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 truth.

Kite. I'll come to you presently; 'twill away, I hope.

Dame. Pray Heaven it do.

[Exit Dame.
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,
Which, as a subtle vapour, spreads itself
Confusedly through every sensive part,
Till not a thought, or motion in the mind,
Be free from the black poison of suspect.
Ah, but what misery it is to know this!
Or, knowing it, to want the mind's direction
In such extremes! Well, I will once more strive,
In spite of this black cloud, myself to be,
And shake the fever off, that thus shakes me.

SCENE II-Moorfields.

[Exit.

Enter BRAINWORM, disguised like a Soldier. Brain. 'Slid, I cannot choose but laugh to see myself translated thus. Now must I create an intolerable sort of lies, or my present profession loses the grace; and yet the lie to a man of my coat, is as ominous a fruit as the Fico. O, sir, it holds for good polity ever, to have that outwardly in vilest estimation, that inwardly is most dear to us. So much for my borrowed shape.Well, the truth is, my old master intends to follow my young, dry-foot, over Moorfields to London this morning: now I, knowing of this hunting match, or rather conspiracy, and to insinuate with my young master (for so must we, that are blue-waiters, and men of hope and service do), have got me afore in this disguise, determining here to lie in ambuscade, and intercept him in the mid-way. If I can but get his cloak, his purse, his hat, nay, any thing to cut him off, that is, to stay his journey-Veni, vidi, vici, I may say with captain Cæsar; I am made for ever, i'faith. Well, now must I practise to get the true garb of one of those lance-knights, my arm here, and my -Young master! and his cousin, Master Stephen, VOL. II.

as I am a true counterfeit man of war, and no soldier! [Retires.

Enter ED. KNO'WELL and Master STEPHEN.

E. Kno. So, sir, and how then, coz? Step. S'foot, I have lost my purse, I think. E. Kno. How! lost your purse! Where?When had you it?

Step. I cannot tell: stay.

Brain. 'Slid, I am afraid they will know me! Would I could get by them!

E. Kno. What! ha' you it?

Step. No, I think I was bewitched, IE. Kno. Nay, do not weep the loss; hang it, let it go.

Step. Oh, 'tis here-No, an' it had been lost, I had not cared, but for a jet ring Miss Mary

sent me.

6

E. Kno. A jet ring! oh, the poesy, the poesy ! Step. Fine, i'faith! Though fancy sleep, my love is deep; meaning, that though I did not fancy her, yet she loved me dearly.

E. Kno. Most excellent!

Step. And, then, I sent her another, and my poesy was: The deeper the sweeter, I'll be judged by St Peter.'

E. Kno. How by St Peter? I do not conceive that.

Step. Marry, St Peter, to take up the metre. E. Kno. Well, there the saint was your good patron; he helped you at your need: thank him, thank him.

Brain. I cannot take leave of them so; I will venture, come what will. Gentlemen, please you change a few crowns, for a very excellent good blade, here? I am a poor gentleman, a soldier, that, in the better state of my fortunes, scorned so mean a refuge, but now it is the humour of necessity to have it so. You seem to be, gentlemen, well affected to martial men, else I should rather die with silence than live with shame: however, vouchsafe to remember, it is my want speaks, not myself. This condition agrees not with my spirit.

E. Kno. Where hast thou served?

Brain. May it please you, sir, in all the late wars of Bohemia, Hungaria, Dalmatia, Poland; where not, sir? I have been a poor servitor by sea and land, any time these fourteen years, and followed the fortunes of the best commanders in Christendom. I was twice shot at the taking of Aleppo, once at the relief of Vienna; I have been at Marseilles, Naples, and the Adriatic Gulf; a gentleman-slave in the galleys thrice, where I was most dangerously shot in the head, through both the thighs, and yet being thus maimed, I am void of maintenance; nothing left me but my scars, the noted marks of my resolution.

Step. How will you sell this rapier, friend? Brain. Generous sir, I refer it to your own

B

judgment; you are a gentleman, give me what | you please.

Step. True, I am a gentleman, I know that, friend but what though? I pray you say, what would you ask?

Brain. I assure you the blade may become the side, or thigh, of the best prince in Europe.

E. Kno. Aye, with a velvet scabbard. Step. Nay, an't be mine, it shall have a velvet scabbard, coz, that's flat: I would not wear it as 'tis, an' you would give me an angel.

Brain. At your worship's pleasure, sir; nay, 'tis a most pure Toledo.

Step. I had rather it were a Spaniard; but tell me, what shall I give you for it? An' it had a silver hilt

E. Kno. Come, come, you shall not buy it; hold, there's a shilling, fellow; take the rapier.

Step. Why, but I will buy it now, because you say so; and there's another shilling, fellow, I scorn to be outbidden. What, shall I walk with a cudgel, like a higginbottom, and may have a rapier for money?

E. Kno. You may buy one in the city. Step. Tut, I'll buy this i' the field, so I will; I have a mind to't, because 'tis a field rapier. Tell me your lowest price.

E. Kno. You shall not buy it, I say. Step. By this money but I will, though I give more than 'tis worth.

E. Kno. Come away, you are a fool. Step. Friend, I am a fool, that's granted: but I'll have it for that word's sake. Follow me for your money.

Brain. At your service, sir.

Enter KNO'WELL.

[Exeunt.

Kno. I cannot lose the thought yet of this let

ter,

Sent to my son; nor leave to admire the change
Of manners, aud the breeding of our youth
Within the kingdom, since myself was one.
When I was young, he lived not in the stews,
Durst have conceived a scorn, and uttered it,
On a grey head: age was authority
Against a buffoon; and a man had then
A certain reverence paid unto his years,
That had none due unto his life.

But now we are fallen; youth from their fear,
And age from that, which bred it, good example.
Nay, would ourselves were not the first, even pa-

When it puts on the breeches,
It will put off all this. Ay, it is like;
When it is gone into the bone already!
No, no: this dye goes deeper than the coat,
Or shirt, or skin; it stains unto the liver
And heart, in some: and rather than it should
not,

Note what we fathers do; look how we live;
What mistresses we keep; at what expence;
And teach them all bad ways to buy affliction!
Well, I thank Heaven, I never yet was he,
That travelled with my son before sixteen,
To shew him the Venetian courtezans,
Nor read the grammar of cheating, I had made,
To my sharp boy at twelve; repeating still
The rule, get money, still get money, boy,
No matter by what means.
These are the trades of fathers now. However,
My son, I hope, hath met within my threshold
None of these household precedents; which are
strong

And swift, to rape youth to their precipice.
But let the house at home be never so clean
Swept, or kept sweet from filth,

If he will live abroad with his companions,
In riot and misrule, 'tis worth a fear.

Enter BRAIN-WORM.

Brain. My master! nay, faith, have at you; I am fleshed now, I have sped so well; though I must attack you in a different way. Worshipful sir, I beseech you, respect the state of a poor soldier! I am ashamed of this base course of life, (God's my comfort) but extremity provokes me to't: what remedy?

Kno. I have not for you.

Brain. By the faith I bear unto truth, gentleman, it is no ordinary custom in me, but only to preserve manhood. I protest to you, a man I have been, a man I may be, by your sweet bounty.

Kno. Prithee, good friend, be satisfied.

Brain. Good sir, by that hand you may do the part of a kind gentleman, in lending a poor soldier the price of two cans of beer, a matter of small value; the King of Heaven shall pay you, and I shall rest thankful: sweet worship

Kno. Nay, an' you be so importunate

Brain. Oh, tender sir, need will have his course! I was not made to this vile use! Well, the edge of the enemy could not have abated me so much. [He weeps.] It's hard, when a man hath served in his prince's cause, to be thushonourable worship, let me derive a small piece of silver from you; it shall not be given in the course of time. By this good ground, I was fain to pawn my rapier last night for a poor supper; I had sucked the hilts long before, I am a pagan else: sweet honour!

Kno. Believe me, I am taken with some wonder,

To think a fellow of thy outward presence,

Well. Why?

E. Kno. Why, sayest thou? Why, dost thou think that any reasonable creature, especially in the morning, the sober time of the day too, could have mistaken my father for me?

Well. 'Siid, you jest, I hope.

E. Kno. Indeed, the best use we can turn it to, is to make a jest on't now; but I'll assure you, my father had the full view of your flourishing style, before I saw it.

Well. What a dull slave was this! But, sirrah, what said he to it, i'faith?

Step. Cousin, it is well; I am melancholy enough?

E. Kno. O, ay, excellent!

Well. Captain Bobadil, why muse you so?
E. Kno. He is melancholy too.

Bob. Faith, sir, I was thinking of a most honourable piece of service was performed, to-morrow, being St Mark's day, shall be some ten years now.

E. Kno. In what place, captain?

Bob. Why, at the beleaguering of Strigonium, where, in less than two hours, seven hundred re

Well. What, what?

E. Kno. Marry, that thou art some strange, dissolute young fellow, and I not a grain or two better, for keeping thee company.

Well. Tut! that thought is like the moon in her last quarter, 'twill change shortly. But, sirrah, I pray thee be acquainted with my two hang-bys here; thou wilt take exceeding pleasure in them, if thou hearest them once go: my wind-instruments. I'll wind them up-But what strange piece of silence is this? The sign of the dumb man?

E. Kno. Oh, sir, a kinsman of mine, one that may make your music the fuller, an' he please; he has his humour, sir.

Well. Oh, what is't, what is't?

E. Kno. Nay, I'll neither do your judgment, nor his folly, that wrong, as to prepare your apprehension. I'll leave him to the mercy of your search, if you can take him so.

Well. Well. Captain Bobadil, Master Matthew, I pray you know this gentleman here; he is a friend of mine, and one, that will deserve your affection. I know not your name, sir, but shall be glad of any occasion to render me more familiar to you.

Step. My name is Master Stephen, sir; I am this gentleman's own cousin, sir: his father is mine uncle, sir; I am somewhat melancholy, but you shall command me, sir, in whatsoever is incident to a gentleman.

Bob. Sir, I must tell you this, I am no general man; but for Mr Well-bred's sake (you may embrace it at what height of favour you please) I do communicate with you; and conceive you to be a gentleman of some parts. I love few words. E. Kno. And I fewer, sir. I have scarce enow to thank you.

Mat. But are you indeed, sir, so given to it? [To Master STEPHEN. Step. Ay, truly, sir, I am mightily given to melancholy.

Alat. Oh, it is your only fine humour, sir; your true melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit, sir: I am melancholy myself, divers times, sir; and then do I no more but take a pen and paper presently, and overflow you half a score or a dozen of sonnets at a sitting.

their lives upon the breach. I'll tell you, gentlemen; it was the first, but the best leagure, that ever I beheld with these eyes, except the taking of what do you call it, last year, by the Genoese; but that (of all others) was the most fatal and dangerous exploit that ever I was ranged in, since I first bore arms before the face of the enemy, as I am a gentleman and a soldier.

Step. 'So, I had as lief as an angel, I could swear as well as that gentleman!

E. Kno. Then you were a servitor at both, it seems; at Strigonium, and what do you call it?

Bob. Oh, lord, sir! by St George, I was the first man that entered the breach; and had I not effected it with resolution, I had been slain, if I had had a million of lives.

E. Kno. It was a pity you had not ten; a cat's, and your own, i'faith. But was it possible? Mat. Pray you, mark this discourse, sir. Step. So I do.

Bob. I assure you, upon my reputation, it is. true, and yourself shall confess.

E. Kno. You must bring me to the rack first.

Bob. Observe me judicially, sweet sir: they had planted me three demi-culverins, just in the mouth of the breach: now, sir, as we were to give on, their master-gunner (a man of no mean skill and mark, you must think) confronts me with his linstock, ready to give fire: I, spying his intendment, discharged my petrionel in his bosom, and with these single arms, my poor rapier, ran violently upon the Moors that guarded the ordnance, and put them all, pell-mell, to the sword.

Well. To the sword! to the rapier, captain! E. Kno. Oh, it was a good figure observed, sir! but did you all this, captain, without hurting your blade?

Bob. Without any impeach o' the earth: you shall perceive, sir. It is the most fortunate weapon that ever rid on poor gentleman's thigh. Shall I tell you, sir? You talk of Morglay, Excalibar, Durindana, or so? Tut, I lend no credit to what is fabled of them; I know the virtue of mine own, and therefore I dare the bolder maintain it.

Step. I marvel whether it be a Toledo, or no.
Bob. A most perfect Toledo, I assure you, sir.
Step. I have a countryman of his here.
Mat. Pray you, let's see, sir. Yes, faith, it is!

them.

E. Kno. How say you, cousin? I told you thus much.

Well. Where bought you it, Master Stephen? Step. Of a scurvy rogue soldier (a hundred of lice go with him); he swore it was a Toledo. Bob. A poor provant rapier, no better. Mat. Mass, I think it be, indeed! now I look on't better.

E. Kno. Nay, the longer you look on't the worse. Put it up, put it up!

Step. Well, I will put it up, but by (I have forgot the captain's oath, I thought to have sworn by it) an' e'er I meet him

Well. O, 'tis past help, now, sir; you must have patience.

Step. Whoreson rascal! hilts for anger.

could eat the very

E. Kno. A sign of good digestion; you have an ostrich stomach, cousin.

Step. A stomach! I would I had him here! you should see an' I had a stomach.

Well. It is better as it is. Come, gentlemen, shall we go?

Step. But it is none !

Brain. No, sir, I confess it is none.

Step. Do you confess it? Gentlemen, bear wit-. ness, he has confessed it. By God's will, an' you. had not confessed it

E. Kno. Oh, cousin, forbear, forbear.
Step. Nay, I have done, cousin.

Well. Why, you have done like a gentleman; he has confessed it, what would you more? Step. Yet, by his leave, he is a rascal, under his favour, do you see.

E. Kno. Ay, by his leave, he is, and under favour. Pretty piece of civility! Sirrah, how dost like him?

Well. Oh, it's a most precious fool, make much of him. I can compare him to nothing more happily, than a drum; for every one may play upon him.

E. Kno. No, no, a child's whistle were far the fitter.

Brain. Sir, shall I entreat a word with you? E. Kno. With me, sir! You have not another Toledo to sell, have you?

Brain. You are conceited, sir; your name is Mr Kno'well, as I take it?

E. Kno. You are in the right. You mean not to proceed in the catechism, do you? Brain. No, sir, I am none of that coat. E. Kno. Of as bare coat, though! Well say, sir?

Brain. Faith, sir, I am but a servant to the drum extraordinary, and indeed, this smoky varnish being washed off, and three or four patches removed, I appear your worship's in reversion, after the decease of your good father-Brain

E. Kno. My father!

Brain. Nay, never start; 'tis true; he has followed you over the fields by the foot, as you would do a hare i' the snow.

E. Kno. Sirrah, Well-bred, what shall we do, sirrah? My father is come over after me. Well. Thy father! Where is he?

Brain. At justice Clement's house, here, in Coleman-street, where he but stays my return; and then

Well. Who's this? Brain-worm?

Brain. The same, sir.

Well. Why, how, i' the name of wit, comest thou transmuted thus?

Brain. Faith, a device! a device! Nay, for the love of reason, gentlemen, and avoiding the danger, stand not here; withdraw, and I'll tell you all.

E. Kno. Come, cousin.

SCENE II.-The Warehouse.

Enter KITELY and CASH.

[Exeunt.

Kite. What says he, Thomas? Did you speak with him?

Cash. He will expect you, sir, within this half hour.

Keit. Has he the money ready? Can you tell? Cash. Yes, sir, the money was brought in last night.

Kite. O, that's well: fetch me my cloak, my
cloak.

Stay, let me see; an hour to go and come;
Ay, that will be the least; and then 'twill be
An hour before I can dispatch him,
Or very near well, I will say two hours.
Two hours! ha! things, never dreamt of yet,
May be contrived, ay, and effected too,
In two hours absence. Well, I will not go.
Two hours! No, fleering opportunity!
I will not give your subtlety that scope.
Who will not judge him worthy to be robbed,
That sets his doors wide open to a thief,