APTNESS for mirth to all! This instant night
Thalia hath prepared, for your delight,
Her choice and curious viands, in each part
Seasoned with rarities of wit and art:
Nor fear I to be taxed for a vain boast;
My promise will find credit with the most,
When they know ingenious Fletcher made it, he
Being in himself a perfect Comedy.
And some sit here, I doubt not, dare aver
Living he made that house a theatre

Which he pleased to frequent; and thus much we
Could not but pay to his loud memory.

For ourselves, we do entreat that you would not
Expect strange turns and windings in the plot,
Objects of state, and now and then a rhyme,
To gall particular persons with the time;
Or that his towering muse hath made her flight
Nearer your apprehension than your sight;
But if that sweet expressions, quick conceit,
Familiar language, fashioned to the weight
Of such as speak it, have the power to raise
Your grace to us, with trophies to his praise;
We may profess, presuming on his skill,
If his CHANCEs please not you, our fortune's ill.

Men known to run mad with report before?
Or wander after that they know not where
To find? or, if found, how to enjoy? Are men's
brains

Made now-a-days of malt, that their affections
Are never sober, but, like drunken people,
Founder at every new fame? I do believe, too,
That men in love are ever drunk, as drunken men
Are ever loving.

Anth. Pr'ythee be thou sober,

And know, that they are none of those; not guilty
Of the least vanity of love; only a doubt
Fame might too far report, or rather flatter
The graces of this woman, made them curious
To find the truth, which since they find so block'd
And lock'd up from their searches, they are now
To give the wonder over.
[settled

Peter. 'Would they were settled

To give me some new shoes too! for I'll be sworn
These are e'en worn out to th' reasonable soles
In their good worships' business: and some sleep
Would not do much amiss, unless they mean
To make a bell-man of me. And what now
Mean they to study, Anthony? moral philosophy,
After their mar-all women?

Anth. Mar a fool's head!

Peter. It will mar two fools' heads, an they take not heed.

Besides the giblets to 'em.

Anth. Will you walk, sir,

And talk more out of hearing? your fool's head May chance to find a wooden night-cap else.

Peter. I never lay in any.

Anth. Then leave your lying,

And your blind prophesying.

Enter DON JOHN and FREDERIC.

Here they come ;

You had best tell them as much.

Peter. I am no tell-tale.

[Exeunt PETER and ANTHONY.

John. I would we could have seen her though; for sure

She must be some rare creature, or report lies,
All men's reports too.

Fred. I could well wish I had seen her;
But since she's so conceal'd, so beyond venture
Kept and preserved from view, so like a Paradise,
Placed where no knowledge can come near her, so
guarded

As 'twere impossible, though known, to reach her, I have made up my belief.

John. Hang me, from this hour,

If I more think upon her, or believe her;

But, as she came, a strong report unto me,

So the next fame shall lose her.

Fred. 'Tis the next way.

But whither are you walking?
John. My old round

After my meat, and then to bed.
Fred. 'Tis healthful.

John. Will not you stir?
Fred. I have a little business.

John. Upon my life, this lady still-
Fred. Then you will lose it
John. 'Pray let us walk together.
Fred. Now I cannot.

John. I have something to impart.
Fred. An hour hence

I will not miss to meet you.
John. Where?

possible

I wish it with my soul, so much I tremble
To offend the sacred image of my Maker!—
My sword could only kill his crimes! No, 'tis
Honour,

Honour, my noble friends, that idol Honour,
That all the world now worships, not Petruccio,
Must do this justice.

Ant. Let it once be done,

And 'tis no matter whether you, or Honour,
Or both, be accessary.

2 Gent. Do you weigh, Petruccio,

The value of the person, power and greatness,
And what this spark may kindle?

Petr. To perform it,

So much I am tied to reputation,

And credit of my house, let it raise wild-fires

John. The civil order of this town, Bologna,
Makes it beloved and honour'd of all travellers,
As a most safe retirement in all troubles;
Besides the wholesome seat, and noble temper
Of those minds that inhabit it, safely wise,
And to all strangers virtuous.
But I see

My admiration has drawn night upon me,
And longer to expect my friend may pull me
Into suspicion of too late a stirrer,

Which all good governments are jealous of:
I'll home, and think at liberty. Yet, certain,
'Tis not so far night as I thought; for see,
A fair house yet stands open; yet all about it
Are close, and no lights stirring: There may be

foul play,

I'll venture to look in; if there be knaves,
I may do a good office.

Woman. [Within.] Signor?

John. What? How is this?

Woman. [Within.] Signor Fabritio ?
John. I'll go nearer.

Woman. [Within.] Fabritio?

John. This is a woman's tongue; here may be good done.

Woman. [Within.] Who's there? Fabritio?
John. Ay.

Woman. [Within.] Where are you?
John. Here.

Woman. [Within.] Oh, come, for Heaven's
John. I must see what this means. [sake!

Enter Woman, with a Bundle from the House. Woman. I have staid this long hour for you. Make no noise,

For things are in strange trouble. Here; be secret ; 'Tis worth your care. Be gone now; More eyes

watch us

Than may be for our safeties.

John. Hark you!

[Gives him the Bundle.

[Exit.

Woman. Peace! Good night.
John. She is gone, and I am loaden; Fortune
for me!

It weighs well, and it feels well; it may chance
To be some pack of worth: By th' mass 'tis heavy!
If it be coin or jewels, 'tis worth welcome;
I'll ne'er refuse a fortune: I am confident
'Tis of no common price. Now to my lodging!
If it hit right, I'll bless this night.

Enter FREDERIC.

Fred. 'Tis strange

[Exit.

I cannot meet him; sure he has encounter'd
Some light-o'-love or other, and there means
To play at in and in for this night. Well, Don John,

Enter DON JOHN, with a Child in his arms. John. Was ever man so paid for being curious, Ever so bobb'd for searching out adventures,

As I am? Did the devil lead me? Must I needs be peeping

Into men's houses, where I had no business,
And make myself a mischief? 'Tis well carried !
I must take other men's occasions on me,
And be I know not whom! Most finely handled!
What have I got by this now? what's the purchase?
A piece of evening arras-work, a child,
Indeed an infidel: This comes of peeping!
A lump got out of laziness.-Good White-bread,
Let's have no bawling with you!-'Sdeath, have I
Known wenches thus long, all the ways of wenches,
Their snares and subtilties; have I read over
All their school-learnings, dived into their quiddits,
And am I now bum-fiddled with a bastard?
Fetch'd over with a card of five, and in mine old
After the dire massacre of a million
[days,
Of maidenheads, caught the common way? i'th'
night too,

Under another's name, to make the matter
Carry more weight about it? Well, Don John,
You will be wiser one day, when you have pur-
A bevy of these butter-prints together,
With searching out conceal'd iniquities,
Without commission. Why, it would never grieve

me,

[chased

Well lined within. To leave it here were barbarous,
And ten to one would kill it; a more sin
Than his that got it: Well, I will dispose on't,
And keep it, as they keep deaths' heads in rings,
To cry Memento to me; no more peeping!
Now all the danger is to qualify

The good old gentlewoman, at whose house we live,
For she will fall upon me with a catechism
Of four hours long: I must endure all ;
For I will know this mother.-Come, good wonder,
Let you and I be jogging; your starved treble
Will waken the rude watch else. -All that be
Curious night-walkers, may they find my fee! [Exit.

Fred. Sure he's gone home: I have beaten all the purlieus,

But cannot bolt him. If he be a-bobbing,

'Tis not my care can cure him: To-morrow morning

I shall have further knowledge from a surgeon's, Where he lies moor'd, to mend his leaks.

Enter CONSTANTIA veiled, from the House. Con. I am ready,

And through a world of dangers am flown to you; Be full of haste and care, we are undone else. Where are your people? which way must we travel? For Heaven sake stay not here, sir.

Fred. What may this prove?

Con. Alas, I am mistaken, lost, undone,

For ever perish'd !-Sir, for Heaven sake, tell me, Are you a gentleman ?

Fred. I am.

Con. Of this place?

Fred. No, born in Spain.

Con. As ever you loved honour,

As ever your desires may gain their ends,

Do a poor wretched woman but this benefit,

For I am forced to trust you!

Fred. You have charm'd me; Humanity and honour bid me help you, And if I fail your trust

Con. The time's too dangerous To stay your protestations: I believe you— Alas, I must believe you. From this place, Good noble sir, remove me instantly, And for a time, where nothing but yourself, And honest conversation, may come near me, In some secure place, settle me: What I am, And why thus boldly I commit my credit Into a stranger's hand, the fears and dangers That force me to this wild course, at more leisure I shall reveal unto you.

Fred. Come, be hearty;

He must strike through my life that takes you from me.

SCENE VII.-Another Street.

[Exeunt.

Enter PETRUCCIO, ANTONIO, and two Gentlemen.

Petr. He will sure come. Are ye well arm'd? Ant. Ne'er fear us :

Here's that will make 'em dance without a fiddle.

Petr. We are to look for no weak foes, my friends, Nor unadvised ones.

Ant. Best gamesters make the best game; We shall fight close and handsome then. 1 Gent. Antonio,

You are a thought too bloody.

Ant. Why? All physicians

And penny almanacks allow the opening
Of veins this month. Why do you talk of bloody?
What come we for? to fall to cuffs for apples?
What, would you make the cause a cudgel-quarrel?
On what terms stands this man? Is not his honour
Open'd to his hand, and pick'd out like an oyster?
His credit like a quart-pot knock'd together,
Able to hold no liquor? Clear but this point.
Petr. Speak softly, gentle cousin.
Ant. I'll speak truly;

What should men do allied to these disgraces?
Lick o'er his enemy, sit down, and dance him—
2 Gent. You are as far o' th' bow-hand now.
Ant. And cry,

"That's my fine boy; thou wilt do so no more, child?" Petr. Here are no such cold pities.

Ant. By Saint Jaques,

They shall not find me one! Here's old tough
Andrew,

A special friend of mine; an he but hold,
I'll strike 'em such a hornpipe! Knocks I come for,
And the best blood I light on; I profess it;
Not to scare coster-mongers: If I lose mine own,
Mine audit's cast, and farewell five and fifty!
Petr. Let's talk no longer; place yourselves
with silence,

As I directed ye, and when time calls us,
As ye are friends, so shew yourselves.
Ant. So be it.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VIII.—A Room in the Landlady's

House.

Enter DON JOHN, with the Child, and Landlady.

Land. Nay, son, if this be your regard-
John. Good mother;

Land. Good me no goods! Your cousin and

yourself

Are welcome to me, whilst you bear yourselves
Like honest and true gentlemen. Bring hither
To my house, that have ever been reputed
A gentlewoman of a decent and fair carriage,
And so behaved myself——

John. I know you have.

Land. Bring hither, as I say, (to make my name
Stink in my neighbour's nostrils,) your devices,
Your brats, got out of Aligant, and broken oaths!
Your linsey-woolsy work, your hasty puddings!
I foster up your filch'd iniquities?

You are deceived in me, sir; I am none
Of those receivers.

John. Have I not sworn unto you

'Tis none of mine, and shew'd you how I found it? Land. You found an easy fool that let you get it; She had better have worn pasterns.

John. Will you hear me?

Land. Oaths? what do you care for oaths, to gain

You will then swear like accused cut-purses,
As far off truth too; and lie beyond ali falconers!
I'm sick to see this dealing.

John. Heaven forbid, mother.
Land. Nay, I am very sick.
John. Who waits there?
Anth. [Within.] Sir.

John. Bring down the bottle of Canary wine.
Land. Exceeding sick; Heaven help me!
John. Haste ye, sirrah.—

I must even make her drunk. [Apart.] Nay, gentle mother!

Land. Now, fy upon ye! Was it for this purpose You fetch'd your evening-walks for your digestions? For this, pretended holiness? No weather, Not before day, could hold you from the matins. Were these your bo-peep prayers? You have pray'd well,

And with a learned zeal; watch'd well too. Your saint,

It seems, was pleased as well. Still sicker, sicker!

Enter ANTHONY, with a Bottle of Wine.

John. There is no talking to her till I have drench'd her.

Give me. Here, mother, take a good round draught; "Twill purge spleen from your spirits: Deeper, mother.

Land. Ay, ay, son, you imagine this will mend [Drinks.

all.

Alas, you look not well; take a round draught (It warms the blood well, and restores the colour), And then we'll talk at large.

Land.. A civil gentleman ?

A stranger? one the town holds a good regard of? John. Nay, I will silence thee.

Land. One that should weigh his fair name?— Oh, a stitch!

John. I thought my labour

Was not all lost. "Tis gold, and these are jeweis, Both rich, and right, I hope.

Land. Well, well, son John,

I see you are a woodman, and can chuse
Your deer, though it be i' th' dark; all your
discretion

Is not yet lost; this was well clapt aboard:
Here I am with you now; when, as they say,
Your pleasure comes with profit; when you must
needs do,

Do where ye may be done to, 'tis a wisdom
Becomes a young man well: Be sure of one thing,
Lose not your labour and your time together,
It seasons of a fool, son; time is precious,
Work wary whilst you have it; since you must
traffick

Sometimes this slippery way, take sure hold, signor;

Trade with no broken merchants, make your lading
As you would make your rest, adventurously,
But with advantage ever.

John. All this time, mother,

The child wants looking-to, wants meat and nurses. Land. Now blessing o' thy care! It shall have And instantly; I'll seek a nurse myself, son. [all, 'Tis a sweet child!-Ah, my young Spaniard !– Take you no further care, sir.

John. Yes, of these jewels, I must, by your leave, mother. These are yours, To make your care the stronger; for the rest I'll find a master. The gold, for bringing up on't, I freely render to your charge.

Land. No more words,

Nor no more children, good son, as you love me : This may do well.

John. I shall observe your morals.
But where's Don Frederic, mother?
Land. Ten to one

About the like adventure; he told me,
He was to find you out.

[Exit.

mother;

John. Dear mother,

I ever found your kindness, and acknowledge it. Land. No, no, I am a fool to counsel you. Where's the infant?

Come, let's see your workmanship.

John. None of mine, mother;

But there 'tis, and a lusty one. [Gives her the child.
Lund. Heaven bless thee,

Thou hadst a hasty making; but the best is,
"Tis many a good man's fortune.-- As I live,
Your own eyes, signor; and the nether lip
As like you as ye had spit it.

John. I am glad on't.

Land. Bless me, what things are these?

SCENE IX.-A Street.

Enter DUKE and Gentlemen.

[Exit.