Wit without money A comedie, at it hath beene presented with good applause at the private house in Drurie Lane, by her Majesties Servants. Written by Francis Beaumount, and Iohn Flecher. Gent.

Actus 2.

Scaena 1.

Enter Widdow and Luce.

Wid.

MY sister, and a woman of so base a pitty, what was the fellow?

Luce.

Why an ordinary man Madam.

Wid.

Poore?

Luce.

Poore enough, and no man knowes from whence neither.

Wed.

What could she see?

Luce.

Onely his misery, for else she might behold a hun∣dred handsumer.

Wid.

Did she change much.

Luce.

Extreamely, when he spoke, and then her pitty like an Orator, I feare her love framed such a commendation, and followed it so farre, as made me wonder.

Wid.

Is she so hot, or such a want of lovers, that shee must doate upon afflictions: why do's shee not goe romage all the Prisons, and there bestow her youth, bewray her wanton∣nesse, and flie her honour, common both to beggery; did she speake to him?

Luce.

No, hee saw us not, but ever since, she hath beene mainely troubled.

Wid.

Was he young?

Luce.

Yes young enough.

Wid.

And looked he like a gentleman.

Luce.

Like such a Gentleman, would pawne ten oathes for twelve pence.

Wid.

My sister, and sinke basely; this must not be, do's she use meanes to know him?

Luce.

Yes Madam, and has employed a Squire called Shorthose.

Wid.

O thats a precious Knave, keepe all this private, but still be neere her lodging; Luce what you can gather by any meanes, let me understand, Ile stoppe her heate, and turne her charitie another way, to blesse her selfe first, be still close to

her Councells, a begger and a stranger, theres a blessed∣nesse, Ile none of that, I have a toy yet sister, shall tell you this is foule, and make you find it, and for your paines take you the last gowne I wore, this makes me mad, but I shall force a remedy.

Enter Fountaine, Bellamore, Harebraine, Ʋallentine.

Foun.

Sirra, we have so lookt thee, and long'd for thee, this Widdow is the strangest thing, the stateliest, and stands so much upon her excellencies.

Bella.

She has put us off this moneth now, for an answer.

Hare.

No man must visit her, nor looke upon her, not say good morrow nor good even, till thats past.

Vall.

She has found what dough you are made of, and so kneads you, are you good at nothing, but these aftergames, I have told you often enough what things they are, what precious things, these widdowes.

Hare.

If we had um.

Val.

Why the devill has not craft enough to woe um, there be three kindes of fooles, marke this note gentlemen, marke it, and understand it.

Fount.

Well, goe forward.

Val.

An Innocent, a Knave foole, a foole politicke: the last of which are lovers, widdow lovers.

Bella.

Will you allow no Fortune?

Val.

No such blind one.

Fount.

We gave you reasons, why twas needfull for us.

Val.

As you are those fooles, I did allow those reasons, but as my Schollers and companions damn'd um, doe you know what it is to wooe a widdow, answer me coolely now, and understandingly.

Hare.

Why to lie with her, and to enjoy her wealth.

Val.

Why there you are fooles still, craftie to catch your selves, pure polliticke fooles, I lookt for such an answer, once more heare me, it is to wed a widdow, to be doubted mainely, whether the state you have be yours or no, are those old bootes you ride in, marke me, widdowes are long extents in Law upon newes, livings upon their bodies winding-sheetes, they that enjoy um, lie but with dead mens monu∣ments, and beget onely their owne ill Epitaphs, Is not this

plaine now?

Bel.

Plaine spoken.

Val.

And plaine truth, but if you'le needes doe things of danger, doe but loose your selves, not any part concernes your understandings, for then you are Meacockes, fooles, and miserable, march of a maine, within an inch of a Fircug, turne me oth' toe like a Weathercocke, kill every day a Sergeant for a twelve moneth, robbe the Exchequor, and burne all the roules, and these will make a shew.

Hare.

And these are trifles.

Val.

Considered to a Widdow, ēmptie nothing, for here you venture but your persons, there the varnish of your per∣sons, your discretions, why tis a monstrous thing to marry at all, especially as now tis made, me thinkes a man, an under∣standing man, is more wise to me, and of a nobler tie, than all these trinkets, what doe we get by women, but our senses, which is the rankest part about us satisfied, and when thats done what are we? Crest falne cowards, what benefite can children be, but charges and disobedience, whats the love they render at one and twentie yeares; I pray die father; when they are young, they are like bells rung backwards, nothing but noise, and giddinesse, and come to yeares once, there droppes a sonne, byth' sword in's Mistresses quarrell, a great joy to his parents: a daughter ripe too, growes high and lustie in her blood, must have a heating, runnes away with a supple hand Servingman, his twentie nobles spent, takes to a trade, and learnes to spinne mens haire off; theres another, and most are of this nature, will you marry?

Fount.

For my partyes, for any doubt I feele yet.

Val.

And this same Widdow?

Fount.

If I may, and me thinkes, how ever you are plea∣sed to dispute these dangers, such a warme match, and for you sir, were not hurtfull.

Val.

Not halfe so killing as for you, for mee shee cannot with all the Art shee has, make mee more miserable, or much more fortunate, I have no state left, a be∣nefit that none of you can bragge of, and theres the Anti∣dote against a Widdow, nothing to lose, but that my soule

inherits, which shee can neither law nor claw away to that, but little flesh, it were too much else; and that unholsome too, it were too rich else; and to all this contempt of what shee do's J can laugh at her teares, neglect her angers, heare her without a faith, so pitty her as if shee were a traytor, moane her person, but deadly hate her pride; if you could doe these, and had but this discretion and like fortune, it were but an equall venture.

Fount.

This is mallice.

Val.

When shee lies with your land, and not with you, growes great with joyntures, and is brought to bed with all the state you have, you'le finde this certaine; but is it come to passe you must marry, is there no buffe will hold you.

Bel.

Grant it be so.

Val.

Then chuse the tamer evill, take a maide, a maide not worth a penny; make her yours, knead her, and mould her yours, a maide worth nothing, theres a vertuous spell, in that word nothing; a maide makes conscience of halfe a crowne a weeke for pinnes and puppits, a maide content with one Coach and two horses, not falling out because they are not matches; with one man satisfied, with one raine gui∣ded, with one faith, one content, one bed, aged shee makes the wife, preserves the fame and issue; a Widdow is a Christmas box that sweepes all.

Fount.

Yet all this cannot sinke us.

Val.

You are my friends, and a I my loving friends, I spend your money, yet I deserve it too, you are my friendes still, I ride your horses, when I want I sell um; I eate your meate, helpe to weare her linnen, sometimes I make you drunke, and then you seale, for which Ile doe you this commoditie, be ruled, and let me try her, I will discover her, the truth is, I will never leave to trouble her, till I see through her, then if I finde her worthy.

Hare.

This was our meaning Valentine.

Val.

Tis done then, I must want nothing.

Hare.

Nothing but the woman.

Val.

No jealousie, for when I marry, the devill must be wiser than I take him; and the flesh foolisher, comes lets to

dinner, and when I am well whetted with wine, have at her.

Exeunt.

Enter Isabella and Luce.

Isa.

But art thou sure.

Luce.

No suerer then I heard.

Hare.

That it was that flouting fellowes brother.

Luce.

Yes, Shorthose told me so.

Hare.

He did search out the truth.

Luce.

It seemes he did.

Hare.

Pre thee Luce, call him hether, if he be no worse, I never repent my pitty, now sirra, what was he wee sent you after, the Gentleman ith blacke.

Enter Shorthose.

Short.

Ith torne blacke.

Isa.

Yes, the same sir.

Short.

What would your Worship with him.

Isa.

Why my worship would know his name, and what he is.

Short.

'Is nothing, he is a man, and yet he is no man.

Isa.

You must needes play the foole;

Short.

Tis my profession.

Isa.

How is he a man, and no man.

Short.

Hees a begger, onely the signe of a man, the bush puld downe, which showes the house stands emptie.

Isa.

Whats his calling?

Short.

They call him begger:

Isa.

Whats his kindred:

Short.

Beggers.

Isa.

His worth.

Short.

A learned begger, a poore Scholler:

Isa.

How does he live.

Short.

Like wormes, he eares old Bookes.

Isa.

Is Ʋallentine his brother.

Short.

His begging brother.

Isa.

What may his name be?

Short.

Orson.

Isa.

Leave your fooling.

Short.

You had as good say, leave your living.

Isa.

Once more tell me his name directly:

Short.

Ile be hangd first, unlesse I heard him Christned, but I can tell what foolish people call him.

Jsa.

What?

Short.

Franscisco.

Isa.

Where lies this learning sir?

Short.

In Paules Church yard forsooth.

Isa.

I meane that Gentleman, foole.

Short.

O that foole, hee lies in loose sheetes every where, thats no where.

Luce.

You have gleand since you came to London, in the Countrey Shorthose, you were an arrant foole, a dull cold coxcombe, here every Taverne teaches you, the pint pot has so belaboured you, with wit, your brave acquaintance that gives you ale, so fortified your mazard, that now theres no tal∣king to you.

Isa.

Is much improved, a fellow, a fine discourser.

Short.

I hope so, I have not waited at the taile of wit, so long to be an asse.

Luce.

But say now Shorthose, my Lady should remoove into the Countrie.

Short.

I had as leeve she should remoove to heaven, and as soone I would undertake to follow her.

Luce.

Where no old Charnico is, nor no Anchoves, nor Master such a one, to meete at the Rose, and bring my Lady such a ones chiefe Chambermaide.

Isa.

No bouncing healths to this brave Lad, deare Short∣hose, nor downe oth knees to that illustrious Lady.

Luce.

No fidles, nor no lusty noyse of drawer, carry this pottle to my father, Shorthose.

Isa.

No playes, nor gally foistes, no strange Embassadors to runne and wonder at, till thou beest oyle, and then come home againe, and lye bith Legend.

Luce.

Say she should goe.

Short.

If I say so, Ile bee hangd first, or if I thought shee would goe:

Luce.

What?

Short.

I would goe with her.

Luce.

But Shorthose, where thy heart is:

Isa.

Doe not fright him.

Luce.

By this hand Mistris tis a noyse, a loud one too, and from her owne mouth, presently to be gone too, but why, or to what end?

Short.

May not a man dye first, sheele give him so much time.

Isa.

Gone oth' sudden; thou dost but jest, shee must not mocke the Gentlemen.

Luce.

She has put them off a moneth, they dare not see her, beleeve me Mistris, what I heare I tell you.

Isa.

Is this true wench, gone on so short a warning, what tricke is this, she never told me of it, it must not be: sirra, at∣tend me presently, you know I have beene a carefull friend unto you, attend me in the hall, and next be faithfull, cry not, we shall not goe.

Short.

Her Coach may cracke.

Exeunt.

Enter Ʋallentine, Francisco, and Lance.

Ʋall.

Which way to live, how darest thou come to towne, to aske such an idle question.

Fran.

Me thinkes tis necessary, unlesse you could restore that annuity you have tippled up in Tavernes:

Val,

Where hast thou beene, and how brought up Fransci∣sco, that thou talkest thus out of France, thou wert a pretty fellow, and of a hansome knowledge; who has spoyld thee:

Lan.

He that has spoyld himselfe, to make himselfe sport, and by his Coppie, will spoile all comes neere him, buy but a glasse, if you be yet so wealthy, and looke there who?

Ʋal.

Well said old Coppihold.

Lan.

My hearts good freehold sir, and so youle finde it, this Gentleman your brother, your hopefull brother, for there is no hope of you, use him thereafter:

Ʋal.

Ene aswell as I use my selfe, what wouldst thou have Francke.

Fran.

Can you procure me a hundred pound:

Lan.

Harke what he saies to you, O try your wits, they say you are excellent at it, for your land has laine long bed rid, and unsensible.

Fran.

And Ile forget all wrongs, you see my state, and to what wretchednesse, your will has brought me; but what it may be, by this benefit, if timely done, and like a noble brother, both you and I may feele, and to our comforts:

Ʋal.

(A hundred pound) dost thou know what thou hast said boy:

Fran.

I said a hundred pound.

Ʋal.

Thou hast said more, then any man can justifie beleeve it, procure a hundred pounds, I say to thee, theres no such summe in nature, fortie shillings there may be now ith Mint, and thats a treasure, I have seene five pound, but let me tell it, and tis as wonderfull, as Calves with five legges, heeres five shillings Francke, the harvest of five weekes, and a good crop too, take it, and pay thy first fruites, Ile come downe and eate it out.

Fran.

Tis patience must meete with you sir, not love.

Lan.

Deale roundly, and leave these fiddle faddles:

Ʋal.

Leave thy prating, thou thinkest thou art a notable wise fellow, thou and thy rotten Sparrow hawke; two of the reverent.

Lan.

I thinke you are mad, or if you be not will be, with the next moone, what would you have him doe.

Ʋal.

How?

Lan.

To get money first, thats to live, you have shewed him how to want.

Val.

Slife, how doe I live, why, what dull foole would aske that question, three hundred three pilds more, I and live bravely, the better halfe oth towne, and live most gloriously, aske them what states they have, or what annuities, or when they pray for seasonable harvests, thou hast a hansome wit, stirre into the world, Francke, stirre, for shame, thou art a pretty Scholler, aske how to live, write, write, write any thing, the worlds a fine beleeving world, write newes.

Lan.

Dragons in Sussex sir, or fierie battles seene in the aire at Aspurge.

Val.

Theres the way Francke, and in the taile of these, fright me the Kingdome with a sharpe Prognostication, that shal scowre them, dearth upon dearth, like leven taffaties, pre∣dictions

of Sea breaches, warres, and want of herrings on our coast, with bloody noses.

Lan.

Whirle windes, that shall take of the toppe of Gran∣tam steeple, and clap it on Poules, and after these, a I envoy to the Citty for their sinnes.

Val.

Probatum est, thou canst not want a pension, go switch me up a Covey of young Schollers, theres twenty nobles, and two loades of coales, are not these ready wayes. Cosmo∣graphy thou art deepely read in, draw me a mappe from the Mermaide, I meane a midnighe mappe to scape the watches, and such long sencelesse examinations, and Gentlemen shall feede thee, right good Gentlemen, I cannot stay long.

Lan.

You have read learnedly, and would you have him follow these megeras, did you beginne with ballads.

Fran.

Well, J will leave you, J see my wants are growne ridiculous, yours may be so, I will not curse you neither; you may thinke, when these wanton fits are over, who bred me, and who ruined me, looke to your selfe sir, a providence J waite on.

Val.

Thou art passionate, hast thou beene brought up with girles.

Enter Shorthose with a bagge.

Short.

Rest you merry Gentlemen.

Val.

Not so merry as you suppose sir.

Short.

Pray stay a while, and let mee take a view of you, I may put my spoone into the wrong pottage pot else.

Val.

Why wilt thou muster us.

Short.

No you are not he, you are a thought too hansome.

Lan.

Who wouldst thou speake withall, why doest thou peepe so?

Short.

I am looking birds nests, I can finde none in your bush beard, J would speake with you blacke Gentleman.

Fran.

With me my friend.

Short.

Yes sure, and the best friend sir, it seemes you spake withall this twelve moneths Gentleman, theres money for you.

Val.

How?

Short.

Theres none for you sir, be not so briefe, not a penny,

law how he itches at it, stand of, you stirre my colour.

Luce.

Take it, tis money.

Short.

You are too quicke too, first be sure you have it, you seeme to be a Faulckoner, but a foolish one.

Lan.

Take it, and say nothing:

Short.

You are cosend too, tis take it, and spent it.

Fran.

From whom came it sir.

Short.

Such another word, and you shall have none out.

Fran.

J thanke you sir, I doubly thanke you.

Short.

Well sir, then buy you better clothes, and get your hat drest, and your Laundresse to wash your bootes white.

Fran.

Pray stay sir, may you not be mistaken.

Short.

I thinke I am, give me the money again, come quick, quicke, quicke.

Fran

I would be loath to render, till I am sure it bē so.

Short.

Harke in your eare, is not your name Franscisco.

Fran.

Yes.

Short.

Be quiet then, it may thunder a hundred times, be∣fore such stones fall; doe not you neede it.

Fran.

Yes.

Short.

And tis thought you have it.

Fran.

I thinke I have.

Short.

Then hold it fast, tis not flyblowne, you may pay for the poundage, you forget your selfe, I have not seene a Gentleman so backward, a wanting Gentleman.

Fran.

Your mercy sir.

Short.

Freind you have mercy, a whole bagge full of mer∣cy, be merry with it, and be wise.

Fran.

I would faine, if it please you, but know.

Short.

It does not please me, tell over your money and be not mad boy.

Val.

You have no more such bagges:

Short.

More such there are sir, but few I feare for you, I have cast your water, you have wit, you need no money.

Exit.

Lan.

Be not amazed sir tis good gold, good old gold, this is restorative, and in good time, it comes to doe you good, keepe it and use it, let honest fingers feele it, yours be too quicke sir.

Fran.

He named me, and he gave it me, but from whom.

Lan.

Let um send more, and then examine it, this can be but a preface.

Fran.

Being a stranger, of whom can I deserve this.

Lan.

Sir, of any man that has but eyes, and manly understan∣ding to finde mens wants, good men are bound to doe so.

Val.

Now you see Francke, there are more waies then cer∣tainties, now you beleeve: What plow brought you this har∣vest, what sale of timber, coales, or what annuities, these feede no hindes, nor waite the expectation of quarter dayes, you see it showers into you, you are an asse, lie plodding, and lie foole∣ing, about this blazing starre, and that bo peepe, whyneing, and fasting, to finde the naturall reason why a dogge turnes twice about before he lie downe, what use of these, or what joy in annuities, where every mans thy studdy, and thy ten∣nant, I am ashamed on thee:

Lan.

Yes I have seene this fellow, theres a wealthy Wid∣dow hard by.

Val.

Yes marry is there.

Lan.

I thinke hees her servant, J am cosend if after her, I am sure ont.

Fran.

I am glad ont.

Lan.

Shees a good woman.

Fran.

I am gladder:

Lan.

And young enough beleeve.

Fran.

I am gladder of all sir.

Val.

Franck, you shall lye with me soone.

Fran.

I thanke my money:

Lan.

His money shall lie with mee, three in a bed sir will be too much this weather.

Val.

Meete me at the Mermaide, and thou shalt see what things —

Lan.

Trust to your selfe sir.

Exeunt Fran, and Vall.

Enter Fount, Bella, and Vallentine.

Fount.

O Vallentine.

Val.

How now, why doe you looke so.

Bella.

The Widdowes going man.

Val.

Why let her goe man.

Hare.

Shees going out oth Towne.

Val.

The Townes the happier, I would they were all gone

Fount.

We cannot come to speake with her.

Ʋal.

Not to speake to her.

Bel.

She will be gone within this houre, either now Valle.

Fount.

Hare. Now, now, now, good Vall.

Val.

I had rather march ith mouth oth Cannon, but adiew, if she be above ground, goe, away to your praiers, away I say, away, she shall be spoken withall.

Exeunt

Enter Shorthose with one boote on, Roger & Humphrey.

Rog.

She will goe Shorthose.

Short.

Who can helpe it Roger?

Within Raphe.

Roger helpe downe with the hangings.

Rog.

By and by Raph, I am making up oth trunckes here.

Raph.

Shorthose.

Short.

Well.

Raph.

Who lookes to my Ladies Wardrobe?

Humphrey.

Hum.

Heere.

Raph.

Downe with the boxes in the gallery, and bring a∣way the Coach Cushions.

Short.

Will it not raine, no conjuring abroad, nor no devi∣ses to stop this journey.

Rog.

Why goe now, why now, why oth sudden, now what preparation, what horses have we ready, what provision laid in ith Country.

Hum.

Not an egge I hope.

Rog.

No nor one drop of good drink boyes, ther's the devil.

Short.

I heartily pray the malt be musty, and then we must come up againe.

Hum.

What saies the Steward?

Rog.

Hees at's wits end, for some foure houres since, out of his haste and providence, he mistooke the Millers maunjey mare, for his owne nagge.

Short.

And she may breake his necke, and save the journey, oh London how I love thee.

Hum.

I have no bootes, nor none Ile buy (or if I had) refuse me if I would venture my abillity, before a cloake bagge, men are men.

Short.

For my part, if I be brought, as I know it will be aimed at, to carry any durty dairy creame pot, or any gentle Lady of the Laundry, chambring, or wantonnesse behinde my gelding, with all her streamers, knapsackes, glasses, gu∣gawes,

as if I were a running slippery, Ile give um leave to cut my girts, and flay me. Ile not be troubled with their disti∣bations, at every halfe miles end, I understand my selfe, and am resolved.

Hum.

To morrow night at Olivers, who shalbe there boyes, who shall meete the wenches.

Rog.

The well brued stand of Ale, we should have met at.

Short.

These griefes like to another tale of Troy, would mollifie the hearts of barbarous people, and Tom Butcher weepe Eneas enters, and now the townes lost.

Ral.

Why whether run you, my Lady is mad.

Short.

I would she were in Bedlam.

Ral.

The carts are come, no hands to helpe to load um, the stuffe lies in the hall, the plate:

Within Widdow.

Why knaves there, where be these idle fel∣lowes

Short.

Shall I ride with one boote.

Wid.

Why where I say:

Ral.

Away, away, it must be so.

Short.

O for a tickling storme, to last but ten dayes.

Exeunt