The works of Thomas Middleton, Volume 5 (of 5)

Title: The works of Thomas Middleton, Volume 5 (of 5)

Author: Thomas Middleton

Thomas Dekker

William Rowley

Editor: Alexander Dyce

Release date: April 14, 2025 [eBook #75607]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Edward Lumley, 1840

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75607

Credits: Tim Lindell, KD Weeks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

Footnotes have been collected at the end of each play, and are linked for ease of reference.

In Volume 1 of this work, the editor provided a section of ‘Addendum and Corrigiendum’, with errata of the following volumes, including this. The errata for Volume 5 have been copied from that volume for straightfoward reference, and are included in the transcribers’s endnotes.

Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding the handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation.

Any corrections are indicated using an underline highlight. Placing the cursor over the correction will produce the original text in a small popup.

Any corrections are indicated as hyperlinks, which will navigate the reader to the corresponding entry in the corrections table in the note at the end of the text.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

THE WORKS OF THOMAS MIDDLETON.

NO WITHELP LIKE A WOMAN’S.

NO WIT HELP LIKE

A Woman’s. A Comedy, By Tho. Middleton, Gent. London: Printed for Humphrey Moseley, at the Prince’s Arms in St. Pauls Churchyard. 1657. 8vo.—is generally found appended to the Two New Playes, &c. of the same date: see vol. iii. p. 553, and vol. iv. p. 513.

Among Shirley’s Poems (Works, vol. vi. p. 492) is A Prologue to a play there [at Dublin], called, No Wit to A Woman’s—most probably to the present play.

PROLOGUE.

NO WIT HELP LIKE A WOMAN’S.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Enter Lady Goldenfleece with Sir Gilbert Lambstone, Pepperton, and Overdone; after them, Sir Oliver Twilight and Sunset, with Grace and Jane.

Sir O. Twi. Sun. No trouble, sweet madam.

Sir G. Lamb. We’ll see the widow at home, it shall be our charge that.

Sir O. Twi. Ah, ’tis but your pleasant condition[15] to give it out so, madam.

Grace. Jane. Thanks to you, good madam;

Grace. Jane. The like to you, madam!

[Exeunt all except Sir Oliver Twilight and Savourwit.

Luck, I beseech thee! [Reads] Good days,—evil days,—June,—July;—speak a good word for me now, and I have her: let me see, The fifth day, ’twixt hawk and buzzard; The sixth day, backward and forward,—that was beastly to me, I remember; The seventh day, on a slippery pin; The eighth day, fire and tow; The ninth day, the market is marred,—that’s ’long of the hucksters, I warrant you; but now the tenth day—luck, I beseech thee now, before I look into’t!—The tenth[20] day, against the hair,—a pox on’t, would that hair had been left out! against the hair? that hair will go nigh to choke me; had it been against any thing but that, ’twould not have troubled me, because it lies cross i’ the way. Well, I’ll try the fortune of a good face yet, though my almanac leave me i’ the sands. [Aside.

Wea. How, a quarter of a year hence? what, shall I come to you in September?

Wea. You’re not a mad knight! you will not let your daughter hang past August, will you? she’ll drop down under tree then: she’s no winter-fruit, I assure you, if you think to put her in crust after Christmas.

Wea. Now the devil run away with you, and some lousy fiddler with your daughter! may Clerkenwell have the first cut of her, and Houndsditch pick the bones! I’ll never leave the love of an open-hearted widow for a narrow-eyed maid again; go out of the roadway, like an ass, to leap over hedge and ditch; I’ll fall into the beaten path again, and invite the widow home to a banquet: let who list seek out new ways, I’ll be at my journey’s end before him:

SCENE II.

Mis. Low. Whence comes it, sir?

Foot. From the knight my master, sir Gilbert Lambstone.

Mis. Low. Return’t; I’ll receive none on’t.

Foot. There it must lie then; I were as good run to Tyburn a-foot, and hang myself at mine own charges, as carry it back again. [Exit.

Mistress Low-water,—If you desire to understand your own comfort, hear me out ere you refuse me. I’m in the way now to double the yearly means that first I offered you; and to stir you more to me, I’ll empty your enemy’s bags to maintain you; for the rich widow, the lady Goldenfleece, to whom I have been a longer suitor than you an adversary,[27] hath given me so much encouragement lately, insomuch that I am perfectly assured the next meeting strikes the bargain. The happiness that follows this ’twere idle to inform you of; only consent to my desires, and the widow’s notch shall lie open to you. This much to your heart; I know you’re wise. Farewell. Thy friend to his and another’s, Gilbert Lambstone.

SCENE III.

Sand. Phil. That’s our desire, sir.

Sav. All the better; I’ll gabble something to him. [Aside.]—Hoyste kaloiste, kalooskin ee vou, dar sune, alla gaskin?

D. Boy. Ick wet neat watt hey zackt; Ick unverston ewe neat.

34Sav. Why, la, I thought as much!

Sir O. Twi. What says the boy?

Sav. He says his father is troubled with an imperfection at one time of the moon, and talks like a madman.

How! not your daughter, sir? I must to’t again.—Quisquinikin sadlamare, alla pisse kickin sows clows, hoff tofte le cumber shaw, bouns bus boxsceeno.

D. Boy. Ick an sawth no int hein clappon de heeke, I dinke ute zein zennon.

Sav. O, zein zennon! Ah ha! I thought how ’twould prove i’ th’ end:—the boy says they never came near Antwerp, a quite contrary way, round about by Parma.

Sir O. Twi. What’s the same zein zennon?

Sav. That is, he saw no such wench in an inn: ’tis well I came in such happy time, to get it out of the boy before his father returned again: pray, be wary, sir, the world’s subtle; come and pretend a charitable business in policy, and work out a piece of money on you.

Sir O. Twi. Mass, art advised of that?

Sav. The age is cunning, sir; beside, a Dutchman will live upon any ground, and work butter out of a thistle.

Sav. That I will, sir.—Culluaron lagooso, lageen, lagan, rufft, punkatee?

D. Boy. Nimd aweigh de cack.

Sav. What, what? I cannot blame him then.

Sir O. Twi. What says he to thee?

Sav. The poor boy blushes for him: he tells me his father came from making merry with certain of his countrymen, and he’s a little steeped in English beer; there’s no heed to be taken of his tongue now.

Sav. O sir, the Dutch is a very wide language; you shall have ten English words even for one; as, for example, gullder-goose—there’s a word for you, master!

Sav. ’Tis thus distinguished, sir: gull, how do you; der, and; goose, your generation.

D. Mer. How! how’s this?—Zeicke yongon, ick ben ick quelt medien dullek heght, ee untoit van the mon, an koot uram’d.

D. Boy. Wee ek heigh lieght in ze bokkas, dee’t site.

D. Mer. Ten thousand devils!—Zeicke hee ewe ek kneeght, yongon, dat wee neeky by Antwarpon ne don cammen no seene de doughter dor.

D. Boy. Ick hub ham hean sulka dongon he zaut, hei es an skallom an rubbout.

D. Mer. He says he told him no such matter; he’s a knave and a rascal.

ACT II. SCENE I.

Wea. So, set the table ready; the widow’s i’ the next room, looking upon my clock with the days and the months and the change of the moon; I’ll fetch her in presently.

Pick. She’s not so mad to be fetched in with the moon, I warrant you: a man must go roundlier to work with a widow, than to woo her with the hand of a dial, or stir up her blood with the striking part of a clock; I should ne’er stand to shew her such things in chamber.

Wea. Welcome, sweet widow, to a bachelor’s 39house here! a single man I, but for two or three maids that I keep.

L. Gold. Why, are you double with them, then?

Wea. An exceeding good mourning-wit! women are wiser than ever they were, since they wore doublets. You must think, sweet widow, if a man keep maids, they’re under his subjection.

L. Gold. That’s most true, sir.

Wea. They have no reason to have a lock but the master must have a key to’t.

L. Gold. To him, sir Gilbert! he fights with me at a wrong weapon now.

L. Gold. Nay, and he led me into a closet, sir, where he shewed me diet-drinks for several months; as scurvy-grass for April, clarified whey for June, and the like.

Sir G. Lamb. O, madam, he is a most necessary property,[56] an’t be but to save our credit; ten pound in a banquet.

L. Gold. Go, you’re a wag, sir Gilbert.

Sir G. Lamb. How many there be in the world of his fortunes, that prick their own calves with briars, to make an easy passage for others; or, like a toiling usurer, sets his son a-horseback in 40cloth-of-gold breeches, while he himself goes to the devil a-foot in a pair of old strossers![57]

Over. Excellent!—A pox a’ your fortune! [Aside.

Pep. Saucy courting has brought all modest wooing clean out of fashion: you shall have few maids now-a-days got without rough handling, all the town’s so used to’t; and most commonly, too, they’re joined before they’re married, because they’ll be sure to be fast enough.

41Pep. Ay, and their posies under ’em.

L. Gold. Pray, what says May? she’s the spring lady.

Pep. [reads]

Over. [reads]

L. Gold. Drink’t all away, he should say.

Pep. ’Twere much better indeed, and wholesomer for his liver.

Sir G. Lamb. September’s a good one here, madam.

Sir G. Lamb. [reads]

L. Gold. Thus it is still, when a man’s simple meaning lights among wantons: how many honest words have suffered corruption since Chaucer’s days! a virgin would speak those words then that a very midwife would blush to hear now, if she have but so much blood left to make up an ounce of grace. And who is this ’long on, but such wags as you, that use your words like your wenches? you cannot let ’em pass honestly by you, but you must still have a flirt at ’em.

Pep. You have paid some of us home, madam.

Wea. If conceit[60] will strike this stroke, have at[61] the widow’s plum-tree! I’ll put ’em down all for a banquet. [Aside.]—Widow and gentlemen, my friends and servants, I make you wait long here for a bachelor’s pittance.

L. Gold. O, sir, you’re pleased to be modest.

Wea. No, by my troth, widow, you shall find it otherwise.

[Music. The banquet[62] is brought in, six of Weatherwise’s tenants carrying the Twelve Signs, Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Virgo, Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius, Capricorn, Aquarius, and Pisces, made of banqueting-stuff.

L. Gold. What, the Twelve Signs!

Wea. These are the signs of my love, widow.

L. Gold. Now for yourself, sir.

Wea. Take no care for me, widow;[63] I can be 44any where: here’s Leo, heart and back; Virgo, guts and belly; I can go lower yet, and yet fare better, since Sagittarius fits me the thighs; I care not if I be about the thighs, I shall find meat enough. [Sits.

Wea. I know it had; but who’s fault’s that, widow? you should have got you more suitors to have stopt the gaps.

Wea. By the mass, it’s true too!—Then sit down, tenants, once with your hats on; but spare the meat, I charge you, as you hope for new leases: I must make my signs draw out a month yet, with a bit every morning to breakfast, and at full moon with a whole one; that’s restorative: sit round, sit round, and do not speak, sweet tenants; you may be bold enough, so you eat but little. [Tenants sit.]—How like you this now, widow?

Pick. How! like a good old hospital? my mistress makes an arrant gull on him. [Aside.

45 Wea. That part’s uncovered yet: push,[64] no matter for the feet.

Wea. Why, then, you may draw up your legs, and lie rounder together.

Sir G. Lamb. Has answered you well, madam!

Wea. And[66] you draw up your legs too, widow, my tenant will feel you there, for he’s one of the calves.

L. Gold. Better and better, sir; your wit fattens as he feeds.

Pick. Sh’as took the calf from his tenant, and put it upon his ground now. [Aside.

46 Wea. If he be a gentleman, he’s welcome: there’s a sign does nothing, and that’s fit for a gentleman. The feet will be kept warm enough now for you, widow; for if he be a right gentleman, he has his stockings warmed, and he wears socks beside, partly for warmth, partly for cleanliness; and if he observe Fridays too, he comes excellent well, Pisces will be a fine fish-dinner for him.

Wea. Ay; and he were a lord, he shall not sit above my tenants; I’ll not have two lords to them, so I may go look my rent in another man’s breeches; I was not brought up to be so unmannerly.

Mis. Low. I have picked out a bold time: much good do you, gentlemen.

Wea. You’re welcome, as I may say, sir.

Mis. Low. Pardon my rudeness, madam.

Mis. Low. Thanks, good madam.

L. Gold. Make room, gentlemen.

Wea. Sit still, tenants; I’ll call in all your old leases, and rack you else.

Tenants. O, sweet landlord!

Wea. A proper woman turned gallant! If the widow refuse me, I care not if I be a suitor to him; 47I have known those who have been as mad, and given half their living for a male companion. [Aside.

Mis. Low. How? Pisces! is that mine? ’tis a conceited banquet. [Sits.

Wea. If you love any fish, pray, fall to, sir; if you had come sooner, you might have happened among some of the flesh-signs, but now they’re all taken up: Virgo had been a good dish for you, had not one of my tenants been somewhat busy with her.

Wea. This quarrel must be drowned.—Pickadill, my lady’s fool.

Pick. Your, your own man, sir.

Wea. Prithee, step in to one of the maids.

Pick. That I will, sir, and thank you too.

Wea. Nay, hark you, sir, call for my sun-cup presently, I’d forgot it.

Pick. How, your sun-cup?—Some cup, I warrant, that he stole out o’ the Sun-tavern. [Aside, and exit.

Sir G. Lamb. You may challenge all comers at these twelve weapons, I warrant you.

Pick. Your sun-cup, call you it? ’tis a simple voyage that I have made here; I have left my doublet within, for fear I should sweat through my jerkin; and thrown a cypress[71] over my face, for fear of sun-burning.

Wea. How now? who’s this? why, sirrah!

Pick. Can you endure it, mistress?

L. Gold. Endure what, fool?

Wea. Fill the cup, coxcomb.

Pick. Nay, an’t be no hotter, I’ll go put on my doublet again. [Exit.

Wea. What a whorson sot is this!—Prithee, fill the cup, fellow, and give’t the widow.

[Low-water fills the cup and presents it to Lady Goldenfleece.

Pick. I like this drinking world well.

Wea. So, fill’t him again.

Pep. Fill’t me! why, I drunk last, sir.

Wea. Yet again! and[73] you love me, gentlemen, let’s have no roaring here. If I had thought that, I’d have sent my bull to the bear-garden.

Wea. But I may chance want two now, and[73] they fall together by the ears.

Wea. Ho, Sol in Pisces! the sun’s in New Fish Street; here’s an end of this course.

Pick. Madam, I am bold to remember your worship for a year’s wages and a livery cloak.

L. Gold. How, will you shame me? had you not both last week, fool?

Pick. Ay, but there’s another year past since that.

L. Gold. Would all your wit could make that good, sir!

Pick. I am sure the sun has run through all the Twelve Signs since, and that’s a year; these[74] gentlemen can witness.

Wea. The fool will live, madam.

Pick. Ay, as long as your eyes are open, I warrant him.

Mis. Low. Sirrah.

Low. Does your worship call?

[Giving letter to Low-water, who carries it to Lady Goldenfleece.

Mis. Low. Marry, and reason good, sir.

L. Gold. O, strike me cold!—This should be your hand, sir Gilbert?

Sir G. Lamb. Why, make you question of that, madam? ’tis one of the letters I sent you.

L. Gold. Much good do you, gentlemen. [Rising.

Pep. Over. How now? what’s the matter?

Wea. Look to the widow, she paints white.—Some aqua cœlestis for my lady! run, villain.

Pick. Aqua solister? can nobody help her case but a lawyer, and so many suitors here?

Wea. Life, do you thunder here! [Exit Sir G. Lambstone.] If you had stayed a little longer, I’d have ript out some of my Bull out of your belly again.

Pep. ’Twas a most noble discovery; we must love you for ever for’t.

SCENE II.

Sand. Hold! why, friend——

Sav. Why, master, is this all your kindness, sir? offer to steal into another country, and ne’er take your leave on’s? troth, I take it unkindly at your hands, sir; but I’ll put it up for once. [Sheathing Philip’s sword.] Faith, there was no conscience in this, sir; leave me here to endure all weathers, whilst you make your soul dance like a juggler’s egg upon the point of a rapier! By my troth, sir, you’re to blame in’t; you might have given us an inkling of your journey; perhaps others would as fain have gone as you.

Sav. Our knavery is for all the world like a shifting bankrupt; it breaks in one place, and sets 63up in another: he tries all trades, from a goldsmith to a tobacco-seller; we try all shifts, from an outlaw to a flatterer: he cozens the husband, and compounds with the widow; we cozen my master, and compound with my mistress: only here I turn o’ the right hand from him,—he is known to live like a rascal, when I am thought to live like a gentleman. [Exit.

SCENE III.

Mis. Low. I must seem very imperious, I can tell you; therefore, if I should chance to use you roughly, pray, forgive me beforehand.

Low. With all my heart, Kate.

Mis. Low. You must look for no obedience in these[90] clothes; that lies in the pocket of my gown.

Low. Well, well, I will not then.

Mis. Low. I hear ’em coming, step back a little, sir. [Low-water retires.]—Where be those fellows?

Who looks out there? is there ne’er a knave i’ th’ house to take those gentlemen’s horses? where wait you to-day? how stand you, like a dreaming goose in a corner? the gentlemen’s horses, forsooth!

Low. Yes, an’t like[91] your worship. [Exit.

Pep. What’s here? a strange alteration!

Wea. A new lord! would I were upon my mare’s back again then!

All. We thank you, sir.

Wea. Life, here’s quick work! I’ll hold my life, 65has struck the widow i’ the right planet, Venus in cauda! I thought ’twas a lecherous planet that goes to’t with a caudle.

Mis. Low. How now, sir?

Low. The gentlemen’s horses are set up, sir.

Pep. No, no, no, we’ll away.

Wea. We’ll away.

Mis. Low. How! by my faith, but you shall not yet, by your leave.—Where’s Bess?—Call your mistress, sir, to welcome these kind gentlemen, my friends.

Pep. How! Bess?

Over. Peg?

Wea. Plain Bess? I know how the world goes then; he has been a-bed with Bess: i’faith, there’s no trust to these widows; a young horsing gentleman carries ’em away clear.

Low. Sir, she requests you to excuse her for a while; she’s busy with a milliner about gloves.

Mis. Low. Gloves!

Wea. Hoyday! gloves too!

Mis. Low. Could she find no other time to choose gloves but now, when my friends are here?

Pep. No, sir, ’tis no matter; we thank you for your good will, sir: to say truth, we have no business with her at all at this time, i’faith, sir.

Mis. Low. O, that’s another matter; yet stay, stay, gentlemen, and taste a cup of wine ere you go.

Over. No, thank you, sir.

66Mis. Low. Master Pepperton—master Weatherwise, will you, sir?

Wea. I’ll see the wine in a drunkard’s shoes first, and drink’t after he has brewed it. But let her go; she’s fitted, i’faith; a proud, surly sir here, he domineers already; one that will shake her bones, and go to dice with her money, or I have no skill in a calendar: life, he that can be so saucy to call her Bess already, will call her prating quean a month hence.

67Low. Faith, I’m glad I’m alive to commend thee, Kate; I shall be sure now to see my commendations delivered.

Mis. Low. I’ll put her to’t, i’faith.

Low. Well, I’ll save your credit then for once; but look you come there no more.

Mis. Low. Away! I hear her coming.