Five nevv playes, viz. The English moor, or the mock-marriage. The love-sick court, or the ambitious politique: Covent Garden weeded. The nevv academy, or the nevv exchange. The queen and concubine. / By Richard Brome.

SCENE I.

Cockbrayne, Rookes-bill.

Cock.

I Marry Sir! This is something like! These appear like Buildings! Here's Architecture exprest in∣deed! It is a most sightly scitua∣tion, and fit for Gentry and Nobility.

Rook.

When it is all finished, doubtlesse it will be handsome.

Cock.

It will be glorious: and yond magnificent Peece, the Piazzo, will excel that at Venice, by hear∣say, (I ne're travell'd). A hearty blessing on their braines, honours, and wealths, that are Projectors, Furtherers, and Performers of such great works. And now I come to you Mr. Rookesbill: I like your Rowe of houses most incomparably. Your money never

shone so on your Counting-boards, as in those Stru∣ctures.

Rook.

I have pil'd up a Leash of thousand pounds in walls and windows there.

Cock.

It will all come again with large en∣crease.

And better is your money thus let out on red and white, then upon black and white, I say. You can∣not think how I am taken with that Rowe! How even and straight they are! And so are all indeed. The Surveyor (what e're he was) has manifested himself the Master of his great Art. How he has wedded strength to beauty; state to uniformity; commodi∣ousnesse with perspicuity! All, all as't should be!

Rook.

If all were as well tenanted and inhabited by worthy persons.

Cock.

Phew; that will follow. What new Planta∣tion was ever peopled with the better sort at first; nay, commonly, the lewdest blades, and naughty∣packs are either necessitated to 'hem, or else do prove the most forward venturers. Is not lime and hair the first in all your foundations? do we not soile or dung our lands, before we sowe or plant any thing that's good in 'hem? And do not weeds creep up first in all Gardens? and why not then in this? which never was a Garden until now; and which will be the Gar∣den of Gardens, I foresee't. And for the weeds in it, let me alone for the weeding of them out. And so as my Reverend Ancestor Justice Adam Overdoe, was wont to say, In Heavens name and the Kings, and for the good of the Common-wealth I will go a∣bout it.

Rook.

I would a few more of the Worshipful here∣abouts, (whether they be in Commission or not) were as well minded that way as you are Sir; we should

then have all sweet and clean, and that quickly too.

Cock.

I have thought upon a way for't, Mr. Rooks∣bill: and I will pursue it, viz. to finde out all the enormities, yet be my selfe unspied: whereby I will tread out the spark of impiety, whilest it is yet a spark and not a flame; and break the egge of a mis∣chief, whilest it is yet an egge and not a Cockatrice. Then doubt not of worthy tenants for your houses Mr. Rooksbill.

Rook.

I hope, Sir, your best furtherance.

Cock.

I had a letter bur last night from a worthy friend, a West-countrey Gentleman, that is, now coming up with his family to live in Town here; and desire is to inhabit in these buildings. He was to lie at Hammersmith last night, and requested an early meeting of me this morning here, to assist him in the taking of a house. It is my businesse hither; for he could never do't himselfe. He has the oldest touchy, wrangling humour.—But in a harmlesse way; for he hurts no body, and pleases himself in it. His children have all the trouble of it, that do anger him in obeying him sometimes. You will know him anon. I mean, he shall be your Tenant. And luckily he comes.

Enter Croswill, Gabriel, Katherine, Belt.

Cros.

It is not enough you tell me of obedience. Or that you are obedient. But I will be obeyed in my own way. Do you see—

(to Gab. and Ka.)

Cock.

My noble friend Mr. Croswill, right happi∣ly met.

Cros.

Your troublesome friend Mr. Cockbrayne.

Cock.

No trouble at all, Sir, though I have pre∣vented

yours in finding a fit house for you.

Cros.

You ha' not ha' you, ha?

Cock.

Actum est Mr. Croswill. But Civility par∣don me, Is not this your daughter?

Kisse.

Cros.

All the Shee-things I have: and would I were well rid of her too.

Cock.

Sweet Mrs. Katherine, Welcome—Mr. Gabriel, I take it.

Gab.

Gabriel Croswill is my name.

Cock.

But where's your younger sonne Mihill? There's a spark!

Cros.

A Spark! A dunce I fear by this time like his brother Sheepshead there.

Gab.

Gabriel is my proper name.

Gros.

I have not seen him this Twelve-moneth, since I chamber'd him a Student here in Town.

Cock.

In town, and I not know it?

Cros.

He knows not yet of my coming neither, nor shall not, till I steal upon him; and if I finde him mopish like his brother, I know what I will doe.

Cock.

Have you not heard from him lately?

Cros.

Yes, often by his letters, lesse I could reade more comfort in 'hem. I fear he's turn'd Precisian, for all his Epistles end with Amen; and the-matter of 'hem is such as if he could teach me to ask him blessing.

Rook.

A comfortable hearing of a young man.

Cros.

Is it so Sir? but I'le new mould him if it be so.—I'le tell you Mr. Cockbrayne; never was such a father so crost in his children. They will not obey me in my way. I grant, they do things that other fathers would rejoyce at. But I will be obeyed in my own way, dee see. Here's my eldest sonne. Mark how he stands, as if he had learn't a posture at Knights-bridge

spittle as we came aloug while-eare. He was not only borne without wit, but with an obstinate re∣solution, never to have any. I mean, such wit as might become a Gentleman.

Cock.

Was that resolution borne in him think you.

Cros.

It could never grow up in him still as it does else. When I would have him take his horse, and follow the dogs, and associate Gentlemen, in hawk∣ing, hunting, or such like exercises, he'l run you a foot five mile another way, to meet the brethren of the separation, at such exercises as I never sent him to (I am sure) on worky dayes. And whereas most Gentlemen run into other mens books, in hands that they care not who reades, he has a book of his own Short-writing in his pocket, of such stuffe as is fit for no mans reading indeed but his own.

Gab.

Surely Sir.—

Cros.

Sure you are an Asse. Hold your tongue.

Gab.

You are my father.

Rook.

What comfort should I have, were my son such.

Cros.

And he has nothing but hang'd the head, as you see now, ever since Holiday sports were cried up in the Countrey. And but for that, and to talk with some of the silenc'd Pastors here in town about it, I should not have drawn him up.

Rook.

I would I could change a sonne w' you Sir.

Cros.

What kinde of thing is thy sonne? ha! dost thou look like one that could have a sonne fit for me to father, ha? And yet the best take both, and t' please you at all adventures, ha?

Rook.

I am sure there cannot be a worse, or more debauch'd reprobate then mine is living.

Cros.

And is the devil too good a Master for

him, think'st thou, ha? Wherein can I deserve so ill at thy hands, fellow, whate're thou art, that thou should'st wish me comber'd with a worse burden, when thou hearest me complain of this, ha? What is this fellow that you dare know him, Friend Cock∣brayn? I will not dwell within three parishes of him.

Rook.

My tenant! Blesse me from him. I had ra∣ther all my Rents were Bawdy houses.

Cock.

Think nothing of his words, he'll forget all instantly. The best natur'd man living.

Cros.

Dost thou stand like a son now that hears his father abus'd, ha?

Gab.

I am praying for the conversion of the young man he speaks of.

Coek.

Well said, Mr. Gabriel.

Cros.

But by the way, where's your sonne Antho∣ny? have you not heard of him yet?

Cock.

Never since he forsook me, on the discon∣tent he took, in that he might not marry your daugh∣ret there. And where he lives, or whether he lives or not, I know not. I hope your davghter is a comfort to you.

Cros.

Yes, in keeping her chamber whole weeks together, fullenning upon her Samplery breech-work, when I was in hope she would have made me a Grand∣father ere now. But she has a humour, forsooth, since we put your son by her, to make me a match-broker, her marriage-Maker; when I tell you friend, there has been so many untoward matches of Pa∣rents making, that I have sworn she shall make her own choice, though it be of one I hate. Make me her match-maker! Must I obey her, or she me, ha?

Cock.

I wish, with teares, my sonne had had her now.

Kat.

Wherein Sir, (under correction do I disobey you?

Cros.

In that very word, under correction, thou dis∣obey'st me. Are you to be under correction at these yeares? ha! If I ha' not already taught you manners beyond the help of correction, go, seek a wiser father to mend 'hem.

Kat.

Yet give me leave, dear Sir, in my ex∣cuse.—

Cros.

Leave out correction then.

Kat.

If I were forward as many Maidens are, To wish a husband, must I not be sought? I never was a Gadder: and my Mother, Before she dy'd, adjur'd me to be none. I hope you'll give me leave to keep your house.

Cros.

La there again! How subtly she seeks dominion over me! No, huswife, No; you keep no house of mine. I'll nestle you no longer under my wing. Are you not fledge; I'll have you fly out I, as other mens daughters do; and keep a house of your own if you can find it.

Gab.

We had a kinswoman flew out too late∣ly, I take it.

Cros.

What tell'st thou me of her; wise-acres? Can they not flie out a little, but they must turne arrant vvhores, ha? Tell me of your kinswoman? 'Tis true, she was my Neece; she vvent to't a little afore her time? some tvvo years since, and so fled from Re∣ligion; and is turn'd Turk, vve fear. And vvhat of that in your precisiancial vvisdom? I have such children as no man has. But (as I vvas saying,) vvould ye top me husvvife, ha! Look you, novv I chide her, she sayes nothing. Is this obedience, ha?

Kat.

Perhaps, I might unfortunately cast my affecti∣on on a man that vvould refuse me.

Cros.

That man I vvould desire to knovv; shevv me that man; see if I svvinge him not dares slight my daughter.

Cock.

Still the old humour, self-vvill'd, crosse, and touchie; but suddainly reconcil'd. Come, Mr. Cros∣wil, to the businesse.

Cros.

Oh, you told me of a house you had found for me.

Cock.

Yes Sir. And here's the Landlord.

Cros.

Does he look, or go like one could let a house vvorthy of me.

Cock.

Sir, vve have able Builders here, that vvill not carry least shevv of their buildings on their backs. This is a rich sufficient man, I assure you, and my friend.

Cros.

I cry him heartily mercy, and embrace him. And novv I note you better, you look like Thrift it self.

Enter Dorcas above upon a Bellconie. Gabriel gazes at her. Dorcas is habited like a Curtizan of Venice.

I cannot think you vvill throvv avvay your houses at a cast. You have a sonne, perhaps, that may, by the commendations you gave of him. Lets see your house.

Cock.

Come avvay Mr. Gabriel.

Cros.

Come Sir, vvhat do you gape a••d shake the head at there? I'll lay my life he has spied the little Crosse upon the nevv Church yond, and is at defiance vvith it. Sirrah, I vvill make you honour the first syllable of my name. My name is Will. Croswill, and I vvill have my humour. Let those that talk of me for it, speak their pleasure, I vvill do mine.

Gab.

I shall obey you, Sir.

Cros.

Novv you are in the right. You shall indeed. I'll make your heart ake else, dee see.

Gab.

But truly I vvas looking at that Image; that

painted idolatrous image yonder, as I take it.

Cock.

O heresie! It is some Lady, or Gentlewo∣man standing upon her Bellconey.

Belt.

Her Bellconey? Where is it? I can spy from her foot to her face, yet I can see no Bellconey she has.

Cock.

What a Knave's this: That's the Bellconey she stands on, that which jets out so on the forepart of the house; every house here has one of 'hem.

Belt.

'Tis very good; I like the jetting out of the forepart very well; it is a gallant fashion indeed.

Cock.

I guess what she is, what ere I have said. O Justice look to thine office.

Cros.

Come now to this house, and then to my son Mihil, the Spark you spoke of. And if I find him cross too, I'le cross him: Let him look to't▪ Dee see.

Cock.

I'le see you hous'd; and then about my pro∣ject, which is for weeding of this hopeful Garden.

Ex. omnes.

Gabriel stayes last looking up at her.

Dam.

Why should not we in England use that free∣dome The famous Curtezans have in Italy: We have the art, and know the Theory To allure and catch the wandring eyes of Lovers; Yea, and their hearts too: but our stricter Lawes Forbids the publique practise, our desires Are high as theirs; our wills as apt and forward; Our wits as ripe, our beauties more attractive; Or Travellers are shrewd lyars. Where's the let? Only in bashful coward custome, that Stoops i'the shoulders, and submits the neck To bondage of Authority; to these Lawes, That men of feeble age and weaker eye-sight Have fram'd to bar their sons from youthful pleasures. Possets and Cawdels on their queasie stomacks,

Whilst I fly out in brave rebellion; And offer, at the least, to break these shackles That holds our legs together: And begin A fashion, which pursu'd by Cyprian Dames, May perswade Justice to allow our Games. Who knows? I'le try. Francisca bring my Lute.

Enter Fran. with Lute.

while she is tuning her Lute: Enter Nich. Rookesbill, Anthony in a false beard, Clotpoll.

Clot.

Troth I have a great mind to be one of the Philoblathici, a Brother of the Blade and Battoon, as you translate it; now ye have beat it into my head: But I fear I shall never come on and off handsomely. I have mettal enough methinks, but I know not how methinks to put it out.

Nich.

We'l help you out with it, and set it flying for you never doubt it.

Clot.

Obotts, you mean my money mettal, I mean my valour mettal I.

Ant.

Peace, heark.

Clot.

T'other flyes fast enough already.

Nic.

Pox on ye peace.

Song.

Nic.

O most melodious.

Clot.

Most odious, Did you say? It is methinks most odoriferous.

Ant.

What new devise can this be? Look!

Nic.

She is vanisht. Is't not the Mountebanks Wife that was here; and now come again to play some new merry tricks by herself.

Clot.

A botts on't, I never saw that Mountebank; they say, he brought the first resort into this new plan∣tation, and sow'd so much seed of Knavery and Co∣zenage here, that 'tis fear'd 'twill never out.

Nic.

Nay but this creature: What can she be?

Clot.

And then again, he drew such flocks of idle people to him, that the Players, they say, curst him abhominably.

Ant,

Thou ever talk'st of the wrong matter.

Clot.

Cry mercy Brothers of the Blade and Bat∣toune: Do you think if I give my endeavour to it, I shall ever learn to roar and carry it as you do, that have it naturally, as you say.

Nic.

Yes, as we'll beat it into you. But this wo∣man, this musical woman, that set her self out to show so, I would be satisfied in her.

Clot.

And she be as able as she seems, she has in her to satisfie you, and you were a Brother of ten Blades, and ten Battounes.

Nic.

I vow—Peace. I'le battoune thy teeth into thy tongue else; she bears a stately presence. Thou never saw'st her before: Didst thou Toney?

Ant.

No; but I heard an inkling at the Paris Tavern last night of a She-Gallant-that had travelled France and Italy; and that she would—

(Clot.

Battoun thy teeth into thy tongue.)

write table.

Ant.

Plant some of her forraign collections, the fruits of her travels, in this Garden here, to try how they would grow or thrive on English earth.

Nic.

Young Pig was speaking of such a one to me, and that she was a Mumper.

Clot.

What's that a Sister of the Scabberd, brother of the Blade?

Nic.

Come, come; we'l in, we'l in; 'tis one of our fathers buildings; I'le see the Inhabitants. Some money Clot. furnish I say, and quickly.—I vow—

Clot.

You shall, you shall.

Nic.

What shall I?

Clot.

Vow twice before you have it.

Nic.

I vow, and I vow again, I'le coyn thy brains.—

Clot.

Hold, hold, take your powl money; I thought I would have my will; and the word I look-for, I'le coyn thy brains.—

write.

I do not love to give my money for nothing, I have a volume of words here, the worst of 'hem is as good as a blow; and then I save my Crown whole half a dozen times a day, by half a crown a time, there's half in half sav'd by that.

Nic.

Come let's appear civil, till we have our en∣trance, and then as occasion serves—

Knock.

Enter Fran.

Who would you speak withal?

Nic.

Your Mistress, little one.

Fran.

Do you know her Sir?

Nic.

No; but I would know her, that's the busi∣ness: I mean the musical Gentlewoman that was fidling, and so many in the What-doe-call't een now.

Fran.

What-doe-call her Sir, I pray?

Nic.

What-doe-call her; 'tis not come to that yet, prethee let me see and speak with her first.

Fran.

You are dispos'd I think.

Nic.

What should we do here else?

Fra.

You wont thrust in upon a body whether one will or no.

Ant. Nic.

Away you Monkey.

Fra.

O me, What do you mean?

Clot.

O my brave Philoblathici.—

Ex. omnes.

Enter Dorcas, alias Damaris, Madge.

Dam.

What's the matter the Girl cryes out so?

Ma.

I know not: I fear some rude company, some of the wild crew are broke into the house.

Fran.

Within. Whether would you go, you wont rob the house will ye?

Nic.

Will ye be quiet Whiskin?

Ma.

O me 'tis so: Hell's broke loose; this comes of your new fingle-fangle fashion, your prepostrous Italian way forsooth: would I could have kept my old way of pots and pipes, and my Strong-water course for customers: The very first twang of your fiddle guts has broke all, and conjur'd a legion of de∣vils among us.

Enter Nic. Ant. Clot.

Nic.

Nay, there's but a Leash of us. How now? Who have we here? Are these the far travel'd Ladies? O thou party perpale, or rather parboild Bawd.

Mad.

What shall I do? Dam. Out alass; sure they are devils indeed.

Nic.

Art thou travel'd cross the Seas from the Bankside hither, old Countess of Codpiece-row?

Clot.

Party perpale and parboild Bawd.—

Write.

Ant.

And is this the Damsel that has been in France and Italy? Clot. Codpiece-row.

Mad.

Peace ye roaring Scabs: I'le besworn she supt at Paris Tavern last night, and lay not long ago at the Venice by Whitefryers Dock.

Nic.

Prethee what is she Madge?

Mad.

A civil Gentlewoman you see she is.

Nic.

She has none of the best faces: but is she war∣rantable; I have not had a civil night these three moneths.

Madge.

Nor none are like to have here, I assure you.

Nic.

O Madge how I do long thy thing to ding didle ding.

Mad.

O Nick, I am not in the humour, no more is she to be o'the merry pin now; I am sure her case is too lamentable. But if you will all sit down, I'le give you a bottle of wine, and we'l relate her story to you, so you will be civil. Nic. Well for once, I care not if we be.

A Table bottle, light, and Tobacco stales.

Let us set to't then; sit down brother Toney, sit down Gentlewoman, we shall know your name a∣non, I hope it will fall in your story; sit down Clot∣poll.

Clot.

You will call me brother Clotpoll too when I have taken my oath, and paid my entrance into the faternity of the Blade and the Battoun.

Nic.

'Tis like we shall. Now Lady of the Stygian Lake, thou black infernal Madge, begin the dismal story, whilst I begin the bottle.

Mad.

This Gentlewoman whose name is Damyris.

Nic.

Damyris stay. Her nick-name then is Dammy, so we may call her when we grow familiar: and to begin that familiarity, Dammy here's to you.—drink.

Dam.

And what's your nick-name I pray Sir?

Nic.

Nick: only Nick, Madge there knows it.

Dam.

Then I believe your name is Nicholas.

Nic.

I vow-witty. Yes Dammy, and my Sirname is Rookesbill, and so is my Fathers too: and what do you make o'that?

Dam.

Nothing not I Sir: sure this is he.

Nic.

And I would he were nothing, so I had all he has: I must have tother glass to wash him out of my mouth, he furs it worse then Mondongas Tobacco. Here old Madge, and to all the birds that shall won∣der at thy howletship, when thou rid'st in an Ivy-bush, call'd a Cart.

Mad.

Well mad Nick, I'le pledge thee in hope to see as many flutter about the tree, that thou shalt clime backwards.

Nic.

A pox thou wilt be stifled with Offal and Car∣ret leaves before that day.

Dam.

Fie, fie, what talk's this? 'tis he I am consi∣dent.

Mad.

These are our ordinary complements, we wish no harm.

Nic.

No Dammy I vow, not I to any breathing.

Mad.

But your Father Nick.—Is he that Rookes∣bill.—

Nic.

But my Fathet; Pox rot ye, why do ye put me in mind of him again, he sticks i'my throat, now I'le wash him a little further.—Here Brother Toney

Ant.

Gramercy Brother Nick.

Clot.

And to all the brothers that are, and are to be of the Blade and the Battoun.

Nic.

There said you well Clotpoll: Here 'tis—

Drink.

Mad. sets away the Bottle.

Mad.

I would but have asked you whether your Father were that Rookesbill that is call'd the great Builder.

Nic.

Yes marry is it he forsooth; he has built I know not how many houses hereabout, though he goes Dammy as if he were not worth a groat; and all his cloaths I vow are not worth this hilt, except those he wears, and prayes for fair weather in, on my Lord Mayors Day; and you are his Tenant, though perhaps you know it not, and may be mine; therefore use me well: for this house and the rest I hope will be mine, as well as I can hope he is mortal, of which I must confess I have been in some doubt, though now I hope again, he will be the first shall lay his bones i'the new Church, though the Church-yard be too good

for him before 'tis consecrated. So give me the to-the cup, for now he offends my stomack. Here's to thee now Clotpoll.

Clot.

And to all the Sisters of the Scabberd Bro∣ther in Election. Dee hear, Pray talk of his father no more, for the next brings him to the belly-work, and then he'll drink him quite through him.

Mad.

And so we shall have a foul house.

Ant.

No he shall stick there. Now to the story Gentlewoman, 'twas that we sate for.

Nic.

I to the story, I vow I had almost forgot it; and I am the worst at Sack in a morning: Dear Dam∣my to the story.

Dam.

Good Sir my heart's too full to utter't.

Nic.

Troth and my head's too full to hear it: But I'le go out and quarrel with some body to settle my brains, then go down to Mich. Crossewill to put him in mind of our meeting to day; then if you will meet me at the Goat at Dinner, wee'll have it all at large.

Dam.

Will you be there indeed Sir, I would speak with you seriously.

Nic.

Dammy if I be not, may my father out live me.

Ant.

We both here promise you he shall be there by noon.

Clot.

'Lady, 'tis sworn by Blade and by Battoun.

Nic.

This will be the bravest discovery for Mihill, the new Italian Bona Roba Catsoe.

Mad.

Why so sad on the suddain Niece.

Dam.

But do you think hee'll come as he has pro∣mis'd.

Mad.

He never breaks a promise with any of us' though he fail all the honest part o'the world: But I trust you are not taken with the Ruffian, you'll nere get penny by him.

Exeunt Nic. Anth. and Clodp.

Dam.

I prethee peace, I care not.

Enter Rafe.

Ra.

But Mystris, rhere is a Gallant now below, a Gingle boy indeed, that has his pockets full of, crowns that chide for vent. Shall I call him up to you.

Dam.

I will see no man.

Mad.

How's that? I hope you jest.

Dam.

Indeed, I hope you jest.

Mad.

You will not hinder the house, I hope. Marry heigh. This were a humour and 'twould last. Go fetch him up.

Dam.

I'le flie then out at window. Nay, by this steel 'tis true.

Mad.

What's the matter? have I got a mad wo∣man into the house. What do you go about to break me the first day of your coming, before you have han∣sell'd a Couch or a Bedside in't. Were you but now all o'th heigh to set your self out for a signe with your fiddle cum twang, and promise such wonders, for∣sooth, and will not now be seen. Pray what's the Riddle.

Dam.

I'll tell thee all anon. Prithie excuse me. I know thy share of his sins bounty would not come to thus much, take it, I give it thee. And prithee let me be honest till I have a mince to be otherwise, and I'le hinder thee nothing.

M••d.

Well, I'le dismisse the Gallant, and send you, Sirrah, for another wench. I'le have Besse Bufflehead again. This kicksy wincy Giddibrain will spoil all I'le no more Italian tricks.—

Ex. with Rafe

Thus some have by the phrensie of despair Fumously run into the sea to throw Their wretched bodies, but when come near They saw the billows rise, heard Boreas blow,

And horrid death appearing on the Maine, A sudden fear hath sent them back again.