Beaumont and Fletcher's Works. Volume 9. Beaumont Francis

and Sir Gregory

      Old K.

      Why now you take the course Sir Gregory Fop:

      I could enforce her, and I list, but love

      That's gently won, is a man's own for ever,

      Have you prepar'd good Musick?

      Sir Gr. As fine a noise, Uncle, as heart can wish.

      O[l]d K. Why that's done like a Suitor,

      They must be woo'd a hundred several ways,

      Before you obtain the right way in a woman,

      'Tis an odd creature, full of creeks and windings.

      The Serpent has not more; for sh'as all his,

      And then her own beside came in by her mother.

      Sir Gr. A fearful portion for a man to venture on.

      Old K. But the way found once by the wits of men,

      There is no creature lies so tame agen.

      Sir Gr. I promise you, not a house-Rabbit, Sir.

      Old K. No sucker on 'em all.

      Sir Gr. What a thing's that?

      They're pretty fools I warrant, when they'r tame

      As a man can lay his lips [to].

      Old K. How were you bred, Sir?

      Did you never make a fool of a Tenants daughter?

      Sir Gr. Never i'faith, they ha' made some fools for me,

      And brought 'em many a time under their aprons.

      Old [K] They could not shew you the way plainlier, I think,

      To make a fool again.

      Sir Gr. There's fools enough, Sir,

      'Less they were wiser.

      Old K. This is wondrous rare,

      Come you to London with a Maiden-head, Knight?

      A Gentleman of your rank ride with a Cloak-bag?

      Never an Hostess by the way to leave it with?

      Nor Tapsters Sister? nor head-Ostlers Wife?

      What no body?

      Sir Gr. Well mock'd old Wit-monger,

      I keep it for your Neece.

      Old K. Do not say so for shame, she'll laugh at thee,

      A wife ne'er looks for't, 'tis a batchelors penny,

      He may giv't to a begger-wench, i'th' progress time,

      And ne'er be call'd to account for't.

[Ex.

      Sir Gr. Would I had known so much,

      I could ha' stopt a beggers mouth by th' way.

Enter Page and Fidlers boy

      That rail'd upon me, 'cause I'd give her nothing —

      What, are they come?

      Pag. And plac'd directly, Sir,

      Under her window.

      Sir Gr. What may I call you, Gentleman?

      Boy. A poor servant to the Viol, I'm the Voice, Sir.

      Sir Gr. In good time Master Voice?

      Boy. Indeed good time does get the mastery.

      Sir Gr. What Countreyman, Master Voice.

      Boy. Sir, born at Ely, we all set up in El[y,]

      But our house commonly breaks in Rutland-shire.

      Sir Gr. A shrewd place by my faith, it may well break your voice,

      It breaks many a mans back; come, set to your business.

SONG

      Fain would I wake you, Sweet, but fear

      I should invite you to worse chear;

      In your dreams you cannot fare

      Meaner than Musick; no compare;

      None of your slumbers are compil'd

      Under the pleasure makes a Child;

      Your day-delights, so well compact,

      That what you think, turns all to act:

      I'd wish my life no better play,

      Your dream by night, your thought by day.

      Wake gently, wake,

      Part softly from your dreams;

      The morning flies

      To your fair eyes,

      To take her special beams.

      Sir Gr. I hear her up, here Master Voice,

      Pay you the Instruments, save what you can,

Enter Neece above

      To keep you when you're crackt.

[Exit Boy.

      Neece. Who should this be?

      That I'm so much beholding to, for sweetness?

      Pray Heaven it happens right.

      Sir Gr. Good morrow, Mistriss.

      Neece. An ill day and a thousand come upon thee.

      Sir Gr. 'Light, that's six hundred more than any

      Almanack has.

      Neece. Comes it from thee? it is the mangiest Musick

      That ever woman heard.

      Sir Gr. Nay, say not so, Lady,

      There's not an itch about 'em.

      Neece. I could curse

      My attentive powers, for giving entrance to't;

      There is no boldness like the impudence

      That's lockt in a fools bloud, how durst you do this?

      In conscience I abus'd you as sufficiently

      As woman could a man; insatiate Coxcomb,

      The mocks and spiteful language I have given thee,

      Would o' my life ha' serv'd ten reasonable men,

      And rise contented too, and left enough for their friends.

      Thou glutton at abuses, never satisfied?

      I am perswaded thou devour'st more flouts

      Than all thy body's worth, and still a hungred!

      A mischief of that maw, prethee seek elsewhere,

      Introth I am weary of abusing thee;

      Get thee a fresh Mistriss, thou'st make work enough;

      I do not think there's scorn enough in Town

      To serve thy turn, take the Court-Ladies in,

      And all their Women to 'em, that exceed 'em.

      Sir Gr. Is this in earnest, Lady?

      Neece. Oh unsatiable!

      Dost thou count all this but an earnest yet?

      I'd thought I'd paid thee all the whole sum, trust me;

      Thou'lt