_Enter_ CONSTANTIA _sola, with a letter in her hand_.
CON. In this disguise, ere scarce my mourning robes Could have a general note, I have forsook My shape, my mother, and those rich demesnes, Of which I am sole heir; and now resolve In this disguise of page to follow him, Whose love first caus'd me to assume this shape. Lord, how my feminine blood stirs at the sight Of these same breeches! methinks this codpiece[322] Should betray me: well, I will try the worst. Hither they say he usually doth come, Whom I so much affect: what makes he here? In the skirts of Holborn, so near the field, And at a garden-house? he has some punk Upon my life! No more: here he comes.
God save you, sir: your name, unless I err, Is Master Thomas Boutcher.
[CONSTANTIA _delivers the letter; he reads it_.
CON. The inside, sir, will tell you; I shall see What love he bears me now. [_Aside._
BOUT. Th' art welcome, boy. How does the fair Constantia Sommerfield, Thy[323] noble mistress?
BOUT. She gives thee here good words; and for her sake Thou shalt not want a master: be mine for ever.
CON. I thank you, sir. Now shall I see the punk.
W. SMALL. Who knocks so fast? I thought 'twas you; what news?
BOUT. You know my business well; I sing one song.
W. SMALL. 'Sfoot, what would you have me do? my land is gone, My credit of less trust than courtiers' words To men of judgment; and for my debts I might deserve a knighthood:[324] what's to be done? The knight my father will not once vouchsafe To call me son: that little land he gave, Throat the lawyer swallowed at one gob For less than half the worth; and for the city There be so many rascals and tall yeomen, Would hang upon me for their maintenance, Should I but peep or step within the gates, That I am forc'd, only to ease my charge, To live here in the suburbs; or in the town To walk _in tenebris_. I tell you, sir, Your best retired life is an honest punk In a thatch'd house with garlic: tell not me: My punk's my punk, and noble lechery Sticks by a man when all his friends forsake him.
BOUT. The pox, it will: art thou so senseless grown, So much endeared to thy bestial lust, That thy original worth should lie extinct And buried in thy shame? Far be such thoughts From spirits free and noble! Begin to live: Know thyself, and whence thou art deriv'd. I know that competent state thy father gave Cannot be yet consum'd.