Westward Ho – Act Five, Scene Three

Return to Previous Scene

Enter SIR GOSLIN and MISTRESS BIRDLIME pull’d along by him.

SIR GOSLIN
What kin art thou to Long Meg of Westminster? Th’art like her.

MISTRESS BIRDLIME
Somewhat alike, sir, at a blush. Nothing akin, sir, saving in height of mind, and that she was a goodly woman.

SIR GOSLIN
Mary Ambree, do not you know me? Had not I a sight of this sweet phisnomy at Rhenish wine-house, ha? Last day i’th’Stillyard, ha! Whither art bound, galleyfoist? Whither art bound? Whence com’st thou female yeoman a’the guard?

MISTRESS BIRDLIME
From London, sir.

SIR GOSLIN
Dost come to keep the door, Ascapart?

MISTRESS BIRDLIME
My reparations hither is to speak with the gentlewoman here that drunk with your worship at the Dutch-house of meeting.

SIR GOSLIN
Drunk with me? You lie. Not drunk with me, but, faith, what wouldst with the women? There are abed. Art not a midwife? One of ‘hem told me thou wert a night woman.                                                                             [Music within; the fiddlers.

MISTRESS BIRDLIME
I ha’ brought some women abed in my time, sir.

SIR GOSLIN
Ay, and some young men too, hast not, Pandora? How now? Where’s this noise?

MISTRESS BIRDLIME
I’ll commit your worship.

SIR GOSLIN
To the stocks? Art a justice Shalt not commit me. Dance first, i’faith. Why, scrapers, appear under the wench’s comical window, by th’lord! Ud’s daggers! Cannot sin be set ashore once in a reign upon your country quarters, but it must have fiddling? What set of villains are you, you perpetual ragamuffins?

Enter the Fiddlers.

FIDDLERS
The town consort, sir.

SIR GOSLIN
Consort with a pox! Cannot the shaking of the sheets be danc’d without your town piping? Nay, then let all hell roar!                                                           [Draws sword.

FIDDLERS
I beseech you, sir, put up yours and we’ll put up ours.

SIR GOSLIN
Play, you lousy Hungarians! See, look, the maypole is set up. We’ll dance about it. Keep this circle, Maquerelle.

MISTRESS BIRDLIME
I am no mackerel, and I’ll keep no circles.

SIR GOSLIN
Play, life of Pharao, play. The bawd shall teach me a Scotch jig.

MISTRESS BIRDLIME
Bawd! I defy thee and they jigs whatsoever thou art. Were I in place where I’d make thee prove thy words!

SIR GOSLIN
I would prove ‘hem, mother, best be trust. Why do not I know you, granam? And that sugarloaf? Ha! Do I not, Magæra?

MISTRESS BIRDLIME
I am none of you Megs; do not nickname me so. I will not be nick’d.

SIR GOSLIN
You will not, you will not. How many of my name—of the Glowworms—have paid for your furr’d gloves, thou woman’s broker?

MISTRESS BIRDLIME
No, sir, I scorn to be beholding to any Glowworm that lives upon Earth for my future. I can keep myself warm without Glowworms.

SIR GOSLIN
Canst sing, woodpecker? Come, sing and wake ‘em.

MISTRESS BIRDLIME
Would you should well know it. I am no singing woman!

SIR GOSLIN
Howl then! S’foot, sing or howl, or I’ll break your estridge eggshell there.

MISTRESS BIRDLIME
My egg hurts not you. What do you mean to flourish so?

SIR GOSLIN
Sing, Madge, Madge, sing, owlet.

MISTRESS BIRDLIME
How can I sing with such a sour face? I am haunted with a cough and cannot sing.

SIR GOSLIN
One of your instruments, mountebanks. Come, here clutch, clutch.

MISTRESS BIRDLIME
Alas, sir, I’m an old woman and know not how to clutch an instrument.

SIR GOSLIN
Look, mark to and fro as I rub it. Make a noise. It’s no matter. Any hunts up to waken vice.

MISTRESS BIRDLIME
I shall never rub it in tune.

SIR GOSLIN
Will you scrape?

MISTRESS BIRDLIME
So you will let me go into the parties, I will saw and make a noise.

SIR GOSLIN
Do then. Shat into the parties, and part ‘hem. Shat my lean, Læna.

MISTRESS BIRDLIME
If I must needs play the fool in my old days, let me have the biggest instrument, because I can hold that best. I shall cough like a broken winded horse if I gape once to sing once.

SIR GOSLIN
No matter. Cough out thy lungs.

MISTRESS BIRDLIME
No, sir, though I’m old and worm-eaten, I’m not so rotten.                         [Coughs.

A Song

Will your worship be rid of me now?

SIR GOSLIN
Fain, as rich men’s heirs would be of their gouty dads; that’s the hothouse where your parties are sweating. Amble. Go, tell the he parties I have sent ‘hem a mast to their ship.

MISTRESS BIRDLIME
Yes, forsooth, I’ll do your errand.                                                                            [Exit.

SIR GOSLIN
Half must still, by thundering Jove! With what wedge of villainy might I cleave out an hour or two? Fiddlers, come; strike up, march before me. The chamberlain shall put a crown you into his bill of items. You shall sing bawdy songs under every window i’th’town. Up will the clowns start, down come the wenches. We’ll se the men a-fighting, the women a-scolding, the dogs a-barking, you shall go on fiddling, and I follow dancing Lantæra. Curry your instruments. Play and away!     [Exeunt.

Proceed to the Next Scene

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

%d bloggers like this: