 Jermadis Personae, an author's introduction to a woman is a weathercock by Nathan Field. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to want to hear, please visit LibriVox.org. To any woman that had been no weathercock. I did, did you mind not to have dedicated my play to anybody, because for the children's I care not for. And above, few or none will bestow on these matters. Especially falling from so famous a pen as mine is yet. And now I look up, and find to whom my dedication is. I fear I am as good as my determination. Notwithstanding I leave a liberty to any lady or woman that dares say she had been no weathercock to assume the title of patroness to this, my book. If she have been constant, and be so, all I will expect from her, for my pains is that she will continue so, but till my next play be printed, wherein she shall see what amends I have made to her, and all the sex. And so I end my epistle without a laden sentence. Nathaniel Field To the Reader Reader, the sailman swears you will take it very ill if I say not something to you too. In truth, you were a stranger to me. Why should I write to you? You never read to me, nor I think will not answer my epistle. I send a comedy to you here, as good as I could then make, nor slight my presentation because it is a play. For I tell thee, Reader, if thou beest ignorant, a play is not so idle a thing as thou art, but a mirror of men's lives and actions, nor, be it perfect or imperfect, true or false, is the vice or virtue of the maker. This is yet, as well as I can, cuales egobel cluvienes. Thou must needst have some other language than thy mother tongue, for thou thinks it's impossible for me to write a play that did not use the word of laden, though he had enough in him. I have been vexed with wild plays myself a great while, hearing many. Now I thought to be even with some, and they should hear mine too. Fear thee, vell, if thou has anything to say to me, thou knows where to hear of me for a year or two, and no more I assure thee. Nathaniel Field To his loved son, Nathaniel Field and its Wethercock woman. To many forms as well as many bays, thy active muse turns like thy acted woman, in which this praise can consistency turns praise, that is in being and grace of Homer's seaman, in his life's rough seas tossed, yet still the same. So turns thy wit inconstancy to stay, and stayed in constancy. And as swift fame grows as she goes, in fame so thrive thy play, and thus to standing turn thy woman's fall, wit turn to everything, proves stay in all. George Chapman Djamata's Personae Count Frederick, read by Jim Locke. Sir John Worldly, read by Larry Wilson. Neville, read by Rob Marland. Skoodmore, read by Todd. Strange, read by Brad. Candidt, read by Aaron White. Captain Pouts, read by Adrian Stevens. Sir Innocent Ninny, read by Josh Kibbe. Sir Abraham Ninny, read by Thomas Peter. Bella Front, read by Sonia. Catherine, read by Leaunia. Lucida, read by Campbell Shelp. Lady Ninny, read by Foam. Mistress Wagtail, read by Beth Thomas. Serving Man One, read by Major Toast. Serving Man Two, read by Honoria. Boy, read by Stoofy. Page, read by Scarlet. Gee, Taylor Bowlers-Parson. Read by Elsie Selwyn. Narrated by Bavia. End of Dramatis Personae. Act One, If a Women, is a Vethercock by Nathan Field. This is a LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox Recording are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Women is a Vethercock. Act One, Scene One. Enter Scooodmore, as in his chamber in a morning, half ready, reading a letter. Scooodmore, Legit. Whereas you write, my fortune and my birth made above yours, may be a real cause that I must leave you. Know thou worthiest man, thou hast a soul whose plenteous wealth supplies all the lean wants blind chance hath dealt to thee. Yet could I think the gods from all their store, who ne'er knew indigence into their will, would out of all their stock of virtue left, or out of all new graces they can make, make such another peace as Scooodmore is? Then might he justly fear? But otherwise, sooner the masculine element of fire shall flame his pyramids down to the earth. Sooner her mountain shall swell up to heaven, or softest apes' showers quench fires in hell. Sooner shall stars from this circumference drop like false, fiery exhalation, than I be false to vows made unto thee, in whom art nearer a fault I ne'er could see, but that you doubt at once my constancy. Yours to the world, and to the end of time, melloprant. If what I feel I could express in words, me thinks I could speak joy enough to men to banish sadness from all love forever. Oh, thou, then reconcile with the faults of all that frothy sex, and in thy single self confinced, nay hath engrossed virtue enough to frame a spacious world of virtuous women. Hadst thou been the beginning of thy sex, I think the devil and the serpent's skin had wanted cunning to overcome thy goodness, and all had lived and died in innocencey, the white original creation. Knocking within. Who's there? Come in. Enter Neville. What? Up already, Scoodmore, nearer wench with thee, not in thy launderess. Good morrow, my dear Neville. What's this? A letter? Sure, it is not so. A letter written to Heronimo. My heaven, you must excuse me. Come, I know, you will not wrong my friendship and your manners to tempt me so. Not for the world, my friend. Farewell, good morrow. Exeteris. Nay, sir, neither must you depart in anger from this friendly hand. I swear I love you better than all men, equally with all virtue in the world. Yet this would be a key to lead you to a prize of that importance. Worthy friend, I leave you not in anger. What do you mean? Nor am I of that inquisitive nature framed to thirst to know your private businesses. Why, they concern not me. If they be ill and dangerous, it would grieve me much to know them. If good they be so, though I know them not. Nor would I do your love so grosser wrong to covet to participate affairs of that near touch which your assured love doth think not fit, or dares not trust me with. How sweetly does your friendship play with mine, and with a simple subtlety steals my heart of my bosom. By the holiest love that ever made a story, you're a man with all good, so replete, that I dourst trust you even with this secret, were it singly mine. I do believe you. Farewell, worthy friend. Nay, look you. This same fashion does not please me. You would not want to make your visitations so short and careless. Taste your jealousy that makes you think so, but by my soul you have given me no distaste by keeping from me all things that might be birtherness and oppress me. In truth I am invited to a wedding and the mourn faster goes away from me than I go toward it, and so good morrow. Good morrow, sir. Think I dour show it you? Now, by my life I do not desire it, sir, nor ever loved these prying, listening men that ask of others' states and passages, not one among a hundred but proves false, envious and slanderous, and will cut that throat he twines his arms about. I love that poet that gave us reading not to seek ourselves beyond ourselves. Farewell. You shall not go. I cannot now redeem the fault I have made to such a friend, but in disclosing all. Now, if you love me, do not wrong me so. I see you labour with some serious thing, and think, like fairies' treasure, to reveal it will cause it vanish, and yet to conceal it will burst your breast, to so delicious and so much greater than the continent. Oh! you have pierced my entrails with your words, and I must now explain all to your eyes. Read, and be happy in my happiness. Yet, think on't, keep thy secret and thy friend sure and entire. Oh, give not me the means to become false hereafter, or thyself a probable reason to distrust thy friend, though he be nare so true. I will not see it. I die by heaven if you deny again. I star for counsel. Take it, look upon it. If you do not, it is an equal plague as if it had been known and published. For God's sake, read. But with this caution, by this right hand, by this yet unstained sword, were you my father flowing in these waves, or a dear son exhausted out of them, would you betray this soul of all my hopes? Like the two brethren, though love made them stars, we must never more be seen both together. I read it fearless of the forfeiture. Yet warn you, be as courtiless not to wound my integrity with doubting likelihoods from misreport, but first exquire the truth. Lager Neville, Scudmore, Aliquando, Respeciance. Read, whilst I tell the story of my love, and sound the truth of her heroic spirit whom eloquence could never flatter yet, nor the best tongue of praises reach unto. The maid there named, I met once on a green, near to her father's house. Me thought she showed, for I did look on her, indeed no eye that owed a sensible member, but must dwell a while on such an object. The passing horses and the feeding kinds stood still, and left their journeys in their food. The singing birds were in contention, which should light nearest her, for her clear eyes to see deepened men, there were so like bright skies. Near, in a rivulet, swam two beautyous swans, wider than anything but her neck and hands, which they left straight to comfort her. A bull, being baited on the green for the swaying sport, she walked towards it. The vexed savage beast ceased bellowing, the snarling dogs were mute, and had enough to do to look on her, whose face brought concord and an end to jars, though nature made him ever to have wars. Had there been bears and lions, when she spake they had been charmed too, for Grecian's lute was rustic music to her heavenly tongue, whose sweetness encasts lumbars on mine eyes, soft as content, yet would not let me sleep. Yours through the world and to the end of time, Bellafront. Which Bellafront? Rich Sir John Worldly's daughter. She is the food, the sleep, the air I live by. O heaven, we speak like gods, and do like dogs. What means, my? This day this Bellafront, the rich heir, is married unto Count Frederick, and that's the wedding I was going to. I, pretty, do not mock me—married! It is no matter to be played with all, but even as true as women all are false. Oh! that this stroke was thundered to my breast! For never thou hast spoke my heart in twain, and with the sudden whirlwind of thy breath has ravished me out of a temperate soil, and set me under the red-burning zone. O shame! Return thy blood into thy face! Knowest not how slight a thing a woman is? Yes, and how serious too. Come, out of the temple. She shall not damn herself a wand of counsel. O prithee! Run not thus into the streets. Come, dress you better. So. Ah! Yes, thy clothes are, like thy mind, too much disordered. How strangely is this tide turned. For a world I would not but have called here as I went. Collect thy spirits. We will use all means to check this black fate flying toward thee. Come, if thou miscarriest, it is my day of doom. Yes, now I'm fine. Married. It may be so. But woman, look to it. If she prove untrue, the devil take you all that are his due. Exeunt. Seen too. And account, Frederick, a tailor trusting him, attended by a page. Is Sir John worldly up, boy? No, my lord. Is my bride up yet? No. No, and the mourn so fair. Independent. Tomorrow my thrice honoured and o'eroic lord. Boy, aside. Good morrow ye, lord and master, you might say for brevity's sake. Thou'st a good tailor, and art very fine. I thank you, lordship. Boy, aside. Aye, you may thank his lordship, indeed. O God, this doublet sets him print, my lord, and the o'st excellent, the Piccadale rare. He'll praise himself in truss with my lord's tailor for the next St. George's suit. O good morrow, tailor. I abhor bills in a morning. Your honour says true. Their navery will be discerned by daylight, but thou mayest watch at night with bill in hand, and no man dares find fault with it. A good jest in faith. Good morrow to your lordship. Very good jest. Exit, tailor. I wonder if my invited guests are so tardy. What's o'clock? Scarce, seven, my lord. And what news, pendant? What thinks thou of my present marriage? How shows the beauty to thee I shall wed? Why, to all women like Diana among her nymphs. Boy, aside. There's all his reading. A beauty of that pureness and delight, that none is worthy of her but my lord, my honourable lord. But then her fortune, matched with her beauty, makes her up a match. My heaven, unmatchable, for none fit but lords, and yet for no lord fit but my good lord. And that her sister, then, should love me too, is it not strange? Strange? No, not strange at all, by a cupid. There's no woman in the world but must-needs love you, don't go mad for you. If you've out-safe reflection, to the thing that does it own, thus much reflection catches them up by dozens like wild fowl. Boy, aside. Now you shall taste the means by which he eats. Nature herself, having made you, fell sick in love with her own work, and can no more make man so lovely being diseased with love. You are the world's minion of a little man. I'll say no more. I would not be a woman for all has been got by them. Why, man, why? Art, I should follow you like a young rancor that runs proud of her love, pluck you by the sleeve, where were with you in the open street, with the impudency of a drunken oyster-wife, put on my fighting waistcoat and the rough that fears no tearing, bat her down the windows where I suspected you might lie all night, scratch faces like a wild cat a-picked-atch, and didn't thou make me doad upon myself? Narcissus, by this hand, had far less cause. How knowest thou that? They were all worn, my lord. How do I know? I speak my conscience. Is beauties with shadows to my lord? Why, boy, is presence within kindle sin and longing thoughts in a divo in none? Oh, foot, oh leg, oh, and, oh body, faith, by Jove it is a little man of wax. My lord, a rare rascal, tis not for nothing that men call thee my commendations. For nothing? No, here below th'it should. Enter Captain Pouts. Good morrow and good welcome, Captain Pouts. Good morning to your honour, and all joy spring from this match, and the first year a boy. I commanded these two verses of purpose to salute your honour. But how hapsit, Captain, that your intended marriage with my father-in-law's third daughter is not solemnised to-day? My lord tells you true, Captain. It would have saved me. Faith, I know not. Mistress Kate likes me not. She says I speak as if I had a pudding in my mouth, and I answered her if I had it with a white pudding, and then I was the better armed for a woman, for I had a case about me. So I'm not naffed, and the other cried fine, and the third said I was a booty-captured, and there was all I could get of them. See, boy, if they be up yet, maids are long liars, I perceive. How? If they will not admit me, my lord? Why, should they not admit you, my lord? You cannot commit with them, my lord? Marry, therefore, my lord. Exit, boy. But what should be the reason of her so sudden alteration she listened to thee once, ha? Are you not heard, my lord, or do you not know? Not I, I swear. Then you know nothing that is worth the knowing. That's certain, he knows you. There's a young merchant, a latest suitor, that deals by old sale, and heir to land, well-desended of worthy education, be olding to nature. Oh, to his young strange. Isn't he that looks like an Italian tailor out of the laced wheel, that wears a bucket on his head? That is the man, yet believe me, captain, it is a noble, strightly citizen. As he money? Infinitely wealthy. Then, captain, thou art cast, would I gone to Cleveland. Worldly loves money better than I love his daughter, alter some company in garrison goodbye. Nay, ye shall dedicate this day to me. We speak, but by the way, man, near despair, I can assure you, she is yet as free as air. You may kill the merchant with a look, I threaten him to death. My honoured lord shall be your friend. Go to I say, shall you shall have his good word, shall he my lord? His foot he shall have my bond to do him good. Oh, it is the worthiest lord in Christendom. O, captain, for some forescore brave spirits want to follow such a lord in some attempt. A hundred, sir, were better. Enter old sir Innocent Ninny, my lady Ninny, sir Abraham and mistress Bactale. Here's more guests. Is that man and wife? It is sir Innocent Ninny, that's his lady, and that's sir Abraham, their only son. Count Frederick is coursing with sir Innocent and lady, Abraham looking about. But did that little old dried neat's tongue that eelskin get him? So to say, captain. He thinks he and his lady should show like a needle in a bottle of hay. You may see by her nose what potted she loves. Is your name Abraham? Pray, who dwells in your mother's backside at the sign of the equiviti bottle? Gord's precious, save you, mistress Bactale. We'll tear by the sleeve. Sweet master Pendant. Gentlemen, I desire your better acquaintance. He must pardon my father. He's somewhat rude, and my mother grossly brought up, as you may perceive. Young master Abraham, cry ye mercy, sir. Your lordship's poor friend, and sir Abraham Ninny, the dubber-dubber of honour, piping hot, doth lie upon my worship's shoulder-blade. Indeed, my lord, with much cost and labour we have got him knighted, and be knighted under favour, my lord. Let me tell ye he'll prove a sore knight a zero-runnered ring. He is the one and only Ninny of our house. He has cost us something, ere he came to this. Hold up your heads, sir Abraham. Pish, pish, pish, pish. Do you hear how? Oh, my lord. I had well hoped she could not have spoke, she's so fat. Mayest thou wear thy knighthood and thy spurs, prick thee to honour on, and prick off curves. Sir Abraham thanks your honour, and I hope your lordship will consider the simplicity of parents. A couple of old fools, my lord, and I pray so take him. I must be faint to excuse you here. You'll be needs coming abroad with me. If I had no more wit than you now we should be finally laughed at. My lady his worship says well, wife will trouble him no longer. With your honours leave, I'll in and see my old friend Sir John, your father that shall be. All in, too, and see if your bride needs no dressing. Excee and sir innocent and lady. This foot is much as a tripe, I think case them, I pray. Captain would think as thou of such a woman in a long sea voyage, where there were a dearth of viddles. Venison, my lord, venison. If faith, my lord, such venison as a bear is. Ha! She looks like a black bombard with a pint pot waiting upon it. Exit Mrs. Vactale. What countrymen were your ancestors, Sir Abraham? Countrymen? There were no countrymen, I scorn it. They were gentlemen all. My father is a niny, and my mother was a hammer. You should be a knocker, then, by the mother's side. I pray, my lord, what is your gentleman? He looks so like a Saracen, that as I am a Christian, I cannot endure him. Take he what you say, sir, he's a soldier. If you cross him, he'll blow you up with gunpowder. Good faith he looks as if he had a hand in the treason. I'll take my leave. May good, sir Abraham, you shall not leave us. My lord shall be your warrant. My lord shall be my warrant. Troll, if I do not see that a lord's warrant is better than any other man's, unless it be to lay one by the heels, I shall stay here and have my head broke, and then I have my men's in my own hands, and then my lord's warrant will help me to a plaster, that's all. Come, come, captain. May shake the hand of acquaintance, with this gentleman, he is in bodily fear of you. Sir, I use not to bite any man. Indeed, sir, that would show you are no gentleman. I would you would bid me be covered. I am a knight. I was knighted a purpose to come a-wing to Mistress Lucida, the middle sister, Sir John Worldly's second daughter, and she said she would have me if I could make her a lady, and I can do it now. Here she comes. Enter Sir John Worldly, Master Strange, Kate, and Lucida with a willow garland. My bride will never be ready, I think. Here are the other sisters. Look you, my lord, there's Lucida. Where's the willow garland for you, and will so go to church our ear. And look you, captain, that's the merchant. I have doth the pot of love boil'd, my bosom, cupid doth blow the fire, and I cannot rhyme to bosom, but I'll go reason with her. You'll make her doenture out of that five hundred, you say? That is your inheritance, Master Strange. Sir, I will. Kate, do you love him? Yes, faith, father, with all my heart. Take hands. Kiss him. Your portion is four thousand. Good morrow, my son Count. You stay long for your bride, but this is the day that sells her, and she must come forth like my daughter and your wife. I pray salute this gentleman as your brother. This morn shall make him so, and though his habit but speak him citizen, I know his work to be gentle in all parts, captain. Sir. Captain, I could have been contented well. You should have married Kate. Kate, aside. So could not Kate. You have an honourable title. A soldier is a very honourable title. A captain is a commander of soldiers. But look you, captain, captains have no money, therefore the world lease must not match with captains. So, sir, so. There are brave wars. Where? Send them out, brave captain, win honour and get money. By that time I'll get a daughter for my noble captain. Good, sir. Good. Honour is honour, but it is no money. This is the tumble then that must catch the cony. A special strange. Oh, what an old fellow. Are you a merchant, sir? I shame not to say yes. Are you a soldier, sir? A soldier, sir? Oh, God, ah, he is a captain. He may be so, and yet no soldier, sir. For as many are soldiers that are no captains, so many are captains that are no soldiers. Right, sir, and as many are citizens that are no cook alts. So many cook alts that are no citizens. What ale you, sir, with your robustest looks? I'll be glad to see for my money. I paid for my standing. You are the nobler captain, sir, for I know many that usurp that dame whose standing pay for them. You are a peddler. You are a pot-gun. Murchant, I wouldst thou have an iron tail like me. Fire captain, you are to blame. Nay, gods will, you are to blame indeed if my lord say so. My lord's an ass, and you are another. Sweet mistress loose, let you and I withdraw. This is his humour. Send for the constable. Sir, I'll beat you with a pudding on the change. Thou derst as well kiss the wide-mouthed cannon at his discharging, as perform as much as thou derst speak. For soldier, you shall know, some can use swords that were not for show. Why, captain, there ye be a man of war, you cannot subdue a faction. You have no alacrity in your eye, and you speak as if you were in a dream. You are of so melancholy and dull a disposition that on my conscience you would never get children. Nay, nor on my body neither. And what a sin were it in me, and a most pregnant side of concusper sense, to marry a man that wants the metal of generation, since that is the blessing ordained for marriage, procreation the only end of it. Besides, if I could love you, I shall be here at home, and you in Cleveland abroad. I am among the bald Britons, and you among the hot shots. No more puffing, captain. Leave batteries with your breath. The short is this. This worthy count this morning makes my son, and with that happy marriage this proceeds. Worldly's my name, worldly must be my deeds. I will pray for civil wars to cut thy throat without danger, merchant. I will turn pirate, but I'll be revenged on thee. Do, captain, do. A halter will take up our quarrel then. Swoons, I'll be revenged upon ye all. The strange adventure thou art now to make in that small pinnace is more perilous than any hazard thou couldst undergo. Remember, a scorn soldier told thee so. Exit, captain, pouts. Go, walk the captain, good sir Abraham. Good faith, sir, I'd rather walk your horse. I will not meddle with him. I will not keep him company in his drink for a world. But what good do you, sir Abraham, on my daughter? I could be incontent if my Lucida would skip your wit and look upon your wealth. And this one day let Hymen crown ye all. Oh, no, she laughs at me and scorns my suit, for she is wilder and more hard with all than beast or bird, or tree or stony wall. Ha! God, a mercy! Old Huronimo! Yet she might love me for my lovely eyes. Aye, but perhaps your nose, she doth despise. Yet might she love me for my dimpled chin. Aye, but she sees your beard is very thin. Yet might she love me for my proper body. Aye, but she thinks you are an errant naughty. Yet might she love me, because I am an heir. Aye, but perhaps she doth not like your wear. Yet might she love me in despite of all. Aye, but indeed I cannot love at all. Well, Luz, respect Sir Abraham, I charge you. Father, my vow is past, whilst the earl lives, I nare will marry, nor will pine for him. It is not him I love now, but my humour. But since my sister he hath made his choice, this wreath of willow that beguards my brows, shall never cease to be my ornament, till he be dead, or I be married to him. Life, my lord, you at best marry him, all three, they'll never be content else. I think so too. These are impossibilities. Come, Sir Abraham, a little time will wear out this rash vow. Shall I but hope? Oh, by no means! I cannot endure these round breaches. I am ready to swoon at them. The hoes are comely. And then his left leg! I never see it, but I think on a plum tree. Indeed, there's reason there should be some difference in my legs, for one costs me twenty pounds more than the other. In troth, both are not worth half the money. I hope my life, one of them was broke, and caused so much the healing. Right hath your lordship said, it was broken, indeed, at football and the university. I know he is in love by his verse vain. He cannot hold out, aunt, who shall hear. Well, since I am disdained, off Gata's blue, which signifies Sir Abraham's love was true, off Cyprus black, for thou befits not me, though art not Cyprus of the Cyprus tree, befitting lovers, out green shoestrings, out wither in pocket, since my loose doth pout. Gush eyes, thump hand, swell heart, buttons fly open. Thanks, gentle doublet, else my heart had broken. Now to thy father's country house at Abraham hide post, there pine and iron. Poor, poor Sir Abraham. O dovel dump! Music plays. Nay, you shall stay the wedding, harp the music, your bride is ready. Put spirit in your fingers, louder still, and the vast air with your enchantments fill. Exhumed omnis, end of act one. Act two of a women is the weather cock by Nathan Field. This is the LibriVox to Codding. All LibriVox to Codding's are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act two, scene one. Enter Neville, like a possum. Thus for my friend's sake have I taken orders, and with my reason, and some higher beside, won the known priest that was to celebrate this marriage, to let me assume his place. And here's the character of his face and beard. By this means, when my friend confronts the maid at the church door, where I appointed him to meet him like myself, for this strange shape he altogether is unwitting of. If she, as one vice in that sex alone were a great virtue, to in constancy past join impudency, and slight him to his face, showing a resolution to this match, by this attempt it will be frustrate, and so we have more time, though but till night, to work, to speak with her, or use violence. For both my blood and means are at his service. The reason too, I do this, past his knowledge, is that his joy may be the more complete. When being resolved she's married and gone, I can resolve him otherwise. Thus I know good deeds show double that are timely done, and joy that comes past expectation. And as good more in Tani, yonder he comes, dead in his melancholy. I'll question him and see if I can raise his spirit from that it restless rests upon. He cannot know me. Oh, good morrow, sir! Good morrow to no living thing but one, and that is Neville. Oh, the vows, the vows, the protestations, and becoming oaths which she has uttered to me. So sweet, so many, as if she had been covetous not to leave one word for other lovers, which I pitied. She said indeed I did deserve them all. Her lips made swearing sound of piety, so sweet and prettily they came from her. And yet this mournce she's married to a lord. Lord! Lord! How often has she kissed this hand, lost herself in mine eyes, played with my hair, and made me, a sin I am not subject to, go away proud, improved by her favors. And yet this mournce she's married to a lord! The bells were ringing as I came along. Yes, sir, tears for the great marriage-twix. Hold there. I know it too, too well. The tokens and the letters I had still. The dangers I have passed for her dear sake by day and night to satisfy her wishes. That letter I so lately did receive. And yet this mournce she's married to a lord. Oh memory thou blessing to all men, thou art my curse and cause of misery, that tell us to me what I have been in her eyes and what I am. As it is impossible to find one good in the whole world of women, but how I lose myself and the remembrance of my dear friend who said he would beat me here. What is this priest that walks before the church? Why walk you here so early, sir? I am appointed here to attend the coming of the brides, old Sir John Worldley's daughters. Are there two? Yes, sir. The eldest marries Count Frederick. Oh! The middlemost wears Willow for his sake. The youngest marries the rich merchant, strange. He is rightworthy and my well-known friend. But, parson, if you marry Bella Front, the horror of thy conscience shall exceed murderers. Thou shalt not walk alone, nor eat nor sleep, but a sad lover's groans and curses shall appear and fright thy soul. I tell you, priest, there's sights more terrible than ghosts or sprites of which old wives tell tales. Thou shalt run mad! Thou shalt be damned indeed! Now, God for fend! The reason, sir, I pray. She is contracted, sir. Nay, married unto another man, though it won't form. And such strange passages and mutual vows, to it make your short hair start up through your black cap, should you but hear it. Sir, I'll take no notice of things I do not know. The injured gentleman may bring them after into the spiritual court, and have a fair pull-out. A poor gentleman, for so I take him by his being deceived, against a great count and an old wealthy knight. Scoot more, aside. Thou, pankridge parson, oh, for my friend and Neville, some while or other might remove this priest, and give us breathing to cross their intent. Neville, aside. Alas, my dear friend. Sir, do but you refuse to join them. Upon what acquaintance, sir? They are great persons, and I mean to rise. I hope in time to have three livings, man, and this were not the way I take it, sir. Why, look thee, there is gold. Oh, by no means. I seldom knew it refused yet by thy coat. But where it would have been a cause of good. But, look ye, you shall see. I'm a divine of conscience, quite opposite to a lawyer. I'll give you counsel, sir, without a fee. This way they ought to come. If you dare do it, challenge her as your own at the church door. I will not hinder you. Music, please. Oh, hark, they come. Neville, my friend. Well, I must something do. Oh, why should music, which joys every part, strike such sharp killing discords to my heart? Music, enter Sir John Whirly, who meets the person and entertains them, Count Frederick, Bella Front, Strange, Catherine, Lucida with Willow, Pendant, Sir Innocent Ninny, Lady Ninny, Mrs. Vactail, Sir Abraham Melancholy, W.P. Walk gravely, afore all, softly on. Scoodmore stands before, and a boy sings to the tune music. The song. They that, for worldly wealth do wed, That buy and sell the marriage bed, That come not warmed with a true fire, Resolved to keep this vow entire. Too soon find discontent. Too soon shall they repent. But Hymen, these are no such lovers, Which thy burning torch discovers. Though they live then, many a year, Let each day as new appear, as this first, And the lights make of all bridal lights. Ayo, Hymen, give consent. Blessed are the maverages, that ne'er repent. How now, who's this? Young Scoodmore. Tis young Scoodmore. Canst thou this holy church enter a bride, And not a course meeting those eyes of mine? Yes, by my truth. What are your eyes to me but gray ones, As they are to everybody? To the rest. The gentleman I do a little know. He's frantic, sure. Forward, a god's name. There. Sister, this is not well, and will be worse. Oh, hold thy thunder fast. What is the matter? Oh, ask my lord. What is the matter, sir? Some idle word, my lord, to may have been passed, To Scoodmore and my daughter here to fore. But he has dreamt in phase of consequence. Pish, nothing else. Set forward, by your leave. Can there be such a soul in such a shape? My love is subject of such misery, Such strange impossibilities and misfortune, That men will laugh at me when I relate The story of it and conceive I lie. Why, madam, that shall be. Lady Impulse, do titles, honors, and fortunes Make you so forgetful? You are insolent. Nay, strangely saucy, sir, to wrong me in this public fashion. Sir, go to, there's law. There is indeed, and conscience too. Old wordly thou hast one. But for the other, wild Virginia, Black Africa, Or the Shaggy Sidia must send it over as a merchandise, ere thou show any here. My honoured lord, say but the word, I'll force him from the door. I say the word, do it. You, my lord's fine fool. Aye, he, sir. No, nor you, my lord's fool's fool. Where, boy? Come back. Come back, I say, sir Abram. Do such a forward, child. Ancient Templum My passion and my cause of grief so great, That it hath rounded all worthy parts in me, As drink makes virtue useless in a man, And with too much kills natural heat in him, Or else I could not stand thus coldly tame, And see them enter, but with my drawn sword Should hail her by the hair unto the altar, And sacrifice her heart to wronged love. Catherine, aside. On my life it is so. Worthy friend, I am exceeding sorry to see this, But cannot help it. I'll follow, and unfold all in the church. Alas, to what end, since her mind is changed. Had she been loyal, all the earthly lords Could not have borne her so. What heinous sin has she committed? God should leave her then. I never dreamt of lying with my mother. Nor wished my father's death, nor hated brothers. Nor did betray trust, nor loved money better Than an accepted friend. No such base thought, nor act unnatural possess this breast. Why am I thus rewarded? Women. Women! He's mad by heaven that thinks you anything but sensual monsters, And is never wise nor good, but when he hates you, as I now. I'll not come near one. None of your base sex shall know me from this time. For all your virtues are like the buzzes growing in the fields, So weakly fastened to you by nature's hand That thus much wind blows all away at once. Ye fillers of the world with bastardry. Worse than diseases ye are subject to. No, I do hate you all. We'll write against you, and fight against you. I will eat no meat dressed by a woman old or young, Nor sleep upon a bed made by their stallion hands. Yet once more will I see this feminine devil When I look her dead, speak her to hell. I'll watch my time this day to do it, And then I'll be in love with death, And ready to steal his mortal stroke to take, Than he to kill. Cornets. Exits Goodmore. Loud music. Enter, as from the church, Sir John Whirly, Neville, Like the parson, Count Frederick, Bella Front, Strange, Catherine, Sir Innocent Ninny, Lady Ninny, Sir Abraham, Lucida, Vactale, Pendent. Sweet is the love purchased with difficulty. Then this cross-accident doth relish ours. I rather think ours happier, my fair Kate, Where all is smooth and no rub checks our course. Enter, Captain Paltz. Are you married? Yes. The devil dance at your wedding. But for you, I have something else to say. Let me see, hear a reasonable good store of people. Know all of my beloved brethren, I speak it in the face of the congregation, This woman I have lain with oftener. How? Before God, you are a wicked fellow To speak all in this manner, if you have. Lain with her? Yes, Goodmorrow. God give ye joy. Exit, Captain Paltz. I am speechless with my anger. Follow him. If it be true, let her be proved a whore. If false, he shall abide this lander dearly. Follow that list. I will not meddle with him. Why speaks not thou to reconcile those looks That fight stern battles in thy husband's face? Thou art not so unworthy to believe him. If I did think thou debtst, I would not open my lips To satisfy so base a thought. Sprung from the slander of so base a slave. It cannot be. I'll tell you by tomorrow. I am no fool, Kate. I will find some time to talk with the same Captain. Paltz, do you call him? I'll be with ye to-night. Sir, you shall not. What stain my honour hath received by this base villain All the world takes notice of? Mark what I vow, and if I keep it not, May I be so given o'er to let this rogue perform his slander. Thou that word ordained, and in thy cradle Mark to call me a wife, and in that title Made as my defence, yet suffered's Tim To go away with life. Wounding my honour dead before thy face, Redeem it on his head, and his own way, Even by the sword his long profession, And bring it on thy neck out of the field, And set it clear amongst the tongues of men, That all eyes may discern its slandered, Or thou shalt never enjoy me as a wife. By this bright sun, thou shalt not. Nay, I'll think as abjectly of thee As any mongrel bred in the city, Such a citizen as the place flouts still, And is made the subject of all the stages. Be this true or no, Tis thy best course to fight. Why, Kate, I say, Pray pardon me. None feels the smart but I. Tis thy best course to fight, if thou beest still, And like an honest tradesman eats to this wrong. O may thy spirit and thy state so far, Thy firstborn child may come to the hospital. Heaven, I desire thee, hear her last request And grant it too, if I do slack the first. By thy assured innocencey I swear, Thou hast lost me half the order I shall win In speaking my intent. Come, let's to dinner. I must not eat nor sleep, but weep, till it be done. Sister, this resolution is not good. Ill thrives that marriage that begins in blood. Sister, inform yourself I have no lady ship To gild my infamy, or keep tongues in awe. If God love innocencey, I am sure he shall not lose in this action. Nor is the other's life can give her To the world my perfect wife, but what I do conceive. It is not blood, then, which she requires, But her good name again, and I will purchase it, For by heaven thou art the excellentest new Fashioned made in this that ever ere Shall hear a tale told of. But hey, hey, hey, good people save your labours, For by heaven I'll do it. If I do it not I shall be pointed at, Proclaimed the grand rich cuckold of the town, Nay, with all even by them are known for both. Take your revenge by law. It will be thought your greatness and our money carries it, For some say some men on the back of law May ride and rule it like a patient ass, And with a golden bridle in the mouth Directed unto anything they please. Others reported in a spider's web, Made to entangle the poor helpless flies, Whilst the great spiders that did make it first and rule it Sit in the midst secure and laugh. My law in this shall only be my sword, But penadenture not this month or two. This month or two. I'll be your second, then. You profit too much honour, my good lord. And I will be your third. I am not a before for fifth, For the old proverb's good, which long has been, Says safest his sleeping and whole skin. God, mercy, nab, I'll have thee, And be but for thy manhood. Wife, my lady Nini, do you hear your son? He speaks seldom, but when he speaks, He speaks proverb's of faith. Oh, there's a pestilence night, Mrs. Lucida. I and a Pocky. This month or two. Do you love me? Not before. And maybe I will live so long, Thames Hall. Exit, Catherine. What law are you, star, rule my nativity? You'll come to dinner? Yes. Good morrow, brother. Come, let's be merry in despite of all, And make this day as it should be festival. This sour thwart beginning may portend good, And be crowned with a delicious end. Excellent, all but strange. So, I'll not see you till my task be done, So much false time I set to my intent, Which instantly I mean to execute, To cut off all means of prevention, Which, if they knew my day, they would assay. Now, for the merchant's honour, hit all right. Kate, your young strange, will lie with you to-night. Exit, and to Vactail, the page, Stealing after her, concealed himself. What a stir is he made about lying with a gentlewoman. I have been lain with a hundred, and a hundred times, And nothing has come on. But, thus have I done for this month or two. Ah, God's will, are you at it? You have acted your name too much, sweet mistress Vactail. This was wittily, though somewhat navishly, followed on me. Oh, all my conscience, I am peppered. Well, thou tumblest not for nothing, For he dances as well that got thee, And plays as well on the vial, And yet he must not father thee. I have better men. Let me remember them, and here, in my melancholy, Choose out one rich enough to reward this, my stale virginity, Or fit enough to marry my little honesty. She has a shrewd reach, I see that. What a casting she keeps. Murray, my comfort is, We shall hear by and by who has given her the casting bottle. Bitter, bitter, pray God I heard not the babe. Well, let me see, I'll begin with knights. Impromise, Sir John do it well, and Sir William burn it. A hot knight, by my faith. Do it well, and burn it too. For old Sir Innocent Ninny, my master, If I speak my conscience lucky, I cannot directly accuse him. Much has he been about, but done nothing. Murray, for Sir Abraham, I will not altogether quit him. Let me see, there's four knights, Now for the gentleman. And so she'll come down to the footman. Master Lovell, Master Livebyte, and Master Pendant. Page, comes forward. By this light I've heard enough, Shall I hold your belly too, fair maid of the fashion? What say ye, Jacksauce? Oh, fie, ill mutton, you are too angry. Why, look ye, I am my lord's page, And you are my lady's gentleman. We should agree better. And I pray, whether are you riding, With this birthing in your docker? Why, sir, out of town. I hoped is not the first time you have seen a child carried out of town In a docker for fear of the plague. You have answered me, I promise you. But who put it in, I pray? Not you, sir, I know by your asking. I, alas, I know that by my talent. For I remember this much philosophy of my school masters. Ex nihilo, nihulfit. But come, setting this duelo of wit aside, I have overheard your confession, And your casting about for a father, And in truth, in mid-charity, came in to relieve you. In the scroll of beasts, horses, and asses, That have fed upon this common of yours, You named one Pendant. Faith wench, let him be the father. He is a very handsome gentleman. I can tell you in my lord's favour. I'll be both secret and your friend to my lord. Let it be him. He shall either reward thee bountifully, or marry thee. Sir, you speak like an understanding young gentleman, And I acknowledge myself much bound to you for your counsel. Pendant, within. Will! Will! My Lord hath sent him to call me. Now I hold thy wager on't. If thou beest not a fool, as most waiting women are, Thou art to use him in his kind. Independent. Why, will I say? Go, my lord calls extremely. Did not I say so? Come, this is but a trick to send me off, sir. Exit page. Unnotable little rascal. Pretty mistress wag tail. Why do you walk so melancholy? I sent him hence a purpose. Come, shall's do. Do? What would you do? You have done too much already. What's the matter? I am with child by you. But, by me? Why by me? A good jest in faith. You'll find it, sir, in earnest. Why, do you think I am such an ass to believe nobody is meld with you but I? Do you wrong me so much to think otherwise? Thus, tis for a poor damsel like myself to yield her honour and her youth to any, who straight conceives she does so unto many, and as I have a soul to save, tis true. Pray, do not swear, I urge you not to it. Swooms, now I am undone. You walk somewhat round, sweet art. Has nobody been tampering with you else? Think on it, for by this lie I am not worth the estate of an apple-wife. I do live upon commending my Lord, for the Lord her hosts knows it, and all the well besides. For me to marry thee will undo thee more, and that thou mayest keep me keep thee in fashion, sell thee to English, French, to Scotland all, till I have brought thee to an hospital, and there I leave you. Are you not erred, nor red, of some base slave that wagging his fair red does whistling at one end of his shop-walk, wilt some gay man doth vomit body-talk in his war of seers at the other? Such a rogue or worse shall I be. For look ye, mistress wag-tail, I do live like a chameleon upon the air, and not like a mole upon the earth. Land, I have none. I pray God send me aggrave when I am dead. It's all one, I'll have you for your qualities. For my good ones they are all together unknown, because they have not yet been seen, nor ever will be, for they have no being. In plain terms, is God help me, I have none. How came you by your good clothes? By undoing tailors, and then my Lord like a snake casts a suit every quarrel which I slip into, therefore thou art worse than mad if thou wilt cast away thyself upon me. Why, what men's will you make me? Can you give me some sum of money to marry me to some tradesman, as the play says? No, by my trough. But tell me this, has not Sir Abraham been familiar with you? Faith, not enough to make up a child. Could speak unto Mary him? I, by my trough, and thank he too. As he but kiss thee? Yes, and something more beside that. Nay, and there have been any jar of the thing beside that I warrant thee lay the child to him. Stand stiffly to it, leave the rest to me. By that fool thou shalt save thy honesty. Excellent. End of Act Two Act Three of a Woman is a Weathercock by Nathan Field. This is a LibriBox Recording. All LibriBox Recording's are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriBox.org. Act Three, Scene One Enter strange, knocking at a door. Lies, Captain Pouts here pray. Enter a Serving Man. Sir, he does. I pretty tell him here the gentleman would speak with him. What may I call your name sir? No matter for my name. Trust sir, the captain is somewhat doubtful of strangers. Am being, as most captains are, a little in debt. I know he will not speak with you unless you send your name. Tell him my name is strange, that I am come about this business he speak of today. Exit Servant. To have sent a formal challenge by a gentleman he being to choose his time might but adventure have made him shift himself the sooner over. Enter Pouts above. Sir, I know your business. You are come to serve a warrant or a citation. I will not speak with you and get you gone quickly too. Or I may happen to send a bullet through your mazzard. Exit. Strange cross past expectation. Well I'll try. My other course may speed more happily. Exit. Scene two. Music. Enter with table napkins. Count Frederick. Sir John Whirly. Neville. Pendant. Sir Innocent Ninny. Lady Ninny. Sir Abraham. Servants with wine, plate, tobacco and pipes. Sir had you born as company to church. You had been the better welcome. Faith you had I must need say so too. And I must need say as my lord says. Sir John I thank you and my honoured lord, but I'm sorry for this other news concerning Mistress Kate and my good friend. It is certain too he keeps his word well too. He said he would come to dinner. All we cannot get Mistress Catherine out of her chamber. Oh good old woman. She is top shackled. Tis pestilence, sack and cruel claret. Knight, stand to me knight. I say up the gold stomach. Give me my back with a vita bottle. Oh Guinevere, as I am a justice of peace and quorum to her good deed to commit thee. Fie, fie, fie. Why alas, I cannot help this, and I should be hanged. Should be as drunk as a porter. I'll tell you my lord, I have seen as so be pissed the rushes as she has danced at a wedding. Her belly and that aqua vitae bottle have almost undone my father. Well, I think in conscience she is not my natural begotten mother. Well said, my wise sir Abraham. Oh, this music and good wine is the soul of all the world. Come, will your lordship make one at Primero until your bride come forth? You can play well, my lord. Who I? Oh, my lord. The only player at Primero in the court. I'd rather play at Bowles. My lord, for you for that too. The only bowler in London that is not a church warden. Can he fence well too, Master Pendant? Oh, my lord, the only fencer in Christendom ill at you. He shall not hit me, I assure you, now. Is he good at the exercise of drinking, sir? Oh, my lord, the only drunkard in the world. Drinker, I would say. Got a mercy for that. I would, he heard him. I know a better whormast than he. Oh, fie, no, not so good as my lord. Oddly by our lady, oddly. Oh, no, who's this? Enter Skudmore, like a serving man, with a letter. What would you? I would speak with the lady Bella Front, from the young lady Lucy. You had best sinned in your letter, she is withdrawn. My lady gave me charge of the delivery, and I must do it myself, or carry it back. A trusty servant. That way leads you to her. This trust in servants is a jewel. Come, let us to bowls in the garden. Exceamed. Blessed fate. Skudmore passeth one door, and entereth the other, where Bella Front sits asleep in a chair, under a tephonic canopy. Oh, thou, whose words and actions seem to me as innocent as this smooth sleep which hath locked up thy powers. Wood thou hast slept when first thou sentest and proffered me beauty and love. I had been ignorant, then, of such a loss. Happies that wretch, in my opinion, that nair own scarce jewels or bright sums. He can lose nothing but his constant wants. But speakeless is his plague that once had store, and from superfluous state falls to be poor. Such is my hell-bred hap. Could nature make so fair a superficity to enclose so false a heart? This is like gilded tombs, compacted of jet pillars, marble stones, which hide from stinking flesh and rotten bones. Palace so sad, me think, in Hector's tent. But time so precious and so dangerous. Why do I lose thee? Madam, my lady, madam. Believe me, my dear friend, I was enforced. I had a dream as strange as thou art fellow. How camest thou hither? What's thy business? The letter, madam, tells you. Letter? What? Thus thou mock me? Here is nothing writ. Can you read anything, then, in this face? O basilisk, remove thee from my sight, or thy heart's blood shall pay thy rash attempt. Oh, who attends us there? Stir not afoot, and stop your clamorous acclamations, or by the bitterness of my fresh wrongs, I'll send your ladyship to the devil quick. I know the hazard I do undergo, and what so air after becomes of me I'll make you sure first. I am come to speak, and speak I will freely, and to bring back your letters and such things you sent, and then I'll never see those deceiving eyes again. Oh, I am sick of my corruption. For God's sake, do not speak a word more to me. Not speak? Yes, woman, I will roar aloud. Call thee the falsest fair that air breathed. Tell thee that in this marriage thou hast rounded all virtue left to credit thy weak sex, which being, as twer, committed to thy trust, thou traitorously hath betrayed it thus. Did I entice, or ever send thee gifts, to allure thee to reflect a beam on me? Nay, didst not thou thyself send and invent past human wit our means of intercourse? Why dost thou then prove base unto thyself, perjured in empires? No, the good thou hast lost, in my opinion, doth outvalue far the area honors thou at married to. Oh, peace! For you speak sharpness to my soul, more torturous than hell's plagues to the damned. Oh, for love's sake, hear me speak. For love's sake? No, love is my so fit, and is turned in me to a disease. Tirend, my knees shall beg till they get liberty for my tongue to speak, drowned almost in the rivers of mine eyes. What canst thou say, art thou not married? Lest I was enforced, first by the threats of a severe father, that in his hand did gripe my fortunes. Next to that, the fame of your neglect and liberal talking tongue, which bred my honor an eternal wrong. Pish! These are painted causes. Till this morn he lived not in this land that dost accuse my integrity of such an ignorance. But take your letters here, your paper vows, your picture and your bracelets, and if ever I build again upon a woman's faith, may sense forsake me. I will sooner trust dice or reconcile enemy. Oh, God! What an internal joy my heart has felt sitting at one of these same idle plays when I have seen a maid's inconstancy presented to the life, how my glad eyes have stalled about me, fearing lest my looks should tell the company confident there, the mistress that I had, free of such faults. Oh, still retain her so. Dear Skudmore, hear me. Retain thee so? It is impossible. Are thou not married? It's impossible. Oh, no, I do despise the and will fly as far on earth as to the antipodes, and by some learned magician whose deep art can know thy resonance on this hemisphere. There I'll be placed, my feet just against thine, to express the opposite nature which our hearts must henceforth hold. Oh, rather shoot me, friend, than let me hear thee speak such bitterness. Oh, pity me. Redeem me from the hell that in this marriage I am like to feel. I'll rather fly to barren wildernesses, and suffer all once with thee, Skudmore, than live with all plenty in this husband's arms. Thou shalt perceive I am not such a woman that is transported with vain dignities. Oh, thy dear words have knocked at my heart's gates and entered. They have plucked Devil's visit, that did deform this face and blind my soul. Off, and thy bella front presents herself, laved in a bath of contrite, virginal tears, closed in the original beauty that was thine. Now, for the love of God, count this not done. Let time go back and be as when before it, or from thy memory erase it forever. Ha! Ha! Heart, was there ever such strange creature framed? Why dost thou speak such foolish, senseless things? Can thy forsaking him redeem thy fault? No, I would never mend an ill with worse. Why, thou example will make woman false when they hear it, that before were true. For after ill examples we do fly, but must be vowed to deeds of piety. Oh, woman, woman, woman, woman, woman, because of future and original sin, how happy had you not should we have been. False were you kiss, but murdering in your ire. Love all can woo, no all men you desire. Ungrateful yet most impudent to crave, torturous as hell, insatiate as the grave, lustful as monkeys grinning in your ease, whom if we make not idols we ne'er please. More vainly proud than fools as ignorant, baser than parasites. Witches that enchant and make us senseless to think death or life is yours to give, when only our belief doth make you able to deceive us so. Begot by drunkards to breed sin in woe, as many foul diseases hide your veins as there are mischiefs coined in your quick brains. Nor quick in wit, fit to perform least good, but to subvert whole states, shed seas of blood twice as deceitful as our crocodiles, for you betray both ways, with tears and smiles. Yet questionless there are as good as bad. Hence, let me go. Hear me, and thou shalt go. I do confess I do deserve all this, have wounded all the faith my sex doth owe, but will recover it or pay my life. Strive not to go, for you shall hear me first. I charge thee, Scootmore, thou heart-hearted man upon my knees. Kneels. Thou most implacable man, since penitence and satisfaction too gets not thy pardon, I charge thee, use some means to set me free, before the revels of this night have end. Rises again. Prevent my entering to this marriage-bed, or by the memory of Lucretia's knife, ear-mourn, I'll die a virgin, though a wife. Exit. Pish. Do. The world will have one mischief less. Exit. Scene three. Enter Sir Abraham Ninny, throwing down his bow. Bow, they that list, for I will bow no more. Keep it, that little bowler, in my breast rub-set my heart, and will not let me rest. Within. Rub-rub. Fly-fly. Aye, aye, you may cry. Rub-fly to your bowels, for you are free. Love troubles not your jowls, but from my head to you, from heel to heart, behind, before, and round about, I smart. Then, in this arbor, sitting all alone, in doleful detail, let me howl my moan. Oh, boy, leave pricking, for I veil my bonnet. Give me but a breath, while I do right to sonnet. Independent. I have lost my money, and Sir Abraham too. Yonder he sits at his muse, by Evan, drowned in the ocean of his love. Lord, how he labours like a hard-bound poet whose brains had a frost in them. Now it comes. I die. I sigh. What, after you are dead? Very good. I die. I sigh. They're precious stony jewel. Good, because she is hard-hearted. Abraham, right. I die. He has died three times, and come again. Abraham, right. I sigh. They're precious stony jewel. Wearing of silk, why art thou still so cruel? Oh, newington conceit, and quieting ache. Thy servant Abraham sends this foolish ditty. You say true intros, sir. Abraham, right. Thy servant Abraham sends this foolish ditty unto the pity, both him and it. Tea unto thee, or if she do not pity both, as pity she should live. Abraham, right. But if thou still wilt pour, sir Abraham, frump. Come, grim death, come. Here give thy mortal thump. So now I'll read it together. I die. I sigh. Thou precious stony jewel. Oh, wherefore werest thou silk yet art so cruel? To thee thy nanny sends this foolish ditty, and pity both him and it. Thou deny, and still sir Abraham frump. Come, grim death, come. Here give thy mortal thump. Let me see, who shall I get now to set it to a dumpish note? In good faith, I do not know, but nobody that is wise, I am sure of that. It will be an excellent matter, sung to the knacking of the tongs, but to my business. God save thee, worthy and right worship for sir Abraham. What, musing and writing? Oh, this love will undo us all, and that may me prevent love and undo myself. But what news of Mistress Lucida? Ah, will she not come off, nor cannot you come on, little Abraham? Faith, I have courted her, and courted her, and she does as everybody else does. Laughs at all I can do, or say. Laughs? Why, that's a sign she is pleased. Do you not know when a woman laughs she is pleased? Aye, but she laughs most shamefully, and most scornfully. Scornfully? Anger, she's but a bobble. She's the fitter for my turn, sir, for they will not stick to say I am a fool for all I am a knight. Lovers made you witty, little nab. But what a mad villain art thou, a striker, a fifth part of Hercules, to get one wench with a child, and go a-wooing to another. With child? Good jest, if faith, whom have I got with child? Why, Mistress Wagtail is with child, and will be disposed is yours. She is my kin's woman, and I would be loath our house should suffer any disgrace in her. If there be law in England, which there should be if we may judge by their consciences, or if I have any friends, the wench shall take no wrong. I cannot tell, I think my lord will stick to me. Do here, talk not to me a friend's law, conscience. If your kin's woman say she is with child by me, your kin's woman is an errant whore. Hods will have you nobody to put your guffs upon but knights. That Wagtail is a whore, and I'll stand to it. Nay, you have stood to it already, but to call my cousin whore, you have not a mind to have your throat cut, have you? Choth, no great mind, sir. Pendant, draw his sword. Recat your words, or die. Recant, her base, outsword, mine honour keep, love that has made a lion of a sheep. But will you fight in this quarrel? I am resolved. Pendant, aside. Art, I pulled an old house over my head, here's like to be a tall fray. I perceive a fool's valianter than a knave at all times. Would I were well rid of him? I had his leaf-meat actor, God knows, if he dare fight at all. They're all one to me, or to speak more modernly, with one of the roaring boys. Have you done your prayers? Uh, pray, give me leave, sir. Put up and please you. Are you sure my cousin wagtail is a whore? With sword in hand, I do it not recant. Well, it shall never be said, Jack Pendant, would venture his blood in a whore's quarrel. But, or or no, or, she is most desperately in love with you, praises your head, your face, your nose, your eyes, your mouth. The fire of her commendations makes your good parts run over, and to conclude, if the or have you not, I think the pond at Islington will be her bathing tub, and give an end to more misery. But if she belaw you, pray, put up, sir, she is an errant or, and so let her go. Does she so love me, say you? Yes, yes, out all question, the or does love you abominable. No more of these foul terms. If she do love me, that goes by fate, I know it by myself. I'll not deny, but I have dallied with her. I but Anger, or, Delling will get no children. Another whore and draw, where is the girl? Condoling her misfortune in the gallery, upon the rushers sitting all alone, and for Sir Abraham's love venting her moan. I know not what to say, fate above all. Come, let's go over there. Be this true, welcome, my Wagtail, scornful loose a jeer. Exit. One way it takes yet. Tis a fool's condition, whom none can love out of his penury, to catch most greedily at any wench that gives way to his love, or feigns her own first unto him. And so, Sir Abraham now, I hope, will buy the pool where I will fish. Thus a quick nave makes a fat fool his dish. Exit. Enter Captain Pouts. I have played the melancholy ass, and partly the nave in this last business, but as the parson said that got the wench with child, tis done now, sir, it cannot be undone, and my purse or am I smart for it. Enter Servant. Your trunks are shipped, and the tide falls out about twelve tonight. All away. This lore is like the basilisk, to see at first is the death aunt. This night in noble London farewell, I will never see thee more, till I be knighted for my virtues. Let me see when shall I return, and yet I do not think, but there are great many dubbed for their virtues. Otherwise, how could there be so many poor knights? Enter Strange, like a soldier. Amazingly. What art thou? What's thy news? Zunes a man is feign to break open doors, ere he can get into you. I would speak with a general sooner. Sir, you may. He owes less per adventure, or, if more, he is more able to boat. What art? A soldier, one that lives upon this buff jerken, to us made of fortune at his poach, and these are the points I stand upon. I am a soldier. A counterfeit rogue you are. As true a rogue as thyself, thou wrongest me. Send your man away, go to. I have strange and welcome business to impart. The merchant is dead for shame. Let's walk into the fields. Send away your man. How? Here is a letter from the lusty Kate that tells you all. I must not give it to you, but upon some conditions. Let us walk and send away your man. Go, Sera, and bespeak supper at the bear, and provide oars. I'll see Gravesland tonight. Exit, servant. The gentlewoman will run mad after you, then. I'll tell you more. Let's walk. Exit. End of Act III. Act IV of a woman is a weathercock by Nathan Field. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act IV, Scene I. Enter Scootmore and Neville. I see greatest spirits conserved to their own ends. Were you the seeming serving man that passed by? By my sad heart I was. And not a tittle of my relation to thee wrong or feigned. In truth you were to blame to venture so. Miss Chiefs find us. We need not Miss Chiefs seek. I am not tied to that opinion. They are like women, which do always shun their lovers and pursuers, and do follow with most rank appetites them that do fly. All mischief that I had is but one woman, and that one woman all mischanced to me. Who speaks worst of them, there's the best of men. They are like shadows. Mischiefs are like them. Death fears me. For in truth I seek him out. The sun is stale to me. Tomorrow morn as this twill rise. I see no difference. The night doth visit me, but in one robe. She brings as many thoughts as she wears stars. When she is pleasant, but no rest at all. For what new strange thing should I covet life, then? Is not she false, whom only I thought true? Shall time to show his strength makes Scootmore live? Till perish the vicious thought. I love not thee. Or thou, dear friend, remove thy heart from me? Time is as weak for that as he is old. Take comfort and attend this council, friend. This match is neither sacred nor is sure. Close fate annihilates what opinion makes, and since she is resolved this night to die, if you do not redeem her, give the means or her blood. Credit me, we'll spring heavier griefs. Sore and stranger in thy oppressed heart than her false love before. Besides, tis you, my Scootmore, that are false, if you will not consent to let her make vows good, which were but in a possibility to be broke. This, her repentance, casts her vice quite off. And if you leave her now, you take it on. Nay, you incur a bloody mortal sin. You do become an actual murderer. If you neglect her, she'll kill herself this night by poison, knife, or other means. God gives you power to cross her desperate will, and if you save not where you may, you kill. Why, can my noble and wise friends think still that what a woman says her heart doth mean? Can you believe that she will kill herself? Tis a full hour since she's baked the word, and God forbid that any woman's mind should not be changed and changed in a long hour. She is by this time in her lordly arms. And, like pleased Juno, clasped by Jupiter, forgets the planes of poor mortality. Such state, such pride, as poets show on her, in sense with Job's loose scapes upon the earth, she cast on me at our encountering. As cold and heavy as a rock of ice in her love to me, which, while I there stayed, my bitter and hot words result a little. Just as the sun doth ice I softened her, and made her drown her fault in her own tears. But think you, she holds this flexible vein? No, I'm removed, and she's congealed again. How well does Scoodmore speak ill for himself? Whits a disease that fit employment once. Therefore we see those happiest in best parts, and fortunes underborn unto their merits, grow to a sullen envy, hate, and scorn of their superiors, and at last, like winds, break forth into rebellious civil wars, or private treasons. None so apt for these as melancholy wits, fettered with need. How freeze the rustic swain from these assaults! He never feels a passion all his life, but when he cannot sleep, or hunger gripes, and though he wants reason, wit, art, nay, sense, is not so senseless to capitulate, and ask God why he made not him as great as that same foolish lord or that rich nave. His brain with nothing does negotiate, but his hard husbandry, which makes him live. But have we worthy gifts as judgment, learning, ingenious sharpness? Which wise God indeed doth seldom give out of his equal hand, but joined with poverty, to make it even with riches which he clogs with ignorance. We vent our blessing in profane conceits, foul bordery, or strong arguments against ourselves, and stark blindly hold it best, rather to lose a soul than lose a jest. Ill terms, my friend, this wit in any man. For that, but seasoned with discretion, holds him in awe of all these blemishes. Freeze him of envy. Doth philosophize his spirit, that he makes no difference, twist man and man, twist fortunes high and low, but as the thicker they with virtues grow. Freedom and bonded wit can make all one, so twid by being left and being loved, if I had any of it tempered so. But you have spoken all this, condemning me for having wit to speak against myself, but I'll be ruled by you in all. Then thus. Tonight, by promise, I do give a mask, as to congratulate the bridal day, in which the count, pendant, and the wise knight, will be most worthy dancers. Sir, you shall learn but my part, which I will teach you too, as nimbly as the Usher did teach me, and follow my further directions. Though I, in the morn, were no prodigious white, I'll give the bellafront in thy arms tonight. I am your property, my engineer. Prosper your purposes. Shine, thou eye of heaven, and make thy lowering morn a smiling even. Excient. Scene two. Enter Captain Pouts with a letter, and Strange, like a soldier. Oh, these are Lamberfields. Strange murdered on the wedding day, by you, at his own bride's appointment, for my sake. As dead as charity. This sounds not well. Zooms, you may say as well I am the man, as doubt he lives, a plague of your belief. Do you know this bloody ruff which she has sent, lest you should be incredulous, and this ring which you have seen her wear? I know the ring, and I have seen the ruff about his neck. This comes of enforced marriages. Where was done? And how escaped you? Sir, receive it briefly. I am her kinsman, and being newly come over, and not intending to stay long, took this day to go see my cousin worldly, for so my name is, where I found all of them so deeply drenched in the bridal cup, that sleep had tamed possession of their eyes. Barkas had given them such an overthrow, their bodies lay like slotted carcasses, one here, one there, making such antic faces as drunkenness, had mocked at drunkenness. In trough the postures of their sleep like death, for theirs were like a death and sober sleep, remembered me of body scattered field, after the bloody battles I have seen, to has such a season to make short my tale, as fate had said, now murders may be done and nare revealed. Approaching further, I lighted upon a chamber, where your love sat by this merchant, cast drunk on the bed, she weeping and lamenting her mishap, assured both of my daring and my trust, fell flat upon the ground, then raised herself, hung on my neck, then sunk down to my legs, told all things past today, and never ceased till I had tamed life from that hafted man before, whom straight I strangled with this rope. You have showed some kindness to me. I must love you, sir. What did you with his body? Having first, by her direction, put on these his clothes, that like the murdered man the safelier I might pass with her, being her husband's shape, if any of the servants had been waked, she showed me to a necessary vault, within a closet in the chamber too, and there I threw the body. What's this blood? That she herself first let out of his veins, wherein she dipped the rough about his neck and said, Go and bear this end-sign of my love, to assure him what I dared for his dare's sake. Where is the maid? Captain, a maid for you. But well, you know, I hope she is no maid, but maid or no maid, she is at my mother's, whence I will bring her whither you'll appoint tonight, and let this tide convey all hens, for staying will be something perilous. I will kill two men for you, till then I owe my life to you, and if ever Rex, Strapadoe's wheels or any torturous engine, even from the Roman yoke to the Scotch boot, force me to discover you or her to law, pray God the merchant may respire again. But what a villain have I been to wrong her! Did she not tell you how I injured her? She said you'd challenge her, and publicly told you'd lane with her, but truth's no wrong. Truth? It was more false than hell, and you shall see me, as well as I can repent of any sin. Ask her forgiveness for wounding of her name, against the world recover her lost fame. Kind soul, would I could weep to make amends? Why did I slander her at the church door? The more base villain thou. Strike him. Huh? What's the news? Thou unspeakable rascal, thou a soldier, a captain of the suburbs, a poor foist, that with thy slops and catamount and face thy bladder-trops and thy robustious words frights the poor whore and terribly dost exact a weakly subsidy, twelve pence apiece, whereon thou livst, and on my conscience thou snaps'd for sides with cheats and cut verses. Hot! This is some railing poet. Why, you rogue! Thou rogue, far worse than rogues, thou slanderer! Thou worse than slanderous rogues, thou murderer! Tis well remembered. I will cut thy throat to appease that merchant's soul, which ne'er will rest till some revenge be taken on thy tongue. I'll kill thee first, and in thy vital flood wash my hands clean of that young merchant's blood. Hot! You fight as if you had fought a foe. I can still hold my sword. Come on, sir. Soonce! Can you ward so well? I think you are one of the noble science of defence. True are the science of noble defence I am, that fight and safeguard of a virtuous name. Cadet Captain Pounce. Oh! Now I understand you, and you stand over me. My hurts are not mortal, but you have the better. If your name be worldly, be thankful for your fortune. Give me thy sword, and I will kill thee. Somewise on the sun, I love my reputation well, yet I am not so valiant an ass, but I love my life better. There's my sword. Then get upon my back. Come, all shall be well. I'll carry thee unto a surgeon first, and then unto thy wench. Come, we are friends. God, a mercy! Zones! Me thinks I see myself in more fields, upon a wooden leg, begging throughputs. I thank thee, heaven, for my success in this. To what perfection is my business grown? Seldom or never is right overthrown. Exit with Captain Pounce on his back. Independent and Mistress Vactale with work, sewing a purse. They say that every woman has a spring to catch a woodcock. Remember my instructions, and let me see what a paradise thou can't spring this fool into. Fifteen hundred a year wench will make us all merry, but a fool to boot. Why, we shall throw the house out at window. Let me see. There are two things in this foolish transitory world which shall be all together regarded. Prophet and pleasure. Or pleasure and profit. I know not which to place first, for indeed they are twins, and were born together. For profit this marriage, God speed it, marries you to it, and for pleasure, if I help you not to that as cheap as any man in England, call me cut. So remember my instructions. I'll go fetch Sir Abraham. Exit. Your instructions? Nay, Faith. You shall see I have as fruitful a brain as a belly. You shall hear some additions of my own. My fantasy even kicks like my bastard. Well, boy, for I know thou art masculine. Neither thy father nor thy mother had any feminine quality, but one. And that was to take a good thing when it was proffered. When thou, in heritous land, strange both to thy father and thy grandfather, and rides in a coach, it may be thy father, an old footman, who be running by thy side. But yonder comes the gentle night and my squire. Enter Sir Abraham in pendant stealing. Unfortunate damsel! Why dost thou love where thou hast sworn it never to reveal? Maybe he would vouchsafe to look on thee. Because he is a knight. Is it thy terror? Why, per adventure, he is knighthood's mirror. Do you hear, Sir Abraham? Yes, with his standing tears. Beavis on a rundle with morglay in hand, near to my knight in prowess doth not stand. They say Sir Beavis slew both boar and dragon. My knight for that can drink up a whole flagon, a thing as famous now amongst our men, as killing monsters was accounted then. Tis not thy leg, nor were it twice as good, throws me into this melancholy mood. Yet let me say and swear in a cross garter, Paul's never showed to eyes a lovelier quarter. Aye, but all this while she does not name me. She may mean somebody else. Mean somebody else? You shall hear her name, you boy and boy. Curtious, Sir Abraham. No, you're there. O thy very name, like to a hatchet, cleaves my heart in twain. When first I saw thee in those little breeches, I laughed for joy, but when I heard thy speeches, I smiled downright, for I was almost frantic, a modern knight should be so like an antique in words and deeds. Those pinken eyes of thine, for I shall ne'er be blessed to call them mine. Say not so, sweet heart. How did they run? Not romantically run, but round about the room, one over one. That wide mouth, no small, no but middle size, that nose dominical, that head likewise. Very good. Do you mark that head likewise? She has an excellent wit. I'll now into her, Sir, observe what follows. Now, Turtle, morning still for the party. For whom are you working that purse? Abraham aside. For me I warrant her. What news, good cousin? I hope you have not revealed my love. Yes, Faith, I have acquainted the night with all, and thou mayst be ashamed to abuse a gentleman so slanderously. He swears he ne'er lay with you. Lie with me? Alas, no, I say not so, nor no man living. But there was one night above the rest, that I dreamt he lay with me. And did you ne'er hear of a child begotten a dream? Abraham aside. By this light, that very night I dreamt she lay with me. Aye, but Sir Abraham is no dreaming night. In short, he condemns you. He scorns you at his eels. By God, so he lies. I have the most adjutable bear, but that I would hear a little more. And he has sent this altar. You may hang yourself, or you may cut your throat. Here is a knife, too. Well, I will love him, in despite of all, however he uses me. Tis not the shame of being examined, or the fear of whipping. In it, aside. Make as if thou wouldst kill thyself. Should move me, would but he vouchsafe his love. Bear him this purse, filled with my latest breath. Blows in it. I love thee, Abraham Ninny, even in death. Office to stand. Hold, hold. Thy night commands thee for to hold. I said, you know, halter. Poor, so how it pants. Take courage, look up. Look, Sir Abraham, in person comes to see you. Oh, let me die, then, in his worship's arms. Live long and happy to produce thy baby. I am thy night. And thou shalt be my lady. Frown, dad, fret, mother, so my love look cheerly. Thou hast my heart, and thou hast bought it dearly. And for your pains, if Abraham lived, inherit, he will not be unmindful of your merit. Wear thou this ring, whilst I thy labour's task. This purse wear in my cap, and on in the mask. Oh, happy woman! To supper, let's, and to merry be as may be. Now, gods, and every wise night such a lady. Excellent. End of act four.