Arden of Faversham

Why, Bradshaw, was not thou and I fellow-soldiers at Boulogne, where I was a corporal, and thou but a base mercenary groom? No fellows now! because you are a goldsmith and have a little plate in your shop! You were glad to call me "fellow Will," and with a curtsey to the earth," One snatch, good corporal," when I stole the half ox from John the victualler, and domineer'd with it amongst good fellows in one night.

Ay, but they be not past with me, for I keep that same honourable mind still. Good neighbour Bradshaw, you are too proud to be my fellow; but were it not that I see more company coming down the hill, I would be fellows with you once more, and share crowns with you too. But let that pass, and tell me whither you go.

Sirrah Shakebag, canst thou remember since we trolled the bowl at Sittingburgh, where I broke the tapster's head of the Lion with a cudgel stick?

Why, it was with the money that the plate was sold for. Sirrah Bradshaw, what wilt thou give him that can tell thee who sold thy plate?

Farewell, Bradshaw; I'll drink no water for thy sake whilst this lasts.—-Now, gentleman, shall we have your company to London?

How? twenty angels? give my fellow George Shakebag and me twenty angels? And if thou'lt have thy own father slain, that thou may'st inherit his land, we'll kill him.

Plat me no platforms; give me the money, and I'll stab him as he stands pissing against a wall, but I'll kill him.

He's dead as if he had been condemned by an Act of Parliament, if once Black Will and I swear his death.

My fingers itches to be at the peasant. Ah, that I might be set a-work thus through the year, and that murder would grow to an occupation, that a man might [follow] without danger of law:—-zounds, I warrant I should be warden of the company! Come, let us be going, and we'll bait at Rochester, where I'll give thee a gallon of sack to handsel the match withal.

I have gotten such a letter as will touch the painter.
And thus it is: Here enters ARDEN and FRANKLIN and hears MICHAEL read this letter.
"My duty remembered, Mistress Susan, hoping in God you be in good health, as I Michael was at the making hereof. This is to certify you that as the turtle true, when she hath lost her mate, sitteth alone, so I, mourning for your absence, do walk up and down Paul's till one day I fell asleep and lost my master's pantofles. Ah, Mistress Susan, abolish that paltry painter, cut him off by the shins with a frowning look of your crabbed countenance, and think upon Michael, who, drunk with the dregs of your favour, will cleave as fast to your love as a plaster of pitch to a galled horse-back. Thus hoping you will let my passions pene¬trate, or rather impetrate mercy of your meek hands, I end.
“Yours, Michael, or else not Michael.”

Sirrah Shakebag, at his coming forth I'll run him through, and then to the Blackfriars, and there take water and away.

Why, that's the best; but see thou miss him not.

How can I miss him, when I think on the forty angels I must have more?

'Tis very late; I were best shut up my stall, for here will be old filching, when the press comes forth of Paul's.

What 'mends shall I have for my broken head?

Marry, this 'mends, that if you get you not away all the sooner, you shall be well beaten and sent to the Counter.

Well, I'll be gone, but look to your signs, for I'll pull them down all. Shakebag, my broken head grieves me not so much as by this means Arden hath escaped. I had a glimpse of him and his companion.

Why, sirs, Arden's as well as I; I met him and Franklin going merrily to the ordinary. What, dare you not do it?

Yes, sir, we dare do it; but, were my consent to give again, we would not do it under ten pound more. I value every drop of my blood at a French crown. I have had ten pound to steal a dog, and we have no more here to kill a man; but that a bargain is a bargain, and so forth, you should do it yourself.

Standing against a stall, watching Arden's coming, a boy let down his shop-window, and broke his head; whereupon arose a brawl, and in the tumult Arden escaped us and passed by unthought on. But forbearance is no acquittance; another time we'll do it, I warrant thee.

At the Nag's Head, at the eighteen pence ordinary. How now, Master Shakebag? what, Black Will! God's dear lady, how chance your face is so bloody?

Go to, sirrah, there is a chance in it; this sauciness in you will make you be knocked.

"We have missed of our purpose at London, but shall perform it by the way. We thank our neighbour Bradshaw.—-
Yours, Richard Greene."

Ay, your horse are ready, but I am not ready, for I have lost my purse, with six and thirty shillings in it, with taking up of my master's nag.

So, fair weather after you, for before you lies Black Will and Shakebag in the broom close, too close for you. They'll be your ferrymen to [your] long home. Here enters the Painter.
But who is this? the painter, my corrival, that would needs win Mistress Susan.

How now, Michael? how doth my mistress and all at home?

Who, Susan Mosbie? she is your mistress, too?

Ay, how doth she and all the rest?

All's well but Susan; she is sick.

Sick? Of what disease?

Of a great fever.

A fear of what?

A great fever.

A fever? God forbid!

Yes, faith, and of a lurden, too, as big as yourself.

O, Michael, the spleen prickles you. Go to, you carry an eye over Mistress Susan.

Ay, faith, to keep her from the painter.

Why more from a painter than from a serving-creature like yourself?

Because you painters make but a painting table of a pretty wench, and spoil her beauty with blotting.

What mean you by that?

Why, that you painters paint lambs in the lining of wenches' petticoats, and we serving-men put horns to them to make them become sheep.

Such another word will cost you a cuff or a knock.

What, with a dagger made of a pencil? Faith, 'tis too weak, and therefore thou too weak to win Susan.

Would Susan's love lay upon this stroke.

I think 'tis like to a curst wife in a little house, that never leaves her husband till she have driven him out at doors with a wet pair of eyes; then looks he as if his house were afire, or some of his friends dead.

Perhaps, ay; perhaps, no: for my wife is as other women are, that is to say, governed by the moon.

Nay, thereby lies a bargain, and you shall not have it fresh and fasting.

Then for this once let it be midsummer moon, but yet my wife has another moon.

Ay, but you had not best to meddle with that moon, lest I scratch you by the face with my bramble-bush.

Here, Shakebag, almost in hell's mouth, where I cannot see my way for smoke.

I pray thee speak still that we may meet by the sound, for I shall fall into some ditch or other, unless my feet see better than my eyes.

Didst thou ever see better weather to run away with another man's wife, or play with a wench at pot-finger?

No; this were a fine world for chandlers, if this weather would last; for then a man should never dine nor sup without candle-light. But, sirrah Will, what horses are those that passed?

My life for thine, 'twas Arden and his companion, and then all our labour's lost.

Nay, say not so, for if it be they, they may haply lose their way as we have done, and then we may chance meet with them.

Come, let us go on like a couple of blind pilgrims.

Sirrah, what companies hath passed your ferry this morning?

None but a couple of gentlemen, that went to dine at my Lord Cheiny's.

Shakebag, did not I tell thee as much?

Why, sir, will you have any letters carried to them?

No, sir; get you gone.

Did you ever see such a mist as this?

No, nor such a fool as will rather be hocked than get his way.

Why, sir, this is no Hock-Monday; you are deceived.
—-What's his name, I pray you, sir?

His name is Black Will.

I hope to see him one day hanged upon a hill.

Sirrah Greene, when was I so long in killing a man?

I think we shall never do it; let us give it over.

Nay, zounds! we'll kill him, though we be hanged at his door for our labour.

Thou knowest, Greene, that I have lived in London this twelve years, where I have made some go upon wooden legs for taking the wall on me; divers with silver noses for saying "There goes Black Will!" I have cracked as many blades as thou hast done nuts.

O monstrous lie!

Faith, in a manner I have. The bawdy-houses have paid me tribute; there durst not a whore set up, unless she have agreed with me first for opening her shop-windows. For a cross word of a tapster I have pierced one barrel after another with my dagger, and held him by the ears till all his beer hath run out. In Thames Street a brewer's cart was like to have run over me: I made no more ado, but went to the clerk and cut all the notches off his tallies and beat them about his head. I and my company have taken the constable from his watch, and carried him about the fields on a coltstaff. I have broken a sergeant's head with his own mace, and bailed whom I list with my sword and buckler. All the tenpenny-alehouses would stand every morning with a quart-pot in his hand, saying, " Will it please your worship drink?" He that had not done so, had been sure to have had his sign pulled down and his lattice borne away the next night. To conclude, what have I not done? yet cannot do this; doubtless, he is preserved by miracle.

Hence, Will! here comes Mistress Arden.

Now his way had been to have come hand and feet, one and two round at his costard; he like a fool bears his sword-point half a yard out of danger. I lie here, for my life; if the devil come, and he have no more strength than fence, he shall never beat me from this ward. I’ll stand to it, a buckler in a skilful hand is as good as a castle; nay,

Ay, or else think me as a villain.

And rather than you shall want, I'll help myself.

What shall the watchword be?

I warrant you. But who shall lock me in?

Tush, you are too faint-hearted; we must do it.

That's well, Michael. Fetch in the tables, and when thou hast done, stand before the counting-house door.

—-Tush, so it be known that I shall marry thee in the morning, I care not though I be hanged ere night. But to prevent the worst, I'll buy some ratsbane.