Every Man in his Humour [32]
divers reasons hammering, hammering revenge: oh, for three or four gallons of vinegar, to sharpen my wits: Revenge, vinegar revenge, russet revenge; nay, an he had not lien in my house, 'twould never have grieved me; but being my guest, one that I'll be sworn my wife has lent him her smock off her back, while his own shirt has been at washing: pawned her neckerchers for clean bands for him: sold almost all my platters to buy him tobacco; and yet to see an ingratitude wretch strike his host; well, I hope to raise up an host of furies for't: here comes M. Doctor. [ENTER DOCTOR CLEMENT, LORENZO SENIOR, PETO.
CLEM. What's Signior Thorello gone?
PET. Ay, sir.
CLEM. Heart of me, what made him leave us so abruptly? How now, sirrah; what make you here? what would you have, ha?
COB. An't please your worship, I am a poor neighbour of your worship's.
CLEM. A neighbour of mine, knave?
COB. Ay, sir, at the sign of the Water-tankard, hard by the Green Lattice: I have paid soot and lot there any time this eighteen years.
CLEM. What, at the Green Lattice?
COB. No sir: to the parish: marry, I have seldom scaped scot-free at the Lattice.
CLEM. So: but what business hath my neighbour?
COB. An't like your worship, I am come to crave the peace of your worship.
CLEM. Of me, knave? peace of me, knave? did I e'er hurt thee? did I ever threaten thee? or wrong thee? ha?
COB. No, God's my comfort, I mean your worship's warrant, for one that hath wrong'd me, sir: his arms are at too much liberty, I would fain have them bound to a treaty of peace, an I could by any means compass it.
LOR. Why, dost thou go in danger of thy life for him?
COB. No, sir; but I go in danger of my death every hour by his means; an I die within a twelve-month and a day, I may swear, by the laws of the land, that he kill'd me.
CLEM. How? how, knave? swear he kill'd thee? what pretext? what colour hast thou for that?
COB. Marry, sir, both black and blue, colour enough, I warrant you, I have it here to shew your worship.
CLEM. What is he that gave you this, sirrah?
COB. A gentleman in the city, sir.
CLEM. A gentleman? what call you him?
COB. Signior Bobadilla.
CLEM. Good: But wherefore did he beat you, sirrah? how began the quarrel 'twixt you? ha: speak truly, knave, I advise you.
COB. Marry, sir, because I spake against their vagrant tobacco, as I came by them: for nothing else.
CLEM. Ha, you speak against tobacco? Peto, his name.
PET. What's your name, sirrah?
COB. Oliver Cob, sir, set Oliver Cob, sir.
CLEM. Tell Oliver Cob he shall go to the jail.
PET. Oliver Cob, master Doctor says you shall go to the jail.
COB. Oh, I beseech your worship, for God's love, dear master Doctor.
CLEM. Nay, God's precious! an such drunken knaves as you are come to dispute of tobacco once, I have done: away with him.
COB. Oh, good master Doctor, sweet gentleman.
LOR. SE. Sweet Oliver, would I could do thee any good; master Doctor, let me intreat, sir.
CLEM. What? a tankard-bearer, a thread-bare rascal, a beggar, a slave that never drunk out of better than piss-pot metal in his life, and he to deprave and abuse the virtue of an herb so generally received in the courts of princes, the chambers of nobles, the bowers of sweet ladies, the cabins of soldiers: Peto, away with him, by God's passion, I say, go to.
COB. Dear master Doctor.
LOR. SE. Alas, poor Oliver.
CLEM. Peto: ay: and make him a warrant, he shall not go, I but fear the knave.
COB. O divine Doctor, thanks, noble Doctor, most dainty Doctor, delicious Doctor. [EXEUNT PETO WITH DOB.
CLEM. Signior Lorenzo: God's pity, man, Be merry, be merry, leave these dumps.
LOR. SE. Troth, would I could, sir: but enforced mirth (In my weak judgment) has no happy birth. The mind, being once a prisoner unto cares, The more it dreams on joy, the worse it fares. A smiling look is to a heavy soul As a gilt bias to a leaden bowl, Which (in itself) appears most vile, being spent
CLEM. What's Signior Thorello gone?
PET. Ay, sir.
CLEM. Heart of me, what made him leave us so abruptly? How now, sirrah; what make you here? what would you have, ha?
COB. An't please your worship, I am a poor neighbour of your worship's.
CLEM. A neighbour of mine, knave?
COB. Ay, sir, at the sign of the Water-tankard, hard by the Green Lattice: I have paid soot and lot there any time this eighteen years.
CLEM. What, at the Green Lattice?
COB. No sir: to the parish: marry, I have seldom scaped scot-free at the Lattice.
CLEM. So: but what business hath my neighbour?
COB. An't like your worship, I am come to crave the peace of your worship.
CLEM. Of me, knave? peace of me, knave? did I e'er hurt thee? did I ever threaten thee? or wrong thee? ha?
COB. No, God's my comfort, I mean your worship's warrant, for one that hath wrong'd me, sir: his arms are at too much liberty, I would fain have them bound to a treaty of peace, an I could by any means compass it.
LOR. Why, dost thou go in danger of thy life for him?
COB. No, sir; but I go in danger of my death every hour by his means; an I die within a twelve-month and a day, I may swear, by the laws of the land, that he kill'd me.
CLEM. How? how, knave? swear he kill'd thee? what pretext? what colour hast thou for that?
COB. Marry, sir, both black and blue, colour enough, I warrant you, I have it here to shew your worship.
CLEM. What is he that gave you this, sirrah?
COB. A gentleman in the city, sir.
CLEM. A gentleman? what call you him?
COB. Signior Bobadilla.
CLEM. Good: But wherefore did he beat you, sirrah? how began the quarrel 'twixt you? ha: speak truly, knave, I advise you.
COB. Marry, sir, because I spake against their vagrant tobacco, as I came by them: for nothing else.
CLEM. Ha, you speak against tobacco? Peto, his name.
PET. What's your name, sirrah?
COB. Oliver Cob, sir, set Oliver Cob, sir.
CLEM. Tell Oliver Cob he shall go to the jail.
PET. Oliver Cob, master Doctor says you shall go to the jail.
COB. Oh, I beseech your worship, for God's love, dear master Doctor.
CLEM. Nay, God's precious! an such drunken knaves as you are come to dispute of tobacco once, I have done: away with him.
COB. Oh, good master Doctor, sweet gentleman.
LOR. SE. Sweet Oliver, would I could do thee any good; master Doctor, let me intreat, sir.
CLEM. What? a tankard-bearer, a thread-bare rascal, a beggar, a slave that never drunk out of better than piss-pot metal in his life, and he to deprave and abuse the virtue of an herb so generally received in the courts of princes, the chambers of nobles, the bowers of sweet ladies, the cabins of soldiers: Peto, away with him, by God's passion, I say, go to.
COB. Dear master Doctor.
LOR. SE. Alas, poor Oliver.
CLEM. Peto: ay: and make him a warrant, he shall not go, I but fear the knave.
COB. O divine Doctor, thanks, noble Doctor, most dainty Doctor, delicious Doctor. [EXEUNT PETO WITH DOB.
CLEM. Signior Lorenzo: God's pity, man, Be merry, be merry, leave these dumps.
LOR. SE. Troth, would I could, sir: but enforced mirth (In my weak judgment) has no happy birth. The mind, being once a prisoner unto cares, The more it dreams on joy, the worse it fares. A smiling look is to a heavy soul As a gilt bias to a leaden bowl, Which (in itself) appears most vile, being spent