A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Vol. IX | Page 6

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 it be my father's pleasure thus To wrong me with
the scorned name of knave, I will not have you so familiar, Nor so
presume upon my patience.
O LUS. Speak, Master Arthur, is he not a knave?
O. ART. I say he is a knave.
O. LUS. Then so say I.
Y. ART. My father may command my patience; But you, sir, that are
but my father-in-law, Shall not so mock my reputation. Sir, you shall
find I am an honest man.
O. LUS. An honest man!
Y. ART. Ay, sir, so I say.
O. LUS. Nay, if you say so, I'll not be against it: But, sir, you might
have us'd my daughter better, Than to have beat her, spurn'd her, rail'd
at her Before our faces.
O. ART. Ay, therein, son Arthur, Thou show'dst thyself no better than a
knave.
O. LUS. Ay, marry, did he, I will stand to it: To use my honest
daughter in such sort, He show'd himself no better than a knave.
Y. ART. I say, again, I am an honest man; He wrongs me that shall say
the contrary.

O. LUS. I grant, sir, that you are an honest man, Nor will I say unto the
contrary: But wherefore do you use my daughter thus? Can you accuse
her of unchastity, of loose Demeanour, disobedience, or disloyalty?
Speak, what canst thou object against my daughter?
O. ART. Accuse her! here she stands; spit in her face, If she be guilty
in the least of these.
MRS ART. O father, be more patient; if you wrong My honest husband,
all the blame be mine, Because you do it only for my sake. I am his
handmaid; since it is his pleasure To use me thus, I am content
therewith, And bear his checks and crosses patiently.
Y. ART. If in mine own house I can have no peace, I'll seek it
elsewhere, and frequent it less. Father, I'm now past one and twenty
years; I'm past my father's pamp'ring, I suck not, Nor am I dandled on
my mother's knee: Then, if you were my father twenty times, You shall
not choose, but let me be myself. Do I come home so seldom, and that
seldom Am I thus baited? Wife, remember this! Father, farewell! and,
father-in-law, adieu! Your son had rather fast than feast with you. [Exit.
O. ART. Well, go to, wild-oats! spendthrift! prodigal! I'll cross thy
name quite from my reck'ning book: For these accounts, faith, it shall
scathe thee somewhat, I will not say what somewhat it shall be.
O. LUS. And it shall scathe him somewhat of my purse: And, daughter,
I will take thee home again, Since thus he hates thy fellowship; Be such
an eyesore to his sight no more: I tell thee, thou no more shalt trouble
him.
MRS ART. Will you divorce whom God hath tied together? Or break
that knot the sacred hand of heaven Made fast betwixt us? Have you
never read, What a great curse was laid upon his head That breaks the
holy band of marriage, Divorcing husbands from their chosen wives?
Father, I will not leave my Arthur so; Not all my friends can make me
prove his foe.
O. ART. I could say somewhat in my son's reproof.

O. LUS. Faith, so could I.
O. ART. But, till I meet him, I will let it pass.
O. LUS. Faith, so will I.
O. ART. Daughter, farewell! with weeping eyes I part; Witness these
tears, thy grief sits near my heart.
O. LUS. Weeps Master Arthur? nay, then, let me cry; His cheeks shall
not be wet, and mine be dry.
MRS ART. Fathers, farewell! spend not a tear for me, But, for my
husband's sake, let these woes be. For when I weep, 'tis not for my own
care, But fear, lest folly