Moor-gate: will you bear me company? I protest, it is not to draw you into bond, or any plot against the state, coz.

Step. Sir, that's all one, an' 'twere; you shall command me, twice as far as Moor-gate, to do you good, in such a matter. Do you think I would leave you? I protest

E. Kno. No, no, you shall not protest, coz. Step. By my fackins, but I will by your leave; I will protest more to my friend, than I will speak of at this time.

E. Kno. You speak very well, coz. Step. Nay, not so, neither; you shall pardon me: but I speak to serve my turn.

E. Kno. Your turn, coz! Do you know what you say? A gentleman of your sort, parts, carriage, and estimation, to talk of your turn in this company, and to me, alone, like a water-bearer at a conduit! fie! a wight, that, hitherto, his every step hath left the stamp of a great foot behind him, at every word the savour of a strong spirit; and he! this man, so graced, so gilded, or, to use a more fit metaphor, so tin-foil'd by nature, as not ten house-wives' pewter (again' a good time) shews more bright to the world than he! and he (as I said last, so I say again, and still shall say it) this man! to conceal such real ornaments as these, and shadow their glory, as a milliner's wife does her wrought stomacher, with a smoky lawn, or black cypress? Oh, coz! it cannot be answered, go not about it. Drake's old ship, at Deptford, may sooner circle the world again. Come, wrong not the quality of your desert, with looking downward, coz; but hold up your head, so; and let the idea of what you are be pourtrayed in your face, that men may read in your physiognomy, here, within this place, is to be seen the true, rare, and accomplished monster, or miracle of nature,' which is all one. What think you of this, coz?

Step. Why, I do think of it; and I will be more proud, and melancholy, and gentleman-like, than I have been, I'll assure you.

E. Kno. Why, that's resolute, master Stephen! Now, if I can but hold him up to his height, as it is happily begun, it will do well for a suburbhumour: we may hap have a match with the city, and play him for forty pounds. Come, coz. Step. I'll follow you.

E. Kno. Follow me? you must go before. Step. Nay, an' I must, I will. Pray you shew me, good cousin. [Exeunt.

SCENE III-The Street before COB's House.

Enter Master MATTHEW.

Mat. I think this be the house. What, hoa!

Enter COB, from the House. Cob. Who is there? O, Master Matthew! give your worship good morrow.

Mat. What, Cob! How dost thou, good Cob? Dost thou inhabit here, Cob?

Cob. Ay, sir, I and my lineage ha' kept a poor house here in our days.

Mat. Thy lineage, monsieur Cob? What lineage? What lineage?

ly.

Gob. Why, sir, an ancient lineage and a princeMine ancestry came from a king's belly, no worse man and yet no man neither (by your worship's leave, I did lye in that,) but Herring the king of fish, (from his belly I proceed) one o' the monarchs o' the world I assure you. The first red herring that was broil'd in Adam and Eve's kitchen, do I fetch my pedigree from, by the Harrot's book. His Cob was my great-greatmighty-great grandfather.

Mat. Why mighty? Why mighty? I pray thee. Cob. Oh, it was a mighty while ago, sir, and a mighty great Cob.

Mat. How know'st thou that?

Cob. How know I? why, I smell his ghost, ever and anon.

Mat. Smell a ghost? Oh unsavoury jest! and the ghost of a herring, Cob?

Cob. Aye, sir, with favour of your worship's nose, Mr Matthew, why not the ghost of a herring-cob, as well as the ghost of Rasher-bacon? Mat. Roger Bacon thou wouldst say?

Cob. I say Rasher-Bacon. They were both broil'd o'th' coals; and a man may smell broiled meat, I hope? You are a scholar; upsolve me that now.

Mat. Oh, raw ignorance! Cob, canst thou shew me of a gentleman, one Captain Bobadil, where his lodging is?

Cob. O, my guest, sir, you mean!
Mat. Thy guest! Alas! ha, ha.

Cob. Why do you laugh, sir? Do you not mean Captain Bobadil?

Mat. Cob, pray thee, advise thyself well: do not wrong the gentleman and thyself too. I dare be sworn he scorns thy house. He! he lodge in such a base, obscure place as thy house! Tut, I know his disposition so well, he would not lie in thy bed, if thou would'st give it him.

Cob. I will not give it him, though, sir. Mass, I thought somewhat was in it we could not get him to-bed, all night! Well, sir, though he lies not on my bed, he lies on my bench. And if it please you to go in, sir, you shall find him with two cushions under his head, and his cloak wrap ped about him, as though he had neither won nor lost; and yet, I warrant, he never cast better in his life, than he has done to-night.

Mat. Why, was he drunk?

Cob. Drunk, sir! you hear not me say so. Perhaps he swallowed a tavern-token, or some such device, sir: I have nothing to do withal. I deal with water, and not with wine. Give me my tankard there, hoa. God be with you, sir, it is six o'clock: I should have carried two turns by this. What hoa! my stopple! come.

Mat. Lie in a water-bearer's house! A genmin tleman of his havings! Well, I'll tell him my

Cob. What, Tib! shew this gentleman up to the captain.-[TIB shews Master MAT. into the house.] Oh, an my house were the Brazenhead! Faith, it would e'en speak mo fools yet. You should have some now, would take this Mr Mat

Mat. Ay, sir, George Downright. Bob. Hang him, rook! He! why, he has no more judgment than a malt-horse. By St. George, I wonder you'd lose one thought upon such an animal! the most peremptory absurd clown of Christendom, this day, he is holden. I protest to you, as I am a gentleman and a soldier, I ne'er changed words with his like. By his discourse, he should eat nothing but hay. He was born for the manger, pannier, or packsaddle! He has not so much as a good phrase in his belly, but all old iron and rusty proverbs! a good commodity for some smith to make hobnails of.

Mat. Ay, and he thinks to carry it away with bis manhood still, where he comes. He brags he will gi' me the bastinado, as I hear.

Bob. How! he the bastinado! how came he by that word, trow?

Mat. Nay, indeed, he said cudgel me; I termed it so, for my more grace.

Bob. That may be: for I was sure, it was none of his word. But when? when said he so? Mat. Faith, yesterday, they say: a young gallant, a friend of mine, told me so.

Bob. By the foot of Pharaoh, an' 'twere my case, now, I should send him a challenge, presently. The bastinado! A most proper, and sufficient dependence, warranted by the great Caranza. Come hither, you shall challenge him; I'll shew you a trick or two, you shall kill him with, at pleasure: the first stoccata, if you will, by this air.

Mat. Indeed, you have absolute knowledge i' the mystery, I have heard, sir.

Bob. Of whom? Of whom ha' you heard it, I beseech you?

Mat. Troth, I have heard it spoken of by divers, that you have very rare and un-in-onebreath-utterable skill, sir.

Bob. By Heaven, no, not I; no skill i' the earth! some small rudiments i' the science, as to know my time, distance, or so. I have profest it more for noblemen and gentlemen's use than mine own practice, I assure you. Hostess, accommodate us with another bedstaff here, quickly; lend us another bedstaff! The woman does not understand the words of action. Look you, sir: exalt not your point above this state, at any hand, and let your poniard maintain your de

fence, thus; [Enter Hostess with a beḍstaff.] Give it the gentleman, and leave us. So, sir. Come on! O, twine your body mɔre about, that you may fall to a more sweet, comely, gentleman-like guard. So, indifferent. Hollow your body more, sir, thus. Now, stand fast o' your left leg; note your distance; keep your due proportion of time-Oh, you disorder your point most irregularly!

Mat. How is the bearing of it now, sir? Bob. Oh, out of measure ill! a well experienced hand would pass upon you at pleasure. Mat. How mean you, sir, pass upon me?

Bob. Why thus, sir,-(make a thrust at me)come in upon the answer, controul your point, and make a full career at the body. The best practis'd gallants of the time, name it a passada; a most desperate thrust, believe it!

Mat. Well, come sir!

Bob. Why, you do not manage your weapon with any grace or facility to invite me! I have no spirit to play with you. Your dearth of judgment renders you tedious.

Mat. But one venue, sir.

Bob. Venue! Fy! most gross denomination as ever I heard. Oh, the stoccata, while you live, sir: note that. Come, put on your cloak, and we'll go to a private place, where you are acquainted, some tavern, or so--and have a bitI'll send for one of those fencers, and he shall breathe you, by my direction; and then I will teach you your trick. You shall kill him with it at the first, if you please. Why, I will learn you by the true judgment of the eye, hand, and foot, to controul any enemy's point i'th' world. Should your adversary confront you with a pistol, 'twere nothing, by this hand! You should by the same rule, controul his bullet in a line, except it were hail-shot, and spread. What money haʼ you

about you, master Matthew?

Mat. Faith, I have not past a two shillings,

or so.

Bob. 'Tis somewhat with the least: but come, we will have a bunch of raddishes, and salt, to taste our wine; and a pipe of tobacco, to close the orifice of the stomach: and then we will call upon young Well-bred. Perhaps we shall meet the Corydon, his brother, there, and put him to the question. [Exeunt.

SCENE I.-A Warehouse belonging to KITELY,

Enter KITELY, CASH, and DOWNRIGHT.

Kite. Thomas, come hither.

There lies a note within, upon my desk;

ther.

Where is the boy?

Cash. Within, sir, in the warehouse.

Cash. Good, sir.

[Exit.

Kite. Do you see that fellow, brotherDownright? Down. Ay, what of him?

Kite. He is a jewel, brother.-
I took him of a child, up, at my door,
And christened him; gave him my own name,
Thomas;

Since bred him at the hospital; where proving
A toward imp, I called him home, and taught him
So much, as I have made him my cashier,
And given him, who had none, a surname, Cash;
And find him, in his place, so full of faith,
That I durst trust my life into his hands.

Down. So would not I, in any bastard's, bro-
ther,

As, it is like, he is, although I knew
Myself his father But you said you'd somewhat
To tell me, gentle brother; what is't? what is't?
Kite. Faith, I am very loth to utter it,
As fearing it may hurt your patience :
But that, I know, your judgment is of strength,
Against the nearness of affection-

Down. What need this circumstance? Pray
you, be direct.

Kite. I will not say how much I do ascribe Unto your friendship; nor, in what regard I hold your love; but, let my past behaviour, And usage of your sister, but confirm How well I've been affected to yourDown. You are too tedious; come to the matter, the matter.

Kite. Then, without further ceremony,
thus.
My brother Well-bred, sir, I know not how,
Of late, is much declined in what he was,
And greatly altered in his disposition.
When he came first to lodge, here, in my house,
Ne'er trust me, if I were not proud of him :
Methought he bare himself in such a fashion,
So full of man, and sweetness in his carriage.
And, what was chief, it shewed not borrowed in
him,

But all he did became him as his own,
And seemed as perfect, proper, and possest,
As breath with life, or colour with the blood:
But now his course is so irregular,
So loose, affected, and deprived of grace,
And he himself, withall, so far fallen off
From that first place, as scarce no note remains,
To tell men's judgments where he lately stood.
He's grown a stranger to all due respect;
Forgetful of his friends; and, not content
To stale himself in all societies,

He makes my house, here, common as a mart,
A theatre, a public receptacle
For giddy humour, and diseased riot:
And here, as in a tavern or a stew,
He and his wild associates spend their hours
In repetition of lascivious jests:

Swear, leap, drink, dance, and revel night by night,

Controul my servants; and, indeed, what not! Down. 'Sdains, I know not what I should say to him in the whole world! he values me at a cracked three-farthings, for aught I see. It will never out of the flesh, that's bred in the bone! I have told him enough, one would think, if that would serve. Well! he knows what to trust to, for George. Let him spend and spend, and do

mineer, till his heart ache; an' he think to be relieved by me, when he is got into one of your city-ponds, the counters, he has the wrong sow by the ear, i'faith, and claps his dish at a wrong man's door. I'll lay my hand o' my halfpenny, ere I part with it, to fetch him out, I'll assure him.

Kite. Nay, good brother, let it not trouble you thus.

Down. 'Sdeath, he mads me-I could eat my very spur-leathers, for anger! But, why are you so tame? Why do not you speak to him, and tell him how he disquiets your house?

Kite. O, there are divers reasons to dissuade,

brother;

But, would yourself vouchsafe to travail in it,
Though but with plain and easy circumstance,
It would both come much better to his sense,
And savour less of stomach, or of passion.
You are his elder brother, and that title
Both gives and warrants your authority,
Which, by your presence seconded, must breed
A kind of duty in him, and regard:
Whereas, if I should intimate the least,
It would but add contempt to his neglect,
Heap worse on ill, make up a pile of hatred,
That, in the rearing, would come tottering down,
And in the ruin bury all our love.

Nay, more than this, brother; if I should speak,
He would be ready, from his heat of humour,
And overflowing of the vapour in him,
To blow the ears of his familiars
With the false breath of telling what disgraces
And low disparagements I had put upon him.
Whilst they, sir, to relieve him in the fable,
Make their loose comments upon every word,
Gesture, or look, I use; mock me all o'er,
From my flat cap, unto my shining shoes;
And, out of their impetuous rioting phantasies,
Beget some slander that shall dwell with me.
And what would that be, think you? Marry, this:
They would give out, because my wife is fair,
Myself but newly married, and my sister
Here sojourning a virgin in my house,
That I were jealous! Nay, as sure as death,
That they would say: and how that I had quar-
relled

My brother purposely, thereby to find
An apt pretext to banish them my house.
Down. Mass, perhaps so: they're like enough
to do it.

Kite. Brother, they would, believe it: ᏚᏫ
should I,

Like one of these penurious quack-salvers,
But set the bills up to mine own disgrace,
And try experiments upon myself;
Lend scorn and envy opportunity
To stab my reputation and good name.

Enter MATTHEW and BOBADIL.
Mat. I will speak to him-

Bob. Speak to him! Away! by the foot of Pharoah, you shall not; you shall not do him that grace. The time of day to you, gentleman of the house. Is Mr Well-bred stirring

Down. How, then? what should he do? Bob. Gentleman of the house, it is to you: is he within, sir?

Kite. He came not to his lodgings to-night, sir, I assure you.

Down. Why, do you hear? you! Bob. The gentleman-citizen hath satisfied me. I'll talk to no scavenger.

[Exeunt BOBADIL and MATTHEW. Down. How! scavenger! stay, sir, stay! Kite. Nay, brother Downright!

me.

Down. 'Heart! stand you away, an' you love

Kite. You shall not follow him, now, I pray you, brother; good faith, you shall not: I will overrule you.

Down. Ha! scavenger! Well, go to, I say little: but, by this good day, (God forgive me I should swear), if I put up so, say, I am the rankest cow that ever pissed. 'Sdains, and I swallow this, I'll ne'er draw my sword in the sight of Fleet-street again, while I live. I'll sit in a barn with Madge Howlet, and catch mice first. Scavenger! 'Heart, and I'll go near to fill that huge tumbrel-slop of yours, with somewhat, an' I have good luck. Your Garagantua breech cannot carry it away so.

Kite. Oh! do not fret yourself thus! never think on it.

Down. These are my brother's consorts, these! these are his comrades, his walking mates! he is a gallant, a cavaliero, too, right hangman cut! Let me not live, an' I could not find in my heart to swinge the whole gang of them, one after another, and begin with him first. I am grieved it should be said he is my brother, and take these courses. Well, as he brews, so he shall drink, for George, again. Yet, he shall hear on it, and that tightly, too, an' I live, in faith.

Kite. But, brother, let your reprehension, then, Run in an easy current, not o'er high Carried with rashness, or devouring choler; But rather use the soft persuading way, More winning than enforcing the consent. Down. Ay, ay, let me alone for that, I warrant you. [Bell rings. Kite. How now! Oh, the bell rings for breakfast.

Brother, I pray you, go in, and bear my wife
Company till I come; I'll but give order
For some dispatch of business to my servants.
[Exit DowN.

Would I had lost this finger, at a venture,
So Well-bred had ne'er lodged within my house.
Why, it cannot be, where there is such resort
Of wanton gallants, and young revellers,
That any woman should be honest long.
Is't like, that factious beauty will
preserve
The public weal of chastity unshaken,
When such strong motives muster, and make
head

Against her single peace? No, no. Beware.
When mutual appetite doth meet to treat,
And spirits of one kind and quality
Come once to parley, in the pride of blood,
It is no slow conspiracy that follows.
Well, to be plain, if I but thought the time
Had answered their affections, all the world
Should not persuade me, but I were a cuckold!
Marry, I hope they have not got that start;
For opportunity hath baulked them yet,
And shall do still, while I have eyes and ears
To attend the impositions of my heart.
My presence shall be as an iron-bar,
'Twixt the conspiring motions of desire:
Yea, every look or glance mine eyes eject,
Shall check occasion, as one doth his slave,
When he forgets the limits of prescription.

Enter Dame KITELY.

Dame. Sister Bridget, pray you fetch down the rose-water above in the closet. Sweetheart, will you come in to breakfast?

Kite. An' she have overheard me now! [Aside. Dame. I pray thee, good muss, we stay for you. Kite. By Heaven, I would not for a thousand angels. [Aside. Dame. What ail you, sweetheart? are you not well? Speak, good muss.

Kite. Troth, my head aches extremely, on a sudden.

Dame. Oh, the lord!

Kite. How now! what!

Dame. Alas, how it burns! Muss, keep you warm; good truth it is this new disease! there's a number are troubled withal! For love's sake, sweetheart, come in out of the air.

Kite. How simple, and how subtle are her answers!

A new disease, and many troubled with it! Why true! she heard me, all the world to nothing.

Dame. I pray thee, good sweetheart, come in; the air will do you harm, in troth.

Kite. The air! she has me in the wind! Sweetheart, I'll come to you presently; 'twill away,

[Exit.

Dame. Pray Heaven it do. Kite. A new disease! I know not new or old, But it may well be called poor mortals' plague : For, like a pestilence, it doth infect The houses of the brain. First, it begins Solely to work upon the phantasy, Filling her seat with such pestiferous air As soon corrupts the judgment, and from thence Sends like contagion to the memory; Still to each other giving the infection,