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Mer. That's strange.

Lov. Runs lunatic, if you but talk of states: He can't be brought, now he has spent his own, To think there is inheritance or means, But all a common riches, all men bound To be his bailiffs

Mer. This is something dangerous.

Lov. No gentleman that has estate, to use it In keeping house or followers; for those ways He cries against, for eating sins, dull surfeits, Cramming of serving-men, mustering of beggars, Maintaining hospitals for kites and curs, Grounding their fat faiths upon old country proverbs ;

God bless the founders! These he would have Into more manly uses, wit, and carriage, [vented And never thinks of state, or means, the ground

works;

Holding it monstrous, men should feed their bodies, And starve their understandings.

Mer. That's most certain.

Lov. Yes, if he could stay there.

Mer. Why, let him marry,

And that way rise again.

Lov. It's most impossible;

He will not look with any handsomeness
Upon a woman.

Mer. Is he so strange to women?

Lov. I know not what it is; a foolish glory

He has got, I know not where, to balk those

benefits;

And yet he will converse and flatter 'em,
Make 'em, or fair or foul, rugged or smooth,
As his impression serves; for he affirms,
They're only lumps, and undigested pieces,
Lick'd over to a form by our affections,
And then they show. The lovers! let 'em pass
Enter FOUNTAIN, BELLAMORE, HAREBRAIN.
Mer. He might be one; he carries as much
They are wondrous merry.
[promise.

Lov. Oh! their hopes are high, sir.
Fount. Is Valentine come to town?

Bel. Last night, I heard.

Fount. We miss him monstrously in our direcFor this widow is as stately, and as crafty, [tions; And stands, I warrant you

Hare. Let here stand sure; She falls before us else. Valentine.

Come, let's go seek [Exeunt.

Mer. This widow seems a gallant.
Lov. A goodly woman;

And to her handsomeness she bears her state,
Reserved and great; Fortune has made her mistress
Of a full means, and well she knows to use it.
Mer. I would Valentine had her.

Lov. There's no hope of that, sir.

Mer. O' that condition, he had his mortgage in Lov. I would he had.

Mer. Seek means, and see what I'll do: (However, let the money be paid in ;)

I never sought a gentleman's undoing,

Nor eat the bread of other men's vexations.

[again.

The mortgage shall be render'd back; take time You told me of another brother.

[for't.

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Enter LANCE and three Tenants.

Mer. What are these?

Lov. The tenants ;

They'll do what they can.

Mer. It is well prepared.

Be earnest, honest friends, and loud upon him;
He's deaf to his own good.

Lance. We mean to tell him

Part of our minds, an't please you.

Mer. Do, and do it home,

And in what my care may help, or my persuasions, When we meet next

Lov. Do but persuade him fairly ;

And for your money, mine and these men's thanks And what we can be able

Mer. You're most honest;

[too,

[Exit MER.

You shall find me no iess; and so I leave you.
Prosper your business, friends!

Lov. Pray Heaven it may, sir.

Lance. Nay, if he will be mad, I'll be mad with him,

And tell him that-I il rot spare him

His father kept good meat, good drink, good fellows,

Good hawks, good hounds, and bid his neighbours welcome;

Kept him too, and supplied his prodigality,
Yet kept his state still.

Must we turn tenants now (after we have lived
Under the race of gentry, and maintain'd
Good yeomanry) to some of the city,

To a great shoulder of mutton and a custard.

And have our state turned into cabbage-gardens ? Must it be so?

Lov. You must be milder to him.

Lance. That's as he makes his game.
Lov. Entreat him lovingly,

And make him feel.

Lance. I'll pinch him to the bones else.

Val. (Within.) And tell the gentleman, I'll be with him presently.

Say I want money too; I must not fail, boy.
Lance. You will want clothes, I hope.

Enter VALENTINE.

Val. [Entering.] Bid the young courtier Repair to me anon; I'll read to him..

Lov. He comes: be diligent, but not too rugged; Start him, but not affright him.

Val. Phew! are you there?

Lov. We come to see you, nephew; be not

angry.

Val. Why do you dog me thus, with these strange people?

Why, all the world shall never make me rich more,
Nor master of these troubles.

Ten. We beseech you,
For our poor children's sake.

Val. Who bid you get 'em?

Have you not threshing work enough, but children
Must be bang'd out o' th' sheaf too? Other men,
With all their delicates, and healthful diets,
Can get but wind-eggs: You, with a clove of
garlic,

A piece of cheese would break a saw, and sour milk,
Can mount like stallions; and I must maintain
These tumblers!

Lance. You ought to maintain us; we Have maintain'd you, and, when you slept, provided for vou.

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Val. Very well, sir.

Lance. Had you land, sir,

And honest men to serve your purposes, Honest and faithful, and will you run away from 'em,

Betray yourself, and your poor tribe to misery; Mortgage all us, like old cloaks? Where will you hunt next?

You had a thousand acres, fair and open: The King's Bench is enclosed, there's no good riding;

The Counter's full of thorns and brakes (take heed, sir)

And bogs; you'll quickly find what broth they're
Val. You're short and pithy.
[made of.
Lance. They say you're a fine gentleman,
And excellent judgment they report you have; a

wit:

Keep yourself out o' th' rain, and take your cloak with you,

Which by interpretation is your state, sir,
Or I shall think your fame belied you. You have
And may have means.
[money,

Val. I pr'ythee leave prating!
Does my good lie within thy brain to further,
Or my undoing in thy pity? Go,

Go, get you home; there whistle to your horses,
And let them edify! Away, sow hemp,

And hang yourselves withal! What am I to you, Or you to me? Am I your landlord, puppies ? Lov. This is uncivil.

Val. More unmerciful you,

To vex me with these bacon-broth and puddings;
They are the walking shapes of all my sorrows.
3 Ten. Your father's worship would have used
us better.

Val. My father's worship was a fool!
Lance. Hey, hey, boys!

Old Valentine, i'faith; the old boy still!
Lov. Fie. cousin!

Val. I mean besotted to his state; he had never
Left me the misery of so much means else,
Which, till I sold, was a mere megrim to me.
If you will talk, turn out these tenements:
They are as killing to my nature, uncle,
As water to a fever.

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For being quell'd with carriers. Out upon't! Caveat emptor! Let the fool out-sweat it, That thinks he has got a catch on't.

Lov. This is madness, To be a wilful beggar.

Val. I am mad then,

And so I mean to be; will that content you?
How bravely now I live, how jocund!
How near the first inheritance, without fears!
How free from title-troubles!

Lov. And from means too.

Val. Means? Why, all good men's my means, my wit's my plough,

The town's my stock, taverns my standing house, And all the world knows there's no want; all gentlemen

That love society love me; all purses

That wit and pleasure opens are my tenants;
Every man's clothes fit me; the next fair lodging
Is but my next remove; and when I please
To be more eminent, and take the air,
A piece is levied, and a coach prepared,

And I go I care not whither. What need state here?

Lov. But, say these means were honest, will they last, sir?

Val. Far longer than your jerkin, and wear fairer.

Should I take aught of you? 'Tis true, I begg'd

now,

Or, which is worse than that, I stole a kindness,
And, which is worst of all, I lost my way in't.
Your mind's enclosed, nothing lies open nobly;
Your very thoughts are hinds that work on nothing
But daily sweat and trouble: Were my way
So full of dirt as this, 'tis true, I'd shift it.
Are my acquaintance graziers? But, sir, know,
No man that I'm allied to, in my living,
But makes it equal, whether his own use
Or my necessity pull first: nor is this forced,
But the mere quality and poisure of goodness:
And do you think I venture nothing equal?
Lov. You pose me, cousin.

Val. What's my knowledge, uncle? Is't not worth money?

What's my understanding, my travel, reading, wit,
All these digested; my daily making men,
Some to speak, that too much phlegm had frozen

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Val. Give it me. Drink that, and commend me to thy master.[Exeunt Servants.

Look you, uncle, do I beg these?

Lov. No, sure; it is your worth, sir. Val. 'Tis like enough; but, pray satisfy me, Are not these ways as honest as persecuting The starved inheritance, with musty corn The very rats were fain to run away from, Or selling rotten wood by the pound, like spices, Which gentlemen do after burn by the ounces? Do not I know your way of feeding beasts With grains, and windy stuff, to blow up butchers? Your racking pastures, that have eaten up As many singing shepherds, and their issues, As Andeluzia breeds? These are authentic. I tell you, sir, I would not change ways with you, Unless it were to sell your state that hour, And, if 'twere possible, to spend it then too, For all your beans in Rumnillo. Now you know

me.

Lov. I would you knew yourself; but, since you're grown

Such a strange enemy to all that fits you,
Give me leave to make your brother's fortune.
Val. How?

Lov. From your mortgage, which yet you may I'll find the means. [recover;

Val. Pray, save your labour, sir;
My brother and myself will run one fortune,
And I think, what I hold a mere vexation
Cannot be safe for him; I love him better

He has wit at will, the world has means; he shall live

Without this trick of state; we are heirs both,
And all the world before us.

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One without ears, not giving time to flatterers
(For she that hears herself commended, wavers,
And points men out a way to make 'em wicked);
One without substance of herself; that woman
Without the pleasure of her life, that's wanton;
Though she be young, forgetting it; though fair,
Making her glass the eyes of honest men,
Not her own admiration; all her ends
Obedience, all her hours new blessings; if
There may be such a woman.

Lov. Yes, there may be.

Val. And without state too?

Lov. You're disposed to trifle.

Well, fare you well, sir! When you want me next, You'll seek me out a better sense.

Val. Farewell, uncle,

And as you love your state, let not me hear on't.

[Exit.

Lov. It shall not trouble you. I'll watch him still;

And, when his friends fall off, then bend his will. [Exit.

SCENE II.-Another Street.

Enter ISABELLA and LUCE.

Luce. I know the cause of all this sadness now; Your sister has engross'd all the brave lovers.

Isab. She has wherewithal, much good may't do her!

Tr'ythee, speak softly; we are open to men's ears. Luce. Fear not, we're safe; we may see all that pass,

Hear all, and make ourselves merry with their language,

And yet stand undiscover'd. Be not melancholy; You are as fair as she.

Isab. Who, I? I thank you;

I am as haste ordain'd me, a thing slubber'd:
My sister is a goodly, portly lady,

A woman of a presence; she spreads sattin,
As the king's ships do canvas, every where.
She may spare me her inizen, and her bonnets,
Strike her main petticoat, and yet out-sail me ;
I am a carvel to her.

Luce. But a tight one.

Isab. She is excellent well built too.
Luce. And yet she's old.

Isab. She never saw above one voyage, Luce,
And, credit me, after another, her hull
Will serve again, and a right good merchant.
She plays, and sings too, dances and discourses,
Comes very near essays, a pretty poet,
Begins to piddle with philosophy,

A subtle chymic wench, and can extract
The spirit of men's estates; she has the light
Before her, and cannot miss her choice. For me,
'Tis reason I wait my mean fortune.

Luce. You are so bashful!

Isab. 'Tis not at first word "up and ride;" thou'rt cozen'd;

That would shew mad, i'faith! Besides, we lose
The main part of our politic government,
If we become provokers. Then we are fair,
And fit for men's embraces, when, like towns,
They lie before us ages, yet not carried;
Hold out their strongest batteries, then compound
Without the loss of honour, and march off
With our fair wedding-colours flying!-Who are
these?

Enter FRANCISCO and LANCE.

Luce. I know not, nor I care not. Isab. Pr'ythee peace then!

[too

A well-built gentleman.

Luce. But poorly thatch'd.

[They retire.

Lance. Has he devour'd you too?

Fran. He has gulp'd me down, Lance.
Lance. Left you no means to study?
Fran. Not a farthing:

Dispatch'd my poor annuity, I thank him.
Here's all the hope I've left, one bare ten shillings.
Lance. You're fit for great men's services.
Fran. I am fit, but who will take me thus ?
Men's miseries are now accounted
Stains in their natures. I have travelled,
And I have studied long, observed all kingdoms,

Know all the promises of art and manners:
Yet, that I am not bold, nor cannot flatter,
I shall not thrive; all these are but vain studies
Art thou so rich as to get me a lodging, Lance?
Lance. I'll sell the tiles of my house else, my
horse, my hawk;

Nay, 'sdeath, I'll pawn my wife! Oh, master
Francis,

That I should see your father's house fall thus !
Isub. An honest fellow !

Lance. Your father's house, that fed me,
That bred up all my name!
Isab. A grateful fellow !
Lance. And fall by-

Fran. Peace; I know you're angry, Lance,
But I must not hear with whom; he is my brother,
And, though you hold him slight, my most dear
A gentleman, excepting some few rubs, [brother!
(He were too excellent to live here else)
Fraughted as deep with noble and brave parts,
The issues of a noble and manly spirit,
As any he alive. I must not hear you:
Though I am miserable, and he made me so,
Yet still he is my brother, still I love him,
And to that tie of blood link my affections.
Isab. A noble nature! Dost thou know him,
Luce. No, mistress.

[Luce? Isab. Thou shouldst ever know such good men. What a fair body and a mind are married there toDid he not say he wanted?

Luce. What is that to you?

Isab. "Tis true; but 'tis great pity.
Luce. How she changes!-[Aside.]

[gether!

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Luce. Poor enough; and no man knows from
L. Hea. What could she see? [whence neither.
Luce. Only his misery;

For else she might behold a hundred handsomer.
L. Hea. Did she change much?
Luce. Extremely, when he spoke;
And then her pity, like an orator,

(I fear her love) framed such a commendation,
And follow'd it so far, as made me wonder.

L. Hea. Is she so hot, or such a want of lovers, That she must dote upon afflictions?

Why does she not go rummage all the prisons, And there bestow her youth, bewray her wanton

ness,

And fly her honour, common both to beggary?
Did she speak to him?

Luce. No, he saw us not;

But ever since she hath been mainly troubled.
L. Hea. Was he young?

Luce. Yes, young enough.

L. Hea. And look'd he like a gentleman? Luce. Like such a gentleman would pawn ten oaths for twelve pence.

L. Hea. My sister, and sink basely! This must Does she use means to know him? [not be. Luce. Yes, madam; and has employ'd a squire call'd Shorthose.

L. Hea. Oh, that's a precious knave! Keep all this private;

But still be near her lodging. Luce, what you can gather

By any means, let me understand.—I'll stop her And turn her charity another way, [heat,

To bless herself first.-Be still close to her counsels.-

A beggar, and a stranger! There's a blessedness! I'll none of that. I have a toy yet, sister,

Shall tell you this is foul, and make you find it.— And, for your pains, take you the last gown I

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Are you good at nothing, but these after-games? I've told you often enough what things they are, What precious things, these widows!

Hare. If we had 'em,

Val. Why, the devil has not craft enough to woo 'em.

There be three kinds of fools,-(mark this note, Mark it, and understand it.) [gentlemen,

Fount. Well, go forward.

Val. An innocent, a knave-fool, a fool politic: The last of which are lovers, widow-lovers. Bel. Will you allow no fortune?

Val. No such blind one.

Fount. We gave you reasons why 'twas needful for us.

Val. As you're those fools, I did allow those

reasons,

But, as my scholars and companions, damn'd 'em.
Do you know what it is to woo a widow?
Answer me coolly now, and understandingly.

Hare. Why, to lie with her, and to enjoy her wealth.

Val. Why, there you're fools still; crafty to catch yourselves.

Pure politic fools; I look'd for such an answer.
Once more hear me: It is,

To wed a widow, to be doubted mainly,
Whether the state you have be yours or no,
Or those old boots you ride in.

widows

Mark me;

Are long extents in law upon men's livings, Upon their bodies winding-sheets; they that enjoy 'em,

Lie but with dead men's monuments, and beget Only their own ill epitaphs. Is not this plain now? Bel. Plain spoken.

Val. And plain truth; but, if you'll needs Do things of danger, do but lose yourselves, (Not any part concerns your understandings, For then you're meacocks, fools, and miserable) March off amain, within an inch of a firecock, Turn me o' th' toe like a weather-cock! Kill every day a serjeant for a twelvemonth; Rob the Exchequer, and burn all the rolls! And these will make a show.

Hare. And these are trifles?

Val. Consider'd to a widow, empty nothings;
For here you venture but your persons, there
The varnish of your persons, your discretions.
Why, 'tis a monstrous thing to marry at all,
Especially as now 'tis made: Methinks
A man, an understanding man, is more wife
To me, and of a nobler tie, than all these trinkets.
What do we get by women, but our senses,
Which is the rankest part about us, satisfied?
And, when that's done, what are we? Crest-
fall'n cowards!

What benefit can children be, but charges,
And disobedience? What's the love they render
At one-and-twenty years? "I pray die, father!"
When they are young, they are like bells rung
backwards,

Nothing but noise and giddiness; and, come to

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