The New Inn. Act 5. Scene 5.

-- Nurse.          [To them.

That Maggot, Worm, that Insect! O my Child,
My Daughter! where that Fly? I'll fly in his face,
The Vermin, let me come to him.
Fly. Why Nurse Sheele?
Nur. Hang thee, thou Parasite, Son of Crumbs,
And Orts, thou hast undone me, and my Child,
My Daughter, my dear Daughter.
Host. What means this?
Nur. O Sir, my Daughter, my dear Child is ruin'd,
By this your Fly, here, married in a stable,
And sold unto a Husband.     Host. Stint thy cry,
Harlot, if that be all, did'st thou not sell him
To me for a Boy? and brough'st him in Boys Rags
Here to my door, to beg an alms of me?
Nur. I did, good Master, and I crave your pardon;
But 'tis my Daughter, and a Girl.
Host. Why said'st thou
It was a Boy, and sold'st him then to me
With such intreaty, for Ten Shilings, Carlin?
Nur. Because you were a charitable man
I heard, good Master, and would breed him well,
I would ha' giv'n him you, for nothing gladly.
Forgive the lie o' my mouth, it was to save
The Fruit o' my Womb. A Parents needs are urgent,
And few do know what tyrant o're good Natures.
But you reliev'd her, and me too, the Mother,
And took me into your House to be the Nurse,
For which Heaven heap all blessings on your Head,
Whilst there can one be added.     Host. Sure thou speak'st
Quite like another creature than th' hast liv'd,
Here, i' the House, a Sheelee-neen Thomas,
An Irish Beggar.     Nur. So I am, God help me.
Host. What art thou? Tell: The match is a good match,
For ought I see: Ring the Bells once again.
Bea. Stint, I say, Fidlers.
Lad. No going off, my Lord.
Bea. Nor coming on, sweet Lady, things thus standing!
Fly. But what's the heinousness of my Offence?
Or the degrees of wrong you suffer'd by it?
In having your Daughter match't thus happily,
Into a noble House, a brave young Blood,
And a prime Peer o' the Realm?
Bea. Was that your Plot, Fly?
Gi' me a Cloak, take her again among you.
I'll none o' your Light-Heart Fosterlings, no Inmates,
Supporstitious Fruits of an Host's Brain,
And his fly's hatching, to be put upon me.
There is a Royal Court o' the Star-Chamber,
Will scatter all these mists, disperse these Vapours,
And clear the truth. Let Beggars match with Beggars,
That shall decide it. I will try it there.
Nur. Nay then, my Lord, it's not enough, I see
You are licentious, but you will be wicked.
Yo' are not alone content to take my Daughter,
Against the Law; but having taken her,
You would repudiate, and cast her off,
Now, at your pleasure, like a Best of Power,
Without all Cause, or colour of a Cause,
That, or a Noble, or an Honest Man,
Should date t' except against her poverty.
Is Poverty a Vice?     Bea. Th' age counts it so.
Nur. God help your Lordship, and your Peers that think so,
If any be: if not, God bless them all,
And help the number o' the vertuous,
If Poverty be a Crime. You may object
Our Beggery to us, as an accident,
But never deeper, no inherent baseness.
And I must tell you, now, young Lord of Dirt,
As an incensed Mother, she hath more
And better Blood, running i' those small Veins,
Than all the Race of Beauforts have in mass,
Though they distil their drops from the left Rib
Of John o' Gaunt.     Host. Old Mother o' Records,
Thou knows'st her Pedigree then: whose Daughter is she?
Nur. The Daughter and Co-heir to the Lord Frampul,
This Ladies Sister!     Lad. Mine? what is her Name?
Nur. Laetitia.     Lad. That was lost!
Nur. The true Laetitia.
Lad. Sister, O gladness! then you are our Mother?
Nur. I am, dear Daughter.
Lad. On my Knees I bless
The light I see you by.     Nur. And to the author
Of that blest light, I ope my other Eye,
Which hath almost, now, seven year been shut,
Dark, as my Vow was, never to see light,
Till such a light restor'd it, as my Children,
Or your dear Father, who (I hear) is not.
Bea. Give me my Wife, I own her now, and will have her.
Host. But you must ask my leave first, my young Lord.
Leave is but light. Ferret, go bolt your Master,
Here's Gear will startle him. I cannot keep
The Passion in me, I am e'en turn'd Child,
And I must weep. Fly, take away mine Host,
My Beard, and Cap here, from me, and fetch my Lord.
I am her father, Sir, and you shall now
Ask my Consent, before you have her. Wife!
My dear and loving Wife! my honour'd Wife!
Who here hath gain'd but I? I am Lord Frampul,
The cause of all this trouble? I am he
Have measur'd al the Shires of England over:
Wales, and her Mountains, seen those wilder Nations,
Of People in the Peak, and Lancashire;
Their Pipers, Fidlers, Rushers, Puppet-masters,
Juglers and Gypsies, all the sorts of Canters,
And Colonies of Beggars, Tumblers, Ape carriers;
For to these Savages I was addicted,
To search their Natures, and make odd Discoveries!
And here my Wife, like a she-Mandevile,
Ventred in disquisition after me.
Nur. I may look up, admire, I cannot speak
Yet to my Lord.
Host. Take heart, and breath, recover,
Thou hast recover'd me, who here had coffin'd
My self alive, in a poor Hostelry,
In penance of my wrongs done unto thee,
Whom I long since gave lost.     Nur. So did I you,
Till stealing mine own Daughter from her Sister,
I lighted on this Error hath cur'd all.
Bea. And in that cure, include my trespass, Mother,
And Father, for my Wife --
Host. No, the Star-Chamber.
Bea. Away with that, you sour the sweetest Lettice
Was ever tasted.     Host. Gi' you Joy, my Son,
Cast her not off again. O call me Father,
Lovel, and this your Mother, if you like:
But take your Mistress, first, my Child: I have power
To give her now, with her consent, her Sister
Is given already to your Brother Beaufort.
Lov. Is this a Dream now, after my first Sleep?
Or are these phant'sies made i' the light Heart?
And sold i' the New Inn?     Host. Best go to bed,
And dream it over all. Let's all go to sleep,
Each with his Turtle. Fly, provide us Lodgings.
Get Beds prepar'd: yo' are Master now o' the Inn,
The Lord o' the light Heart, I give it you.
Fly was my Fellow-Gypsey. All my Family,

Indeed, were Gypseys, Tapsters, Ostlers, Chamberlains,
Reduced Vessels of Civility.
But here stands Pru, neglected, best deserving
Of all that are i' the House, or i' my Heart,
Whom though I cannot help to a fit Husband,
I'll help to that will bring one, a just Portion:
I have two thousand pound in bank for Pru,
Call for it when she will.     Bea. And I as much.
Host. There's somewhat yet, four thousand pound! that's better
The sounds the Proverb, Four bare legs in a bed.
Lov. Me, and her Mistress, she hath power to coyn
Up into what she will.     Lad. Indefinite Pru.
Lat. But I must do the crowning act of Bounty!
Host. What's that, my Lord?
Lat. Give her my self, which here
By all the holy Vows of Love I do.
Spare all your promis'd Portions; she is a Dowry
So all-sufficient in her Vertue and Manners,
That Fortune cannot add to her.     Pru. My Lord,
Your Praises are Instructions to mine Ears,
Whence you have made your Wife to live your Servant.
Host. Lights: get us several Lights.
Lov. Stay, let my Mistress
But hear my Vision sung, my Dream of Beauty,
Which I have brought, prepar'd, to bid us Joy,
And light us all to bed, 'twill be instead
Of airing of the Sheets with a sweet odour.
Host. 'Twill be an Incense to our Sacrifice
Of Love to night, where I will woo afresh,
And like Mecaenas, having but one Wife,
I'll marr her every hour of life hereafter.

They go out, with a Song.