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Read Ebook: Thomas Heywood by Heywood Thomas Symonds John Addington Author Of Introduction Etc Verity A W Arthur Wilson Editor
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Ebook has 1607 lines and 51166 words, and 33 pages
Wife. You've my leave To give it full expression.
Wincott. In these arms, then. Oh, had my youth been blest with such a son, To have made my estate to my name hereditary, I should have gone contented to my grave, As to my bed; to death, as to my sleep; But Heaven hath will in all things. Once more welcome; And you, sir, for your friend's sake.
Delavil. Would I had in me That which he hath, to have claimed it for mine own; However, I much thank you.
Wincott. Now, sir, the news with you?
Clown. Dancing news, sir; for the meat stands piping hot upon the dresser, the kitchen's in a heat, and the cook hath so bestirred himself that he's in a sweat. The jack plays music, and the spits turn round to't.
Wincott. This fellow's my best clock, He still strikes true to dinner.
Clown. And to supper too, sir: I know not how the day goes with you, but my stomach hath struck twelve, I can assure you that.
Wincott. You take us unprovided, gentlemen; Yet something you shall find, and we would rather Give you the entertain of household guests Than compliment of strangers. I pray enter.
Now made more common than a tavern's bar? His stools, that welcomed none but civil guests, Now only free for pandars, whores and bawds, Strumpets, and such?
Reignald. I suffer thee too long. What is to me thy country; or to thee The pleasure of our city? thou hast cows, Cattle, and beeves to feed, oves and boves; These that I keep, and in this pasture graze, Are dainty damosellas, bonny girls. If thou be'st born to hedge, ditch, thresh, and plough, And I to revel, banquet and carouse; Thou, peasant, to the spade and pickaxe, I The battoon and stiletto, think it only Thy ill, my good; our several lots are cast, And both must be contented.
Robin. But when both Our services are questioned--
Reignald. Look thou to one, My answer is provided.
Robin. Farewell, musk-cat! and sour milk, whilst I rinse my throat With Bordeaux and canary.
Young Lionel. What was he?
Reignald. A spy, sir; One of their hinds o' the country, that came prying To see what dainty fare our kitchen yields, What guests we harbour, and what rule we keep, And threats to tell the old man when he comes; I think I sent him packing.
Young Lionel. It was well done.
Reignald. A whoreson-jackanapes, a base baboon, To insinuate in our secrets.
Young Lionel. Let such keep The country, where their charge is.
Reignald. So I said, sir.
Young Lionel. And visit us when we command them thence, Not search into our counsels.
Reignald. 'Twere not fit.
Young Lionel. Who in my father's absence should command, Save I his only son?
Reignald. It is but justice.
Young Lionel. For am not I now lord?
Young Lionel. Well remembered. This night I have a purpose to be merry, Jovial and frolic. How doth our cash hold out?
Reignald. The bag's still heavy.
Young Lionel. Then my heart's still light.
Reignald. I can assure you, yet 'tis pretty deep Though scarce a mile to the bottom.
Young Lionel. Let me have To supper, let me see, a duck--
Reignald. Sweet rogue!
Young Lionel. A capon--
Reignald. Geld the rascal!
Young Lionel. Then a turkey--
Reignald. Now spit him, for an infidel!
Young Lionel. Green plover, snipe, Partridge, lark, cock, and pheasant.
Reignald. Ne'er a widgeon?
Young Lionel. Yes; wait thyself at table.
Reignald. Where I hope Yourself will not be absent.
Young Lionel. Nor my friends.
Reignald. We'll have them then in plenty.
Young Lionel. Caviare, sturgeon, anchoves, pickle-oysters; yes, And a potato pie; besides all these, What thou think'st rare and costly.
Reignald. Sir, I know What's to be done; the stock that must be spent Is in my hands, and what I have to do I will do suddenly.
Young Lionel. No butcher's meat; Of that beware in any case.
Reignald. I still remember Your father was no grazier; if he were, This were a way to eat up all his fields, Hedges and all.
Young Lionel. You will begone, sir?
Reignald. Yes, and you are i' the way going. Those rags be thy reward!--Oh, my sweet Blanda, Only for thee I wish my father dead, And ne'er to rouse us from our sweet delight; But for this hag, this beldam, she whose back Hath made her items in my mercer's books; Whose ravenous guts I have stuffed with delicates, Nay even to surfeit; and whose frozen blood I have warmed with aquavitae--be this day My last of bounty to a wretch ingrate; But unto thee a new indenture sealed Of an affection fixed and permanent. I'll love thee still, be't but to give the lie To this old cankered worm.
Blanda. Nay, be not angry.
Young Lionel. With thee my soul shall ever be at peace; But with this love-seducer, still at war.
Scapha. Hear me but speak.
Young Lionel. Ope but thy lips again, it makes a way To have thy tongue plucked out.
Rioter. What, all in tempest!
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