BUT. The more's the pity.
SIS. I know not what in course to take me to; Honestly I fain would live, what shall I do?
BUT. Sooth, I'll tell you; your brother hath hurt us; we three will hurt you, and then go all to a 'spital together.
SIS. Jest not at her whose burden is too grievous, But rather lend a means how to relieve us.
BUT. Well, I do pity you, and the rather because you say you would fain live honest, and want means for it; for I can tell you 'tis as strange here to see a maid fair, poor, and honest, as to see a collier with a clean face. Maids here do live (especially without maintenance) Like mice going to a trap, They nibble long, at last they get a clap.
Your father was my good benefactor, and gave me a house whilst I live to put my head in: I would be loth then to see his only daughter, for want of means, turn punk. I have a drift to keep you honest, have you a care to keep yourself so: yet you shall not know of it, for women's tongues are like sieves, they will hold nothing they have power to vent.
You two will further me?
JOHN. In anything, good honest Butler.
THOM. If't be to take a purse, I'll be one.
BUT. Perhaps thou speakest righter than thou art aware of. Well, as chance is, I have received my wages; there is forty shillings for you, I'll set you in a lodging, and till you hear from us, let that provide for you: we'll first to the surgeon's.
To keep you honest, and to keep you brave, For once an honest man will turn a knave.
[_Exeunt_.
_Enter_ SCARBOROW, _having a boy carrying a torch with him_: ILFORD, WENTLOE, _and_ BARTLEY.
SCAR. Boy, bear the torch fair: now am I armed to fight with a windmill, and to take the wall of an emperor; much drink, no money: a heavy head and a light pair of heels.
WEN. O, stand, man.
SCAR. I were an excellent creature to make a punk of; I should down with the least touch of a knave's finger. Thou hast made a good night of this: what hast won, Frank?
ILF. A matter of nothing, some hundred pounds.
SCAR. This is the hell of all gamesters. I think, when they are at play, the board eats up the money; for if there be five hundred pound lost, there's never but a hundred pounds won. Boy, take the wall of any man: and yet by light such deeds of darkness may not be.
[_Put out the torch_.
WEN. What dost mean by that, Will?
SCAR. To save charge, and walk like a fury with a firebrand in my hand: every one goes by the light, and we'll go by the smoke.
_Enter_ LORD FALCONBRIDGE.
SCAR. Boy, keep the wall: I will not budge[397] for any man, by these thumbs; and the paring of the nails shall stick in thy teeth. Not for a world.
LORD. Who's this? young Scarborow?
SCAR. The man that the mare rid on.
LORD. Is this the reverence that you owe to me.
SCAR. You should have brought me up better.
LORD. That vice should thus transform man to a beast!
SCAR. Go to, your name's lord; I'll talk with you, when you're out of debt and have better clothes.
LORD. I pity thee even with my very soul.
SCAR. Pity i' thy throat! I can drink muscadine and eggs, and mulled sack; do you hear? you put a piece of turned stuff upon me, but I will--
LORD. What will you do, sir?
SCAR. Piss in thy way, and that's no slander.
LORD. Your sober blood will teach you otherwise.
_Enter_ SIR WILLIAM SCARBOROW.
SIR WIL. My honoured lord, you're happily well-met.
LORD. Ill met to see your nephew in this case, More like a brute beast than a gentleman.
SIR WIL. Fie, nephew! shame you not thus to transform yourself?
SCAR. Can your nose smell a torch?
ILF. Be not so wild; it is thine uncle Scarborow.
SCAR. Why then 'tis the more likely 'tis my father's brother.
SIR WIL. Shame to our name to make thyself a beast, Thy body worthy born, and thy youth's breast Till'd in due time for better discipline.
LORD. Thyself new-married to a noble house, Rich in possessions and posterity, Which should call home thy unstay'd affections.
SIR WIL. Where thou mak'st havoc.
LORD. Riot, spoil, and waste.
SIR WIL. Of what thy father left.
LORD. And livest disgraced.
SCAR. I'll send you shorter to heaven than you came to the earth. Do you catechise? do you catechise? [_He draws, and strikes at them_.
ILF. Hold, hold! do you draw upon your uncle?
SCAR. Pox of that lord!
We'll meet at th'Mitre, where we'll sup down sorrow, We are drunk to-night, and so we'll be to-morrow.