The Merry Devill of Edmonton Part 17

SMUG.

Fire, s'blood, there's no fire in England like your Trinidado sack. Is any man here humorous? We stole the venison, and we'll justify it: say you now!

HOST.

In good sooth, Smug, there's more sack on the fire, Smug.

SMUG.

I do not take any exceptions against your sack; but it you'll lend me a pick staff, I'll cudgle them all hence, by this hand.

HOST.

I say thou shalt in to the Celler.

SMUG.

S'foot, mine Host, shalls not grapple? Pray, pray you; I could fight now for all the world like a c.o.c.katrices ege; shals not serve the Duke of Norfolk?

[Exit.]

HOST.

In, skipper, in!

SIR ARTHUR.

Sirra, hath young Mountchensey married your sister?

HARRY CLARE.

Tis Certain, Sir; here's the priest that coupled them, the parties joined, and the honest witness that cried Amen.

MOUNTCHENSEY.

Sir Arthur Clare, my new created Father, I beseech you, hear me.

SIR ARTHUR.

Sir, Sir, you are a foolish boy; you ahve done that you cannot answer; I dare be bound to seize her from you; for she's a profest Nun.

MILLISCENT.

With pardon, sir, that name is quite undone; This true-love knot cancels both maid and Nun.

When first you told me I should act that part, How cold and b.l.o.o.d.y it crept o'er my heart!

To Chesson with a smiling brow I went; But yet, dear sir, it was to this intent, That my sweet Raymond might find better means To steal me thence. In brief, disguised he came, Like Novice to old father Hildersham; His tutor here did act that cunning part, And in our love hath joined much wit to art.

CLARE.

Is't even so?

MILLISCENT.

With pardon therefore we intreat your smiles; Love thwarted turns itself to thousand wiles.

CLARE.

Young Master Jerningham, were you an actor In your own love's abuse?

JERNINGHAM.

My thoughts, good sir, Did labour seriously unto this end, To wrong my self, ere I'd abuse my friend.

HOST.

He speaks like a Batchelor of musicke, all in numbers.

Knights, if I had known you would have let this covy of Patridges sit thus long upon their knees under my sign post, I would have spread my door with old Coverlids.

SIR ARTHUR.

Well, sir, for this your sign was removed, was it?

HOST.

Faith, we followed the directions of the devill, Master Peter Fabell; and Smug, Lord bless us, could never stand upright since.

SIR ARTHUR.

You, sir, twas you was his minister that married them?

SIR JOHN.

Sir, to prove my self an honest man, being that I was last night in the forrest stealing Venison--now, sir, to have you stand my friend, if that matter should be called in question, I married your daughter to this worthy gentleman.

SIR ARTHUR.

I may chance to requite you, and make your neck crack for't.

SIR JOHN.

If you do, I am as resolute as my Neighbour vicar of Waltham Abbey; a hem, Gra.s.s and hay, we are all mortall; let's live till we be hangd, mine host, and be merry, and there's an end.

[Enter Fabell.]

FABELL.

Now, knights, I enter; now my part begins.

To end this difference, know, at first I knew What you intended, ere your love took flight From old Mountchensey; you, sir Arthur Clare, Were minded to have married this sweet beauty To young Franke Jerningham; to cross which match, I used some pretty sleights; but I protest Such as but sate upon the skirts of Art; No conjurations, nor such weighty spells As tie the soul to their performancy.

These for his love, who once was my dear pupil, Have I effected. Now, me thinks, tis strange That you, being old in wisdom, should thus knit Your forehead on this match, since reason fails; No law can curb the lovers rash attempt; Years, in resisting this, are sadly spent.

Smile, then, upon your daughter and kind son, And let our toil to future ages prove, The devil of Edmonton did good in Love.

SIR ARTHUR.

Well, tis in vain to cross the providence: Dear Son, I take thee up into my heart; Rise, daughter; this is a kind father's part.

HOST.

Why, Sir John, send for Spindles noise presently: Ha, ert be night, I'll serve the good Duke of Norfolk.

PRI.

Gra.s.s and hay, mine Host, let's live till we die, and be merry, and there's an end.

SIR ARTHUR.

What, is breakfast ready, mine Host?

HOST.

Tis, my little Hebrew.

SIR ARTHUR.

Sirra, ride strait to Chesson Nunry, Fetch thence my Lady; the house, I know, By this time misses their young votary.

Come, knights, let's in!

BILBO.