Scene II A Room in Sir Davy Dunce’s House
Enter Sir Davy Dunce and Vermin.
Sir Dav. I cannot sleep, I shall never sleep again: I have prayed too so long, that were I to be hanged presently, I have never a prayer left to help myself: I was no sooner lain down upon the bed just now, and fallen into a slumber, but methought the devil was carrying me down Ludgate-hill a-gallop, six puny fiends with flaming fire-forks running before him like link-boys, to throw me headlong into Fleetditch, which seemed to be turned into a lake of fire and brimstone: would it were morning!
Ver. Truly, sir, it has been a very dismal night.
Sir Dav. But didst thou meet never a white thing upon the stairs?
Ver. No, sir, not I; but methoughts I saw our great dog Towzer, with his brass collar on, stand at the cellar-door as I came along the old entry.
Sir Dav. It could never be: Towzer has a chain; had this thing a chain on?
Ver. No, sir, no chain, but it had Towzer’s eyes for all the world.
Sir Dav. What, ugly, great, frightful eyes?
Ver. Ay, ay, huge saucer eyes, but mightily like Towzer’s.
Sir Dav. O Lord! O Lord! hark! hark!
Ver. What? what I beseech you, sir?
Sir Dav. What’s that upon the stairs? Didst thou hear nothing? Hist, hark, pat, pat, pat, hark, hey!
Ver. Hear nothing! where, sir?
Sir Dav. Look! look! what’s that? what’s that in the corner there?
Ver. Where?
Sir Dav. There.
Ver. What, upon the iron chest?
Sir Dav. No, the long black thing up by the old clock-case. See! see! now it stirs, and is coming this way.
Ver. Alas, sir, speak to it—you are a justice o’ peace—I beseech you. I dare not stay in the house: I’ll call the watch, and tell ’em hell’s broke loose; what shall I do? oh! [Exit.
Sir Dav. O Vermin, if thou art a true servant, have pity on thy master, and do not forsake me in this distressed condition. Satan, begone! I defy thee. I’ll repent and be saved, I’ll say my prayers, I’ll go to church; help! help! help! Was there anything or no? in what hole shall I hide myself? [Exit.
Enter Sir Jolly, Fourbin, and Bloody-Bones.
Sir Jol. That should be Sir Davy’s voice; the waiting-woman, indeed, told me he was afraid and could not sleep. Pretty fellows, pretty fellows both; you’ve done your business handsomely; what, I’ll warrant you have been a-whoring together now; ha! You do well, you do well, I like you the better for’t; what’s o’clock?
Four. Near four, sir; ’twill not be day yet these two hours.
Sir Jol. Very well, but how got ye into the house?
Four. A ragged retainer of the family, Vermin I think they call him, let us in as physicians sent for by your order.
Sir Jol. Excellent rogues! and then I hope all things are ready, as I gave directions?
Four. To a tittle, sir; there shall not be a more critical observer of your worship’s pleasure than your humble servant the Chevalier Fourbin.
Sir Jol. Get you gone, you rogue, you have a sharp nose, and are a nimble fellow; I have no more to say to you, stand aside, and be ready when I call: here he comes; hist, hem, hem, hem.
[Exeunt Fourbin and Bloody-Bones.
Re-enter Sir Davy Dunce.
Sir Dav. Ha! what art thou?
Approach thou like the rugged Bankside bear,
The East-cheap bull, or monster shown in fair,—
Take any shape but that, and I’ll confront thee!
Sir Jol. Alas, unhappy man! I am thy friend.
Sir Dav. Thou canst not be my friend, for I defy thee. Sir Jolly! neighbour! ha! is it you? are you sure it is you? are you yourself? if you be, give me your hand. Alas-a-day, I ha’ seen the devil.
Sir Jol. The devil, neighbour?
Sir Dav. Ay, ay, there’s no help for’t; at first I fancied it was a young white bear’s cub dancing in the shadow of my candle; then it was turned to a pair of blue breeches with wooden legs on, stamped about the room, as if all the cripples in town had kept their rendezvous there; when all of a sudden, it appeared like a leathern serpent, and with a dreadful clap of thunder flew out of the window.
Sir Jol. Thunder! why, I heard no thunder.
Sir Dav. That may be too; what, were you asleep?
Sir Jol. Asleep, quoth-a? no, no; no sleeping this night for me, I assure you.
Sir Dav. Well, what’s the best news then? How does the man?
Sir Jol. Even as he did before he was born nothing at all; he’s dead.
Sir Dav. Dead! what, quite dead?
Sir Jol. As good as dead, if not quite dead; ’twas a horrid murder! and then the terror of conscience, neighbour.
Sir Dav. And truly I have a very terrified one, friend, though I never found I had any conscience at all till now. Pray whereabout was his death’s-wound?
Sir Jol. Just here, just under his left pap, a dreadful gash.
Sir Dav. So very wide?
Sir Jol. Oh, as wide as my hat; you might have seen his lungs, liver, and heart, as perfectly as if you had been in his belly.
Sir Dav. Is there no way to have him privately buried, and conceal this murder? Must I needs be hanged by the neck like a dog, neighbour? Do I look as if I would be hanged?
Sir Jol. Truly, Sir Davy, I must deal faithfully with you, you do look a little suspiciously at present; but have you seen the devil, say you?
Sir Dav. Ay, surely it was the devil, nothing else could have frighted me so.
Sir Jol. Bless us, and guard us all the angels! what’s that?
Sir Dav. “Potestati sempiternæ cujus benevolentiâ servantur gentes, et cujus misericordiâ”—
[Kneels, holding up his hands, and muttering as if he prayed.
Sir Jol. Neighbour, where are you, friend, Sir Davy?
Sir Dav. Ah, whatever you do, be sure to stand close to me: where, where is it?
Sir Jol. Just, just there, in the shape of a coach and six horses against the wall.
Sir Dav. Deliver us all! he won’t carry me away in that coach and six, will he?
Sir Jol. Do you see it? [Exit.
Sir Dav. See it! plain, plain: dear friend, advise me what I shall do: Sir Jolly, Sir Jolly, do you hear nothing? Sir Jolly—ha! has he left me alone, Vermin?
Ver. Sir.
Sir Dav. Am I alive? Dost thou know me again? Am I thy quondam master, Sir Davy Dunce?
Ver. I hope I shall never forget you, sir.
Sir Dav. Didst thou see nothing?
Ver. Yes, sir, methought the house was all a-fire, as it were.
Sir Dav. Didst thou not see how the devils grinned and gnashed their teeth at me, Vermin?
Ver. Alas, sir, I was afraid one of ’em would have bit off my nose, as he vanished out of the door.
Sir Dav. Lead me away, I’ll go to my wife, I’ll die by my own dear wife. Run away to the Temple, and call Counsellor, my lawyer; I’ll make over my estate presently, I shan’t live till noon; I’ll give all I have to my wife. Ha, Vermin!
Ver. Truly, sir, she’s a very good lady.
Sir Dav. Ah, much, much too good for me, Vermin; thou canst not imagine what she has done for me, man; she would break her heart if I should give any thing away from her, she loves me so dearly. Yet if I do die, thou shalt have all my old shoes.
Ver. I hope to see you live many a fair day yet though.
Sir Dav. Ah, my wife, my poor wife! lead me to my poor wife. [Exeunt.