To burn houses is felony, and I’ll not out till I be fired out; but, since I am besieged thus, I’ll summon supplies unto my rescue. [He winds the horn.
EnterYoungLionel, Rioter,twoGallants,Blanda, Scapha,and others.
Young Lionel.
Before you chide, first hear me; next your blessing,
That on my knees I beg. I have but done
Like misspent youth, which, after wit dear-bought,
Turns his eyes inward, sorry and ashamed.
These things in which I have offended most,
Had I not proved, I should have thought them still
Essential things, delights perdurable;
Which now I find mere shadows, toys and dreams,
Now hated more than erst I doted on.
Best natures are soon’st wrought on; such was mine;
As I the offences, so the offenders throw
Here at your feet, to punish as you please;
You have but paid so much as I have wasted,
To purchase to yourself a thrifty son,
Which I from henceforth vow.
Old Lionel.
See what fathers are,
That can three years’ offences, foul ones too,
Thus in a minute pardon; and thy faults
Upon myself chastise, in these my tears.
Ere this submission, I had cast thee off;
Rise in my new adoption. But for these—
Clown.
The one you have nothing to do withal; here’s his ticket for his discharge: another for you, sir, to summon you to my master’s feast,—for you, and you,—where I charge you all to appear, upon his displeasure and your own apperils.
Young Lionel.
This is my friend, the other one I loved;
Only because they have been dear to him
That now will strive to be more dear to you,
Vouchsafe their pardon.
Old Lionel.
All dear to me indeed,
For I have paid for’t soundly, yet for thy sake
I am atoned with all; only that wanton,
Her and her company, abandon quite;
So doing, we are friends.
Young Lionel.
A just condition, and willingly subscribed to.
Old Lionel.
But for that villain; I am now devising
What shame, what punishment remarkable
To inflict on him.
Reignald.
Why, master! have I laboured,
Plotted, contrived, and all this while for you,
And will you leave me to the whip and stocks;
Not mediate my peace?
Old Lionel.
Sirrah, come down.
Reignald.
Not till my pardon’s sealed; I’ll rather stand here
Like a statue, in the fore-front of your house,
For ever, like the picture of Dame Fortune
Before the Fortune play-house.[55]
Young Lionel.
If I have here
But any friend amongst you, join with me
In this petition.
Clown.
Good sir, for my sake! I resolved you truly concerning whooping, the noise, the walking, and the sprites, and for a need can show you a ticket for him too.
Owner.
I impute my wrongs rather to knavish cunning
Than least pretended malice.
Ricott.
What he did
Was but for his young master; I allow it
Rather as sports of wit than injuries;
No other, pray, esteem them.
Old Lionel.
Even as freely
As you forget my quarrels made with you,
Raised from the errors first begot by him,
I here remit all free. I now am calm,
But had I seized upon him in my spleen—
Reignald.
I knew that, therefore this was my invention,
For policy’s the art still of prevention.
Clown.
Come down, then, Reignald,—first on your hands and feet, and then on your knees to your master.—Now, gentlemen, what do you say to your inviting to my master’s feast?
Ricott.
We will attend him.
Old Lionel.
Nor do I love to break good company,
For Master Wincott is my worthy friend
And old acquaintance—[Reignalddescends.] Oh, thou crafty wag-string!
And couldst thou thus delude me? But we are friends.—
Nor, gentlemen, let not what’s hereto past,
In your least thoughts disable my estate:
This my last voyage hath made all things good,
With surplus too; be that your comfort, son.
Well, Reignald——But no more.
Reignald.
I was the fox,
But I from henceforth will no more the cox—
Comb put upon your pate.
Old Lionel.
Let’s walk, gentlemen.
[Exeunt.
EnterOldGeraldineandYoungGeraldine.
Old Geraldine.
Son, let me tell you, you are ill advised,
And doubly to be blamed, by undertaking
Unnecessary travel, grounding no reason
For such a rash and giddy enterprise.
What profit aim you at, you have not reaped?
What novelty affords the Christian world,
Of which your view hath not participated
In a full measure? Can you either better
Your language or experience? Your self-will
Hath only purpose to deprive a father
Of a loved son, and many noble friends
Of your much-wished acquaintance.
Young Geraldine.
Oh, dear sir,
Do not, I do entreat you, now repent you
Of your free grant, which with such care and study
I have so long, so often laboured for.
Old Geraldine.
Say that may be dispensed with, show me reason
Why you desire to steal out of your country,
Like some malefactor that had forfeited
His life and freedom. Here’s a worthy gentleman
Hath for your sake invited many guests,
To his great charge, only to take of you
A parting leave: you send him word you cannot—
After, you may not come. Had not my urgence,
Almost compulsion, driven you to his house,
The unkindness might have forfeited your love,
And razed you from his will; in which he hath given you
A fair and large estate; yet you of all this strangeness
Show no sufficient ground.
Young Geraldine.
Then understand
The ground thereof took his first birth from you;
’Twas you first charged me to forbear the house,
And that upon your blessing. Let it not then
Offend you, sir, if I so great a charge
Have strived to keep so strictly.
Old Geraldine.
Me perhaps
You may appease, and with small difficulty,
Because a father; but how satisfy
Their dear and, on your part, unmerited love?
But this your last obedience may salve all.
We now grow near the house.
Young Geraldine.
Whose doors, to me,
Appear as horrid as the gates of Hell.
Where shall I borrow patience, or from whence,
To give a meeting to this viperous brood
Of friend and mistress?
[They enter the house.
EnterWincott,hisWife,the twoLionels, Owner,Delavil, Prudentilla, Reignald,andRioter.
Wincott.
You’ve entertained me with a strange discourse
Of your man’s knavish wit; but I rejoice
That in your safe return all ends so well.
Most welcome you, and you, and indeed all;
To whom I am bound, that at so short a warning,
Thus friendly, you will deign to visit me.
Old Lionel.
It seems my absence hath begot some sport;
Thank my kind servant here.
Reignald.
Not so much worth, sir.
Old Lionel.
But, though their riots tripped at my estate,
They have not quite o’erthrown it.
EnterOldandYoungGeraldine.
Wincott.
But see, gentlemen,
These whom we most expected come at length.
This I proclaim the master of the feast,
In which, to express the bounty of my love,
I’ll show myself no niggard.
Young Geraldine.
Your choice favours
I still taste in abundance.
Wife.
Methinks it would not misbecome me, sir,
To chide your absence, that have made yourself
To us so long a stranger.
[YoungGeraldineturns sadly away.
Young Geraldine.
Pardon me, sir,
That have not yet, since your return from sea,
Voted[56]the least fit opportunity
To entertain you with a kind salute.
Old Lionel.
Most kindly, sir, I thank you.
Delavil.
Methinks, friend,
You should expect green rushes[57]to be strowed
After such discontinuance.
Young Geraldine.
Mistress Prue,
I have not seen you long, but greet you thus:
May you be lady of a better husband
Than I expect a wife!
Wincott.
I like that greeting.
Nay, enter, gentlemen; dinner perhaps
Is not yet ready, but the time we stay,
We’ll find some fresh discourse to spend away.
[Exeunt all butDelavil.
Delavil.
Not speak to me, nor once vouchsafe an answer,
But slight me with a poor and base neglect!
No, nor so much as cast an eye on her,
Or least regard, though in a seeming show
She courted a reply! ’Twixt him and her,
Nay, him and me, this was not wont to be;
If she have brain to apprehend as much
As I have done, she’ll quickly find it out.—
[Re-enterYoungGeraldineandWife.]
Now, as I live, as our affections meet,
So our conceits, and she hath singled him
To some such purpose. I’ll retire myself,
Not interrupt their conference. [Exit.
Wife.
You are sad, sir.
Young Geraldine.
I know no cause.
Wife.
Then can I show you some.
Who could be otherways, to leave a father
So careful, and each way so provident?
To leave so many and such worthy friends?
To abandon your own country? These are some;
Nor do I think you can be much the merrier
For my sake.
Young Geraldine.
Now your tongue speaks oracles;
For all the rest are nothing: ’tis for you—
Only for you I cannot.
Wife.
So I thought;
Why, then, have you been all this while so strange?
Why will you travel, suing a divorce
Betwixt us of a love inseparable;
For here shall I be left as desolate
Unto a frozen, almost widowed bed,
Warmed only in that future stored in you;
For who can in your absence comfort me?
Young Geraldine.
[Aside.] Shall my oppressèd sufferance yet break forth
Into impatience, or endure her more?
Wife.
But since by no persuasion, no entreats,
Your settled obstinacy can be swayed,
Though you seem desperate of your own dear life,
Have care of mine, for it exists in you.
Oh, sir, should you miscarry I were lost,
Lost and forsaken! Then, by our past vows,
And by this hand once given me, by these tears
Which are but springs begetting greater floods,
I do beseech thee, my dear Geraldine,
Look to thy safety, and preserve thy health;
Have care into what company you fall;
Travel not late, and cross no dangerous seas;
For till Heavens bless me in thy safe return,
How will this poor heart suffer!
Young Geraldine.
[Aside.] I had thought
Long since the sirens had been all destroyed;
But one of them I find survives in her:
She almost makes me question what I know,
A heretic unto my own belief:—
O thou mankind’s seducer!
Wife.
What, no answer!
Young Geraldine.
Yes, thou hast spoke to me in showers; I will
Reply in thunder: thou adulteress,
That hast more poison in thee than the serpent
Who was the first that did corrupt thy sex,
The devil!
Wife.
To whom speaks the man?
Young Geraldine.
To thee,
Falsest of all that ever man termed fair.
Hath impudence so steeled thy smooth soft skin,
It cannot blush? Or sin so obdured thy heart,
It doth not quake and tremble? Search thy conscience;
There thou shalt find a thousand clamorous tongues
To speak as loud as mine doth.
Wife.
Save from yours,
I hear no noise at all.
Young Geraldine.
I’ll play the doctor
To open thy deaf ears. Monday the ninth
Of the last month—canst thou remember that,
That night more black in thy abhorrèd sin
Than in the gloomy darkness?—that the time.
Wife.
Monday!
Young Geraldine.
Wouldst thou the place know?—thy polluted chamber,
So often witness of my sinless vows.
Wouldst thou the person?—one not worthy name,
Yet, to torment thy guilty soul the more,
I’ll tell him thee—that monster Delavil.
Wouldst thou your bawd know?—midnight, that the hour.
The very words thou spake?—“Now what would Geraldine
Say, if he saw us here?”—to which was answered,
“Tush, he’s a coxcomb, fit to be so fooled!”
No blush! What, no faint fever on thee yet!
How hath thy black sins changed thee! Thou Medusa!
Those hairs that late appeared like golden wires
Now crawl with snakes and adders. Thou art ugly.
Wife.
And yet my glass, till now, ne’er told me so.
Who gave you this intelligence?
Young Geraldine.
Only He
That, pitying such an innocency as mine
Should by two such delinquents be betrayed,—
He brought me to that place by miracle,
And made me an ear-witness of all this.
Wife.
I am undone!
Young Geraldine.
But think what thou hast lost
To forfeit me! I, notwithstanding these,
(So fixèd was my love and unalterable,)
I kept this from thy husband, nay, all ears,
With thy transgressions smothering mine own wrongs,
In hope of thy repentance.
Wife.
Which begins
Thus low upon my knees—
Young Geraldine.
Tush! bow to Heaven,
Which thou hast most offended; I, alas!
Save in such scarce unheard-of treachery,
Most sinful, like thyself. Wherein, oh, wherein
Hath my unspotted and unbounded love
Deserved the least of these? Sworn to be made a stale
For term of life, and all this for my goodness!
Die, and die soon; acquit me of my oath,
But prithee die repentant. Farewell ever:
’Tis thou, and only thou, hast banished me
Both from my friends and country.
Wife.
Oh, I am lost! [Sinks down.
Re-enterDelavil,meetingYoungGeraldinegoing out.
Delavil.
Why, how now, what’s the business?
Young Geraldine.
Go, take her up, whom thou hast oft thrown down.
Villain! [Exit.
Delavil.
That was no language from a friend,
It had too harsh an accent. But how’s this?
My mistress thus low cast upon the earth,
Grovelling and breathless! Mistress, lady, sweet—
Wife.
Oh, tell me if thy name be Geraldine:
Thy very looks will kill me!
Delavil.
View me well;
I am no such man; see, I am Delavil.
Wife.
Thou’rt then a devil, that presents before me
My horrid sins, persuades me to despair,
When he, like a good angel sent from Heaven,
Besought me of repentance. Swell, sick heart,
Even till thou burst the ribs that bound thee in!
So, there’s one string cracked. Flow, and flow high,
Even till thy blood distil out of mine eyes,
To witness my great sorrow.
Delavil.
Faint again!
Some help within there! No attendant near?
Thus to expire! In this I am more wretched
Than all the sweet fruition of her love
Before could make me happy.
Re-enterWincott, OldGeraldine, YoungGeraldine,the twoLionels, Ricott, Owner,Prudentilla,andReignald;also enterClown.
Wincott.
What was he
Clamoured so loud, to mingle with our mirth
This terror and affright?
Delavil.
See, sir, your wife
In these my arms expiring.
Wincott.
How!
Prudentilla.
My sister!
Wincott.
Support her, and by all means possible
Provide for her dear safety.
Old Geraldine.
See, she recovers.
Wincott.
Woman, look up.
Wife.
Oh, sir, your pardon!
Convey me to my chamber; I am sick,
Sick even to death. Away, thou sycophant,
Out of my sight! I have, besides thyself,
Too many sins about me.
Clown.
My sweet mistress!
[PrudentillaandClownleadWifeoff.
Delavil.
The storm is coming; I must provide for harbour. [Exit.
Old Lionel.
What strange and sudden alteration’s this!
How quickly is this clear day overcast!
But such and so uncertain are all things
That dwell beneath the moon.
Young Lionel.
A woman’s qualm,
Frailties that are inherent to her sex—
Soon sick, and soon recovered.
Wincott.
If she misfare,
I am a man more wretched in her loss
Than had I forfeited life and estate;
She was so good a creature.
Old Geraldine.
I the like
Suffered, when I my wife brought to her grave;
So you, when you were first a widower:
Come, arm yourself with patience.
Ricott.
These are casualties
That are not new, but common.
Reignald.
Burying of wives!—
As stale as shifting shirts, or for some servants
To flout and gull their masters.
Owner.
Best to send
And see how her fit holds her.
Re-enterPrudentillaandClown.
Prudentilla.
Sir, my sister
In these few lines commends her last to you,
For she is now no more. What’s therein writ,
Save Heaven and you, none knows: this she desired
You would take view of, and with these words expired.
Wincott.
Dead!
Young Geraldine.
She hath made me then a free release
Of all the debts I owed her.
Wincott.
[Aside, reading.] “My fear[58]is beyond pardon. Delavil
Hath played the villain; but for Geraldine,
He hath been each way noble; love him still.
My peace already I have made with Heaven;
Oh, be not you at war with me! my honour
Is in your hands to punish, or preserve;
I am now confessed, and only Geraldine
Hath wrought on me this unexpected good.
The ink I write with, I wish had been my blood,
To witness my repentance.”—Delavil!
Where’s he? go seek him out.
Clown.
I shall, I shall, sir. [Exit.
Wincott.
The wills of dead folk should be still obeyed:
However false to me, I’ll not reveal’t;
Where Heaven forgives, I pardon.—Gentlemen,
I know you all commiserate my loss;
I little thought this feast should have been turned
Into a funeral.—[Re-enterClown.] What’s the news of him?
Clown.
He went presently[59]to the stable, put the saddle upon his horse, put his foot into the stirrup, clapped his spurs into his sides, and away he’s galloped, as if he were to ride a race for a wager.
Wincott.
All our ill lucks go with him! Farewell he!
But all my best of wishes wait on you, [ToYoungGeraldine.
As my chief friend! This meeting, that was made
Only to take of you a parting leave,
Shall now be made a marriage of our love,
Which none save only death shall separate.
Young Geraldine.
It calls me from all travel, and from henceforth
With my country I am friends.
Wincott.
The lands that I have left,
You lend me for the short space of my life;
As soon as Heaven calls me, they call you lord.—
First feast, and after mourn; we’ll, like some gallants
That bury thrifty fathers, think’t no sin
To wear blacks without, but other thoughts within.
[Exeunt.
The Wise-Woman of Hogsdonwas printed in 1638. Of its history nothing is known; that it was popular is implied by the statement on the title-page—“As it hath been sundry times acted with great applause.” The technical cleverness of the last Act is noticeable. In the original editions the play is divided into acts but not into scenes. These are now indicated for the first time.
Hogsdon,i.e.Hoxton, in the parish of St. Leonard’s, Shoreditch, was described by Stow, in 1598, as “a large street with houses on both sides.” It was in the adjacent fields that the duel was fought between Ben Jonson and Gabriel Spenser, a player belonging to Henslowe’s company, which resulted in the death of the latter and put Jonson in peril of his life.
YoungChartley, a wild-headed Gentleman.
Boyster, a blunt Fellow.
Sencer, a conceited Gentleman.
Haringfield, a civil Gentleman.
Luce’sFather, a Goldsmith.
Joseph, his Apprentice.
Old MasterChartley.
SirHarry, a Knight, who is no Scholar.
SirBoniface, an ignorant Schoolmaster.
YoungChartley’sMan.
OldChartley’sMen.
Taber, SirHarry’sMan.
A Countryman, Client to the Wise-Woman.
A Serving-man.
Luce, a Goldsmith’s Daughter.
The secondLuce.
Gratiana, SirHarry’sDaughter.
The Wise-Woman of Hogsdon.
A Kitchen-maid.
Two Citizens’ Wives.
SCENE—LondonandHogsdon.
Enter, as newly come from play, YoungChartley, Sencer, Boyster,andHaringfield.
Young Chartley.
Price of my life! now, if the devil have bones,
These dice are made of his. Was ever such
A cast seen in this age? Could any gull
In Europe, saving myself, fling such a cast?
Boyster.
Ay.
Young Chartley.
No.
Boyster.
Yes.
Young Chartley.
But I say no: I have lost an hundred pound,
And I will have my saying.
Boyster.
I have lost another hundred, I’ll have mine.
Ay, yes, I flung a worse,—a worse by odds.
Young Chartley.
I cry you mercy, sir; losers may speak;
I’ll not except ’gainst you: but let me see
Which of these two that pocket up our cash
Dares contradict me?
Sencer.
Sir, not I:
I say you have had bad casting.
Haringfield.
So say I.
Young Chartley.
I say this hat’s not made of wool:
Which of you all dares say the contrary?
Sencer.
It may be ’tis a beaver.
Haringfield.
Very likely so: ’tis not wool, but a plain beaver.
Young Chartley.
’Tis wool, but which of you dares say so?—[Aside.] I would fain pick a quarrel with them, to get some of my money again; but the slaves now they have got it, are too wise to part with it. I say it is not black.
Haringfield.
So say we too.
Boyster.
’Tis false: his cap’s of wool; ’tis black and wool, and wool and black.
Young Chartley.
I have nought to say to losers. Have I nothing left to set at a cast? Ay, finger, must you be set in gold, and not a jot of silver in my purse? A bale[1]of fresh dice! Ho, come at this ring!
Sencer.
Fie, Master Chartley! ’tis time to give over.
Young Chartley.
That’s the winner’s phrase. Hold me play, or he that hath uncrowned me, I’ll take a speedy order with him.
Boyster.
Fresh dice! This jewel I will venture more:
Take this and all. I’ll play in spite of luck.
Haringfield.
Since you will needs, trip for the dice. I see it is hard to go a winner from this company.
Young Chartley.
The dice are mine. This diamond I value at twenty marks:[2]I’ll venture it at a throw.
Haringfield.
’Tis set you.
Young Chartley.
Then at all. All’s mine. Nay, Master Boyster, I bar you: let us work upon the winners. Gramercy, cinques! Nay, though I owe you no quarrel, yet you must give me leave to draw.
Haringfield.
I had rather you should draw your sword
Than draw my money thus.
Young Chartley.
Again, sweet dice. Nay, I bar swearing: gentlemen, let’s play patiently. Well, this at the candlestick, so— [He throws out.
Boyster.
Now, dice, at all. Todo, quoth the Spaniard.
Sencer.
Here’s precious luck.
Boyster.
Why,via! I think ’tis quicksilver; it goes and comes so fast: there’s life in this.
Haringfield.
He passes all with treys.
Young Chartley.
With treys, how say by that? Oh, he’s old dog at bowls and treys!
Sencer.
Lend me some money: be my half one cast.
I’ll once out-brave this gamester with a throw.
So, now the dice are mine, wilt be my half?
Haringfield.
I will.
Sencer.
Then once I’ll play the frank gamester.
Let me but see how much you both can make,
And I’ll cast at all, all, every cross.[3]
Young Chartley.
Now, bless us all, what will you every cross?
Sencer.
I will not leave myself one cross to bless me.
Boyster.
I set.
Young Chartley.
And so do I.
Sencer.
Why, then, at all. How! [He flings out.
Young Chartley.
Nay, swear not; let’s play patiently.
Sencer.
Damned dice! did ever gamester see the like?
Boyster.
Never, never.
Sencer.
Was ever known such casting?
Young Chartley.
Drunk nor sober, I ne’er saw a man cast worse.
Sencer.
I’ll prove this hat of mine an helmet. Which of you here dares say the contrary?
Young Chartley.
As fair an helmet as any man in Europe needs to wear.
Sencer.
Chartley, thy hat is black.
Young Chartley.
Upon better recollection, ’tis so indeed.
Sencer.
I say ’tis made of wool.
Young Chartley.
True, my losing had took away my senses,
Both of seeing and feeling; but better luck
Hath brought them to their right temper.
But come—a pox of dice! ’tis time to give over.
Sencer.
All times are times for winners to give over,
But not for them that lose. I’ll play till midnight,
But I will change my luck.
Haringfield.
Come, come, you shall not.
Give over; tush, give over; do, I pray,
And choose the fortune of some other hour:
Let’s not, like debauched fellows, play our clothes,
Belts, rapiers, nor our needful ornaments:
’Tis childish, not becoming gentlemen.
Play was at first ordained to pass the time;
And, sir, you but abuse the use of play
To employ it otherwise.
Sencer.
You may persuade me.
For once I’ll leave a loser.
Young Chartley.
Then come, put on your helmet; let’s leave this abominable game, and find out some better exercise. I cannot endure this chafing when men lose.
Sencer.
And there’s not a more testy waspish companion than thyself when thou art a loser, and yet thou must be vexing others with “Play patiently, gentlemen, and let’s have no swearing.”
Young Chartley.
A sign that I can give good counsel better than take it: but say, where be the prettiest wenches, my hearts?
Sencer.
Well remembered; this puts me in mind of an appointment I had with a gentlewoman of some respect.
Young Chartley.
I have you, sir, I have you; but I think you will never have her: ’tis Gratiana, the knight’s daughter in Gracious Street.[4]Have I touched you?
Sencer.
You have come somewhat near me, but touched me not. Master Haringfield, will you bear me company thither? Have you seen the gentlewoman, Master Chartley?
Young Chartley.
Never, sir.
Sencer.
How have you heard of her?
Young Chartley.
That she hath as other women have; that she goes for a maid, as others do, &c.[5]
Sencer.
I can assure you she is a proper gentlewoman.
Young Chartley.
Then, if she have you, she is like to have a proper gentleman.
Sencer.
You should tell them so that know it not. Adieu, gentlemen.
[ExeuntSencerandHaringfield.
Boyster.
I am glad yet they go so lightly away.
Young Chartley.
What will you do, Master Boyster?
Boyster.
Somewhat.
Young Chartley.
You will not acquaint me with your business?
Boyster.
No. I am in love; my head is full of proclamations. There is a thing called a virgin. Nature hath showed her art in making her. Court her I cannot, but I’ll do as I may.
Young Chartley.
Do you go or stay, sir?
Boyster.
Go. [Exit.
Young Chartley.
You before, I’ll follow.—He thinks, with his blunt humour, to enter as far as I with my sharp. No, my true Trojan, no: there is a fair, sweet, modest rogue, her name is Luce; with this dandiprat, this pretty little ape’s face, is yon blunt fellow in love; and no marvel, for she hath a brow bewitching, eyes ravishing, and a tongue enchanting; and, indeed, she hath no fault in the world but one, and that is, she is honest; and were it not for that, she were the only sweet rogue in Christendom. As I live, I love her extremely, and to enjoy her would give anything; but the fool stands in her own light, and will do nothing without marriage. But what should I do marrying? I can better endure gyves than bands of matrimony. But in this meditation, I am glad I have won my money again. Nay, and she may be glad of it too; for the girl is but poor, and in my pocket I have laid up a stock for her,—’tis put to use already. And if I meet not with a dice-house or an ordinary by the way, no question but I may increase it to a sum. Well, I’ll unto the Exchange to buy her some pretty novelty: that done, I’ll visit my little rascal, and solicit instantly. [Exit.
EnterLuceat work upon a laced handkerchief, andJoseph.
Luce.
Where is my father, Joseph?
Joseph.
Mistress, above,
And prays you to attend below a little.
Luce.
I do not love to sit thus publicly;
And yet upon the traffic of our wares
Our provident eyes and presence must still wait.
Do you attend the shop, I’ll ply my work.
I see my father is not jealous of me,
That trusts me to the open view of all.
The reason is, he knows my thoughts are chaste,
And my care such, as that it needs the awe
Of no strict overseer.
EnterBoyster.
Boyster.
Yonder’s Luce.—Save thee!
Luce.
And you too, sir; you’re welcome; want you aught,
I pray, in which our trade may furnish you?
Boyster.
Yes.
Luce.
Joseph, show the gentleman—
Boyster.
’Tis here that I would buy.
Luce.
What do you mean, sir? speak, what is’t you lack?
I pray you wherefore do you fix your eyes
So firmly in my face? What would you have?
Boyster.
Thee.
Luce.
Me!
Boyster.
Yes, thee.
Luce.
Your pleasure is to jest, and so I take it.
Pray give me leave, sir, to intend[6]my work.
Boyster.
You are fair.
Luce.
You flout me.
Boyster.
You are, go to, you are;
I’d vex him that should say the contrary.
Luce.
Well, you may say your pleasure.
Boyster.
I love thee.
Luce.
Oh, sir!
Boyster.
As I live, I do.
Luce.
Now, as I am a true maid,
The most religious oath that I dare swear,
I hold myself indebted to your love;
And I am sorry there remains in me
No power how to requite it.
Boyster.
Love me; prithee now, do, if thou canst.
Luce.
I cannot.
Boyster.
Prithee, if thou canst.
Luce.
Indeed I cannot.
Boyster.
Yet ask thine heart, and see what may be done.
Luce.
In troth, I am sorry you should spend a sigh
For my sake unrequited, or a tear,—
Ay, or a word.
Boyster.
’Tis no matter for my words, they are not many and those not very wise ones neither.
Luce.
Yet I beseech you spend no more in vain.
I scorn you not; disdain’s as far from me
As are the two poles distant: therefore, sir,
Because I would not hold you in suspense,
But tell you what at first to trust unto,
Thus in a word, I must not fancy[7]you.
Boyster.
Must not!
Luce.
I cannot, nor I may not.
Boyster.
I am gone:
Thou hast given me, Luce, a bone to gnaw upon. [Exit.
Luce.
Alas, that beauty should be sought of more
Than can enjoy it! Might I have my wish,
I would seem fair but only in his eye
That should possess me in a nuptial tie.
EnterYoungChartley,with gloves, ring, purse, &c.
Young Chartley.
Morrow, Luce; in exchange of this kiss, see what I have brought thee from the Exchange.
Luce.
What mean you, sir, by this?
Young Chartley.
Guess that by the circumstance: here’s a ring, wear’t for my sake; twenty angels, pocket them, you fool. Come, come, I know thou art a maid: say nay, and take them.[8]
Luce.
Sweet Master Chartley, do not fasten on me
More than with ease I can shake off: your gift