Ignoramus a comedy as it was several times acted with extraordinary applause before the Majesty of King James : with a supplement which, out of respect to the students of the common law, was hitherto wanting / written in Latine by R. Ruggles ... ; and translated into English by R. C. ...

The Tenth SCENE of the Third ACT.

The ARGUMENT.

Polla finds Cupes with a Victualler singing a Song of her and laughing at her, she soundly beats them both and the Fidlers that were in the room; she throws down on the ground the Capons, Pheasants, and much other good cheer, she poures out all the wine, and having got the Key of her House, she throwes Rosabella out of dores for a whore, who poor wretch knows not whither to go.

Cupes, the Victualler, Fidlers, Polla, Rosabella.

Cup.

OH happy Holy day—Things answering my expecta∣tion so successively, I have bought much good Cheer, I have hired Fidlers to make me more merry; But why are they not come yet? O my Priests, these sacrifices you offer, these Wine and Capons are very acceptable to me your God. O you Ca∣pons, Pheasants, and Partridges, how do I love and honour you? you are of the Nobility of Birds? how richly, how magnificently are you cloathed? how greedily do I wait upon you? as for Ducks and Geese, and such kind of Fowl they are clownish and rustical I care not for them.

Poll.

I have found him at last. Hay day— what a Banket hath

the Knave prepared for his Whore, I will here obscure my self, and listen a little to him.

Cup.

O my Beloved fat Friend, my dear Capon, how fairer art thou then my wife Polla?

Polla.

Say you so?

Cup.

How willingly do I kisse you? what a sweet kisse is this? much sweeter then the kisse of my wife Polla.

Poll.

What do you prefer a Capon to me, I shall speedily be with you!

Fidl.

Sure you have some foul slut to your wife Seignior.

Poll.

And I shall meet with you too.

Cup.

A foul slut—there is nothing like her; she is a Gob∣lin, a Gorgon; Styx, Scilla, a Hydra, a Harpy, a Monster all over.

Poll.

What shall I doe, I am not able to contain my self!

Victu.

Cupes, Let us sing that song I pray of your wife Polla.

Cup.

What? that which I made in the Tavern, the other day?

Vict.

The very same, Let us have it I pray you.

Poll.

What have they made a Song of me too? wo is me▪ but— indeed, woe unto them.

Vict.

Let us sing it.

Cup.

But what, if she should over-hear us?

Vict.

What if she should?

Cup.

She is a roaring Lioness, I had rather dwell with winter, or the Northern wind then with her.

Poll.

You speak truer then you think for, you shall feel me thundring presently about your ears.

Vict.

Begin I pray.

Cup.

I will first look if she be not lurking hereabouts to observe us; I tremble when I think on her.

Poll.

St, I will hide my self that they may not see me.

Cup.

Here is no body; Now my Minstrels, for a sprightful fit of Mirth? let us have it?

Poll.

I See! I am become a Song throughout the whole City; but I shall inchant the Chanters by and by.

Cupes and the rest sing.

May Polla wife to Cupes break By some happy fall her neck;

And may all wives that like her be Perish so, as well as she.

They all laugh, whooh, Ha ha he.

Poll.

Oh for a Thunderbolt to confound them all at once.

Vict.

Come once more; — May Polla wife to Cupes break &c.

Poll.

I can forbear no longer, Ile break your neck if I can.

Thwick-thwack.

Cup.

She hath kill'd me.

Vict.

What shall become of me? O my head.

Cup.

Woe is me, O my neck and shoulders.

Fidl.

I am sore all over.

Poll.

This is a new Song for you Fidlers.

Fidl.

I am undone, she hath broke all my strings, my lively∣hood is lost, what shall become of me?

Poll.

Why do not you sing now?

Cup.

Fidlers sing Lachrymae?

Poll.

Do I appear so foul a slut unto you? Hagh.

Fidl.

Oh me, Oh me.

Exeunt Fidlers.

Poll.

Must I be sung about Town by such a Kenn••l of Rascals? Oh that I had a little more breath, How I would be labour them?

Cup.

If any man should ask me now, in what place of the world I am, I am not able to tell him, I am so confounded with amaze∣ment. Will you drink any Wine my Hony?

Poll.

My Hony, my Gall, will you drink to me, and invite me to Supper with a Company of Whores?

Cu.

You have thrown away all our good cheer, have you any Impe∣riall missives that you act so uncontroled? if you are a good woman, restore us our Victuals again; what do you spill the Wine too? I am undone—At least spare that;—woe is me, Look on that Fla∣gon yonder, How it vomits forth its purple soul. Kill me Polla, that would be pardonable, but it is unpardonable to kill the Wine.

Poll.

Now go call your Whore to that Supper she is worthy of.

Cup.

Upon my life, Wife, she is no Mistresse of mine.

Poll.

Give me the Key, Give it me, I say, I will break open the dores else. Here will I make a way for my fury to enter in.

Cup.

She is deaf with Ra••e; I forgot to tell her before hand, that I was to bring Rosabella to my own House.

Poll.

Whore— Come out of my House—Come out of my House you Whore.

Rosa.

Woe is me, whither do you throw me?

Poll.

Into a Bawdy-house, the only place fit for you.

Ros.

Good woman I am innocent, and you are much mistaken in me, whither you will have me go?

Poll.

To Bridewell you prostitute.

Ros.

I had rather you should kill me.

Poll.

Get you gone you whore you, Get you gone?

Ros.

Woe is me, I go, I hope unto my Grave.

Cup.

What have you turn'd her out of dores? you have un∣done me then; It is Rosabella, and not any that I make love to.

Poll.

I shall pluck your fair Rose— you wish my death you Rogue you.

May Polla wife to Cupes break By some happy fall her neck.

Cup.

O my wife— If you did but know the Cause why I wish'd your Death, you would not be so angry.

Poll.

Say you so; what is the Cause?

Cup.

It is the fashion now for every man to wish his wife dead.

Poll.

Do you so purge your self? she beateth him again.

Cup.

O Lord— O Lord— what do you make account to doe, to lay on so unmercifully. A right Megaera.

Poll.

As you like this first course, I will serve in the second.

Cup.

Thank you sweet Poll; I do not like the first so well.

Poll.

I have now a little revenged my self.

Cup.

A little— say you; If this be your little, what is your Great deal?

Poll.

I will now step in, and if you follow me not immediately, I shall give you such another entertainment when ever I have you within dores.

Cup.

What shall I doe now; Let me think a little with my self of this brave Supper which I have lost, Pheasants— hum —Partridges— hum— Oh but the Wine— woe is me.