Enter Master MATHEW, WELLBRED, and BOBADILL.
Mat. Yes, faith, sir, we were at your lodging to seek you too.
Wel; Oh, I came not there to-night.
Bob. Your brother delivered us as much.
Wel. Who, my brother Downright?
Bob. He. Mr. Wellbred, I know not in what kind you hold me; but let
me say to you this: as sure as honour, I esteem it So much out of
the sunshine of reputation, to throw the least beam of regard upon
such a—
Wel. Sir, I must hear no ill words of my brother.
Bob. I protest to you, as I have a thing to be saved about me, I
never saw any gentlemanlike part—
Wel. Good captain, faces about to some other discourse.
Bob. With your leave, sir, an there were no more men living upon
th' face of the earth, I should not fancy him, by St. George!
Mat. Troth, nor I; he is of a rustical cut, I know not how: he doth
not carry himself like a gentleman of fashion.
Wel. Oh, master Mathew, that's a grace peculiar but to a few, quos
aequus amavit Jupiter.
Mat. I understand you, sir.
Wel. No question, you do,—or do you not, sir.
Enter E. KNOWELL and Master STEPHEN.
Ned Knowell! by my soul, welcome: how dost thou, sweet spirit, my
genius? 'Slid, I shall love Apollo and the mad Thespian girls the
better, while I live, for this, my dear Fury; now, I see there's
some love in thee. Sirrah, these be the two I writ to thee of: nay,
what a drowsy humour is this now! why dost thou not speak?
E. Know. Oh, you are a fine gallant; you sent me a rare letter.
Wel. Why, was't not rare?
E. Know. Yes, I'll be sworn, I was ne'er guilty of reading the
like; match it in all Pliny, or Symmachus's epistles, and I'll have
my judgment burn'd in the ear for a rogue: make much of thy vein,
for it is inimitable. But I marle what camel it was, that had the
carriage of it; for, doubtless, he was no ordinary beast that
brought it.
Wel. Why?
E. Know. Why, say'st thou! why, dost thou think that any reasonable
creature, especially in the morning, the sober time of the day too,
could have mistaken my father for me?
Wel. 'Slid, you jest, I hope.
E. Know. Indeed, the best use we can turn it to, is to make a jest
on't; now: but I'll assure you, my father had the full view of your
flourishing style some hour before I saw it.
Wel. What a dull slave was this! but, sirrah, what said he to it,
i'faith?
E. Know. Nay, I know not what he said; but I have a shrewd guess
what he thought.
Wel. What, what?
E. Know. Marry, that thou art some strange, dissolute young fellow,
and I—a grain or two better, for keeping thee company.
Wel. Tut! that thought is like the moon in her last quarter, 'twill
change shortly: but, sirrah, I pray thee be acquainted with my two
hang-by's here; thou wilt take exceeding pleasure in them if thou
hear'st 'em once go; my wind-instruments; I'll wind them up—But
what strange piece of silence is this, the sign of the Dumb Man?
E. Know. Oh, sir, a kinsman of mine, one that may make your music
the fuller, an he please; he has his humour, sir.
Wel. Oh, what is't, what is't?
E. Know. Nay, I'll neither do your judgment nor his folly that
wrong, as to prepare your apprehension: I'll leave him to the mercy
of your search; if you can take him, so!
Wel. Well, captain Bobadill, master Mathew, pray you know this
gentleman here; he is a friend of mine, and one that will deserve
your affection. I know not your name, sir, [to Stephen.] but I
shall be glad of any occasion to render me more familiar to you.
Step. My name is master Stephen, sir; I am this gentleman's own
cousin, sir; his father is mine uncle, sir: I am somewhat
melancholy, but you shall command me, sir, in whatsoever is
incident to a gentleman.
Bob. Sir, I must tell you this, I am no general man; but for master
Wellbred's sake, (you may embrace it at what height of favour you
please,) I do communicate with you, and conceive you to be a
gentleman of some parts; I love few words.
E. Know. And I fewer, sir; I have scarce enough to thank you.
Mat. But are you, indeed, sir, so given to it?
Step. Ay, truly, sir, I am mightily given to melancholy.
Mat. Oh, it's your only fine humour, sir: your true melancholy
breeds your perfect fine wit, sir. I am melancholy myself, diver
times, sir, and then do I no more but take pen and paper,
presently, and overflow you half a score, or a dozen of sonnets at
a sitting.
E. Know. Sure he utters them then by the gross. [Aside.
Step. Truly, sir, and I love such things out of measure.
E. Know. I'faith, better than in measure, I'll undertake.
Mat. Why, I pray you, sir, make use of my study, it's at your
service.
Step. I thank you, sir, I shall be bold I warrant you; have you a
stool there to be melancholy upon?
Mat. That I have, sir, and some papers there of mine own doing, at
idle hours, that you'll say there's some sparks of wit in 'em, when
you see them,
Wel. Would the sparks would kindle once, and become a fire amongst
them! I might see self-love burnt for her heresy. [Aside.
Step. Cousin, is it well? am I melancholy enough?
E. Know, Oh ay, excellent.
Wel. Captain Bobadill, why muse you so?
E. Know. He is melancholy too.
Bob. Faith, sir, I was thinking of a most honourable piece of
service, was performed to-morrow, being St. Mark's day, shall be
some ten years now.
E. Know. In what place, captain?
Bob. Why, at the beleaguering of Strigonium, where, in less than
two hours, seven hundred resolute gentlemen, as any were in Europe,
lost their lives upon the breach. I'll tell you, gentlemen, it was
the first, but the best leaguer that ever I beheld with these eyes,
except the taking in of—what do you call it?—last year, by the
Genoways; but that, of all other, was the most fatal and dangerous
exploit that ever I was ranged in, since I first bore arms before
the face of the enemy, as I am a gentleman and a soldier!
Step. So! I had as lief as an angel I could swear as well as that
gentleman.
E. Know. Then, you were a servitor at both, it seems; at
Strigonium, and what do you call't?
Bob. O lord, sir! By St. George, I was the first man that entered
the breach; and had I not effected it with resolution, I had been
slain if I had had a million of lives.
E. Know. 'Twas pity you had not ten; a cat's and your own, i'faith.
But, was it possible?
Mat. Pray you mark this discourse, sir.
Step. So I do.
Bob. I assure' you, upon my reputation, 'tis true, and you shall
confess.
E. Know. You must bring me to the rack, first. [Aside.
Bob. Observe me judicially, sweet sir; they had planted me three
demi-culverins just in the mouth of the breach; now, sir, as we
were to give on, their master-gunner (a man of no mean skill and
mark, you must think,) confronts me with his linstock, ready to
give fire; I, spying his intendment, discharged my petronel in his
bosom, and with these single arms, my poor rapier, ran violently
upon the Moors that guarded the ordnance, and put them pell-mell,
to the sword.
Wel. To the sword! To the rapier, captain.
E. Know. Oh, it was a good figure observed, sir: but did you all
this, captain, without hurting your blade?
Bob. Without any impeach O' the earth: you shall perceive, sir.
[Shews his rapier.] It is the most fortunate weapon that ever rid
on poor gentleman's thigh. Shall I tell you, sir? You talk of
Morglay, Excalibur, Durindana, or so; tut! I lend no credit to that
is fabled of 'em: I know the virtue of mine own, and therefore I
dare the boldlier maintain it.
Step. I marle whether it be a Toledo or no.
Bob. A most perfect Toledo, I assure you, sir. Step. I have a
countryman of his here.
Mat. Pray you, let's see, sir; yes, faith, it is.
Bob. This a Toledo! Pish!
Step. Why do you pish, captain?
Bob. A Fleming, by heaven! I'll buy them for a guilder a-piece. An
I would have a thousand of them.
E. Know. How say you, cousin? I told you thus much.
Wel. Where bought you it, master Stephen?
Step. Of a scurvy rogue soldier: a hundred of lice go with him! He
swore it was a Toledo.
Bob. A poor provant rapier, no better.
Mat. Mass, I think it be indeed, now I look on't better.
E. Know. Nay, the longer you look on't, the worse. Put it up, put
it up.
Step. Well, I will put it up; but by—I have forgot the captain's
oath, I thought to have sword! by it,—an e'er I meet him—
Wel. O, it is past help now, sir; you must have patience.
Step. Whoreson, coney-hatching rascal! I could eat the very hilts
for anger.
E. Know. A sign of good digestion; you have an ostrich stomach,
Cousin.
Step. A stomach! would I had him here, you should see an I had a
stomach.
Wel. It's better as it is.—Come, gentlemen, shall we go?
Enter BRAINWORM, disguised as before.
E. Know. A miracle, cousin; look here, look here!
Step. Oh—'Od's lid. By your leave, do you know me, sir?
Brai. Ay, sir, I know you by sight.
Step. You sold me a rapier, did you not?
Brai. Yes, marry did I, sir.
Step. You said it was a Toledo, ha?
Brai. True, I did so.
Step. But it is none.
Brai. No, sir, I confess it; it is none.
Step. Do you confess it? Gentlemen, bear witness, he has confest
it:—'Od's will, an you had not confest it.===
E. Know. Oh, cousin, forbear, forbear! Step. Nay, I have done,
cousin.
Wel. Why, you have done like a gentleman; he has confest it, what
would you more?
Step. Yet, by his leave, he is a rascal, under his favour, do you
see.
E. Know. Ay, by his leave, he is, and under favour: a pretty piece
of civility! Sirrah, how dost thou like him?
Wel. Oh, it's a most precious fool, make much on him: I can compare
him to nothing more happily than a drum; for every one may play
upon him.
E. Know. No, no, a child's whistle were far the fitter.
Brai. Shall I intreat a word with you?
E. Know. With me, sir? you have not another Toledo to sell, have
you?
Brai. You are conceited, sir: Your name is Master Knowell, as I
take it?
E. Know. You are in the right; you mean not to proceed in the
catechism, do you?
Brai. No, sir; I am none of that coat.
E. Know. Of as bare a coat, though: well, say, sir.
Brai. [taking E. Know. aside.] Faith, sir, I am but servant to the
drum extraordinary, and indeed, this smoky varnish being washed
off, and three or four patches removed, I appear your worship's in
reversion, after the decease of your good father, Brainworm.
E. Know. Brainworm'! 'Slight, what breath of a conjurer hath blown
thee hither in this shape?
Brai. The breath of your letter, sir, this morning; the same that
blew you to the Windmill, and your father after you.
E. Know. My father!
Brai. Nay, never start, 'tis true; he has followed you over the
fields by the foot, as you would do a hare in the snow.
E. Know. Sirrah Wellbred, what shall we do, sirrah? my father is
come over after me.
Wel. Thy father! Where is he?
Brai. At justice Clement's house, in Coleman-street, where he but
stays my return; and then—
Wel. Who's this? Brainworm!
Brai. The same, sir.
Wel. Why how, in the name of wit, com'st thou transmuted thus?
Brai. Faith, a device, a device; nay, for the love of reason,
gentlemen, and avoiding the danger, stand not here; withdraw, and
I'll tell you all.
Wel. But art thou sure he will stay thy return?
Brai. Do I live, sir? what a question is that!
Wel. We'll prorogue his expectation, then, a little: Brainworm,
thou shalt go with us.—Come on, gentlemen.==-Nay, I pray thee,
sweet Ned, droop not; 'heart, an our wits be so wretchedly dull,
that one old plodding brain can outstrip us all, would we were e'en
prest to make porters of, and serve out the remnant of our days in
Thames-street, or at Custom-house key, in a civil war against the
carmen!
Brai. Amen, amen, amen, say I. [Exeunt.
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