The Devil Is an Ass Act 2. Scene 2

Pug, Mistris Fitz-dootrell.

I Have no singular Service of this now?
Nor no superlative Master? I shall wish
To be in Hell again at leisure? Bring
A Vice from thence? That had been such a subtilty,
As to bring Broad-clothes hither; or transport
Fresh Oranges into Spain. I find it now;
My Chief was i' the right. Can any Fiend
Boast of a better Vice, then here by Nature
And Art th' are owners of? Hell ne'er own me,
But I am taken! the fine Tract of it
Pulls me along! To hear Men such Professors
Grown in our subtlest Sciences! My first Act, now,
Shall be, to make this Master of mine Cuckold:
The Primitive work of darkness, I will Practise!
I will deserve so well of my fair Mistris
By my Discoveries first; my Counsels after;
And keeping counsel, after that: as who,
So ever is one, I'll be another sure,
I'll ha' my share. Most delicate damn'd Flesh!
She will be! O! that I could stay time, now,
Midnight will come too fast upon me, I fear,
To cut my Pleasure —

Mrs. Fit.
Look at the Back-door,
One knocks, see who it is.

[She sends Devil out.

Pug.
Dainty She-Devil!

Mrs. Fit.
I cannot get this venture of the Cloke,
Out of my fancy; nor the Gentlemans way
He took, which though 'twere strange, yet 'twas handsom,
And had a Grace withal, beyond the newness.
Sure he will think me that dull stupid Creature,
He said, and my conclude it; if I find not
Some thought to thank th' attempt. He did presume,
By all the Carriage of it, on my Brain,
For answer; and will swear 'tis very Barren,
If it can yield him no return. Who is it?

[Devil returns.

Pug.
Mistris, it is, but first, let me assure
The Excellence of Mistresses, I am,
Although my Masters Man, my Mistris Slave,
The Servant of her Secrets, and sweet Turns,
And know, what fitly will conduce to either.

Mrs. Fit.
What's this? I pray you come to your self,
and think
What your part is; to make an answer. Tell,
Who is at the Door?

Pug.
The Gentleman, Mistris,
Who was at the Cloak-charge to speak with you,
This Morning, who expects only to take
Some small Command'ments from you, what you please,
Worthy your Form, he says, and gentlest Manners.

Mrs. Fit.
O! you'll anon prove his hir'd man, I fear,
What has he giv'n you, for this Message? Sir,
Bid him put off his hopes of Straw, and leave
To spread his Nets, in view, thus. Though they take
Master Fitz dotterel, I am no such foul
Nor fair one, tell him, will be had with stalking;
And wish him to forbear his acting to me,
At the Gentlemans Chamber-window in Lincolns-Inn there,

That opens to my Gallery; else I swear
T' acquaint my Husband with his Folly, and leave him
To the just rage of his offended Jealousie.
Or if your Masters Sense be not so quick
To right me, tell him, I shall find a Friend
That will repair me. Say, I will be quiet.
In mine own House? Pray you, in those words give it him.

Pug.
This is some Fool turn'd!

[He goes out.

Mrs. Fit.
If he be the Master,
Now, of that State and Wit which I allow him;
Sure, he will understand me: I durst not
Be more direct; For this officious Fellow,
My Husbands new Groom, is a Spy upon me,
I find already. Yet, if he but tell him
This in my words, he cannot but conceive
Himself both apprehended and requited.
I would not have him think he met a Statue;
Or spoke to one, not there, though I were silent.
How now? ha' you told him?

Pug.
Yes.

Mrs. Fit.
And what says he?

Pug.
Says he? That which my self would say to you,
if I durst.
That you are proud, sweet Mistriss? and withal,
A little Ignorant, to entertain
The Good that's proffer'd; and (by your Beauties leave)
Not all so wise, as some true Politick Wife
Would be; who having match'd with such a Nupson
(I speak it with my Masters Peace) whose Face
Hath left t'accuse him, now, for't doth confess him,
What you can make him; will yet (out of Scruple,
And a spic'd Conscience) defraud the poor Gentleman,
At least delay him in the thing he longs for,
And makes it his whole Study, how to compass
Only a Title. Could but he write Cuckold,
He had his ends. For, look you —

Mrs. Fit.
This can be
None but my Husbands Wit.

Pug.
My pretious Mistris.

Mrs. Fit.
It creaks his Ingine: The Groom never durst
Be else so sawcy —

Pug.
If it were not clearly,
His worshipful Ambition; and the top of it;
The very forked top too: why should he
Keep you thus mur'd up in a back Room, Mistris,
Allow you ne'er a Casement to the Street,
Fear of engendering by the Eyes, with Gallants,
Forbid you Paper, Pen and Ink, like Rats-bane,
Search your half Pint of Muscatel, lest a Letter
Be sunck i' the Pot: and hold your new-laid Egg
Against the Fire, lest any charm be writ there?
Will you make benefit of Truth, dear Mistris,
If I do tell it you: I do't not often:
I am set over you, imploy'd indeed
To watch your Steps, your Looks, your very Breathings,
And to report them to him. Now, if you
Will be a true, right delicate sweet Mistris,
Why, we will make a Cokes of this Wise Master,
We will, my Mistris, an absolute fine Cokes,
And mock, to air, all the deep Diligences
Of such a solemn and effectual Ass,
An Ass to so good purpose as we'll use him.
I will contrive it so, that you shall go
To Plays, to Masks, to Meetings, and to Feasts.
For, why is all this Rigging, and fine Tackle, Mistris,
If you neat handsom Vessels, of good sail,
Put not forth ever and anon with your Nets
Abroad into the World. It is your fishing.
There, you shall choose your Friends, your Servants, Lady,
Your Squires of Honour; I'll convey your Letters,
Fetch Answers, do you all the Offices
That can belong to your Blood and Beauty. And,
For the variety at my times, although
I am not in due Symmetry, the Man
Of that Proportion; or in Rule
Of Physick, of the just Complexion;
Or of that Truth of Picardill, in Clothes,
To boast a Soveraignty o're Ladies: yet
I know, to do my turns, sweet Mistris. Come, kiss —

Mrs. Fit.
How now!

Pug.
Dear delicate Mistris, I am your Slave,
Your little Worm, that loves you: your fine Monkey;
Your Dog, your Jack, your Pug, that longs to be
Stil'd o' your Pleasures.

Mrs. Fit.
Hear you all this? Sir, pray you,
Come from your standing, do, a little, spare

[She thinks her Husband watches.

Your self, Sir, from your watch, t' applaud your Squire,
That so well follows your Intructions!