A Woman Killed With Kindness
Act the First
Scene I A Room in Frankford’s House
Enter Master Frankford, Mistress Frankford, Sir Francis Acton, Sir Charles Mountford, Master Malby, Master Wendoll, and Master Cranwell.
Sir Francis Acton.
Some music there: none lead the bride a dance?
Sir Charles Mountford.
Yes, would she dance “The Shaking of the Sheets;”1
But that’s the dance her husband means to lead her.
Wendoll.
That’s not the dance that every man must dance,
According to the ballad.
Sir Francis Acton.
Music, ho!
By your leave, sister;—by your husband’s leave,
I should have said: the hand that but this day
Was given you in the church I’ll borrow: sound!
This marriage music hoists me from the ground.
Frankford.
Ay, you may caper, you are light and free:
Marriage hath yoked my heels; pray then pardon me.
Sir Francis Acton.
I’ll have you dance too, brother.
Sir Charles Mountford.
Master Frankford,
You are a happy man, sir; and much joy
Succeed your marriage mirth! you have a wife
So qualified, and with such ornaments
Both of the mind and body. First, her birth
Is noble, and her education such
As might become the daughter of a prince:
Her own tongue speaks all tongues, and her own hand
Can teach all strings to speak in their best grace,
From the shrillest treble to the hoarsest base.
To end her many praises in one word,
She’s beauty and perfection’s eldest daughter,
Only found by yours, though many a heart hath sought her.
Frankford.
But that I know your virtues and chaste thoughts,
I should be jealous of your praise, Sir Charles.
Cranwell.
He speaks no more than you approve.
Malby.
Nor flatters he that gives to her her due.
Mistress Frankford.
I would your praise could find a fitter theme
Than my imperfect beauties to speak on:
Such as they be, if they my husband please,
They suffice me now I am marrièd:
His sweet content is like a flattering glass,
To make my face seem fairer to mine eye;
But the least wrinkle from his stormy brow
Will blast the roses in my cheeks that grow.
Sir Francis Acton.
A perfect wife already, meek and patient:
How strangely the word “husband” fits your mouth,
Not married three hours since! Sister, ’tis good;
You, that begin betimes thus, must needs prove
Pliant and duteous in your husband’s love.—
Gramercies, brother, wrought her to’t already;
Sweet husband, and a curtsey, the first day!
Mark this, mark this, you that are bachelors,
And never took the grace of honest man;
Mark this, against you marry, this one phrase:
“In a good time that man both wins and woos,
That takes his wife down in her wedding shoes.”2
Frankford.
Your sister takes not after you, Sir Francis;
All his wild blood your father spent on you:
He got her in his age, when he grew civil:
All his mad tricks were to his land entailed,
And you are heir to all; your sister, she
Hath to her dower her mother’s modesty.
Sir Charles Mountford.
Lord, sir, in what a happy state live you!
This morning, which to many seems a burden
Too heavy to bear, is unto you a pleasure.
This lady is no clog, as many are:
She doth become you like a well-made suit,
In which the tailor hath used all his art;
Not like a thick coat of unseasoned frieze,
Forced on your back in summer. She’s no chain
To tie your neck, and curb you to the yoke;
But she’s a chain of gold to adorn your neck.
You both adorn each other, and your hands,
Methinks, are matches: there’s equality
In this fair combination; you are both
Scholars, both young, both being descended nobly.
There’s music in this sympathy; it carries
Consort, and expectation of much joy,
Which God bestow on you, from this first day
Until your dissolution; that’s for aye.
Sir Francis Acton.
We keep you here too long, good brother Frankford.
Into the hall; away! go cheer your guests.
What, bride and bridegroom both withdrawn at once?
If you be missed, the guests will doubt their welcome,
And charge you with unkindness.
Frankford.
To prevent it,
I’ll leave you here, to see the dance within.
Mistress Frankford.
And so will I.
[Exeunt Frankford and Mistress Frankford.
Sir Francis Acton.
To part you, it were sin.
Now, gallants, while the town-musicians
Finger their frets3 within; and the mad lads
And country-lasses, every mother’s child,
With nosegays and bridelaces in their hats,
Dance all their country measures, rounds, and jigs,
What shall we do? Hark, they are all on the hoigh;4
They toil like mill-horses, and turn as round,—
Marry, not on the toe. Ay, and they caper,
Not without cutting; you shall see, to-morrow,
The hall-floor pecked and dinted like a mill-stone,
Made with their high shoes: though their skill be small,
Yet they tread heavy where their hob-nails fall.
Sir Charles Mountford.
Well, leave them to their sports. Sir Francis Acton,
I’ll make a match with you; meet to-morrow
At Chevy-chase, I’ll fly my hawk with yours.
Sir Francis Acton.
For what? For what?
Sir Charles Mountford.
Why, for a hundred pound.
Sir Francis Acton.
Pawn me some gold of that.
Sir Charles Mountford.
Here are ten angels;5
I’ll make them good a hundred pound to-morrow
Upon my hawk’s wing.
Sir Francis Acton.
’Tis a match, ’tis done.
Another hundred pound upon your dogs;
Dare ye, Sir Charles?
Sir Charles Mountford.
I dare: were I sure to lose,
I durst do more than that: here is my hand,
The first course for a hundred pound.
Sir Francis Acton.
A match.
Wendoll.
Ten angels on Sir Francis Acton’s hawk;
As much upon his dogs.
Cranwell.
I am for Sir Charles Mountford; I have seen
His hawk and dog both tried. What, clap you hands?
Or is’t no bargain?
Wendoll.
Yes, and stake them down:
Were they five hundred, they were all my own.
Sir Francis Acton.
Be stirring early with the lark to-morrow;6
I’ll rise into my saddle ere the sun
Rise from his bed.
Sir Charles Mountford.
If there you miss me, say
I am no gentleman: I’ll hold my day.
Sir Francis Acton.
It holds on all sides. Come, to-night let’s dance,
Early to-morrow let’s prepare to ride;
We had need be three hours up before the bride.
[Exeunt.