ROderigo.

Art mad?

Yes, not so much with Wine; its as rare to see a Spaniard a drunkard, as a Germane sober, an Italian no Whoremonger, an English man to pay his debts. I am no Borachia, Sack, Maligo, nor Canary breeds the Calenture in my braines, mine eye mads me, not my cups.

What would'st have us do?

Doe?

So far as tis fit for a Gentlemen wee'l venture.

I aske no more, I ha seen a thing has bewitched me, a delicate body, but this in the waste, Foot and Leg tempting, the Face I had a glimpse of: but the Fruit must needs be delicious, the Tree being so beautifull.

Prithee to the point.

Here tis, an old Gentleman, (no matter who he is) an old Gentlewoman (I ha nothing to do with her) but a young creature that followes them, Daughter or Servant, or whatsoever shee be her I must have, they are comming this way, shall I have her? I must have her.

Thou speak'st impossibilities.

Easie, easie, easie, i'le seize the young girle: stop you the old man, stay you the old woman.

How then?

I'le fly off with the young Bird, that's all, many of our Spanish Gallants act these merry parts every night, they are weak and old, we young and sprightly, will you assist me?

Troath Roderigo any thing in the way of honour.

For a wench Man any course is honorable.

Nay not any, her Father, if he her Father may be noble.

I am as noble.

Would the adventure were so.

Stand close, they come.

Come my brave boyes, the Taylors sheers has cut us into shapes fitting our Trades.

A trade free as a Masons.

A trade brave as a Courtiers, for some of them doe but shark, and so do we.

Gipsies, but no tann'd ones, no Red-oker rascalls umberd with soot and bacon as the English Gipsies are, that sally out upon Pullen, lie in ambuscado for a rope of Onions, as if they were Welsh Free-booters; no, our stile has higher steps to climbe over, Spanish Gipsies, noble Gipsies.

I never knew nobility in basenes.

Basenes! the arts of Cocoquismo, and Germania us'd by our Spanish Pickeroes (I meane Filching, Foysting, Niming, Iilting) we defie; none in our Colledge shall study 'em, such Graduates we degrade.

I am glad Spaine has an honest company.

Who but you?

So then, now being enter'd Madrill the inchanted Circle of Spaine, have a care to your new Lessons.

Wee listen.

Plow deepe furrowes, to catch deep root in th' opinion of the best, Grandos, Dukes, Marquesses, Condes, and other Titulados, shew your sports to none but them, what can you doe with 3. or 4. Fooles in a dish, and a block-head cut into sippets?

Scurvy meate.

The Lacedemonians threw their Beards over their shoulders, to observe what men did behinde them as well as before, you must do.

We shall never doo't, our muzzles are too short.

Be not English Gipsies, in whose companie a man's not sure of the eares of his head they so pilfer; no such angling; what you pull to Land catch faire; there is no Iron so foule but may be guilded, and our Gipsie profession how base soever in shew, may acquire commendations.

Gipsies, and yet pick no pockets?

Infamous and roguy, so handle your Webbs, that they never come to be woven in the Loome of Justice, take any thing that's given you, Purses, Knives, Handkerchers, Rosaries, Tweezes, any toy, any money, refuse not a Maruade, a blanck, Feather by Feather birds build Nests, graine peckd up after graine, makes Pullen fat.

The best is we Spaniards are no great feeders.

If one City cannot maintaine us, away to another, our horses must have wings; does Madrill yeild no money? Sivell shall; is Sivell close fisted? Vallidoly is open; so Cordica, so Toledo: doe not our Spanish Wines please us? Italian can then, French can, preferments bow is hard to draw, set all your strengths to it, what you get, keep, all the World is a second Rochill, make all sure, for you must not look to have your Dinner serv'd in with Trumpets.

No, no, Sackbuts shall serve us.

When you have money, hide it; sell all our horses but one.

Why one?

See Father, how I am fitted; how do you like This our new stock of cloaths?

My sweet Girle excellent; see their old robes be safe.

Thanks good Hostesse.

No Chamber Comedies, Hostesse plie you your tide; flow let 'em to a full Sea, but wee'l shew no pastime till after dinner, and that in a full ring of good people, the best, the noblest, no closset sweet meates, pray tell 'em so.

I shall. Exit.

How old is Pretiosa?

Twelve and upwards.

I am in my teenes assure you Mother, as little as I am, I have been taken for an Elephant, Castles and Lordships offer'd to be set upon me, if I would beare 'em; Why your smallest Clocks are the pretiest things to carry about Gentlemen.

Nay Child thou wilt be tempted.

Tempted! tho I am no marke in respect of a huge But, yet I can tell you great bubbers have shot at me, and shot golden Arrowes, but I my selfe gave ayme, thus; wide, foure Bowes; short, three and a halfe; they that crack me shall finde me as hard as a Nut of Galisia, a Parrot I am, but my teeth too tender to crack a wantons Almond.

Here's Gentlemen swear all the oaths in Spaine they have seen you, must see you, and will see you.

To drown this noyse let 'em enter.

Is your Play-house an Inne? a Gentleman cannot see you without crumpling his Taffaty cloake.

Nay more then a Gentleman, his man being a deminitive Don too.

Is this the little ape does the fine tricks?

Come aloft Jack little ape!

Would my Jack might come aloft, please you to set the water Mill, with the Ivory cogs in't a grinding my handfull of purging comfetts.

My Master desires to have you loose from your company.

Am I a Pigeon thinke you to be caught with Cummin-seeds? a flie to glew my wings to sweete-meates and so be tane?

When do your gambolls begin?

Not till we ha din'd.

Foote then your bellies will be so full you'l be able to do nothing, Soto prithee set a good face on't for I cannot, and give the little Monkey that Letter.

Walke off and hum to your selfe: I dedicate (sweet destiny, into whose hand every Spaniard desires to put a Distaffe) these lines of Love.

What Love, what's the matter?

Grave Mother Bumby the markes out a your mouth.

What's the Paper, from whom comes it?

The comodity wrapd up in the Paper, are Verses, the warming Pan that puts heat into 'em, you fire-braind bastard of Helicon.

His name is Don Tomazo Portacareco, Nunckle to young Don Hortado de Mendonza, Cosen german to the Conde de Tindilla, and naturall brother to Francisco de Bavadilla, one of the Commendadors of Aleantaro, a Gentleman of long standing.

Verses! I love good ones, let me see 'em.

Good ones! if they were not good ones, they should not come from mee, at the name of Verses I can stand on no ground.

Here's gold too, who's is this?

Whoe's but yours? if there been any fault in the Verses, I can mend it extempore; for a stich in a mans stocken not taken up in time ravells out all the rest.

Botcherly Poetry, botcherly.

Verses and gold! these then are golden Verses.

Had every Verse a Pearle in the eye it should be thine.

A pearle in mine eye! I thanke you for that, doe you wish mee blinde?

I by this light doe I, that you may look upon nobodies crime but mine.

I should be blind indeede!

Pray Sir read your Verses.

Shall I sing 'em or say 'em?

Which you can best.

Both scurvily.

He manders.

And Ganders.

Hee'l towze yee.

Oh Lowzie.

No, no, th'are excellent.

But are these all your own?

Mine own! wud I might never see Inck drop out of the nose of any Goose quil more, if velvet Cloaks have not clap'd me for 'em, doe you like 'em?

Would both those were in thee pritty little body, sweets Gipsie.

A Pistolet and this Paper, 'twould choake me.

No more then a bribe does a Constable; the Verses will easily into your head, then buy what you like with the Gold, and put it into your belly, I hope I ha chaw'd a good reason for you.

Will you chaw my Jennet ready sir?

And eate him down if you say the word. Exit.

Now the coxcombe my man is gon, because y'are but a Country company of Strowles, I thinke your stock is thred-bare, here mend it with this Cloake.

What do you meane sir?

This Scarfe, this Feather, and this Hat.

Deare Signior.

If they be never so deare, pox'o this hot Ruffe; little Gipsie, wear thou that.

Your meaning sir.

My meaning is not to be an Asse, to carry a burthen when I need not, if you shew your Gambols forty Leagues hence, I'le gallop to 'em; Farwel old Gray-beard, adue Mother mumble-crust, morrow my little Wart of beauty. Exit.

So harvest will come in, such Sunshine days Will bring in golden sheafes, our Markets raise, Away to your taske. Exit. Don John pulls Pretiosa back.

Mother, Grand-mother!

Two rowes of Kindred in one mouth!

Be not uncivill sir, thus have you us'd her thrice.

Thrice! three thousand more: may I not use mine own?

Cupid entailes this Land upon me, I have wooed thee, thou are coy, by this aire I am a Bull of Tarisa, wild, mad for thee: you told I was some copper coyne, I am a Knight of Spaine, Don Francisco de Carcomo my Father, I Don John his Sonne, this paper tells you more, grumble not old Granam, (heeres gold) for I must by this white hand, marry this cherry-lip'd, sweet-mouth'd villaine.

There's a thing call'd quando.

Instantly.

Art thou so willing?

Peace threescore and five.

Marry me! eate a Chicken e're it be out o'th shell! I'le weare no shackles, liberty is sweet; that I have, that I'le hold, marry me! can Gold and Lead mix together? a Dimond, & a button of Christal fit one ring? you are too high for me, I am too low; you too great, I too little.

I pray leave her sir, and take your Gold againe.

Or if you dote, as you say, let me try you do this.

Any thing, kill the great Turke, pluck out the Magul's Eyeteeth; in earnest Pretiosa any thing!

Your taste is soon set down, turne Gipsie for two years, be one of us, if in that time you mislike not me, nor I you, here's my hand farwell.

There's enough for your Gold, witty Child. Exit.

Fie Clara, thou dost court calamity too much.

Yes Girle, thou dost.

From playing with Fencers sir, and they have beat him out of his Cloaths sir.

This was one of my Masters dog-dayes, and he would not sweat too much.

It was mine own Goose, and I laid the Jiblets upon an other Coxcombs trencher, you are my Gardian, best beg me for a fool now.

I have an Unckle in Sivell, I'le go see him, an Aunt in Siena in Italy, I goe see her.

If my wookes being cut down cannot fill this Pocket, cut 'em into Trapsticks.

And if his Acres being sould for a Maruedi, a Turffe for markes in Cages, cannot fill this Pocket, give 'em to Gold-finders.

If the Devil were a Taylor, he would scarce know us in these gaberdines.

If a Taylor were the Divel, I'de not give a Lowse for him, if he should bring up this fashion amongst Gentlemen, and make it common.

Our like! no we should be sorry, we or our cloaths should be like fish, new, stale, and stinking in three days.

If you aske whence we are, we are Egyptian Spaniards; if what, we are, ut, re, mi, fa, sol. Juglers, Tumblers, any thing any where, every where.

A Mag-py of Parnassin, welcome agen, I am a fire-brand of Phoebus my selfe, wee'l invoke together, so you will not steale my Plot.

Hang Lands, it's nothing but Trees, Stones and Durt, old Father I have Gold to keepe up our stock, pretious Pretiosa, for whose sake I have thus transform'd my selfe out of a Gentleman into a Gipsie, thou shalt not want sweete Rimes my little Musk-cat, for besides my selfe here's an Italian Poet, on whom I pray throw your welcomes.

Yes my Lord, both lowd Musick, and still Musick, the loud is that which you have heard, and the still is that which no man can heare. Exit.

I, I, hold up Madam, feare not your pocket, for I ha but two Hands.

So long I do you thinke good fortunes are fresh Herrings, to come in sholes? bad fortunes are like Mackerell at Midsummer, you have had a sore losse of late.

My hand shall doo't—and bring the best in Spaine to see your Sports.

You must not be in your Mutton before we are out of our Veale.

I brought all my Teeth, two are struck out, them I count lost, so must you.

A Beast is't a Mule? send him to Muly Crag a whee in Barbary.

Is't an Asse? give it to a Lawyer, for in Spaine they ride upon none else.

Doe, doe, bury the Asses House-hold-stuffe, and in his skin sow any Man that's mad for a Woman.

All Ceremonies end heere; Welcome Brother, Gipsie.

And the better to instruct thee, marke what a brave Life 'tis all the yeare long.

When the Woods you must forredge, and not meete with poore Pease-porridge:

Wee are promist a very merry Tragedy, if all hit right, of Cobby Nobby.

So, so, a merry Tragedy, there is a way which the Italians, and the Frenchmen use; that is, on a word given, or some slight Plot,

Protest my Lord—

Your selfe my Lord! you were but a poore Company then.

If your Lordship has ever a Coxcombe, I thinke I could fit you.

Is there a Banquet in the Play? wee may call for what wee will.

I'le goe then and bespeake an ocean of Sweete meates, Marmalad and Custards.

To a Banquet there must be Wine, Fortunes a scurvy Whore; if shee makes not my head sound like a Rattle; and my Heels dance the Canaries.

Presently my Lord, wee want but a cold Capon for a property.

I have sought him my Lord in all foure Elements; in Earth, my Shooes are full of Gravell; in Water, I drop at Nose with sweating; In Aire, wheresoever I heard noyse of Fidlers, or the wide mouthes of Gallon-pots roaring; and in Fire, what Chimney soever I saw smoaking with good cheere, for my Masters Dinner, as I was in hope.

At your Uncles Mothers, no such sheepe has broke through their hedge, no such Calse as your Sonne sucks, or bleates in their ground.

Eating Acorns amongst Swine, draffe amongst Hoggs, and gnawing bones amongst Doggs; has lost all his Money at Dice, his Wits with his Money, and his honesty with both, for hee bumfiddles me; makes the Drawers curvet, pitches the Plate over the Bar, scores up the Vintners Name in the Ram-head; flirts his Wife under the Nose, and bids you with a Pox send him more Money.

Here comes Bucephalus my prauncing Master, nayle me now who dares.

I sit like an Owle in the Ivie bush of a Taverne! Hialdo I have drawne red Wine from the Vintners owne Hogshead.

Old Don, whom I call Father; am I thy Sonne? if I be, flesh mee with Gold, fat mee with Silver; had I Spaine in this hand, and Portugall in this, puffe it should flie, where's the Money I sent for?—I'le tickle you for a Rake-hell.

Whil'st you slice into Collups the rusty Gamon his man there.

No Money! Can Tavernes stand without anon, anon? Fidlers live without scraping, Taffaty Girles looke plumpe without pampering? if you will not Lard mee with Money, give mee a Ship, furnish me to Sea.

Then send mee to the West-Indies, buy mee some Office there.

A Wife! Is shee hansome? is shee rich? Is shee faire? Is shee wity? Is shee honest? Hang honesty. Has shee a sweete Face, Cherry-Cheeke, Strawberry-lip, white-skin, dainty Eye, pretty Foote, delicate Legs? as there's a Girle now.

Flie to the marke sir, shew me the Wench, or her Face, or any thing I may know 'tis a woman fit for me.

If you ha done your part, yonders a Wench wud ha a bout with you, Exit.

Sink, let her to her Granam; marry a VVitch! have you fetch'd a VVife for mee out of Lapland? an old Midwife in a velvet Hat, were a goddesse to this: that a red Lip!

None then, were all the Water in the World one Sea, all Kingdomes one Mountaine. I would climbe on all foure, up to the top of that Hill, and head-long hurle my selfe into that abisse of waves e're I would touch the skin of such rough Haberdine, for the breath of her Picture stinkes hither.

Murder, murder, murder, one of our Gipsies is in danger of hanging, hanging!

Prick him with a Pinne, or pinch him by the Elbow; any thing.

My Lord Don Pedro, I am your Ward, wee have spent a little Money to get a horrible deale of Wit, and now I am weary of it.

If all Gentlemen that play the Asse should to Prison, you must widen your Jayles. Come Soto, I scorne to beg, set thy foot to mine, and kick at shackles.

Send all our Company after, and wee'l play there, and be as merry as you here. Exit.