The workes of Beniamin Ionson

Scene I.

CLERIMONT, BOY, TRVE-WIT.

He comes out making himselfe ready.

HA' you got the song yet perfect I ga'you, boy?

BOY.

Yes, sir.

CLE.

Let me heare it.

BOY.

You shall, sir, but i' faith let no body else.

CLE.

Why, I pray?

BOY.

It will get you the dangerous name of a Poet in towne, sir, be∣sides me a perfect deale of ill will at the mansion you wot of, whose ladie is the argument of it: where now I am the welcom'st thing vnder a man that comes there.

CLE.

I thinke, and aboue a man too, if the truth were rack'd out of you.

BOY.

No faith, I'll confesse before, sir. The gentlewomen play with me, and throw me o' the bed; and carry me in to my lady; and shee kisses me with her oil'd face; and puts a perruke o' my head; and askes mean' I will weare her gowne; and I say, no: and then she hits me a blow o'the eare, and calls me innocent, and lets me goe.

CLE.

No maruell, if the dore bee kept shut against your master, when the entrance is so easie to you—well sir, you shall goe there no more, lest

I bee faine to seeke your voyce in my ladies rushes, a fortnight hence. Sing,

Boy sings.

sir.

TRV.

Why, here's the man that can melt away his time, and neuer feeles it! what, betweene his mistris abroad, and his engle at home, high fare, soft lodging, fine clothes, and his fiddle; hee thinkes the houres ha' no wings, or the day no post-horse. Well, sir gallant, were you strooke with the plague this minute, or condemn'd to any capitall punishment to morrow, you would beginne then to thinke, and value euery article o' your time, esteeme it at the true rate, and giue all for't.

CLE.

Why, what should a man doe?

TRV.

Why, nothing: or that, which when 'tis done, is as idle. Harken after the next horse-race, * 1.1 or hunting-match; lay wagers, praise Puppy, or Pepper-corne, White-foote, Franklin; sweare vpon White-maynes partie; spend aloud, that my lords may heare you; visite my ladies at night, and bee able to giue 'hem the character of euery bowler, or better o' the greene. These be the things, wherein your fashionable men exercise them∣selues, and I for companie.

CLE.

Nay, if I haue thy authoritie, I'le not leaue yet. Come, the o∣ther are considerations, when wee come to haue gray heads, and weake hammes, moist eyes, and shrunke members. Wee'll thinke on 'hem then; then wee'll pray, and fast.

TRV.

I, and destine onely that time of age to goodnesse, which our want of abilitie will not let vs employ in euill?

CLE.

Why, then 'tis time enough.

TRV.

Yes: as if a man should sleepe all the terme, and thinke to ef∣fect his businesse the last day. O, CLERIMONT, this time, because it is an incorporeall thing, and not subiect to sense, we mocke our selues the fine∣liest out of it, with vanitie, and miserie indeede: not seeking an end of wretchednesse, but onely changing the matter still.

CLE.

Nay, thou'lt not leaue now—

TRV.

See but our common disease! with what iustice can wee com∣plaine, that great men will not looke vpon vs, nor be at leisure to giue our affaires such dispatch, as wee expect, when wee will neuer doe it to our selues: nor heare, nor regard our selues.

CLE.

Foh, thou hast read PLVTARCHS moralls, now, or some such tedious fellow; and it showes so vilely with thee: 'Fore god, 'twill spoile thy wit vtterly. Talke me of pinnes, and feathers, and ladies, and rushes, and such things: and leaue this Stoicitie alone, till thou mak'st sermons.

TRV.

Well, sir. If it will not take, I haue learn'd to loose as little of my kindnesse, as I can. I'le doe good to no man against his will, certaine∣ly. When were you at the colledge?

CLE.

What colledge?

TRV.

As if you knew not!

CLE.

No faith, I came but from court, yesterday.

TRV.

Why, is it not arriu'd there yet, the newes? A new foundation,

sir, here i' the towne, of ladies, that call themselues the Collegiates, an or∣der betweene courtiers, and country-madames, that liue from their hus∣bands; and giue entertainement to all the Wits, and Braueries o' the time, as they call 'hem: crie downe, or vp, what they like, or dislike in a braine, or a fashion, with most masculine, or rather hermaphroditicall authoritie: and, euery day, gaine to their colledge some new probationer.

CLE.

Who is the President?

TRV.

The graue, and youthfull matron, the lady HAVGHTY.

CLE.

A poxe of her autumnall face, her peec'd beautie: there's no man can bee admitted till shee be ready, now adaies, till shee has painted, and perfum'd, and wash'd, and scour'd, but the boy here; and him shee wipes her oil'd lips vpon, like a sponge. I haue made a song, I pray thee heare it, o' the subiect.

SONG.

STill to be neat, still to be drest, As, you were going to a feast; Still to be pou'dred, still perfum'd: Lady, it is to be presum'd, Though arts hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Giue me a looke, giue me a face, That makes simplicitie a grace; Robes loosely flowing, haire as free: Such sweet neglect more taketh me, Then all th'adulteries of art. Thy strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

TRV.

And I am, clearely, o'the other side: I loue a good dressing, be∣fore any beautie o' the world. O, a woman is, then, like a delicate garden; nor, is there one kind of it: she may varie, euery houre; take often coun∣sell of her glasse, and choose the best. If shee haue good eares, shew 'hem; good haire, lay it out; good legs, weare short cloathes; a good hand, dis∣couer it often; practise any art, to mend breath, clense teeth, repaire eye-browes, paint, and professe it.

CLE.

How? publiquely?

TRV.

The doing of it, not the manner: that must bee priuate. Ma∣ny things, that seeme foule, i' the doing, doe please, done. A lady should, indeed, studie her face, when wee thinke shee sleepes: nor, when the dores are shut, should men bee inquiring, all is sacred within, then. Is it for vs to see their perrukes put on, their false teeth, their complexion, their eye-browes, their nailes? you see guilders will not worke, but inclos'd. They must not discouer, how little serues, with the helpe of art, to adorne a great deale. How long did the canuas hang afore

Ald-gate? were the people suffer'd to see the cities Loue, and Charitie, while they were rude stone, before they were painted, and burnish'd? No. No more should seruants approch their mistresses, but when they are com∣pleat, and finish'd.

CLE.

Well said, my TRVE-WIT.

TRV.

And a wise ladie will keepe a guard alwaies vpon the place, that shee may doe things securely. I once followed a rude fellow into a cham∣ber, where the poore madame, for haste, and troubled, snatch'd at her per∣ruke, to couer her baldnesse: and put it on, the wrong way.

CLE.

O prodigie!

TRV.

And the vn-conscionable knaue held her in complement an houre, with that reuerst face, when I still look'd when shee should talke from the t'other side.

CLE.

Why, thou should'st ha' releeu'd her.

TRV.

No faith, I let her alone, as wee'l let this argument, if you please, and passe to another. When saw you DAVPHINE EVGENIE?

CLE.

Not these ••••ee daies. Shall we goe to him this morning? he is very melancholique, I heare.

TRV.

Sicke o' the vncle? is hee? I met that stiffe peece of formalitie, his vncle, yesterday, with a huge turbant of night-caps on his head, buck∣led ouer his cares.

CLE.

O, that's his custome when he walkes abroad. Hee can endure no noise, man.

TRV.

So I haue heard. But is the disease so ridiculous in him, as it is made? they say, hee has beene vpon diuers treaties with the Fish-wiues, and Orenge-women; and articles propounded betweene them: mary, the Chimney-sweepers will not be drawne in.

CLE.

No, nor the Broome-men: they stand out stiffely. He cannot endure a Costard-monger, he swounes if he heare one.

TRV.

Me thinkes, a Smith should be ominous.

CLE.

Or any Hāmer-man. A Brasier is not suffer'd to dwel in the pa∣rish, nor an Armorer. He would haue hang'd a Pewterers 'prentice once vp¦on a shroue-tuesdaies riot, for being o' that trade, when the rest were quit.

TRV.

A Trumpet should fright him terribly, or the Hau'-boyes?

CLE.

Out of his senses. The Waights of the citie haue a pension of him, not to come neere that ward. This youth practis'd on him, one night, like the Bell-man; and neuer left till hee had brought him downe to the doore, with a long-sword: and there left him flourishing with the aire.

BOY.

Why, sir! hee hath chosen a street to lie in, so narrow at both ends, that it will receiue no coaches, nor carts, nor any of these common noises: and therefore, we that loue him, deuise to bring him in such as we may, now and then, for his exercise, to breath him. Hee would grow resty else in his ease. His vertue would rust without action. I entreated a Beare-ward, one day, to come downe with the dogs of some foure pa∣rishes that way, and I thanke him, he did; & cryed his games vnder master

MOROSE'S windore: till he was sent crying away, with his head made a most bleeding spectacle to the multitude. And, another time, a Fencer, marching to his prize, had his drum most tragically run through, for ta∣king that street in his way, at my request.

TRV.

A good wag. How do's he for the bells?

CLE.

O, i' the Queenes time, he was wont to goe out of towne euery satterday at ten a clock, or on holy-day-eues. But now, by reason of the sicknesse, the perpetuitie of ringing has made him deuise a roome, with double walls, and treble feelings; the windores close shut, and calk'd: and there he liues by candle-light. He turn'd away a man, last weeke, for hauing a paire of new shooes that creak'd. And this fellow waits on him, now, in tennis-court socks, or slippers sol'd with wooll: and they talke each to other, in a trunke. See, who comes here.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Horses o•• the time.