The Scornful Lady | Page 8

his Comrades, with wenches, and two Fidlers.
Yo. Lo. Come my brave man of war, trace out thy darling, And you my learned Council, sit and turn boyes, Kiss till the Cow come home, kiss close, kiss close knaves. My Modern Poet, thou shalt kiss in couplets.
Enter with Wine.
Strike up you merry varlets, and leave your peeping, This is no pay for Fidlers.
Capt. O my dear boy, thy Hercules, thy Captain Makes thee his Hylas, his delight, his solace. Love thy brave man of war, and let thy bounty Clap him in Shamois: Let there be deducted out of our main potation Five Marks in hatchments to adorn this thigh, Crampt with this rest of peace, and I will fight Thy battels.
Yo. Lo. Thou shalt hav't boy, and fly in Feather, Lead on a March you Michers.
Enter Savill.
Savill. O my head, O my heart, what a noyse and change is here! would I had been cold i'th' mouth before this day, and ne're have liv'd to see this dissolution. He that lives within a mile of this place, had as good sleep in the perpetual noyse of an Iron Mill. There's a dead Sea of drink i'th' Seller, in which goodly vessels lye wrackt, and in the middle of this deluge appear the tops of flagons and black jacks, like Churches drown'd i'th' marshes.
Yo. Lo. What, art thou come? My sweet Sir Amias welcome to Troy. Come thou shalt kiss my Helen, and court her in a dance.
Sav. Good Sir consider?
Yo. Lo. Shall we consider Gentlemen? How say you?
Capt. Consider? that were a simple toy i'faith, consider? whose moral's that? The man that cryes consider is our foe: let my steel know him.
Young Lo. Stay thy dead doing hand, he must not die yet: prethee be calm my Hector.
Capt. Peasant slave, thou groom compos'd of grudgings, live and thank this Gentleman, thou hadst seen Pluto else. The next consider kills thee.
Trav. Let him drink down his word again in a gallon of Sack.
Poet. 'Tis but a snuffe, make it two gallons, and let him doe it kneeling in repentance.
Savil. Nay rather kill me, there's but a lay-man lost. Good Captain doe your office.
Young Lo. Thou shalt drink Steward, drink and dance my Steward. Strike him a horn-pipe squeakers, take thy striver, and pace her till she stew.
Savil. Sure Sir, I cannot dance with your Gentlewomen, they are too light for me, pray break my head, and let me goe.
Capt. He shall dance, he shall dance.
Young Lo. He shall dance, and drink, and be drunk and dance, and be drunk again, and shall see no meat in a year.
Poet. And three quarters?
Young Lo. And three quarters be it.
Capt. Who knocks there? let him in.
Enter Elder Loveless disguised.
Savill. Some to deliver me I hope.
Elder Lo. Gentlemen, God save you all, my business is to one Master Loveless?
Capt. This is the Gentleman you mean; view him, and take his Inventorie, he's a right one.
Elder Lo. He promises no less Sir.
Young Lo. Sir, your business?
Elder Lo. Sir, I should let you know, yet I am loth, yet I am sworn to't, would some other tongue would speak it for me.
Young Lo. Out with it i' Gods name.
Elder Lo. All I desire Sir is, the patience and sufferance of a man, and good Sir be not mov'd more.
Young Lo. Then a pottle of sack will doe, here's my hand, prethee thy business?
Elder Lo. Good Sir excuse me, and whatsoever you hear, think must have been known unto you, and be your self discreet, and bear it nobly.
Young Lo. Prethee dispatch me.
Elder Lo. Your Brother's dead Sir.
Young Lo. Thou dost not mean dead drunk?
Elder Lo. No, no, dead and drown'd at sea Sir.
Young Lo. Art sure he's dead?
Elder Lo. Too sure Sir.
Young Lo. I but art thou very certainly sure of it?
Elder Lo. As sure Sir, as I tell it.
Young Lo. But art thou sure he came not up again?
Elder Lo. He may come up, but ne're to call you Brother.
Young Lo. But art sure he had water enough to drown him?
Elder Lo. Sure Sir, he wanted none.
Young Lo. I would not have him want, I lov'd him better; here I forgive thee: and i'faith be plain, how do I bear it?
Elder Lo. Very wisely Sir.
Young Lo. Fill him some wine. Thou dost not see me mov'd, these transitorie toyes ne're trouble me, he's in a better place, my friend I know't. Some fellows would have cryed now, and have curst thee, and faln out with their meat, and kept a pudder; but all this helps not, he was too good for us, and let God keep him: there's the right use on't friend. Off with thy drink, thou hast a spice of sorrow makes thee dry: fill him another. Savill, your Master's dead, and who am