Con. I'm ready,

Enter Conftantia.

And through a World of Dangers am flown to ye.
Be full of hafte and care, we are undone else:
Where are your People? Which way muft we travel?
For Heav'n fake ftay not here, Sir.

Fred. What may this prove?

Con. Alas I am mistaken, loft, undone,

For ever perifh'd. Sir, for Heav'n fake tell me,
Are ye a Gentleman?

Fred. I am.

Con. Of this Place?

Fred. No, born in Spain.

Con. As ever you lov'd Honour,
As ever your Defires may gain their ends,
Do a poor wretched Woman but this Benefit,
For I am forc'd to truft ye.

Fred. You've charm'd me,
Humanity and Honour bids me help ye;
And if I fail your Truft-

Con. The Time's too dangerous

To stay your Proteftations: I believe ye,
Alas, I must believe ye: From this Place,
Good noble Sir, remove me inftantly,
And for a time, where nothing but yourself,
And honeft Conversation may come near me,
In fome secure Place fettle me: What I am,
And why thus boldly I commit my Credit
Into a Stranger's Hand, the Fears and Dangers,
That force me to this wild Courfe, at more leifure
I fhall reveal unto you.

Fred. Come, be hearty,

He must strike through my Life that takes

SCEN NE

VIII.

Enter Petruchio, Antonio, and two Gentlemen.

Petr. He will fure come. Are ye well arm'd?
Ant. Ne'er fear us:

Here's that will make 'em dance without a Fiddle.
Petr. We are to look for no weak Foes, my Friends
Nor unadvised ones.

Ant. Best Gamefters make the best Game, We fhall fight close and handfom then.

I Gent. Antonio,

You are a thought too bloody.

Ant. Why? All Physicians

And penny Almanacks allow the opening

Of Veins this Month: Why do ye talk of bloody?
What come we for, to fall to Cuffs for Apples?
What, would ye make the Caufe a Cudgel-quarrel?
On what Terms ftands this Man? Is not his Honour
Open'd t' his Hand, and pick'd out like an Oyster?
His Credit like a Quart Pot knockt together,
Able to hold no Liquor? Clear but this Point.
Petr. Speak foftly, gentle Coufin.
Ant. I'll fpeak truly;

What fhould Men do ally'd to thefe Difgraces,
Lick o'er his Enemy, fit down, and dance him?
2 Gent. You are as far o'th' bow Hand now.

Ant. And cry;

That's my fine Boy, thou wilt do fo no more, Child.
Petr. Here are no fuch cold Pities.

Ant. By Saint Jaques,

They shall not find me one: Here's old tough Andrew,
A fpecial Friend of mine, and he but hold,

I'll ftrike 'em fuch a Hornpipe: Knocks I come for,
And the beft Blood I light on; I profefs it,
Not to fcare Cofter-mongers; if I lose mine own,
Mine Audit's caft, and farewel five and fifty.

Petr. Let's talk no longer, place yourselves with filence, As I directed ye, and when time calls us,

As

As ye are Friends, fo fhew yourselves.

Ant. So be it.

SCENE

[Exeunt.

IX.

Enter Don John, and his Landlady.

Land. Nay, Son, if this be your regard.

John. Good Mother.

Land. Good me no goods; your Coufin, and yourself Are welcome to me, whilft you bear yourselves Like honeft and true Gentlemen: Bring hither To my House, that have ever been reputed A Gentlewoman of a decent, and fair carriage, And fo behav'd myfelf

John. I know

ye have.

Land. Bring hither, as I fay, to make my Name
Stink in my Neighbour's Noftrils? Your Devices,
Your Brats, got out of Allicant, and broken Oaths?
Your Linfey Woolfy Work, your hafty Puddings?
I fofter up your filch'd Iniquities?

You are deceiv'd in me, Sir, I am none
Of thofe Receivers.

John. Have I not fworn unto you,

'Tis none of mine, and fhew'd you how I found it? Land. Ye found an easie Fool that let you get it, She'd better have worn Pafterns.

John. Will ye hear me?

Land. Oaths? What do you care for Oaths to gain your ends,

When ye are high and pamper'd? What Saint know ye?
Or what Religion, but your purpos'd Lewdness,

Is to be look'd for of ye? Nay, I will tell ye,
You will then fwear like accus'd Cut-purfes,

As far off Truth too; and lye beyond all Faulconers:

I'm fick to fee this dealing.

John. Heav'n forbid, Mother.
Land. Nay, I am very fick.

John. Who waits there?

Ant. Sir.

[Within.

John.

John. Bring down the Bottle of Canary Wine.
Land. Exceeding fick, Heav'n help me.
John. Hafte ye, Sirrah,

I must ev'n make her drunk; nay, gentle Mother.
Land. Now fie upon ye, was it for this Purpofe
You fetch'd your Evening-walks for your Digeftions,
For this pretended Holiness? No Weather,
Not before Day could hold ye from the Matins.
Were these your bo-peep Prayers? you've pray'd well,
And with a learned Zeal: Watch'd well too; your Saint
It seems was pleas'd as well: Still ficker, ficker.

Enter Anthony with a Bottle of Wine.

Jobn. There is no talking to her 'till I have drencht her. Give me; here, Mother, take a good round Draught, 'Twill purge Spleen from your Spirits: Deeper, Mother. Land. Ay, ay, Son, you imagine this will mend all. John. All, i' faith, Mother.

Land. I confefs the Wine

Will do his Part.

John. I'll pledge ye.

Land. But Son Jobs.

John. I know your meaning, Mother; touch it once

more,

Alas you look not well; take a round Draught,
It warms the Blood well, and reftores the Colour,
And then we'll talk at large.

Land. A civil Gentleman ?

A Stranger? One the Town holds a good regard of?
John. Nay, I will filence thee.

Land. One that fhould weigh his fair Name? Oh, a Stitch!

John. There's nothing better for a Stitch, good Mother, Make no fpare of it, as you love your Health,

Mince not the matter.

Land. As I faid, a Gentleman,

Lodge in my House?

Now Heav'n's my Comfort,

Land.

Land. I did not think you would have us'd me thus ; A Woman of my Credit; one, Heav'n knows,

That lov'd you but too tenderly.

John. Dear Mother,

I ever found your Kindness, and acknowledge it.
Land. No, no, I am a Fool to counsel ye.

Where is the Infant? Come, let's fee your Workmanship. John. None of mine, Mother, but there 'tis, and a lufty one.

Land. Heav'n bless thee,

Thou hadft a hafty making; but the best is,
'Tis many a good Man's Fortune: As I live
Your own Eyes, Signior, and the nether Lip
As like ye, as y' had fpit it.

John. I am glad on't.

Land. Blefs me, what things are these?
John. I thought my labour

Was not all loft, 'tis Gold, and thefe are Jewels,
Both rich, and right I hope.

Land. Well, well, Son John,

I fee ye are a Wood-man, and can chufe

Your Deer, though it be i'th' dark, all your Discretion Is not yet loft; this was well clapt aboard:

Here I am with you now; when as they say

Your pleasure comes with profit; when ye muft needs do,
Do where ye may be done to, 'tis a Wisdom
Becomes a young Man well: Be fure of one thing,
Lofe not your labour and your time together,
Is Seafons of a Fool, Son, Time is precious,
Work wary whilft ye have it; fince ye muft traffick
Sometimes this flippery way, take fure hold, Signior,
Trade with no broken Merchants, make your Lading,
As you would make your Reft, adventuroufly,
But with Advantage ever.

John. All this time, Mother,

The Child wants looking to, wants Meat and Nurses,
Land. Now bleffing o' thy care; it shall have all,
And inftantly; I'll feek a Nurfe myself, Son;
'Tis a fweet Child: Ah my young Spaniard,
Take you no further care, Sir.

John. Yes, of thefe Jewels,

I