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. 3.

Scaen, 1.

Enter Isabella and Luce.

Luce.

BY my troth Mistris I did it for the best:

Isa.

It may be so, but Luce, you have a tongue: a dish of meate in your mouth, which if it were minced Luce, would doe a great deale better.

Luc.

I protest Mistresse.

Isa.

It will be your owne one time or others:

Walter.

Walter within:

Anon forsooth.

Isa.

Lay my hat ready, my fanne and cloake, you are so full of providence; and Walter, tucke up my little box behinde the Coach, and bid my maide make ready, my sweete service to your good Lady Mistresse; and my dog, good let the Coach∣man carry him.

Luc.

But heare me.

Isa.

I am in love sweete Luce, and you are so skillfull, that I

must needes undoe my selfe; and heare me, let Oliver packe up my glasse discreetly, and see my Curles well carried, O sweete Luce, you have a tongue, and open tongues have open you know what Luce.

Luce.

Pray you be satisfied.

Isa.

Yes and contented too, before I leave you: theres a Roger, which some call a Butcher, I speake of certainties, I doe not fish Luce, nay doe not stare, I have a tongue can talke too: and a greene Chamber Luce, a backe doore opens to a long gallery; there was a night Luce, doe you perceive, doe you perceive me yet: O doe you blush Luce: a Friday night I saw your Saint Luce; for tother box of Marmaladde, alls thine sweete Roger, this I heard and kept too.

Luce.

Ene as you are a woman Mistresse.

Isa.

This I allow as good and physicall sometimes these meetings, and for the cheering of the heart; but Luce, to have your owne turne served, and to your friend to be a dogbolt.

Luce.

I confesse it Mistresse.

Isa.

As you have made my sister Iealous of me, and foolish∣ly, and childishly pursued it, I have found out your haunt, and traced your purposes, for which mine honour suffers, your best wayes must be applied to bring her backe againe, and se∣riously and suddenly, that so I may have a meanes to cleare my selfe, and she a faire opinion of me, else you peevish —

Luce.

My power and prayers Mistresse.

Isa.

Whats the matter.

Enter Shorthose and Widdow.

Short.

I have beene with the Gentleman, he has it, much good may doe him with it.

Wid.

Come are you ready, you love so to delay time, the day growes on.

Isa.

I have sent for a few triffles, when those are come; And now I know your reason.

Wid.

Know your owne honour then, about your businesse, see the Coach ready presently, Ile tell you more then;

Exit Luce and Shorthose.

And understand it well, you must not thinke my sister, so

tender eyed as not to see your follies, alas I know your heart, and must imagine, and truely too; tis not your charitie can coyne such sums to give a way as you have done, in that you have no wisedome Isabel, no nor modestie where nobler uses are at home; I tell you, I am ashamed to finde this in your yeares, farre more in your discretion, none to chuse but things for pittie, none to seale your thoughts on, but one of no abiding, of no name; nothing to bring you but this, cold and hunger: A jolly Ioynture sister, you are happy, no mony, no not tenne shillings.

Isa.

You search nearely.

Wid.

I know it as I know your folly, one that know not where he shall eate his next meale, take his rest, unlesse it be in th•• stockes; what kindred has he, but a more wanting bro∣ther, or what vertues.

Isa.

You have had rare intelligence, I see sister.

Wid.

Or say the man had vertue, is vertue in this age a full inheritance: what Ioynture can he make you, Plutarchs Moralls, or so much peenny rent in the small pots, this is not well, tis weake, and I grive to know it.

Isa.

And this you quit the towne for.

Wid.

Its not time.

Isa.

You are better read in my affaires than I am, thats all I have to answer, Ile goe with you, and willingly, and what you thinke most dangerous, Ile sit and laugh at.

For sister tis not folly but good discretion governes our maine fortunes.

Wid.

I am glad to heare you say so.

Isa.

I am for you.

Enter Shorthose and Humphrey with riding rods.

Hum.

The devill cannot stay her, she'le ont, eate an egge now, and then we must away.

Short.

I am gaulled already, yet I will pray may London wayes from henceforth be full of holes, and Coaches cracke their wheeles, may zealous Smithes so housell all our Hack∣neyes, that they may feele compunction in their feete, and tire at Highgate, may it raine above all Almanackes till carri∣ers saile, and the Kings Fishmonger ride like Bike Arion up∣on

a Trout to London.

Hum.

At S. Albones, let all the Innes be drunke, not an Host sober to bid her worship welcome.

Short.

Not a Fiddle, but all preacht downe with Puri∣tans; no meate but legges of beefe.

Hum.

No beds but Woollpackes.

Short.

And those so crammed with warrens of sterved Fleas that bite like bandogges: let Mims be angry at their S. Bellswagger, and we passe in the heate ont and be beaten, beaten abominably, beaten horse and man, and all my Ladies linnen sprinkled with suddes and dish water.

Short.

Not a wheele but out of joynt.

Enter Roger laughing.

Hum.

Why dost thou laugh.

Rog.

Theres a Gentleman, and the rarest Gentleman, and makes the rarest sport.

Short.

Where, where?

Rog.

Within here, has made the gayest sport with Tom the Coachman, so tewed him up with sacke that hee lies lashing a butt of Malmsie for his Mares.

Short.

Tis very good.

Rog.

And talkes and laughes, and singes the rarest songs, and Shorthose, he has so mauld the red Deere pies, made such an almes ith butterie.

Short.

Better still.

Enter Ʋall. Widdow.

Hum.

My Lady in a rage with the Gentleman.

Short.

May he anger her into a feather.

Exeunt.

Wid.

I pray tell me, who sent you hether? for I imagine it is not your condition you looke so temperately, and like a Gentleman, to aske me these milde questions.

Val.

Doe you thinke I use to walke of errands gentle La∣dy, or deale with women out of dreames from others.

Wid.

You have not knowne me sure?

Val.

Not much.

Wid.

What reason have you then to be so tender of my credit, you are no kinsman.

Val.

If you take it so, the honest office that I came to doe you, is not so heavy but I can returne it: now I perceive you are too proud, not worth my visit.

Wid.

Pray stay, a little proud.

Val.

Monstrous proud, I grieve to heare a woman of your value, and your abundant parts stung by the people, but now J see tis true, you looke upon mee as if I were a rude and sawcie fellow that borrowed all my breeding from a dung∣hill, or such a one, as should now fall and worship you in hope of pardon: you are cosen'd Lady, I came to prove opi∣nion a loud lier, to see a woman onely great in goodnesse, and Mistresse of a greater fame than fortune, but—

Wid.

You are a strange Gentleman, if I were proud now, I should be monstrous angry, which J am not, and shew the effects of pride; I should dispise you but you are welcome sir: To thinke well of our selves, if we deserve it, is a luster in us, and every good we have, strives to show gracious, what use is it else, old age like Seer trees, is seldome seene affected, stirs sometimes at rehearsall of such acts his daring youth endea∣vour'd.

Val.

This is well, and now you speake to the purpose, you please me, but to be place proud:

Wid.

If it be our owne, why are we set here with distincti∣on else, degrees, and orders given us, in you men, tis held a coolenesse if you lose your right afronts, and losse of honour: streetes, and walls, and upper ends of tables, had they tongues could tell what blood has followed, and what fude about your rankes; are we so much below you, that till you have us, are the toppes of nature, to be accounted drones, without a diffe∣rence, you will make us beasts indeed.

Val.

Nay worse then this too proud of your cloathes, they sweare a Mercers Lucifer, a tumer tackt together by a Tay∣lor, nay yet worse proud of red and white, a varnish that but∣termilke can better.

Wid.

Lord how little will vex these poore blinde people, if my cloathes be sometimes gay and glorious, does it follow my minde must be my Mercers too, or say my beauty please some weake eyes, must it please them to thinke that blowes mee up, that every houre blowes of: this is an Infants an∣ger.

Val.

Thus they say too, what though you have a Coach

lined through with velvet and foure faire Flaunders Mares, why should the streets be troubled continually with you, till Carmen curse you, can there be ought in this but pride of shew Lady, and pride of bum-beating, till the learned law∣yers with their fat bagges, are thrust against the bulkes, till all their Cases cracke; why should this Lady, and tother Lady, and the third sweete Ladie, and Madam at mile end, be dailie visited, and your poorer neighbours, with course napses neg∣lected, fashions conferd about, pouncings, and paintings, and young mens bodies read on like Anotamies.

Wid.

You are very credulous, and somewhat desperate to deliver this sir, to her you know not, but you shall confesse me, and finde I will not start; in us all meetings lie open to these leud reports, and our thoughts at Church, our very meditati∣ons some will sweare, which all should feare to judge, at least uncharitably, are mingled with your memories, can∣not sleepe, but this sweet Gentleman swimmes in our fan∣cies, that scarlet man of warre, and that smooth Senior; not dresse our heads without new ambushes how to surprise that greatnesse or that glory; our very smiles are subject to con∣structions; nay sir, its come to this, we cannot pish, but tis a favour for some foole or other: should we examine you thus, wert not possible to take you without Prospectives.

Val.

It may be, but these excuse not.

Wid.

Nor yours force no truth sir. what deadly tongues you have, and to those tongues what hearts, and what inven∣tions; ah my conscience, and 'twere not for sharpe justice, you would venture to aime at your owne mothers, and ac∣count it glory to say you had done so; all you thinke are Counsells and cannot erre, tis we still that shew double, gid∣die, or gorg'd with passion; we that build Babells for mens confusions, we that scatter as day do's his warme light; our killing curses over Gods creatures next to the devills mallice: lets intreate your good words.

Ʋal.

Well, this woman has a brave soule.

Wid.

Are not we gaily blest then, and much beholding to you for your substance; you may doe what you list, we what beseemes us, and narrowly doe that too, and precisely, our

names are served in else at Ordinaries, and belcht a broad in Tavernes.

Val.

O most brave Wench, and able to redeeme an age of women.

Wid.

You are no Whoremasters, alas no Gentlemen, it were an impudencie to thinke you vicious; you are so holy, handsome Ladies fright you, you are the coole things of the time, the temperance, meere emblems of the Law, and vales of Vertue, you are not daily mending like Dutch Watches, & plastering like old walls; they are not Gentlemen, that with their secret sinnes encrease our Surgeons, and lie in forraine Countries, for new sores; women are all these vices; you are not envious, false, covetous, vaineglorious, irreligious, drun∣ken, revengefull, giddie-eyed, like Parrats, eaters of others honours.

Val.

You are angry.

Wid.

No by my troth, and yet I could say more too, for when men make me angry, I am miserable.

Val.

Sure tis a man she could not beare it thus bravely else, it may be I am tedious.

Wid.

Not at all sir, I am content at this time you should trouble me.

Val.

You are distrustfull.

Wid.

Where I finde no truth sir.

Ʋal.

Come, come you are full of passion.

Wid.

Some I have, I were too neere the nature a god else.

Val.

You are monstrous peevish.

Wid.

Because they are monstrous foolish, and know not how to use that should trie me.

Val.

I was never answered thus, was you never drunke Lady?

Wid.

No sure, not drunke sir? yet I love good wine as I love health and joy of heart, but temperately, why doe you aske that question?

Val.

For that sinne that they most charge you with, is this sinnes servant, they say you are mostrous.

Wid.

What sir, what?

Val.

Most strangely.

Wid.

It has a name sure.

Val.

Infinitly lustfull, without all bounds, they sweare you kild your husband.

Wid.

Lets have it all for heavens sake, tis good mirth sir.

Ʋal.

They say you will have foure now, and those foure stucke in foure quarters like foure windes to coole you; will she not cry nor curse?

Wid.

On with your Story,

Ʋal.

And that you are forcing out of dispensations with summes of money to that purpose.

Wid,

Foure husbands, should not I be blest sir; for example, Lord what should I doe with them, turne a Malt mill, or tyth them out like towne Bulls to my tennants, you come to make me angry, but you cannot.

Ʋal.

Ile make you merry then, you are a brave woman, and in dispite of envie a right one, goe thy wayes, truth thou art as good a woman, as any Lord of them all can lay his legge over, I doe not often commend your sexe.

Wid.

It seemes so, your commendations are so studied for.

Val.

I came to see you, and sift you into flower, to know your purenesse, and I have found you excellent I thanke you; continue so, and shew men how to tread, and women how to follow: get an husband, an honest man, you are a good wo∣man, and live hedg'd in from scandall, let him be too an un∣derstanding man, and to that steedfast; tis pittie your faire Figure should miscarrie, and then you are fixt, farewell.

Wid.

Pray stay a little, I love your company now you are so pleasant, and to my disposition set so even.

Ʋa.

I can no longer.

Exit.

Wid.

As I live a fine fellow, this manly handsome blunt∣nesse, shewes him honest; what is he, or from whence? blesse me, foure husbands, how prettily he fooled me into vices, to stirre my jealousie and finde my nature, a proper Gentleman, I am not well oth' sudden, such a companion I could live and die with, his angers are meere mirth.

Enter Isabella.

Isa.

Come, come, I am ready.

Wit

Are you so?

Isa.

What ailes she, the Coach staies, and the people, the

day goes on, I am as ready now as you desire sister: sie, who stayes now, why doe you sit and poute thus.

Wid.

Prethee be quiet, I am not well.

Isab.

For heavens sake lets not ride staggering in the night, come, pray you take some sweete meates in your pocket, if your stomacke—

Wid.

I have a little businesse.

Isa.

To abuse me, you shall not finde new dreames, and new suspitions, to horse withall.

Wid.

Lord who made you a Commander: hay ho, my heart.

Isa.

Is the winde come thether, and coward like doe you lose your colours to um, are you sicke ••th Velentine; sweete sister, come lets away, the countrey will so quicken you, and we shall live so sweetely: Luce, my Ladies cloake; nay, you have put me into such a gogge of going I would not stay for all the world; if I live here, you have so knocked this love into my head, that I shall love any body, and I finde my body, I know not how, so apt; pray lets be gone sister, I stand on thornes.

Wid.

I prethee Isabella, I faith I have some businesse that concernes me, I will suspect no more, here, weare that for me, and Ile pay the hundred pound you owe your tayler.

Enter Shorthose 1. Roger, Humphrey, Ralph.

Isa.

I had rather goe, but—

Wid.

Come walke within me, weele goe to Cardes, un∣sadle the horses.

Short.

A Iubile, a Iubile, we stay boyes.

Exeunt.

Enter Vncle, Lance, Fountaine, Bellamore, Harebraine following.

Ʋnc.

Are they behinde us.

Lance.

Close, close, speake aloud sir.

Vnc.

I am glad my nephew has so much discretion at length to finde his wants: did she entertaine him.

Lance.

Most bravely, nobly, and gave him such a welcome.

Vnc.

For his owne sake doe you thinke.

Lance.

Most certaine sir, and in his owne cause bestir'd himselfe too, and wan such liking from her, she dotes on him, has the command of all the house already.

Vnc.

He deales not well with his friends.

Lance.

Let him deale on, and be his owne friend, hee has most neede of her.

Vnc.

I wonder they would put him.

Lance.

You are in the right out, a man that must raise himselfe, I knew he would cosen um, and glad I am he has, he watched occasion. and found it ith' nicke.

Ʋnc.

He has deceived me.

Lance.

I told you howsoever he weel'd about, hee would charge whom at length, how I could laugh now, to thinke of these tame fooles.

Ʋnc.

Twas not well done, because they trusted him, yet.

Bel.

Harke you Gentlemen.

Vnc.

We are upon a businesse, pray excuse us, they have it home.

Lanc.

Come let it worke good on Gentlemen.

Exit Vncle, Lance.

Fount.

Tis true, he is a knave, I ever thought it.

Hare.

And we are fooles, tame fooles.

Bel.

Come lets goe seeke him, he shall be hang'd before he colt us basely.

Exit. Enter Isabella, Luce.

Isa.

Art sure she loves him.

Luce.

Am I sure I live? And I have clap on such a com∣mendation on your revenge.

Jsa.

Faith, he is a pretty Gentleman.

Luce.

Handsome enough, and that her eye has found out.

Isa.

He talkes the best they say, and yet the maddest.

Luce.

Has the right way.

Isa.

How is she?

Luce.

Beares it well, as if she cared not, but a man may see with halfe an eye through all her forced behaviours, and finde who is her Vallantine.

Isa.

Come lets goe see her, I long to prosecute.

Luce.

By no meanes Mistresse, let her take better hold first,

Isa.

I could burst now.

Exeunt.

Enter Ʋallentine, Fountaine, Bellamore, Harebraine.

Vall.

Vpbraide me with your benefits, you Pilchers, you shotten, sold, slight fellowes, wast not I that undertooke you first from emptie barrells, and brought those barking mouthes that gaped like bung-holes to utter sence: where got you understanding? who taught you manners and apt

carriage to ranke your selves? who filed you in fit Tavernes, were those borne with your worships when you came he∣ther? what brought you from the Vniversities of moment matter to allow you, besides your small bare sentences?

Bell.

Tis well sir.

Val.

Long cloakes with two hand-rapiers, boot-hoses with penny-poses, and twentie fooles opinions, who looked on you but piping rites that knew you would be prising, and Prentises in Paules Church-yard, that sented your want of Brittanes Bookes.

Enter Widdow, Luce, Harebraine.

Fount.

This cannot save you.

Val.

Taunt my integretie you whelpes.

Bell.

You may talke the stocke wee gave you out, but see no further.

Hare.

You tempt our patience, we have found you out, and what your trust comes to, yeare well feathered, thanke us, and thinke now of an honest course, tis time; men now begin to looke, and narrowly into your tumbling trickes, they are stale.

Wid.

Is not that he?

Luce.

Tis he.

Wid.

Be still and marke him.

Ʋal.

How miserable will these poore wretches be when I forsake um, but things have their neeessities, I am sorry, to what a vomit must they turne againe now to their owne deare dunghill breeding; never hope after I cast you off, you men of Motley, you most undone things below pittie, any that has a soule and sixe pence dares releeve you, my name shall barre that blessing; theres your cloake sir, keepe it close to you, it may yet preserve you a fortnight longer from the foole; your hat, pray be covered, and theres the sattin that your worships sent me, will serve you at a sizer yet.

Fount.

Nay faith sir, you may euē rubbe these out now.

Val.

No such relicke, nor the least ragge of such a sorded weakenesse shall keepe me warme, these breeches are mine owne, purchased, and paid for, without your compassion, and Christian bleeches founded in Blacke Friers, and so Ile main∣taine um.

Hare.

So they seeme sir.

Ʋal.

Onely the thirteene shillings in these breeches, and the odde groat, I take it, shall be yours sir, a marke to know a knave by, pray preserve it, doe not displease me more, but

take it presently, now helpe me off with my bootes.

Hare.

We are no groomes sir.

Val.

For once you shall be, doe it willingly, or by this hand Ile make you.

Bell.

To our owne sir, we may apply our hands.

Val.

Theres your hangers, you may deserve a strong paire, and a girdle will hold you without buckles; now I am per∣fect, and now the proudest of your worships tell me I am beholding to you.

Fount.

No such matter.

Ʋal.

And take heede how you pitty me, tis dangerous, exceeding dangerous, to prate of pittie which are the poo∣rer; you are now puppies; I without you, or you without my knowledge be rogues, and so be gone, be rogues and re∣ply not, for if you doe —

Bell.

Onely thus much, and then wee'le leave you, the ayre is farre sharper than our anger sir, and these you may reserve to raile in warmer.

Hare.

Pray have a care sir of your health.

Exit Lovers.

Ʋal.

Yes hoghounds, more than you can have of your wits; tis cold, and I am very sensible, extreamely cold too, yet I will not off, till I have shamed these rascalls; I have endured as ill heates as another, and every way if one could perish my body, you'le beare the blame ont; I am colder here, not a poore penny left.

Vncle with a bagge.

Ʋnc.

Tas taken rarely, and now hees flead he will be ruled.

Lance.

Too him, tew him, abuse him, and nip him close.

Vnc.

Why how now cosen, sunning your selfe this weather?

Val.

As you see sir, in a hot fit, I thanke my friends.

Ʋnc.

But cosen, where are your cloathes man, those are no inheritance, your scruple may compound with those I take it, this is no fashion cosen.

Ʋal.

Not much followed, I must confesse; yet Vncle I de∣termine to trie what may be done next Tearme.

Lance.

How came you thus sir, for you are strangely moved.

Ʋal.

Ragges, toyes and triflles, fit onely for those fooles that first possessed um, and to those Knaves, they are rendred freemen Vncle, ought to appeare like innocents, old Adam, a faire Figge-leafe sufficient.

Vncle.

Take me with you, were these your friends, that

clear'd you thus.

Ʋal.

Hang friends, and even recknings that make friends.

Ʋnc.

I thought till now, there had beene no such living, no such purchase, for all the rest is labour, as a list of honou∣rable friends, doe not such men as you sir in liew of all your understandings, travells, and those great gifts of nature; aime at no more than casting off your coates, I am strangely cosend.

Lance.

Should not the towne shake at the cold you feele now, and all the Gentry suffer intrediction, no more sence spoken, all things Goth and Vandall, till you be summed a∣gaine, velvets and scarlets, annointed with gold lace, and cloth of silver turned into Spanish Cottens for a pennance, wits blasted with your bulls, and Tavernes withered, as though the tearme lay at S. Albones.

Val.

Gentlemen you have spoken long, and levill, I beseech you take breath a while and here me; you imagine now, by the twirling of your strings, that J am at the last, as also that my friends are flowne like Swallowes after Sum∣mer.

Vnc.

Yes sir.

Ʋal.

And that I have no more in this poore pannier, to raise me up againe above your rents Vncle.

Vnc.

All this I doe beleeve.

Val.

You have no minde to better me.

Ʋnc.

Yes cosen, and to that end I come, and once more offer you all that my power is master off.

Ʋal.

Amatch then, lay me downe fiftie pound there.

Ʋnc.

There it is sir.

Ʋal.

And on it write, that you are pleased to give this, as due unto my merit, without caution of land redeeming, tedious thankes, or thrift hereafter to be hoped for.

Ʋnc.

How?

Luce layes a suite and letter at the doore.

Ʋal.

Without dareing, when you are drunke, to rellish of revilings, to which you are prone in sacke Vncle.

Ʋnc.

I thanke you sir.

Lance.

Come, come away, let the young wanton play a while, away I say sir, let him goe forward with his naked fashion, he will seeke you to morrow; goodly weather, sul∣trie hot, sultry, how I sweate.

Vncl.

Farewell sir.

Vnc,

Farewell sir.

Exeunt Ʋncle and Lance.

Val.

Would I sweat too, I am monstrous vext, and cold too; and these are but thinne pumpes to walke the steetes in; cloathes I must get, this fashion will not fadge with me, besides, tis an ill Winter weare, — What art thou? yes, they are cloathes, and rich ones, some foole has left um: and if I should utter — whats this paper here; let these be only worne, by the most noble and deserving Gentleman Vallen∣tine,—dropt out oth' cloudes; I thinke they are full of gold too; well Ile leave my wonder, and be warme agen, in the next house Ile shift.

Exit.