A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Vol. IX | Page 5

make ourselves so strange, Where we should still be boldest? In, for shame! We will not stand upon such ceremonies.
[Exeunt.

SCENE III.
The Street.
Enter ANSELM and FULLER.
FUL. Speak: in what cue, sir, do you find your heart, Now thou hast slept a little on thy love?
ANS. Like one that strives to shun a little plash Of shallow water, and (avoiding it) Plunges into a river past his depth: Like one that from a small spark steps aside, And falls in headlong to a greater flame.
FUL. But in such fires scorch not thyself, for shame! If she be fire, thou art so far from burning, That thou hast scarce yet warm'd thee at her face; But list to me, I'll turn thy heart from love, And make thee loathe all of the feminine sex. They that have known me, knew me once of name To be a perfect wencher: I have tried All sorts, all sects, all states, and find them still Inconstant, fickle, always variable. Attend me, man! I will prescribe a method, How thou shalt win her without all peradventure.
ANS. That would I gladly hear.
FUL. I was once like thee, A sigher, melancholy humorist, Crosser of arms, a goer without garters, A hatband-hater, and a busk-point[4] wearer, One that did use much bracelets made of hair, Rings on my fingers, jewels in mine ears, And now and then a wench's carcanet, Scarfs, garters, bands, wrought waistcoats, gold-stitch'd caps, A thousand of those female fooleries; but when I look'd into the glass of reason, straight I began to loathe that female bravery, And henceforth studied[5] to cry Peccavi to the world.
ANS. I pray you, to your former argument: Prescribe a means to win my best-belov'd.
FUL. First, be not bashful, bar all blushing tricks: Be not too apish-female; do not come With foolish sonnets to present her with, With legs, with curtsies, congees, and such like: Nor with penn'd speeches, or too far-fetch'd sighs: I hate such antique, quaint formality.
ANS. O, but I cannot snatch[6] occasion: She dashes every proffer with a frown.
FUL. A frown, a fool! art thou afraid of frowns? He that will leave occasion for a frown, Were I his judge (all you his case bemoan), His doom should be ever to lie alone.
ANS. I cannot choose but, when a wench says nay, To take her at her word, and leave my suit.
FUL. Continue that opinion, and be sure To die a virgin chaste, a maiden pure. It was my chance once, in my wanton days, To court a wench; hark, and I'll tell thee how: I came unto my love, and she look'd coy, I spake unto my love, she turn'd aside, I touch'd my love, and 'gan with her to toy, But she sat mute, for anger or for pride; I striv'd and kiss'd my love, she cry'd _Away_! Thou wouldst have left her thus--I made her stay. I catch'd my love, and wrung her by the hand: I took my love, and set her on my knee, And pull'd her to me; O, you spoil my band, You hurt me, sir; pray, let me go, quoth she. I'm glad, quoth I, that you have found your tongue, And still my love I by the finger wrung. I ask'd her if she lov'd me; she said, No. I bad her swear; she straight calls for a book; Nay then, thought I, 'tis time to let her go, I eas'd my knee, and from her cast a look. She leaves me wond'ring at these strange affairs, And like the wind she trips me up the stairs. I left the room below, and up I went, Finding her thrown upon her wanton bed: I ask'd the cause of her sad discontent; Further she lies, and, making room, she said, Now, sweeting, kiss me, having time and place; So clings me to her with a sweet embrace.
ANS. Is't possible? I had not thought till now, That women could dissemble. Master Fuller, Here dwells the sacred mistress of my heart; Before her door I'll frame a friv'lous walk, And, spying her, with her devise some talk.
Enter YOUNG MASTER ARTHUR, MISTRESS ARTHUR, OLD MASTER ARTHUR, OLD MASTER LUSAM, YOUNG MASTER LUSAM, and PIPKIN.
FUL. What stir is this? let's step but out the way, And hear the utmost what these people say.
O. ART. Thou art a knave, although thou be my son. Have I with care and trouble brought thee up, To be a staff and comfort to my age, A pillar to support me, and a crutch To lean on in my second infancy, And dost thou use me thus? Thou art a knave.
O. LUS. A knave, ay, marry, and an arrant knave; And, sirrah, by old Master Arthur's leave, Though I be weak and old, I'll prove thee one.
Y. ART. Sir, though