. I thinke you are.

Fit. To call you to a reckoning.

Wit. Away, you brokers blocke, you property. 15

Fit. S’light, if you ſtrike me, I’ll ſtrike your Miſtreſſe.

Hee ſtrikes his wife.

Wit. O! I could ſhoote mine eyes at him, for that, now; Or leaue my teeth in’him, were they cuckolds bane, Inough to kill him. What prodigious, Blinde, and moſt wicked change of fortune’s this? 20 I ha’ no ayre of patience: an my vaines Swell, and my ſinewes ſtart at iniquity of it. I ſhall breake, breake.

The Diuell ſpeakes below.

Pvg. This for the malice of it, And my reuenge may paſſe! But, now, my conſcience Tells mee, I haue profited the cauſe of Hell 25 But little, in the breaking-off their loues. Which, if some other act of mine repaire not, I ſhall heare ill of in my accompt.

Fitz-dottrel enters with his wife as come downe.

Fit. O, Bird! Could you do this? ’gainſt me? and at this time, now? When I was ſo imploy’d, wholly for you, 30 Drown’d i’ my care (more, then the land, I ſweare, I’haue hope to win) to make you peere-leſſe? ſtudying, For footemen for you, fine pac’d huiſhers, pages, To ſerue you o’ the knee; with what Knights wife, To beare your traine, and ſit with your foure women 35 In councell, and receiue intelligences, From forraigne parts, to dreſſe you at all pieces! Y’haue (a’moſt) turn’d my good affection, to you; Sowr’d my ſweet thoughts; all my pure purpoſes: I could now finde (i’ my very heart) to make 40 Another, Lady Dutcheſſe; and depoſe you. Well, goe your waies in. Diuell, you haue redeem’d all. I doe forgiue you. And I’ll doe you good.

[404] SD. om. SN.] Fitz-dottrell appears at his Wife’s back. G

[405] 8 SN. om. G || you,] you, you, W, G

[406] 11 are.] are—W, G

[407] 13 Sir.] Sir—Ed.

[408] 16 I will W, G

[409] 16 SN.] [Strikes Mrs. Fitz. and leads her out. G

[410] 17 my 1641

[411] 22 th’iniquity G

[412] 23 SN. om [Exit. Scene III. Another Room in Fitzdottrel’s House. Enter Pug. G

[413] 28 in om. 1641 || SN.] Enter Fitzdottrel and his wife. G

[414] 30 employ’d 1716, f.

[415] 31, 32 () ret. G

[416] 38 You’ve 1716, f. || almost W, G

[417] 42 [Exit Mrs. Fitz.] G

[418] 43 [Exit Pug. G

Act. II. Scene. VIIJ.

Mere-craft. Fitz-dottrel. Ingine.
Traines.

Why ha you theſe excurſions? where ha’ you beene, Sir? [126]  

Fit. Where I ha’ beene vex’d a little, with a toy!

Mer. O Sir! no toyes muſt trouble your graue head, Now it is growing to be great. You muſt Be aboue all thoſe things.

Fit. Nay, nay, ſo I will. 5

Mer. Now you are to’ard the Lord, you muſt put off The man, Sir.

Ing. He ſaies true.

Mer. You muſt do nothing As you ha’ done it heretofore; not know, Or ſalute any man.

Ing. That was your bed-fellow, The other moneth.

Mer. The other moneth? the weeke. 10 Thou doſt not know the priueledges, Ingine, Follow that Title; nor how ſwift: To day, When he has put on his Lords face once, then—

Fit. Sir, for theſe things I ſhall doe well enough, There is no feare of me. But then, my wife is 15 Such an vntoward thing! ſhee’ll neuer learne How to comport with it. I am out of all Conceipt, on her behalfe.

Mer. Beſt haue her taught, Sir.

Fit. Where? Are there any Schooles for Ladies? Is there An Academy for women? I doe know, 20 For men, there was: I learn’d in it, my ſelfe, To make my legges, and doe my poſtures.

Ing. Sir. Doe you remember the conceipt you had— O’ the Spaniſh gowne, at home?

Ingine whiſpers Merecraft, Merecraft turnes to Fitz-dottrel.

Mer. Ha! I doe thanke thee, With all my heart, deare Ingine. Sir, there is 25 A certaine Lady, here about the Towne, An Engliſh widdow, who hath lately trauell’d, But ſhee’s call’d the Spaniard; cauſe ſhe came Lateſt from thence: and keepes the Spaniſh habit. Such a rare woman! all our women heere, 30 That are of ſpirit, and faſhion flocke, vnto her, As to their Preſident; their Law; their Canon; More then they euer did, to Oracle-Foreman. Such rare receipts ſhee has, Sir, for the face; Such oyles; such tinctures; such pomatumn’s; 35 Such perfumes; med’cines; quinteſſences, &c. And ſuch a Miſtreſſe of behauiour; [127] She knowes, from the Dukes daughter, to the Doxey, What is their due iuſt: and no more!

Fit. O Sir! You pleaſe me i’ this, more then mine owne greatneſſe, 40 Where is ſhee? Let vs haue her.

Mer. By your patience, We muſt vſe meanes; caſt how to be acquainted—

Fit. Good, S^r, about it.

Mer. We muſt think how, firſt.

Fit. O! I doe not loue to tarry for a thing, When I haue a mind to’t. You doe not know me. 45 If you doe offer it.

Mer. Your wife muſt ſend Some pretty token to her, with a complement, And pray to be receiu’d in her good graces, All the great Ladies do’t.

Fit. She ſhall, ſhe ſhall, What were it beſt to be?

Mer. Some little toy, 50 I would not haue it any great matter, Sir: A Diamant ring, of forty or fifty pound, Would doe it handſomely: and be a gift Fit for your wife to ſend, and her to take.

Fit. I’ll goe, and tell my wife on’t, ſtreight. 55

Fitz-dottrel goes out.

Mer. Why this Is well! The clothes we’haue now: But, where’s this Lady? If we could get a witty boy, now, Ingine; That were an excellent cracke: I could inſtruct him, To the true height. For any thing takes this dottrel.

Ing. Why, Sir your beſt will be one o’ the players! 60

Mer. No, there’s no truſting them. They’ll talke on’t, And tell their Poets.

Ing. What if they doe? The ieſt will brooke the Stage. But, there be ſome of ’hem Are very honeſt Lads. There’s Dicke Robinſon A very pretty fellow, and comes often 65 To a Gentlemans chamber, a friends of mine. We had The merrieſt ſupper of it there, one night, The Gentlemans Land-lady invited him To’a Goſſips feaſt. Now, he Sir brought Dick Robinſon, Dreſt like a Lawyers wife, amongſt ’hem all; 70 (I lent him cloathes) but, to ſee him behaue it; And lay the law; and carue; and drinke vnto ’hem; And then talke baudy: and ſend frolicks! o! It would haue burſt your buttons, or not left you A ſeame.

Mer. They ſay hee’s an ingenious youth! 75

Ing. O Sir! and dreſſes himſelfe, the beſt! beyond Forty o’ your very Ladies! did you ne’r ſee him?

Mer. No, I do ſeldome ſee thoſe toyes. But thinke you, That we may haue him?

Ing. Sir, the young Gentleman I tell you of, can command him. Shall I attempt it? 80

Mer. Yes, doe it.

Enters againe.

Fit. S’light, I cannot get my wife To part with a ring, on any termes: and yet, The ſollen Monkey has two.

Mer. It were ’gainst reaſon That you ſhould vrge it; Sir, ſend to a Gold-ſmith, [128]   Let not her loſe by’t.

Fit. How do’s ſhe loſe by’t? 85 Is’t not for her?

Mer. Make it your owne bounty, It will ha’ the better ſucceſſe; what is a matter Of fifty pound to you, S^r.

Fit. I’haue but a hundred Pieces, to ſhew here; that I would not breake—

Mer. You ſhall ha’ credit, Sir. I’ll ſend a ticket 90 Vnto my Gold-ſmith. Heer, my man comes too, To carry it fitly. How now, Traines? What birds?

Traines enters.

Tra. Your Couſin Euer-ill met me, and has beat mee, Becauſe I would not tell him where you were: I thinke he has dogd me to the houſe too.

Fit. Well— 95 You ſhall goe out at the back-doore, then, Traines. You muſt get Guilt-head hither, by ſome meanes:

Tra. ’Tis impoſſible!

Fit. Tell him, we haue veniſon, I’ll g’ him a piece, and ſend his wife a Pheſant.

Tra. A Forreſt moues not, till that forty pound, 100 Yo’ had of him, laſt, be pai’d. He keepes more ſtirre, For that ſame petty ſumme, then for your bond Of ſixe; and Statute of eight hundred!

Fit. Tell him Wee’ll hedge in that. Cry vp Fitz-dottrell to him, Double his price: Make him a man of mettall. 105

Tra. That will not need, his bond is current inough.

[419] SD. Act. ...] om. Enter Meercraft and Engine. G || II] III 1641

[420] 6,7 Now ... Sir.] “Now ... sir.” W

[421] 24 SN.] [whispers Meercraft.] G

[422] 28 she is W, G

[423] 29 and om. 1641

[424] 31 fashion flocke,] fashion, flock 1692, f.

[425] 36 &c.] et caetera; G

[426] 45 to it G

[427] 49 do it G

[428] 52 Diamond 1692, 1716 diamond W, G passim

[429] 55 SN.] [Exit. G

[430] 61 of it G

[431] 64 Dick 1692, 1716 Dick W Dickey G

[432] 66 friend W, G

[433] 69 T’a 1716, W

[434] 81 SN....] Fit.... 1716 Fitz-dottrel ... W Re-enter Fitzdottrel. G

[435] 83 sullen 1692, f.

[436] 85, 6 ’t] it G

[437] 92 SN.] Enter Trains. G

[438] 95, 103 Fit.] Meer. W, G

[439] 98 ’T] It G

[440] 99 gi’ 1716, W give G [Exit. G

[441] 106 [Exeunt. G

[129]  

Act. III. Scene. I.

Gvilt-head. Plvtarchvs.

All this is to make you a Gentleman: I’ll haue you learne, Sonne. Wherefore haue I plac’d you With S^r. Poul Either-ſide, but to haue ſo much Law To keepe your owne? Beſides, he is a Iuſtice, Here i’ the Towne; and dwelling, Sonne, with him, 5 You ſhal learne that in a yeere, ſhall be worth twenty Of hauing ſtay’d you at Oxford, or at Cambridge, Or ſending you to the Innes of Court, or France. I am call’d for now in haſte, by Maſter Meere-craft To truſt Maſter Fitz-dottrel, a good man: 10 I’haue inquir’d him, eighteene hundred a yeere, (His name is currant) for a diamant ring Of forty, ſhall not be worth thirty (thats gain’d) And this is to make you a Gentleman!

Plv. O, but good father, you truſt too much!

Gvi. Boy, boy, 15 We liue, by finding fooles out, to be truſted. Our ſhop-bookes are our paſtures, our corn-grounds, We lay ’hem op’n for them to come into: And when wee haue ’hem there, wee driue ’hem vp In t’one of our two Pounds, the Compters, ſtreight, 20 And this is to make you a Gentleman! Wee Citizens neuer truſt, but wee doe coozen: For, if our debtors pay, wee coozen them; And if they doe not, then we coozen our ſelues. But that’s a hazard euery one muſt runne, 25 That hopes to make his Sonne a Gentleman!

Plv. I doe not wiſh to be one, truely, Father. In a deſcent, or two, wee come to be Iuſt ’itheir ſtate, fit to be coozend, like ’hem. And I had rather ha’ tarryed i’ your trade: 30 For, ſince the Gentry ſcorne the Citty ſo much, [130]   Me thinkes we ſhould in time, holding together, And matching in our owne tribes, as they ſay, Haue got an Act of Common Councell, for it, That we might coozen them out of rerum natura. 35

Gvi. I, if we had an Act firſt to forbid The marrying of our wealthy heyres vnto ’hem: And daughters, with ſuch lauiſh portions. That confounds all.

Plv. And makes a Mungril breed, Father. And when they haue your money, then they laugh at you: 40 Or kick you downe the ſtayres. I cannot abide ’hem. I would faine haue ’hem coozen’d, but not truſted.

[442] SD. Act. ... I. ...] Act. ... I. A Room in Fitzdottrel’s House. Enter Thomas Gilthead and Plutarchus. G

[443] 3 to om. 1692 t’ 1716 || Poul] Pould 1641

[444] 9 I’m W, G

[445] 12 () ret. G

[446] 15 Boy, boy] Boy, by 1692

[447] 20 two om. 1692, 1716 || Int’one 1716, W into one G

[448] 29 i’ their 1716, W in their G

Act. III. Scene. II.

Mere-craft. Gvilt-head.
Fitz-dottrell. Plvtarchvs.

O, is he come! I knew he would not faile me. Welcome, good Guilt-head, I muſt ha’ you doe A noble Gentleman, a courteſie, here: In a mere toy (ſome pretty Ring, or Iewell) Of fifty, or threeſcore pound (Make it a hundred, 5 And hedge in the laſt forty, that I owe you, And your owne price for the Ring) He’s a good man, S^r, And you may hap’ ſee him a great one! Hee, Is likely to beſtow hundreds, and thouſands, Wi’ you; if you can humour him. A great prince 10 He will be ſhortly. What doe you ſay?

Gvi. In truth, Sir I cannot. ’T has beene a long vacation with vs?

Fit. Of what, I pray thee? of wit? or honesty? Thoſe are your Citizens long vacations.

Plv. Good Father do not truſt ’hem.

Mer. Nay, Thom. Guilt-head. 15 Hee will not buy a courteſie and begge it: Hee’ll rather pay, then pray. If you doe for him, You muſt doe cheerefully. His credit, Sir, Is not yet proſtitute! Who’s this? thy ſonne? A pretty youth, what’s his name?

Plv. Plutarchus, Sir, 20

Mer. Plutarchus! How came that about?

Gvi. That yeere S^r, That I begot him, I bought Plutarch’s liues, And fell ſ’ in loue with the booke, as I call’d my ſonne By’his name; In hope he ſhould be like him: And write the liues of our great men!

Mer. I’ the City? [131]  25 And you do breed him, there?

Gvi. His minde, Sir, lies Much to that way.

Mer. Why, then, he is i’ the right way.

Gvi. But, now, I had rather get him a good wife, And plant him i’ the countrey; there to vſe The bleſſing I ſhall leaue him:

Mer. Out vpon’t! 30 And loſe the laudable meanes, thou haſt at home, heere, T’aduance, and make him a young Alderman? Buy him a Captaines place, for ſhame; and let him Into the world, early, and with his plume, And Scarfes, march through Cheapſide, or along Cornehill, And by the vertue’of thoſe, draw downe a wife 36 There from a windo’, worth ten thouſand pound! Get him the poſture booke, and’s leaden men, To ſet vpon a table, ’gainst his Miſtreſſe Chance to come by, that hee may draw her in, 40 And ſhew her Finsbury battells.

Gvi. I haue plac’d him With Iustice Eytherſide, to get so much law—

Mer. As thou haſt conſcience. Come, come, thou doſt wrong Pretty Plutarchus, who had not his name, For nothing: but was borne to traine the youth 45 Of London, in the military truth— That way his Genius lies. My Couſin Euerill!

[449] SD. Act. ...] Enter Meercraft. G

[450] 7 ring. [Aside to Gilthead.

[451] 15 Tom G

[452] 20 ’s] is G

[453] 23 so in W, G

[454] 27 he’s W, G

[455] 45,6 to ... truth] in italics G

[456] 47 lies.—Enter Everill.

Act. III. Scene. IIJ.

Ever-ill. Plvtarchvs. Gvilt-head.
Mere-craft. Fitzdottrell.

O, are you heere, Sir? ’pray you let vs whiſper.

Plv. Father, deare Father, truſt him if you loue mee.

Gvi. Why, I doe meane it, boy; but, what I doe, Muſt not come eaſily from mee: Wee muſt deale With Courtiers, boy, as Courtiers deale with vs. 5 If I haue a Buſineſſe there, with any of them, Why, I muſt wait, I’am ſure on’t, Son: and though My Lord diſpatch me, yet his worſhipfull man— Will keepe me for his ſport, a moneth, or two, To ſhew mee with my fellow Cittizens. 10 I muſt make his traine long, and full, one quarter; And helpe the ſpectacle of his greatneſſe. There, Nothing is done at once, but iniuries, boy: And they come head-long! an their good turnes moue not, [124]   Or very ſlowly.

Plv. Yet ſweet father, truſt him. 15

Gvi. VVell, I will thinke.

Ev. Come, you muſt do’t, Sir. I am vndone elſe, and your Lady Tayle-buſh Has ſent for mee to dinner, and my cloaths Are all at pawne. I had ſent out this morning, Before I heard you were come to towne, ſome twenty 20 Of my epiſtles, and no one returne—

Mere-craft tells him of his faults.

Mer. VVhy, I ha’ told you o’ this. This comes of wearing Scarlet, gold lace, and cut-works! your fine gartring! VVith your blowne roſes, Couſin! and your eating Pheſant, and Godwit, here in London! haunting 25 The Globes, and Mermaides! wedging in with Lords, Still at the table! and affecting lechery, In veluet! where could you ha’ contented your ſelfe With cheeſe, ſalt-butter, and a pickled hering, I’ the Low-countries; there worne cloth, and fuſtian! 30 Beene ſatisfied with a leape o’ your Hoſt’s daughter, In garriſon, a wench of a ſtoter! or, Your Sutlers wife, i’ the leaguer, of two blanks! You neuer, then, had runne vpon this flat, To write your letters miſſiue, and ſend out 35 Your priuy ſeales, that thus haue frighted off All your acquaintance; that they ſhun you at diſtance, VVorse, then you do the Bailies!

Ev. Pox vpon you. I come not to you for counſell, I lacke money.

Hee repines.

Mer. You doe not thinke, what you owe me already?

Ev. I? 40 They owe you, that meane to pay you. I’ll beſworne, I neuer meant it. Come, you will proiect, I ſhall vndoe your practice, for this moneth elſe: You know mee. and threatens him.

Mer. I, yo’ are a right ſweet nature!

Ev. Well, that’s all one!

Mer. You’ll leaue this Empire, one day? 45 You will not euer haue this tribute payd, Your ſcepter o’ the ſword?

Ev. Tye vp your wit, Doe, and prouoke me not—

Mer. Will you, Sir, helpe, To what I ſhall prouoke another for you?

Ev. I cannot tell; try me: I thinke I am not 50 So vtterly, of an ore vn-to-be-melted, But I can doe my ſelfe good, on occaſions.

They ioyne.

Mer. Strike in then, for your part. M^r. Fitz-dottrel If I tranſgreſſe in point of manners, afford mee Your beſt conſtruction; I muſt beg my freedome 55 From your affayres, this day.

Fit. How, S^r.

Mer. It is In ſuccour of this Gentlemans occaſions, My kinſ-man— Mere-craft pretends buſineſſe.

Fit. You’ll not do me that affront, S^r.

Mer. I am ſory you ſhould ſo interpret it, But, Sir, it ſtands vpon his being inueſted 60 In a new office, hee has ſtood for, long: [133]  

Mere-craft describes the office of Dependancy.

Maſter of the Dependances! A place Of my proiection too, Sir, and hath met Much oppoſition; but the State, now, ſee’s That great neceſſity of it, as after all 65 Their writing, and their ſpeaking, againſt Duells, They haue erected it. His booke is drawne— For, ſince, there will be differences, daily, ’Twixt Gentlemen; and that the roaring manner Is growne offenſiue; that thoſe few, we call 70 The ciuill men o’ the ſword, abhorre the vapours; They ſhall refer now, hither, for their proceſſe; And ſuch as treſſpaſe ’gainſt the rule of Court, Are to be fin’d—

Fit. In troth, a pretty place!

Mer. A kinde of arbitrary Court ’twill be, Sir. 75

Fit. I ſhall haue matter for it, I beleeue, Ere it be long: I had a diſtaſt.

Mer. But now, Sir, My learned councell, they muſt haue a feeling, They’ll part, Sir, with no bookes, without the hand-gout Be oyld, and I muſt furniſh. If’t be money, 80 To me ſtreight. I am Mine, Mint and Exchequer. To ſupply all. What is’t? a hundred pound?

Eve. No, th’ Harpey, now, ſtands on a hundred pieces.

Mer. Why, he muſt haue ’hem, if he will. To morrow, Sir, Will equally ſerue your occaſion’s,—— 85 And therefore, let me obtaine, that you will yeeld To timing a poore Gentlemans diſtreſſes, In termes of hazard.—

Fit. By no meanes!

Mer. I muſt Get him this money, and will.—

Fit. Sir, I proteſt, I’d rather ſtand engag’d for it my ſelfe: 90 Then you ſhould leaue mee.

Mer. O good S^r. do you thinke So courſely of our manners, that we would, For any need of ours, be preſt to take it: Though you be pleas’d to offer it.

Fit. Why, by heauen, I meane it!

Mer. I can neuer beleeue leſſe. 95 But wee, Sir, muſt preſerue our dignity, As you doe publiſh yours. By your faire leaue, Sir.

Hee offers to be gone.

Fit. As I am a Gentleman, if you doe offer To leaue mee now, or if you doe refuſe mee, 99 I will not thinke you loue mee.

Mer. Sir, I honour you. And with iuſt reaſon, for theſe noble notes, Of the nobility, you pretend too! But, Sir— I would know, why? a motiue (he a ſtranger) You ſhould doe this?

(Eve. You’ll mar all with your fineneſſe)

Fit. Why, that’s all one, if ’twere, Sir, but my fancy. 105 But I haue a Buſineſſe, that perhaps I’d haue Brought to his office.

Mer. O, Sir! I haue done, then; If hee can be made profitable, to you. [134]  

Fit. Yes, and it ſhall be one of my ambitions To haue it the firſt Buſineſſe? May I not? 110

Eve. So you doe meane to make’t, a perfect Buſineſſe.

Fit. Nay, I’ll doe that, aſſure you: ſhew me once.

Mer. S^r, it concernes, the firſt be a perfect Buſineſſe, For his owne honour!

Eve. I, and th’ reputation Too, of my place.

Fit. Why, why doe I take this courſe, elſe? 115 I am not altogether, an Aſſe, good Gentlemen, Wherefore ſhould I conſult you? doe you thinke? To make a ſong on’t? How’s your manner? tell vs.

Mer. Doe, ſatisfie him: giue him the whole courſe.

Eve. Firſt, by requeſt, or otherwiſe, you offer 120 Your Buſineſſe to the Court: wherein you craue: The iudgement of the Maſter and the Aſsiſtants.

Fit. Well, that’s done, now, what doe you vpon it?

Eve. We ſtreight S^r, haue recourſe to the ſpring-head; Viſit the ground; and, ſo diſcloſe the nature: 125 If it will carry, or no. If wee doe finde, By our proportions it is like to proue A ſullen, and blacke Bus’neſſe That it be Incorrigible; and out of, treaty; then. We file it, a Dependance!

Fit. So ’tis fil’d. 130 What followes? I doe loue the order of theſe things.

Eve. We then aduiſe the party, if he be A man of meanes, and hauings, that forth-with, He ſettle his eſtate: if not, at leaſt That he pretend it. For, by that, the world 135 Takes notice, that it now is a Dependance. And this we call, Sir, Publication.

Fit. Very ſufficient! After Publication, now?

Eve. Then we grant out our Proceſſe, which is diuers; Eyther by Chartell, Sir, or ore-tenus, 140 Wherein the Challenger, and Challengee Or (with your Spaniard) your Prouocador, And Prouocado, haue their ſeuerall courſes—

Fit. I haue enough on’t! for an hundred pieces? Yes, for two hundred, vnder-write me, doe. 145 Your man will take my bond?

Mer. That he will, ſure. But, theſe ſame Citizens, they are ſuch ſharks! There’s an old debt of forty, I ga’ my word For one is runne away, to the Bermudas, And he will hooke in that, or he wi’ not doe. 150

He whiſpers Fitz-dottrell aſide.

Fit. Why, let him. That and the ring, and a hundred pieces, Will all but make two hundred?

Mer. No, no more, Sir. What ready Arithmetique you haue? doe you heare? And then Guilt-head. A pretty mornings worke for you, this? Do it, You ſhall ha’ twenty pound on’t.

Gvi. Twenty pieces? [135]  155

(Plv. Good Father, do’t)

Mer. You will hooke ſtill? well, Shew vs your ring. You could not ha’ done this, now With gentleneſſe, at firſt, wee might ha’ thank’d you? But groane, and ha’ your courteſies come from you Like a hard ſtoole, and ſtinke? A man may draw 160 Your teeth out eaſier, then your money? Come, Were little Guilt-head heere, no better a nature, I ſhould ne’r loue him, that could pull his lips off, now! He pulls Plutarchus by the lips. Was not thy mother a Gentlewoman?

Plv. Yes, Sir.

Mer. And went to the Court at Chriſtmas, and S^t. Georges-tide? 165 And lent the Lords-men, chaines?

Plv. Of gold, and pearle, S^r.

Mer. I knew, thou muſt take, after ſome body! Thou could’ſt not be elſe. This was no ſhop-looke! I’ll ha’ thee Captaine Guilt-head, and march vp, And take in Pimlico, and kill the buſh, 170 At euery tauerne! Thou shalt haue a wife, If ſmocks will mount, boy. How now? you ha’ there now Some Briſto-ſtone, or Corniſh counterfeit You’ld put vpon vs. He turns to old Guilt-head.

Gvi. No, Sir I aſſure you: Looke on his luſter! hee will ſpeake himſelfe! 175 I’le gi’ you leaue to put him i’ the Mill, H’is no great, large ſtone, but a true Paragon, H’has all his corners, view him well.

Mer. H’is yellow.

Gvi. Vpo’ my faith, S^r, o’ the right black-water, And very deepe! H’is ſet without a foyle, too. 180 Here’s one o’ the yellow-water, I’ll ſell cheape.

Mer. And what do you valew this, at? thirty pound?

Gvi. No, Sir, he cost me forty, ere he was ſet.

Mer. Turnings, you meane? I know your Equinocks: You’are growne the better Fathers of ’hem o’ late. 185 Well, where’t muſt goe, ’twill be iudg’d, and, therefore, Looke you’t be right. You ſhall haue fifty pound for’t. Now to Fitz-dottrel. Not a deneer more! And, becauſe you would Haue things diſpatch’d, Sir, I’ll goe preſently, Inquire out this Lady. If you thinke good, Sir. 190 Hauing an hundred pieces ready, you may Part with thoſe, now, to ſerue my kinſmans turnes, That he may wait vpon you, anon, the freer; And take ’hem when you ha’ ſeal’d, a game, of Guilt-head.

Fit. I care not if I do!

Mer. And diſpatch all, 195 Together.

Fit. There, th’are iuſt: a hundred pieces! I’ ha’ told ’hem ouer, twice a day, theſe two moneths.

Hee turnes ’hem out together. And Euerill and hee fall to ſhare.

Mer. Well, go, and ſeale, then, S^r, make your returne As ſpeedy as you can.

Eve. Come gi’ mee.

Mer. Soft, Sir.

Eve. Mary, and faire too, then. I’ll no delaying, Sir. 200

Mer. But, you will heare?

Eve. Yes, when I haue my diuident.

Mer. Theres forty pieces for you.

Eve. What is this for? [136]  

Mer. Your halfe. You know, that Guilt-head muſt ha’ twenty.

Eve. And what’s your ring there? ſhall I ha’ none o’ that?

Mer. O, thats to be giuen to a Lady! 205

Eve. Is’t ſo?

Mer. By that good light, it is.

Ev. Come, gi’ me Ten pieces more, then.

Mer. Why?

Ev. For Guilt-head? Sir, Do’you thinke, I’ll ’low him any ſuch ſhare:

Mer. You muſt.

Eve. Muſt I? Doe you your muſts, Sir, I’ll doe mine, You wi’ not part with the whole, Sir? Will you? Goe too. 210 Gi’ me ten pieces!

Mer. By what law, doe you this?

Eve. E’n Lyon-law, Sir, I muſt roare elſe.

Mer. Good!

Eve. Yo’ haue heard, how th’ Aſſe made his diuiſions, wiſely?

Mer. And, I am he: I thanke you.

Ev. Much good do you, S^r.

Mer. I ſhall be rid o’ this tyranny, one day?

Eve. Not, While you doe eate; and lie, about the towne, here; 216 And coozen i’ your bullions; and I ſtand Your name of credit, and compound your buſineſſe; Adiourne your beatings euery terme; and make New parties for your proiects. I haue, now, 220 A pretty taſque, of it, to hold you in Wi’ your Lady Tayle-buſh: but the toy will be, How we ſhall both come off?

Mer. Leaue you your doubting. And doe your portion, what’s aſſign’d you: I Neuer fail’d yet.

Eve. With reference to your aydes? 225 You’ll ſtill be vnthankfull. Where ſhall I meete you, anon? You ha’ ſome feate to doe alone, now, I ſee; You wiſh me gone, well, I will finde you out, And bring you after to the audit.

Mer. S’light! There’s Ingines ſhare too, I had forgot! This raigne 230 Is too-too-vnſuportable! I muſt Quit my ſelfe of this vaſſalage! Ingine! welcome.

[457] SD. om. G

[458] 1 [takes Meer. aside. G

[459] 7 I’m 1716, W I am G

[460] 16 think. [They walk aside. G

[461] 17 I’m 1716 I am W

[462] 21 SN. om. G

[463] 23 gartering W, G

[464] 32 Storer 1716 storer W, G

[465] 33 Sulters 1641

[466] 38 Bayliffs 1716 bailiffs W, G

[467] 39,43 SN. om. G

[468] 44 you’re 1716, W

[469] 52 Enter Fitzdottrel. || SN. om. G

[470] 53 part. [They go up to Fitz.] G

[471] 57, 61 SN. om. G

[472] 68 since 1641, f.

[473] 90 I had G

[474] 97 SN. Hee om. G

[475] 103 () ret. G

[476] 104 Ever. [Aside to Meer.]

[477] 106 ’d] would G

[478] 114 the W

[479] 123 ’s] is G

[480] 127 our] your 1641

[481] 148 gave G

[482] 149 to] into 1641

[483] 150 SN.] [Aside to Fitz. G he wi’] he’ll G

[484] 153 SN.] [Aside to Gilthead. G

[485] 159 you] your 1641, f.

[486] 163 SN.] [Pulls him by the lips. G

[487] 165 George-G

[488] 166 Lords-] lords W lords’ G

[489] 173 Bristol stone W, G

[490] 174 SN. He, old om. G

[491] 177 He is W, G

[492] 178 He has W, G

[493] 178, 180 He’s W, G

[494] 184 equivokes W, G

[495] 185 You’re 1716, W You are G || ’hem] ’em G || o’ ret. G

[496] 186 where it G

[497] 187 SN.] [To Fitz.] G

[498] 188 dencer 1641 Denier 1716 denier W, G

[499] 196 they’re just a 1716, W they are just a G

[500] 197 SN.] [Turns them out on table. G

[501] 199 can. [Exeunt Fitzdottrel, Gilthead, and Plutarchus.] me. [They fall to sharing. G

[502] 201 Dividend 1716 dividend W, G

[503] 204 o’ ret. G

[504] 205 that is G

[505] 206 Is it W, G

[506] 208 allow 1692, f.

[507] 209 you om. 1692, 1716, W

[508] 212 E’n] Even G

[509] 213 You’ve 1716, W

[510] 218 your om. 1641

[511] 223 you om. 1641

[512] 227 to doe] to be done 1641

[513] 229 audit. [Exit. G

[514] 232 vassalage!—Enter Engine, followed by Wittipoll. G

Act. IIJ. Scene. IV.

Mere-craft. Ingine. VVittipol.

How goes the cry?

Ing. Excellent well!

Mer. Wil’t do? VVhere’s Robinſon?

Ing. Here is the Gentleman, Sir. VVill vndertake t’himſelfe. I haue acquainted him.

Mer. VVhy did you ſo?

Ing. VVhy, Robinſon would ha’ told him, You know. And hee’s a pleaſant wit! will hurt 5 Nothing you purpoſe. Then, he’is of opinion, That Robinſon might want audacity, [129]   She being ſuch a gallant. Now, hee has beene, In Spaine, and knowes the faſhions there; and can Diſcourſe; and being but mirth (hee ſaies) leaue much, 10 To his care:

Mer. But he is too tall!

He excepts at his ſtature.

Ing. For that, He has the braueſt deuice! (you’ll loue him for’t) To ſay, he weares Cioppinos: and they doe ſo In Spaine. And Robinſon’s as tall, as hee.

Mer. Is he ſo?

Ing. Euery iot.

Mer. Nay, I had rather 15 To truſt a Gentleman with it, o’ the two.

Ing. Pray you goe to him, then, Sir, and ſalute him.

Mer. Sir, my friend Ingine has acquainted you With a ſtrange buſineſſe, here.

Wit. A merry one, Sir. The Duke of Drown’d-land, and his Dutcheſſe?

Mer. Yes, Sir. 20 Now, that the Coniurers ha’ laid him by, I ha’ made bold, to borrow him a while;

Wit. With purpoſe, yet, to put him out I hope To his beſt vſe?

Mer. Yes, Sir.

Wit. For that ſmall part, That I am truſted with, put off your care: 25 I would not loſe to doe it, for the mirth, Will follow of it; and well, I haue a fancy.

Mer. Sir, that will make it well.

Wit. You will report it ſo. Where muſt I haue my dreſſing?

Ing. At my houſe, Sir.

Mer. You ſhall haue caution, Sir, for what he yeelds, 30 To ſix pence.

Wit. You ſhall pardon me. I will ſhare, Sir, I’ your ſports, onely: nothing i’ your purchaſe. But you muſt furniſh mee with complements, To th’ manner of Spaine; my coach, my guarda duenn’as;

Mer. Ingine’s your Pro’uedor. But, Sir, I muſt 35 (Now I’haue entred truſt wi’ you, thus farre) Secure ſtill i’ your quality, acquaint you With ſomewhat, beyond this. The place, deſign’d To be the Scene, for this our mery matter, Becauſe it muſt haue countenance of women, 40 To draw diſcourse, and offer it, is here by, At the Lady Taile-buſhes.

Wit. I know her, Sir. And her Gentleman huiſher.

Mer. M^r Ambler?

Wit. Yes, Sir.

Mer. Sir, It ſhall be no ſhame to mee, to confeſſe To you, that wee poore Gentlemen, that want acres, 45 Muſt for our needs, turne fooles vp, and plough Ladies Sometimes, to try what glebe they are: and this Is no vnfruitefull piece. She, and I now, Are on a proiect, for the fact, and venting Of a new kinde of fucus (paint, for Ladies) 50 To ſerue the kingdome: wherein ſhee her ſelfe Hath trauell’d, ſpecially, by way of ſeruice Vnto her ſexe, and hopes to get the Monopoly, As the reward of her inuention. [138]  

Wit. What is her end, in this?

Ev. Merely ambition, 55 Sir, to grow great, and court it with the ſecret: Though ſhee pretend ſome other. For, ſhe’s dealing, Already, vpon caution for the ſhares, And M^r. Ambler, is hee nam’d Examiner For the ingredients; and the Register 60 Of what is vented; and ſhall keepe the Office. Now, if ſhee breake with you, of this (as I Muſt make the leading thred to your acquaintance, That, how experience gotten i’ your being Abroad, will helpe our buſinesse) thinke of ſome 65 Pretty additions, but to keep her floting: It may be, ſhee will offer you a part, Any ſtrange names of—

Wit. S^r, I haue my inſtructions. Is it not high time to be making ready?

Mer. Yes, Sir.

Ing. The foole’s in ſight, Dottrel.

Mer. Away, then. 70

[515] SD. om. G

[516] 1 ’t] it G

[517] 3 t’] ’t 1716, W it G

[518] 6 he’s 1692, f.

[519] 7 want] have 1641

[520] 11 SN. om. G

[521] 12 () ret. G

[522] 17 you to go 1716, W

[523] 35 Provedore 1716 provedore W provedoré G

[524] 43 Usher 1716 usher W, G

[525] 47 Sometime 1692, 1716, W

[526] 55 Ev.] Meer. 1716, f.

[527] 59 is hee] he is W, G

[528] 62, 65 () ret. G

[529] 70 [Exeunt Engine and Wittipol. G

Act. IIJ. Scene. V.

Mere-craft. Fitz-dottrel. Pvg.

Return’d ſo ſoone?

Fit. Yes, here’s the ring: I ha’ ſeal’d. But there’s not ſo much gold in all the row, he ſaies— Till’t come fro’ the Mint. ’Tis tane vp for the gameſters.

Mer. There’s a ſhop-ſhift! plague on ’hem.

Fit. He do’s ſweare it.

Mer. He’ll ſweare, and forſweare too, it is his trade, 5 You ſhould not haue left him.

Fit. S’lid, I can goe backe, And beat him, yet.

Mer. No, now let him alone.

Fit. I was ſo earneſt, after the maine Buſineſſe, To haue this ring, gone.

Mer. True, and ’tis time. I’haue learned, Sir, ſin’ you went, her Ladi-ſhip eats 10 With the Lady Tail-buſh, here, hard by.

Fit. I’ the lane here?

Mer. Yes, if you’had a ſeruant, now of prefence, Well cloth’d, and of an aëry voluble tongue, Neither too bigge, or little for his mouth, That could deliuer your wiues complement; 15 To ſend along withall.

Fit. I haue one Sir, A very handſome, gentleman-like-fellow, That I doe meane to make my Dutcheſſe Vſher— I entertain’d him, but this morning, too: I’ll call him to you. The worſt of him, is his name! 20

Mer. She’ll take no note of that, but of his meſſage. [139]  

Hee ſhewes him his Pug.

Fit. Diuell! How like you him, Sir. Pace, go a little. Let’s ſee you moue.

Mer. He’ll ſerue, S^r, giue it him: And let him goe along with mee, I’ll helpe To preſent him, and it.

Fit. Looke, you doe ſirah, 25 Diſcharge this well, as you expect your place. Do’you heare, goe on, come off with all your honours. Giues him inſtructions. I would faine ſee him, do it.

Mer. Truſt him, with it;

Fit. Remember kiſſing of your hand, and anſwering With the French-time, in flexure of your body. 30 I could now ſo inſtruct him—and for his words—

Mer. I’ll put them in his mouth.

Fit. O, but I haue ’hem O’ the very Academies.

Mer. Sir, you’ll haue vſe for ’hem, Anon, your ſelfe, I warrant you: after dinner, When you are call’d.

Fit. S’light, that’ll be iuſt play-time. 35 He longs to ſee the play. It cannot be, I muſt not loſe the play!

Mer. Sir, but you muſt, if ſhe appoint to ſit. And, ſhee’s preſident.

Fit. S’lid, it is the Diuell.

Becauſe it is the Diuell.

Mer. And, ’twere his Damme too, you muſt now apply Your ſelfe, Sir, to this, wholly; or loſe all. 40

Fit. If I could but ſee a piece—

Mer. S^r. Neuer think on’t.

Fit. Come but to one act, and I did not care— But to be ſeene to riſe, and goe away, To vex the Players, and to puniſh their Poet— Keepe him in awe!

Mer. But ſay, that he be one, 45 Wi’ not be aw’d! but laugh at you. How then?

Fit. Then he ſhall pay for his’dinner himſelfe.

Mer. Perhaps, He would doe that twice, rather then thanke you. Come, get the Diuell out of your head, my Lord, (I’ll call you ſo in priuate ſtill) and take 50 Your Lord-ſhip i’ your minde. You were, ſweete Lord, He puts him in mind of his quarrell. In talke to bring a Buſineſſe to the Office.

Fit. Yes.

Mer. Why ſhould not you, S^r, carry it o’ your ſelfe, Before the Office be vp? and ſhew the world, You had no need of any mans direction; 55 In point, Sir, of ſufficiency. I ſpeake Againſt a kinſman, but as one that tenders Your graces good.

Fit. I thanke you; to proceed—

Mer. To Publications: ha’ your Deed drawne preſently. And leaue a blancke to put in your Feoffees 60 One, two, or more, as you ſee cauſe—

Fit. I thank you Heartily, I doe thanke you. Not a word more, I pray you, as you loue mee. Let mee alone. That I could not thinke o’ this, as well, as hee? O, I could beat my infinite blocke-head—! 65

He is angry with himſelfe.

Mer. Come, we muſt this way.

Pvg. How far is’t.

Mer. Hard by here Ouer the way. Now, to atchieue this ring, From this ſame fellow, that is to aſſure it; [140]   He thinkes how to coozen the bearer, of the ring. Before hee giue it. Though my Spaniſh Lady, Be a young Gentleman of meanes, and ſcorne 70 To ſhare, as hee doth ſay, I doe not know How ſuch a toy may tempt his Lady-ſhip: And therefore, I thinke beſt, it be aſſur’d.

Pvg. Sir, be the Ladies braue, wee goe vnto?

Mer. O, yes.

Pvg. And ſhall I ſee ’hem, and ſpeake to ’hem? 75

Mer. What elſe? ha’ you your falſe-beard about you? Traines.

Questions his man.

Tra. Yes.

Mer. And is this one of your double Cloakes?

Tra. The beſt of ’hem.

Mer. Be ready then. Sweet Pitfall!

[530] SD. Act. ...] Re-enter Fitzdottrel. G

[531] 3 Till it G || from G§

[532] 8 comma after ‘earnest’ om. 1716, f.

[533] 9 it is W, G

[534] 10 since G

[535] 14 or] nor W, G

[536] 21, 27, 35 SN. om. G

[537] 22 Devil!—Enter Pug. G

[538] 27 Do’you] D’you 1692, 1716, W

[539] 30 in] and W, G

[540] 31 now] not 1641

[541] 38 she is W, G

[542] 39 And,] An G

[543] 38, 51 SN. om. G

[544] 47 Then] That 1692, 1716 || for’s 1692, f.

[545] 50 () ret. G

[546] 53 o’] on G

[547] 59 publication G

[548] 60 leave me a 1692, 1716, W

[549] 65 SN.] [Exeunt. Scene II. The Lane near the Lady Tailbush’s House. Enter Meercraft followed by Pug. G

[550] 67 way. [They cross over.] G

[551] 68 SN. om. G || is] is, W, G

[552] 73 [Aside. G

[553] 76 else? Enter Trains. || SN. om. G

[554] 78 then. [Exeunt. Scene III. A Hall in Lady Tailbush’s House. Enter Meercraft and Pug, met by Pitfall. G

Act. IIJ. Scene. VI.

Mere-craft. Pitfall. Pvg.
Traines.

Come, I muſt buſſe—

Offers to kiſſe.

Pit. Away. Mer. I’ll ſet thee vp again. Neuer feare that: canſt thou get ne’r a bird? No Thruſhes hungry? Stay, till cold weather come, I’ll help thee to an Ouſell, or, a Field-fare. Who’s within, with Madame?

Pit. I’ll tell you straight. 5

She runs in, in haſte: he followes.

Mer. Pleaſe you ſtay here, a while Sir, I’le goe in.

Pvg. I doe ſo long to haue a little venery, While I am in this body! I would taſt Of euery ſinne, a little, if it might be After the māner of man! Sweet-heart!

Pit. What would you, S^r? 10

Pug leaps at Pitfall’s comming in.

Pvg. Nothing but fall in, to you, be your Black-bird, My pretty pit (as the Gentleman ſaid) your Throſtle: Lye tame, and taken with you; here’is gold! To buy you ſo much new ſtuffes, from the ſhop, As I may take the old vp—

Tra. You muſt send, Sir. 15 The Gentleman the ring.

Traine’s in his falſe cloak, brings a falſe meſſage, and gets the ring.

Pvg. There ’tis. Nay looke, Will you be fooliſh, Pit.

Pit. This is ſtrange rudeneſſe.

Pvg. Deare Pit.

Pit. I’ll call, I ſweare.

Mere-craft followes preſently, and askes for it.

Mer. Where are you, S^r? Is your ring ready? Goe with me.

Pvg. I ſent it you.

Mer. Me? When? by whom?

Pvg. A fellow here, e’en now, 20 Came for it i’ your name.

Mer. I ſent none, ſure. My meaning euer was, you ſhould deliuer it, Your ſelfe: So was your Maſters charge, you know. Ent. Train’s as himſelfe againe. What fellow was it, doe you know him?

Pvg. Here, But now, he had it.

Mer. Saw you any? Traines? 25

Tra. Not I.

Pvg. The Gentleman ſaw him.

Mer. Enquire.

Pvg. I was ſo earneſt vpon her, I mark’d not! The Diuell confeſſeth himſelfe coozen’d. My diuelliſh Chiefe has put mee here in flesh, [141]   To ſhame mee! This dull body I am in, I perceiue nothing with! I offer at nothing, 30 That will ſucceed!

Tra. Sir, ſhe ſaw none, ſhe ſaies.

Pvg. Satan himſelfe, has tane a ſhape t’abuſe me. It could not be elſe.

Mer. This is aboue ſtrange! Mere-craft accuſeth him of negligence. That you ſhould be ſo retchleſſe. What’ll you do, Sir? How will you anſwer this, when you are queſtion’d? 35

Pvg. Run from my fleſh, if I could: put off mankind! This’s ſuch a ſcorne! and will be a new exerciſe, For my Arch-Duke! Woe to the ſeuerall cudgells, Muſt suffer, on this backe! Can you no ſuccours? Sir? 39

He asketh ayde.

Mer. Alas! the vſe of it is ſo preſent.

Pvg. I aske, Sir, credit for another, but till to morrow?

Mer. There is not ſo much time, Sir. But how euer, The lady is a noble Lady, and will (To ſaue a Gentleman from check) be intreated Mere-craft promiſeth faintly, yet comforts him. To ſay, ſhe ha’s receiu’d it.

Pvg. Do you thinke ſo? 45 Will ſhee be won?

Mer. No doubt, to ſuch an office, It will be a Lady’s brauery, and her pride.

Pvg. And not be knowne on’t after, vnto him?

Mer. That were a treachery! Vpon my word, Be confident. Returne vnto your maſter, 50 My Lady Preſident ſits this after-noone, Ha’s tane the ring, commends her ſeruices Vnto your Lady-Dutcheſſe. You may ſay She’s a ciuill Lady, and do’s giue her All her reſpects, already: Bad you, tell her 55 She liues, but to receiue her wiſh’d commandements, And haue the honor here to kiſſe her hands: For which ſhee’ll ſtay this houre yet. Haſten you Your Prince, away.

Pvg. And Sir, you will take care Th’ excuſe be perfect?

Mer. You confeſſe your feares. 60 The Diuel is doubtfull. Too much.

Pvg. The ſhame is more, I’ll quit you of either.

[555] SD. om.

[556] 1 SN.] [Offers to kiss her. G

[557] 5 SN. [Exit hastily. (after 5) [Exit. (after 6) G

[558] 10 SN.] Sweetheart! Re-enter Pitfall. || sir? [Pug runs to her. G

[559] 16 SN.] Enter Trains in his false beard and cloke. (after ’vp—’15) [Exit Trains.] (after ‘tis’ 16) G

[560] 18 SN. Enter Meercraft. G

[561] 21 for’t W

[562] 23 SN.] Re-enter Trains dressed as at first. G

[563] 26 Gentlewoman 1716 gentlewoman W, G

[564] 27, 33, 39 SN. om. G

[565] 31 succeed! [Aside. G

[566] 33 else! [Aside. G

[567] 34 ’ll] will G

[568] 37 ’s] is G

[569] 39 back! [Aside.] G

[570] 44 entreated W, G

[571] 45 has 1692, f. passim

[572] 44, 60 SN. om. G

[573] 60 period om. 1716, f.

[574] 61 I’ll ...] Meer. I’ll ... W, G

[575] 61 [Exeunt G

[142]  

Act. IIIJ. Scene. I.

Taile-bvsh. Mere-craft. Manly.

A Pox vpo’ referring to Commiſsioners, I’had rather heare that it were paſt the ſeales: Your Courtiers moue ſo Snaile-like i’ your Buſineſſe. Wuld I had begun wi’ you.

Mer. We muſt moue, Madame, in order, by degrees: not iump. 5

Tay. Why, there was S^r. Iohn Monie-man could iump A Buſineſſe quickely.

Mer. True, hee had great friends, But, becauſe ſome, ſweete Madame, can leape ditches, Wee muſt not all ſhunne to goe ouer bridges. The harder parts, I make account are done: 10 He flatters her. Now, ’tis referr’d. You are infinitly bound Vnto’the Ladies, they ha’ so cri’d it vp!

Tay. Doe they like it then?

Mer. They ha’ ſent the Spaniſh-Lady, To gratulate with you—

Tay. I must ſend ’hem thankes And ſome remembrances.

Mer. That you muſt, and viſit ’hem. 15 Where’s Ambler?

Tay. Loſt, to day, we cannot heare of him.

Mer. Not Madam?

Tay. No in good faith. They ſay he lay not At home, to night. And here has fall’n a Buſineſſe Betweene your Couſin, and Maſter Manly, has Vnquieted vs all.

Mer. So I heare, Madame. 20 Pray you how was it?

Tay. Troth, it but appeares Ill o’ your Kinſmans part. You may haue heard, That Manly is a ſutor to me, I doubt not:

Mer. I gueſs’d it, Madame.

Tay. And it ſeemes, he truſted Your Couſin to let fall some faire reports 25 Of him vnto mee.

Mer. Which he did!

Tay. So farre From it, as hee came in, and tooke him rayling Againſt him.

Mer. How! And what said Manly to him?

Tay. Inough, I doe aſſure you: and with that ſcorne Of him, and the iniury, as I doe wonder 30 How Euerill bore it! But that guilt vndoe’s Many mens valors.

Mer. Here comes Manly.

Man. Madame, [143]   I’ll take my leaue—

Manly offers to be gone.

Tay. You ſha’ not goe, i’ faith. I’ll ha’ you ſtay, and ſee this Spaniſh miracle, Of our Engliſh Ladie.

Man. Let me pray your Ladiſhip, 35 Lay your commands on me, some other time.

Tay. Now, I proteſt: and I will haue all piec’d, And friends againe.

Man. It will be but ill ſolder’d!

Tay. You are too much affected with it.

Man. I cannot Madame, but thinke on’t for th’ iniuſtice.

Tay. Sir, 40 His kinſman here is ſorry.

Mer. Not I, Madam, I am no kin to him, wee but call Couſins, Mere-craft denies him. And if wee were, Sir, I haue no relation Vnto his crimes.

Man. You are not vrged with ’hem. I can accuſe, Sir, none but mine owne iudgement, 45 For though it were his crime, ſo to betray mee: I am ſure, ’twas more mine owne, at all to truſt him. But he, therein, did vſe but his old manners, And fauour ſtrongly what hee was before.

Tay. Come, he will change!

Man. Faith, I muſt neuer think it. 50 Nor were it reaſon in mee to expect That for my ſake, hee ſhould put off a nature Hee ſuck’d in with his milke. It may be Madam, Deceiuing truſt, is all he has to truſt to: If ſo, I ſhall be loath, that any hope 55 Of mine, ſhould bate him of his meanes.

Tay. Yo’ are ſharp, Sir. This act may make him honeſt!

Man. If he were To be made honeſt, by an act of Parliament, I ſhould not alter, i’ my faith of him.

Tay. Eyther-ſide! Welcome, deare Either-ſide! how haſt thou done, good wench? She spies the Lady Eyther-ſide. Thou haſt beene a ſtranger! I ha’ not ſeene thee, this weeke. 61

[576] SD. IIIJ] VI. 1641 Taile. ...] A room in Lady Tailbush’s House. Enter Lady Tailbush and Meercraft. G

[577] 10 SN. om. G

[578] 32 valours. Enter Manly. G

[579] 33 SN. om. G

[580] 42 SN. om. G

[581] 43 wee] he G

[582] 47 I’m 1716, W

[583] 56 Y’are 1716, W

[584] 59 him. Enter Lady Eitherside.

[585] 60 SN. om. G

Act. IIIJ. Scene. II.

Eitherside. {To them

Ever your ſeruant, Madame.

Tay. Where hast ’hou beene? [144]   I did ſo long to ſee thee.

Eit. Viſiting, and ſo tyr’d! I proteſt, Madame, ’tis a monſtrous trouble!

Tay. And ſo it is. I ſweare I muſt to morrow, Beginne my viſits (would they were ouer) at Court. 5 It tortures me, to thinke on ’hem.

Eit. I doe heare You ha’ cauſe, Madam, your ſute goes on.

Tay. Who told thee?

Eyt. One, that can tell: M^r. Eyther-ſide.

Tay. O, thy huſband! Yes, faith, there’s life in’t, now: It is referr’d. If wee once ſee it vnder the ſeales, wench, then, 10 Haue with ’hem for the great Carroch, ſixe horſes, And the two Coach-men, with my Ambler, bare, And my three women: wee will liue, i’ faith, The examples o’ the towne, and gouerne it. I’le lead the faſhion ſtill.

Eit. You doe that, now, 15 Sweet Madame.

Tay. O, but then, I’ll euery day Bring vp ſome new deuice. Thou and I, Either-ſide, Will firſt be in it. I will giue it thee; And they ſhall follow vs. Thou ſhalt, I ſweare, Weare euery moneth a new gowne, out of it. 20

Eith. Thanke you good Madame.

Tay. Pray thee call mee Taile-buſh As I thee, Either-ſide: I not loue this, Madame.

Ety. Then I proteſt to you, Taile-buſh, I am glad Your Buſineſſe ſo ſucceeds.

Tay. Thanke thee, good Eyther-ſide.

Ety. But Maſter Either-ſide tells me, that he likes 25 Your other Buſineſſe better.

Tay. Which?

Eit. O’ the Tooth-picks.

Tay. I neuer heard on’t.

Eit. Aske M^r. Mere-craft.

Mer. Madame? H’is one, in a word, I’ll truſt his malice, With any mans credit, I would haue abus’d!

Mere-craft hath whiſper’d with the while.

Man. Sir, if you thinke you doe pleaſe mee, in this, 30 You are deceiu’d!

Mer. No, but becauſe my Lady, Nam’d him my kinſman; I would ſatisfie you, What I thinke of him: and pray you, vpon it To iudge mee!

Man. So I doe: that ill mens friendſhip, Is as vnfaithfull, as themſelues.

Tay. Doe you heare? 35 Ha’ you a Buſineſſe about Tooth-picks?

Mer. Yes, Madame. Did I ne’r tell’t you? I meant to haue offer’d it Your Lady-ſhip, on the perfecting the pattent. [145]  

Tay. How is’t!

Mer. For ſeruing the whole ſtate with Tooth-picks; The Proiect for Tooth-picks. (Somewhat an intricate Buſineſſe to diſcourſe) but—40 I ſhew, how much the Subiect is abus’d, Firſt, in that one commodity? then what diſeaſes, And putrefactions in the gummes are bred, By thoſe are made of adultrate, and falſe wood? My plot, for reformation of theſe, followes. 45 To haue all Tooth-picks, brought vnto an office, There ſeal’d; and ſuch as counterfait ’hem, mulcted. And laſt, for venting ’hem to haue a booke Printed, to teach their vſe, which euery childe Shall haue throughout the kingdome, that can read, 50 And learne to picke his teeth by. Which beginning Earely to practice, with ſome other rules, Of neuer ſleeping with the mouth open, chawing Some graines of maſticke, will preſerue the breath Pure, and ſo free from taynt—ha’ what is’t? ſaiſt thou?

Traines his man whiſpers him.

Tay. Good faith, it ſounds a very pretty Bus’neſſe! 56

Eit. So M^r. Either-ſide ſaies, Madame.

Mer. The Lady is come.

Tay. Is ſhe? Good, waite vpon her in. My Ambler Was neuer ſo ill abſent. Either-ſide, How doe I looke to day? Am I not dreſt, 60 Spruntly?

She lookes in her glaſſe.

Eit. Yes, verily, Madame.

Tay. Pox o’ Madame, Will you not leaue that?

Eit. Yes, good Taile-buſh.

Tay. So? Sounds not that better? What vile Fucus is this, Thou haſt got on?

Eit. ’Tis Pearle.

Tay. Pearle? Oyſter-ſhells: As I breath, Either-side, I know’t. Here comes 65 (They say) a wonder, ſirrah, has beene in Spaine! Will teach vs all; ſhee’s ſent to mee, from Court. To gratulate with mee! Pr’y thee, let’s obſerue her, What faults ſhe has, that wee may laugh at ’hem, When ſhe is gone.

Eit. That we will heartily, Tail-buſh. 70

Wittipol enters.

Tay. O, mee! the very Infanta of the Giants!

[586] SD. om. G

[587] 1 thou 1692, f.

[588] 22 not loue] love not 1716, f.

[589] 26 O’] O, 1641

[590] 27 on’t] of it G

[591] 28 Madam! [Aside to Manly.] G || He is G

[592] 29 SN. with him the 1692, 1716, W SN. om. G

[593] 37 tell it G

[594] 39 is it G || SN. om. G

[595] 40 an] in 1641

[596] 42 disease W

[597] 44 adulterate G

[598] 53 chewing 1716, f.

[599] 55 SN.] taint—Enter Trains, and whispers him. G

[600] 58 in. [Exit Meercraft.] G

[601] 61 SN.] She om. G || o’ ret. G

[602] 68 Prythee 1692 Prithee 1716 prithee W, G

[603] 70 SN.] Re-enter Meercraft, introducing Wittipol dressed as a Spanish Lady. G

Act. IIIJ. Scene. IJI.

Mere-craft.  Wittipol.  }  to them.

Wittipol is dreſt like a Spaniſh Lady.

Mer. Here is a noble Lady, Madame, come, [146]   From your great friends, at Court, to ſee your Ladi-ſhip: And haue the honour of your acquaintance.

Tay. Sir. She do’s vs honour.

Wit. Pray you, ſay to her Ladiſhip, It is the manner of Spaine, to imbrace onely, 5 Neuer to kiſſe. She will excuſe the cuſtome!

Excuſes him ſelfe for not kiſſing.

Tay. Your vſe of it is law. Pleaſe you, ſweete, Madame, To take a ſeate.

Wit. Yes, Madame. I’haue had The fauour, through a world of faire report To know your vertues, Madame; and in that 10 Name, haue deſir’d the happineſſe of preſenting My ſeruice to your Ladiſhip!

Tay. Your loue, Madame, I muſt not owne it elſe.

Wit. Both are due, Madame, To your great vndertakings.

Tay. Great? In troth, Madame, They are my friends, that thinke ’hem any thing: 15 If I can doe my ſexe (by ’hem) any ſeruice, I’haue my ends, Madame.

Wit. And they are noble ones, That make a multitude beholden, Madame: The common-wealth of Ladies, muſt acknowledge from you.

Eit. Except ſome enuious, Madame.

Wit. Yo’ are right in that, Madame, 20 Of which race, I encountred ſome but lately. Who (’t ſeemes) haue ſtudyed reaſons to diſcredit Your buſineſſe.

Tay. How, ſweet Madame.

Wit. Nay, the parties Wi’ not be worth your pauſe—Moſt ruinous things, Madame, That haue put off all hope of being recouer’d 25 To a degree of handſomeneſſe.

Tay. But their reaſons, Madame? I would faine heare.

Wit. Some Madame, I remember. They ſay, that painting quite deſtroyes the face—

Eit. O, that’s an old one, Madame.

Wit. There are new ones, too. Corrupts the breath; hath left ſo little ſweetneſſe 30 In kiſſing, as ’tis now vſ’d, but for faſhion: And ſhortly will be taken for a puniſhment. Decayes the fore-teeth, that ſhould guard the tongue; And ſuffers that runne riot euer-laſting! And (which is worſe) ſome Ladies when they meete 35 Cannot be merry, and laugh, but they doe ſpit In one anothers faces!

Man. I ſhould know This voyce, and face too: Manly begins to know him.

VVit. Then they ſay, ’tis dangerous [147]   To all the falne, yet well diſpos’d Mad-dames, That are induſtrious, and deſire to earne 40 Their liuing with their ſweate! For any diſtemper Of heat, and motion, may diſplace the colours; And if the paint once runne about their faces, Twenty to one, they will appeare ſo ill-fauour’d, Their ſeruants run away, too, and leaue the pleaſure 45 Imperfect, and the reckoning all vnpay’d.

Eit. Pox, theſe are Poets reaſons.

Tay. Some old Lady That keepes a Poet, has deuis’d theſe ſcandales.

Eit. Faith we muſt haue the Poets baniſh’d, Madame, As Maſter Either-ſide ſaies.

Mer. Maſter Fitz-dottrel? 50 And his wife: where? Madame, the Duke of Drown’d-land, That will be ſhortly.

VVit. Is this my Lord?

Mer. The ſame.

[604] SD. om. G

[605] 1 SN. is om. 1692, 1716, W || For G see 70 above.

[606] 5 embrace 1716, f.

[607] 6 SN. om. G

[608] 16 ’em G

[609] 20 Yo’] Y’ 1716, W

[610] 22 ’t] it G

[611] 38 SN.] [Aside. G

[612] 39 Mad-dams 1692, 1716 mad-dams W mad-ams G

[613] 46 also G

[614] 51 wife! Wit. Where? Enter Mr. and Mrs.Fitzdottrel, followed by Pug. Meer. [To Wit.] Madam, G

Act. IIIJ. Scene. IV.

Fitz-dottrel. Miſtreſſe Fitz-dottrell. Pvg. }  to them.

Your ſeruant, Madame!

VVit. How now? Friend? offended, That I haue found your haunt here?

Wittipol whiſpers with Manly.

Man. No, but wondring At your ſtrange faſhion’d venture, hither.

VVit. It is To ſhew you what they are, you ſo purſue.

Man. I thinke ’twill proue a med’cine againſt marriage; To know their manners.

VVit. Stay, and profit then. 6

Mer. The Lady, Madame, whose Prince has brought her, here, To be inſtructed.

Hee preſents Miſtreſſe Fitz-dottrel.

VVit. Pleaſe you ſit with vs, Lady.

Mer. That’s Lady-Preſident.

Fit. A goodly woman! I cannot ſee the ring, though.

Mer. Sir, ſhe has it. 10

Tay. But, Madame, theſe are very feeble reaſons!

Wit. So I vrg’d Madame, that the new complexion, Now to come forth, in name o’ your Ladiſhip’s fucus, Had no ingredient—

Tay. But I durſt eate, I aſſure you.

Wit. So do they, in Spaine.

Tay. Sweet Madam be ſo liberall, 15 To giue vs ſome o’ your Spaniſh Fucuſes!

VVit. They are infinit, Madame.

Tay. So I heare, they haue VVater of Gourdes, of Radiſh, the white Beanes, Flowers of Glaſſe, of Thiſtles, Roſe-marine. Raw Honey, Muſtard-ſeed, and Bread dough-bak’d, 20 The crums o’ bread, Goats-milke, and whites of Egges, Campheere, and Lilly-roots, the fat of Swannes, Marrow of Veale, white Pidgeons, and pine-kernells, [148]   The ſeedes of Nettles, perse’line, and hares gall. Limons, thin-skind—

Eit. How, her Ladiſhip has ſtudied 25 Al excellent things!

VVit. But ordinary, Madame. No, the true rarities, are th’ Aluagada, And Argentata of Queene Isabella!

Tay. I, what are their ingredients, gentle Madame?

Wit. Your Allum Scagliola, or Pol-dipedra; 30 And Zuccarino; Turpentine of Abezzo, Wash’d in nine waters: Soda di leuante, Or your Ferne aſhes; Beniamin di gotta; Graſſo di ſerpe; Porcelletto marino; Oyles of Lentiſco; Zucche Mugia; make 35 The admirable Verniſh for the face, Giues the right luſter; but two drops rub’d on VVith a piece of ſcarlet, makes a Lady of ſixty Looke at ſixteen. But, aboue all, the water Of the white Hen, of the Lady Eſtifanias! 40

Tay. O, I, that ſame, good Madame, I haue heard of: How is it done?

VVit. Madame, you take your Hen, Plume it, and skin it, cleanſe it o’ the inwards: Then chop it, bones and all: adde to foure ounces Of Carrauicins, Pipitas, Sope of Cyprus, 45 Make the decoction, ſtreine it. Then diſtill it, And keep it in your galley-pot well glidder’d: Three drops preſerues from wrinkles, warts, ſpots, moles, Blemiſh, or Sun-burnings, and keepes the skin In decimo ſexto, euer bright, and ſmooth, 50 As any looking-glaſſe; and indeed, is call’d The Virgins milke for the face, Oglio reale; A Ceruſe, neyther cold or heat, will hurt; And mixt with oyle of myrrhe, and the red Gilli-flower Call’d Cataputia; and flowers of Rouiſtico; 55 Makes the beſt muta, or dye of the whole world.

Tay. Deare Madame, will you let vs be familiar?

Wit. Your Ladiſhips ſeruant.

Mer. How do you like her.

Fit. Admirable! But, yet, I cannot ſee the ring.

Hee is iealous about his ring, and Mere-craft deliuers it.

Pvg. Sir.

Mer. I muſt Deliuer it, or marre all. This foole’s ſo iealous. 60 Madame—Sir, weare this ring, and pray you take knowledge, ’Twas ſent you by his wife. And giue her thanks, Doe not you dwindle, Sir, beare vp.

Pvg. I thanke you, Sir.

Tay. But for the manner of Spaine! Sweet, Madame, let vs Be bold, now we are in: Are all the Ladies, 65 There, i’ the faſhion?

VVit. None but Grandee’s, Madame, O’ the claſp’d traine, which may be worne at length, too, Or thus, vpon my arme.

Tay. And doe they weare Cioppino’s all?

VVit. If they be dreſt in punto, Madame.

Eit. Guilt as thoſe are? madame?

Wit. Of Goldſmiths work, madame; [149] 70 And ſet with diamants: and their Spaniſh pumps Of perfum’d leather.

Tai. I ſhould thinke it hard To go in ’hem, madame.

Wit. At the firſt, it is, madame.

Tai. Do you neuer fall in ’hem?

Wit. Neuer.

Ei. I ſweare, I ſhould Six times an houre.

Wit. But you haue men at hand, ſstill, To helpe you, if you fall?

Eit. Onely one, madame, 76 The Guardo-duennas, ſuch a little old man, As this.

Eit. Alas! hee can doe nothing! this!

Wit. I’ll tell you, madame, I ſaw i’ the Court of Spaine once, A Lady fall i’ the Kings ſight, along, 80 And there ſhee lay, flat ſpred, as an Vmbrella, Her hoope here crack’d; no man durſt reach a hand To helpe her, till the Guarda-duenn’as came, VVho is the perſon onel’ allow’d to touch A Lady there: and he but by this finger. 85

Eit. Ha’ they no ſeruants, madame, there? nor friends?

Wit. An Eſcudero, or ſo madame, that wayts Vpon ’hem in another Coach, at diſtance, And when they walke, or daunce, holds by a hand-kercher, Neuer preſumes to touch ’hem.

Eit. This’s ſciruy! 90 And a forc’d grauity! I doe not like it. I like our owne much better.

Tay. ’Tis more French, And Courtly ours.

Eit. And taſts more liberty. VVe may haue our doozen of viſiters, at once, Make loue t’vs.

Tay. And before our husbands?

Eit. Huſband? 95 As I am honeſt, Tayle-buſh I doe thinke If no body ſhould loue mee, but my poore husband, I ſhould e’n hang my ſelfe.

Tay. Fortune forbid, wench: So faire a necke ſhould haue ſo foule a neck-lace.

Eit. ’Tis true, as I am handſome!

Wit. I receiu’d, Lady, 100 A token from you, which I would not bee Rude to refuſe, being your firſt remembrance.

(Fit. O, I am ſatisfied now! Mer. Do you ſee it, Sir.)

Wit. But ſince you come, to know me, neerer, Lady, I’ll begge the honour, you will weare for mee, 105 It muſt be ſo.

Wittipol giues it Miſtreſſe Fitz-dottrel.

M^rs. Fit. Sure I haue heard this tongue.

Mer. What do you meane, S^r?

Mere-craft murmures,

Wit. Would you ha’ me mercenary? We’ll recompence it anon, in ſomewhat elſe.

He is ſatisfied, now he ſees it.

Fit. I doe not loue to be gull’d, though in a toy. VVife, doe you heare? yo’ are come into the Schole, wife, VVhere you may learne, I doe perceiue it, any thing! 111 How to be fine, or faire, or great, or proud, Or what you will, indeed, wife; heere ’tis taught. And I am glad on’t, that you may not ſay, Another day, when honours come vpon you, 115 You wanted meanes. I ha’ done my parts: beene, Today at fifty pound charge, firſt, for a ring, [150]   He vpbraids her, with his Bill of coſts. To get you entred. Then left my new Play, To wait vpon you, here, to ſee’t confirm’d. That I may ſay, both to mine owne eyes, and eares, 120 Senſes, you are my witneſſe, ſha’ hath inioy’d All helps that could be had, for loue, or money—

M^rs. Fit. To make a foole of her.

Fit. Wife, that’s your malice, The wickedneſſe o’ you nature to interpret Your husbands kindeſſe thus. But I’ll not leaue; 125 Still to doe good, for your deprau’d affections: Intend it. Bend this ſtubborne will; be great.

Tay. Good Madame, whom do they vſe in meſſages?

Wit. They comonly vſe their ſlaues, Madame.

Tai. And do’s your Ladiſhip. Thinke that ſo good, Madame?

Wit. no, indeed, Madame; I, 130 Therein preferre the faſhion of England farre, Of your young delicate Page, or diſcreet Vſher.

Fit. And I goe with your Ladiſhip, in opinion, Directly for your Gentleman-vſher. There’s not a finer Officer goes on ground. 135

Wit. If hee be made and broken to his place, once.

Fit. Nay, ſo I preſuppoſe him.

Wit. And they are fitter Managers too, Sir, but I would haue ’hem call’d Our Eſcudero’s.

Fit. Good.

Wit. Say, I ſhould ſend To your Ladiſhip, who (I preſume) has gather’d 140 All the deare ſecrets, to know how to make Paſtillos of the Dutcheſſe of Braganza, Coquettas, Almoiauana’s, Mantecada’s, Alcoreas, Muſtaccioli; or ſay it were The Peladore of Isabella, or balls 145 Againſt the itch, or aqua nanfa, or oyle Of Ieſſamine for gloues, of the Marqueſſe Muja: Or for the head, and hayre: why, theſe are offices.

Fit. Fit for a gentleman, not a ſlaue. They onely Might aske for your pineti, Spaniſh-cole, 150 To burne, and ſweeten a roome; but the Arcana Of Ladies Cabinets—

Fit. Should be elſe-where truſted. Yo’ are much about the truth. Sweet honoured Ladies, He enters himſelfe with the Ladies. Let mee fall in wi’ you. I’ha’ my female wit, As well as my male. And I doe know what ſutes 155 A Lady of ſpirit, or a woman of faſhion!

Wit. And you would haue your wife ſuch.

Fit. Yes, Madame, aërie, Light; not to plaine diſhoneſty, I meane: But, ſomewhat o’ this ſide.

Wit. I take you, Sir. H’has reaſon Ladies. I’ll not giue this ruſh 160 For any Lady, that cannot be honeſt Within a thred.

Tay. Yes, Madame, and yet venter As far for th’other, in her Fame—

Wit. As can be; Coach it to Pimlico; daunce the Saraband; [151]   Heare, and talke bawdy; laugh as loud, as a larum; 165 Squeake, ſpring, do any thing.

Eit. In young company, Madame.

Tay. Or afore gallants. If they be braue, or Lords, A woman is ingag’d.

Fit. I ſay ſo, Ladies, It is ciuility to deny vs nothing.

Pvg. You talke of a Vniuerſity! why, Hell is 170 A Grammar-ſchoole to this!

The Diuell admires him.

Eit. But then, Shee muſt not loſe a looke on ſtuffes, or cloth, Madame.

Tay. Nor no courſe fellow.

Wit. She muſt be guided, Madame By the clothes he weares, and company he is in; Whom to ſalute, how farre—

Fit. I ha’ told her this. 175 And how that bawdry too, vpo’ the point, Is (in it ſelfe) as ciuill a diſcourſe—

Wit. As any other affayre of fleſh, what euer.

Fit. But ſhee will ne’r be capable, ſhee is not So much as comming, Madame; I know not how 180 She loſes all her opportunities With hoping to be forc’d. I’haue entertain’d He ſhews his Pug. A gentleman, a younger brother, here, Whom I would faine breed vp, her Eſcudero, Againſt ſome expectation’s that I haue, 185 And ſhe’ll not countenance him.

Wit. What’s his name?

Fit. Diuel, o’ Darbi-ſhire.

Eit. Bleſſe us from him!

Tay. Diuell? Call him De-uile, ſweet Madame.

M^rs. Fi. What you pleaſe, Ladies.

Tay. De-uile’s a prettier name!

Eit. And ſounds, me thinks, As it came in with the Conquerour—

Man. Ouer ſmocks! 190 What things they are? That nature ſhould be at leaſure Euer to make ’hem! my woing is at an end.

Manly goes out with indignation.

Wit. What can he do?

Eit. Let’s heare him.

Tay. Can he manage?

Fit. Pleaſe you to try him, Ladies. Stand forth, Diuell.

Pvg. Was all this but the preface to my torment? 195

Fit. Come, let their Ladiſhips ſee your honours.

Eit. O, Hee makes a wicked leg.

Tay. As euer I ſaw!

Wit. Fit for a Diuell.

Tay. Good Madame, call him De-uile.

Wit. De-uile, what property is there moſt required I’ your conceit, now, in the Eſcudero? 200

They begin their Catechiſme.

Fit. Why doe you not speake?

Pvg. A ſetled diſcreet paſe, Madame.

Wit. I thinke, a barren head, Sir, Mountaine-like, To be expos’d to the cruelty of weathers—

Fit. I, for his Valley is beneath the waſte, Madame, And to be fruitfull there, it is ſufficient. 205 Dulneſſe vpon you! Could not you hit this?

Pvg. Good Sir—

He ſtrikes him.

Wit. He then had had no barren head. You daw him too much, in troth, Sir.

Fit. I muſt walke With the French ſticke, like an old vierger for you.

Pvg. O, Chiefe, call mee to Hell againe, and free mee. 210

The Diuell prayes.

Fit. Do you murmur now?

Pvg. Not I, S^r.

Wit. What do you take [152]   M^r. Deuile, the height of your employment, In the true perfect Eſcudero?

Fit. When? What doe you anſwer?

Pvg. To be able, Madame, Firſt to enquire, then report the working, 215 Of any Ladies phyſicke, in ſweete phraſe.

Wit. Yes, that’s an act of elegance, and importance. But what aboue?

Fit. O, that I had a goad for him.

Pvg. To find out a good Corne-cutter.

Tay. Out on him!

Eit. Moſt barbarous!

Fit. Why did you doe this, now? 220 Of purpoſe to diſcredit me? you damn’d Diuell.

Pvg. Sure, if I be not yet, I ſhall be. All My daies in Hell, were holy-daies to this!

Tay. ’Tis labour loſt, Madame?

Eit. H’is a dull fellow Of no capacity!

Tai. Of no diſcourſe! 225 O, if my Ambler had beene here!

Eit. I, Madame; You talke of a man, where is there ſuch another?

Wit. M^r. Deuile, put caſe, one of my Ladies, heere, Had a fine brach: and would imploy you forth To treate ’bout a conuenient match for her. 230 What would you obſerue?

Pvg. The color, and the ſize, Madame.

Wit. And nothing elſe?

Fit. The Moon, you calfe, the Moone!

Wit. I, and the Signe.

Tai. Yes, and receits for proneneſſe.

Wit. Then when the Puppies came, what would you doe?

Pvg. Get their natiuities caſt!

Wit. This’s wel. What more? 235

Pvg. Conſult the Almanack-man which would be leaſt? Which cleanelieſt?

Wit. And which ſilenteſt? This’s wel, madame!

Wit. And while ſhe were with puppy?

Pvg. Walke her out, And ayre her euery morning!

Wit. Very good! And be induſtrious to kill her fleas? 240

Pvg. Yes!

Wit. He will make a pretty proficient.

Pvg. Who, Comming from Hell, could looke for ſuch Catechiſing? The Diuell is an Aſſe. I doe acknowledge it.

Fit. The top of woman! All her ſexe in abſtract! Fitz-dottrel admires Wittipol. I loue her, to each ſyllable, falls from her. 245

Tai. Good madame giue me leaue to goe aſide with him! And try him a little!

Wit. Do, and I’ll with-draw, Madame, VVith this faire Lady: read to her, the while.

Tai. Come, S^r.

Pvg. Deare Chiefe, relieue me, or I periſh.

The Diuel praies again.

Wit. Lady, we’ll follow. You are not iealous Sir? 250

Fit. O, madame! you ſhall ſee. Stay wife, behold, I giue her vp heere, abſolutely, to you, She is your owne. Do with her what you will! He giues his wife to him, taking him to be a Lady. Melt, caſt, and forme her as you ſhall thinke good! Set any ſtamp on! I’ll receiue her from you 255 As a new thing, by your owne ſtandard!

VVit. Well, Sir!

[615] SD. om. G

[616] 1 Wit. [Takes Manly aside.]

[617] 2 SN. om. G wondering G

[618] 8 SN. Hee om. G

[619] 13 o’] of W

[620] 14 had] has W, G

[621] 17 hear. Wit. They G

[622] 22 Camphire 1716, f.

[623] 32, 3 leuante ... di om. 1641

[624] 34 Grosia 1641

[625] 35 Zucchi 1641

[626] 36 varnish G

[627] 39 at] as 1716, f.

[628] 43 o’ ret. G

[629] 53 or] nor W, G

[630] 59 SN. om. G

[631] 60 [Aside. G

[632] 61 Madam—[whispers Wit.] G

[633] 63 up. [Aside to Pug. G

[634] 70 Eit.] Lady T. G

[635] 71 Diamonds 1692, 1716 diamonds W, G

[636] 75 Wit. ...] speech given to Tai. 1716, f.

[637] 76 Eit. ...] speech given to Wit. 1716, f.

[638] 77 guarda W, G

[639] 78 this. [Points to Trains. G

[640] 79 in the 1716, f.

[641] 84 onl’ 1692, 1716 only W, G

[642] 89 dance 1692, f. || Handkerchief 1716 handkerchief W, G

[643] 90 This is W, G

[644] 94 dozen 1692, f.

[645] 103 now! [Aside to Meer. G

[646] 106 SN.] [Gives the ring to Mrs. Fitzdottrel. G Surely 1641 tongue. [Aside. G

[647] 107 SN.] [Aside to Wit. G

[648] 108 SN. om. [Exeunt Meer, and Trains G

[649] 110 heare? [Takes Mrs. Fitz. aside.] G You’re 1716, W into] in 1641 schoole 1641 School 1692, 1716 school W, G

[650] 117 SN. om. G

[651] 118 left] let 1641 entered W enter’d G

[652] 120 owne om. G

[653] 121 sha’] she’ 1692 she 1716, f. enjoy’d 1692, f.

[654] 124 your 1641, f.

[655] 125 kindnesse 1641 Kindness 1692, 1716 kindness W, G

[656] 147 Marquess 1692, 1716 marquess W

[657] 149 Fit.] Eith. 1716, W Wit. They G

[658] 153 SN. om. G || You’re 1716, W

[659] 160 He ’as 1716, W

[660] 162 venture 1692, f.

[661] 164 dance 1641, f.

[662] 168 engag’d W engaged G

[663] 171 SN.] [Aside. G

[664] 176 baudery 1641

[665] 182 SN. om. G

[666] 192 SN.] [Aside, and exit with indignation. G || Wooing 1692, 1716 wooing W, G

[667] 195 [Aside. G

[668] 196 Ladiship 1641

[669] 200, 210 SN. om. G

[670] 201 pase] pause 1641

[671] 207 SN.] [Fit strikes Pug. W || He om. G

[672] 208 draw 1716

[673] 209 Virger W verger G

[674] 210 [Aside. G

[675] 212 Divele 1641

[676] 223 [Aside. G

[677] 224 He’s 1716, W He is G

[678] 229 employ 1692, f.

[679] 235, 237 This’s] This is 1716, f.

[680] 237 cleanliest 1692, f. silent’st 1692. f.

[681] 238 Wit. om. 1692, f.

[682] 242 such] such a W, G

[683] 243 [Aside. G

[684] 244 SN.] [Aside, and looking at Wittipol. G

[685] 249 SN.] [Aside. G

[686] 253 SN. om. G

[687] 256 [Exit Wit. Well, sir! [Exeunt Wittipol with Mrs. Fitz. and Tailbush and Eitherside with Pug. G

Act. IIIJ. Scene. V.

Mere-craft. Fitz-dottrel. Pit-Fal.
Ever-ill. Plvtarchus.