Internet Shakespeare Editions

Author: Anonymous
Not Peer Reviewed

The Puritan (Folio 3, 1664)


Enter the Widow with her two Daughters.
Wid. O wondrous happinesse, beyond our thoughts!
O luckky fair event! I think our fortunes
1050Were blest e'ne in our Cradles: we are quitted
Of all those shamefull violent presages
By this rash bleeding chance: go, Frailty, run, and know
Whether he be yet living, or yet dead,
That here before my door receiv'd his hurt.
1055Frail. Madam, he was carried to the superiour, but if
he had no money when he came there, I warrant he's
dead by this time.
Exit Frailty.
Franck. Sure that man is a rare fortune-teller, never
lookt upon our hands, nor upon any mark about us, a
1060wondrous fellow surely.
Moll. I am glad I have the use of my tongue yet,
though of nothing else, I shall find the way to marry too,
I hope shortly.
Wid. O where's my Brother sir Godfrey, I would he
1065were here, that I might relate to him how prophetically
the cunning Gentleman spoke in all things.
Enter Sir Godfrey in a rage.
Sir God. O my Chain, my Chain, I have lost my
Chain, where be these Villains, Varlets?
1070Wid. Oh, h'as lost his Chain.
Sir God. My Chain, my Chain.
Wid. Brother, be patient, hear me speak, you know
I told you that a Cunning-man told me, that you should
have a losse, and he has prophecied so true.
1075Sir God. Out, he's a Villain to prophecy of the losse
of my Chain, 'twas worth above three hundred Crowns,
besides 'twas my Fathers, my Fathers Fathers, my Grand-
fathers huge Grandfathers: I had as lieve ha lost my
Neck, as the Chain that hung about it; O my Chain, my
1080Chain.
Wid. Oh, Brother, who can be against a misfortune,
'tis happy 'twas no more.
Sir God. No more! O goodly godly sister, would you
had me lost more? my best Gown too, with the Cloth
1085of Gold-Lace? my holyday Gascoins, and my Jerkin
set with Pearl? no more!
Wid. Oh, Brother, you can read.---
Sir God. But I cannot read where my Chain is: what
strangers have been here? you let in strangers, Thieves
1090and Catch-poles: how comes it gone? there was none a-
bove with me but my Taylor, and my Taylor will not---
steale I hope?
Moll. No, he's afraid of a Chain.
Enter Frailty.
1095Wid. How now, sirrha? the newes?
Frail. O, Mistresse, he may well be call'd a Corpo-
rall now, for his Corps are as dead as a cold Capons?
Wid. More happinesse.
Sir God. Sirrha, what's this to my Chain? where's
1100my Chain, knave?
Frail. Your Chain, sir?
Sir God. My Chain is lost, Villain.
Frail. I would he were hang'd in Chains that has it
then for me: Alass, sir, I saw none of your Chain since
1105you were hung with it your self.
Sir God. Out varlet? it had full three thousand Lincks,
I have oft told it over at my prayers:
Over and over, full three thousand Lincks.
Frail. Had it so, sir, sure it cannot be lost then; I'le
1110put you in that comfort.
Sir God. Why? why?
Frail. Why if your Chain had so many Lincks, it
cannot chuse but come to light.
Enter Nicholas.
1115Sir God. Delusion. Now, long Nicholas, where is my
Chain.
Nich. Why about your neck, is't not, sir?
Sir God. About my neck, Varlet? my Chain is lost,
'Tis stoln away, I'me robb'd.
1120Wid. Nay, Brother, show your self a man.
Nic. If it be lost or stole, if he would be patient, Mi-
stresse, I could bring him to a Cunning Kinsman of mine
that would fetch it again with a Sesarara.
Sir God. Canst thou? I will be patient, say, where
1125dwells he?
Nic. Marry he dwells now, sir, where he would not
dwell and he could choose, in the Marshalsea, sir; but
he's an exlent fellow if he were out: h'as travell'd all the
world o're, he, and been in the seven and twenty Provin-
1130ces: why he would make it be fetcht, sir, if it were rid a
thousand mile out of town.
Sir God. An admirable fellow, what lies he for;
Nic. Why he did but rob a Steward of ten groats
tother night, as any man would ha done, and there he
1135lies for't.
Sir God. I'le make his peace, a trifle, I'le get his par-
Besides a bountifull reward, I'le about it,
But see the Clerks, the Justice will do much;
I will about it straight, good sister pardon me,
1140All will be well I hope, and turn to good,
The name of Conjurer has laid my blood.
Exeunt.