Wise-woman.
Ha, ha! let me hold my sides, and laugh. Here were even a plot to make a play on, but that Chartley is so fooled by my boy Jack: well, he’ll make a notable wag, I’ll warrant him. All the jest will be, if Boyster should meet with him in Luce’s habit, which he hath now on, he would think himself merely gulled and cheated; and should Chartley meet with Luce as she is now robed, he would be confident he had married her. Let me see how many trades have I to live by: first, I am a wise-woman, and a fortune-teller, and under that I deal in physic and fore-speaking, in palmistry, and recovering of things lost; next, I undertake to cure mad folks; then I keep gentlewomen lodgers, to furnish such chambers as I let out by the night; then I am provided for bringing young wenches to bed; and, for a need, you see I can play the match-maker.
She that is but one, and professeth so many,
May well be termed a wise-woman, if there be any. [Exit.
EnterBoyster.
Boyster.
Why run away, and leave my wench behind? I’ll back. What have warrants and pursuivants to do with me? with me! why should I budge? why should I wear mask or visard? If lords or ladies offend, let lords and ladies answer. Let me better bethink me. Why should I play at hoodman-blind?[33]Hum: why marryin tenebris? ha! is there no trick in it? If my grannam should make me a younger brother now, and, instead of Luce, pop me off with some broken commodity, I were finely served: most sure I am to be in for better and worse; but with whom, Heaven and my grannam knows.
Enter 2ndLuce,half-dressed and masked.
2nd Luce.
I am stolen out of doors, to see if I can meet my husband, with whom I purpose to make some sport, ere I suddenly disclose myself. What’s he?
Boyster.
Heyday, what have we here? an hobberdehoy! Come hither, you.
2nd Luce.
’Tis Mistress Luce’s husband, I’ll not leave him thus.
Boyster.
What art thou?
2nd Luce.
Do you not know me?
Boyster.
That mask and robe I know.
2nd Luce.
I hope so, or else I were in a woe[34]case.
Boyster.
That mask, that gown I married.
2nd Luce.
Then you have no reason, but to enjoy both them and me too, and so you are like; I should be loth to divorce man and wife.
Boyster.
I am fooled. But what cracked ware are you, forsooth?
2nd Luce.
I belong to the old gentlewoman of the house.
Boyster.
I’ll set her house on fire. I am finely bobbed.[35]
2nd Luce.
But I hope you will not bob me.
Boyster.
No, I’se warrant thee. What art thou? girl or boy?
2nd Luce.
Both, and neither; I was a lad last night, but in the morning I was conjured into a lass; and, being a girl now, I shall be translated to a boy anon. Here’s all I can at this time say for myself. Farewell. [Exit.
Boyster.
Yes, and be hanged withal! O for some gunpowder to blow up this witch, this she-cat, this damned sorceress! Oh, I could tear her to fitters[36]with my teeth! Yet I must be patient, and put up all, lest I be made a jeer to such as know me. Fooled by a boy! Go to! of all the rest, the girl Luce must not know it. [Exit.
EnterYoungChartleyand hisMan,andLuce,meeting.
Young Chartley.
So, now am I the same man I was yesterday. Who can say I was disguised? or who can distinguish my condition now, or read in my face, whether I be a married man or a bachelor?
Luce.
Who’s that?
Young Chartley.
Luce?
Luce.
Sweet husband, is it you?
Young Chartley.
The news?
Luce.
Never so frighted in my days.
Young Chartley.
What’s become of the lord and the lady?
Luce.
The lord fled after you; the lady stayed,
Who, masked and half-unready, ran fast after
Her poor affrighted husband. Now all’s quiet.
Young Chartley.
This storm is then well past, and now convey yourself home as privately as you can; and see you make this known to none but your father.
Luce.
I am your wife and servant. [Exit.
Young Chartley.
The name of Luce hath been ominous to me: one Luce I should have married in the country, and, just the night before, a toy[37]took me in the head, and mounting my horse, I left capons, ducks, geese, poultry, wildfowl, father, and bride, and all, and posted up to London, where I have ever since continued bachelor, till now. And now—
EnterGratianain haste, aServing-manbefore her, andTaberafter her.
Gratiana.
Nay, on, I prithee, fellow, on! my father will wonder where I have been visiting. Now, what had I forgot! Taber, there’s money; go to the goldsmith’s, bid him send me my fan, and make a quick return. On, fellow, on.
[ExeuntGratianaandServing-man.
Taber.
Her fan at the goldsmith’s! now had I forgot to ask her his name, or his sign; but I will after to know. [Exit.
Young Chartley.
Sirrah, go call me back that serving-man,
And ask him what’s the gentlewoman’s name.
Serving-man.
I shall. Ho, you, friend, you!
Re-enterTaber.
Taber.
Who’s that calls?
Serving-man.
’Twas I.
Taber.
Your business? You should be one, though not of my cognisance, yet of my condition,—a serving-creature, as I take it: pray what’s your will with me?
Serving-man.
Pray, sir, what might I call that gentlewoman, on whom you were attendant?
Taber.
You may call her what you please; but if you call her otherwise than in the way of honesty, you may perchance hear on’t.
Serving-man.
Nay, be not offended: I say, what do you call her?
Taber.
Why, sir, I call her as it shall best please me; sometimes young lady, sometimes young mistress; and what hath any man to do with that?
Young Chartley.
Are you so captious, sirrah? What’s her name?
Speak, and be brief.
Taber.
Ay, marry, sir, you speak to purpose, and I can resolve you: her name is Gratiana. But all this while I have forgot my mistress’ fan. [Exit.
Young Chartley.
Gratiana! oft have I heard of her, but saw her not till now: ’tis a pretty wench, a very pretty wench,—nay, a very, very, very pretty wench. But what a rogue am I, of a married man—nay, that have not been married this six hours, and to have my shittle-wits run a wool-gathering already! What would poor Luce say if she should hear of this? I may very well call her poor Luce, for I cannot presume of five pounds to her portion. What a coxcomb was I, being a gentleman, and well derived, to match into so beggarly a kindred! What needed I to have grafted in the stock of such a choke-pear, and such a goodly popering[38]as this to escape me! Escape me, said I? if she do, she shall do it narrowly. But I am married already, and therefore it is not possible, unless I should make away my wife, to compass her. Married! why, who knows it? I’ll outface the priest, and then there is none but she and her father, and their evidence is not good in law; and if they put me in suit, the best is, they are poor, and cannot follow it. Ay, marry, sir, a man may have some credit by such a wife as this. I could like this marriage well, if a man might change away his wife, still as he is a-weary of her, and cope[39]her away like a bad commodity; if every new moon a man might have a new wife, that’s every year a dozen. But this “Till death us do part” is tedious. I will go a-wooing to her, I will; but how shall I do for jewels and tokens? Luce hath mine in her custody, money and all. Tush, I’ll juggle them from her well enough. See, here she comes.
EnterLuceand herFather.
Luce.
Here is my husband; I pray move him in it.
Luce’s Father.
It toucheth both our reputations nearly;
For by his oft repair, now whilst the marriage
Is kept from public knowledge, your good name
May be by neighbours hardly censured of.
Young Chartley.
Thou’rt sad, thou’rt sad, Luce: what, melancholy already, ere thou hast had good cause to be merry, and knew’st what sport was!
Luce.
I have great reason, when my name is tossed
In every gossip’s mouth, and made a bye-word
Unto such people as it least concerns.
Nay, in my hearing, as they pass along,
Some have not spared to brand my modesty,
Saying, “There sits she whom young Chartley keeps:
There hath he entered late, betimes gone forth.”
Where I with pride was wont to sit before,
I’m now with shame sent blushing from the door.
Young Chartley.
Alas, poor fool! I am sorry for thee, but yet cannot help thee, as I am a gentleman. Why, say, Luce, thou losest now forty shillings worth of credit, stay but a time, and it shall bring thee in a thousand pounds worth of commodity.
Luce’s Father.
Son, son, had I esteemed my profit more
Than I have done my credit, I had now
Been many thousands richer; but you see,
Truth and good dealing bear an humble sail.
That little I enjoy, it is with quiet,
Got with good conscience, kept with good report;
And that I still shall labour to preserve.
Young Chartley.
But do you hear me?
Luce’s Father.
Nothing I’ll hear that tends unto the ruin
Of mine or of my daughter’s honesty.
Shall I be held a broker to lewd lust,
Now in my wane of years?
Young Chartley.
Will you but hear me?
Luce’s Father.
Not in this case. I that have lived thus long,
Reported well, esteemed a welcome guest
At every burthened table, there respected,
Now to be held a pander to my daughter!
That I should live to this!
Young Chartley.
But hark you, father!
Luce’s Father.
A bawd to mine own child!
Young Chartley.
Father!
Luce’s Father.
To my sweet Luce!
Young Chartley.
Father!
Luce’s Father.
Deal with me like a son, then call me father.
I that have had the tongues of every man
Ready to crown my reputation,
The hands of all my neighbours to subscribe
To my good life, and such as could not write
Ready with palsied and unlettered fingers
To set their scribbling marks—
Young Chartley.
Why, father-in-law!
Luce’s Father.
Thou hadst a mother, Luce—’tis woe with me
To say thou hadst, but hast not; a kind wife,
And a good nurse she was: she, had she lived
To hear my name thus canvassed, and thus tossed,
Seven years before she died, I had been a widower
Seven years before I was. Heaven rest her soul!
She is in Heaven, I hope. [He wipes his eyes.
Young Chartley.
Why, so now, these be good words: I knew these storms would have a shower, and then they would cease. Now, if your anger be over, hear me.
Luce’s Father.
Well, say on, son.
Young Chartley.
Stay but a month, ’tis but four weeks—nay, ’tis February, the shortest month of the year—and in that time I shall be at full age; and the land being entailed, my father can disinherit me of nothing. Is your spleen down now? Have I satisfied you? Well, I see you choleric hasty men are the kindest when all is done. Here’s such wetting of handkerchiefs! he weeps to think of his wife; she weeps to see her father cry! Peace, fool! we shall else have thee claim kindred of the woman killed with kindness.[40]
Luce’s Father.
Well, son, my anger’s past; yet I must tell you,
It grieves me that you should thus slight it off,
Concerning us in such a dear degree.
In private be it spoke, my daughter tells me
She’s both a wife and maid.
Young Chartley.
That may be helped.—Now, Luce, your father’s pacified, will you be pleased? I would endure a quarter’s punishment for thee, and wilt not thou suffer a poor month’s penance for me? ’Tis but eight and twenty days, wench; thou shalt fare well all the time, drink well, eat well, lie well: come, one word of comfort at the latter end of the day.
Luce.
Yours is my fame, mine honour, and my heart
Linked to your pleasure, and shall never part.
Young Chartley.
Gramercy, wench; thou shalt wear this chain no longer for that word; I’ll multiply the links in such order that it shall have light to shine about thy neck oftener than it doth: this jewel—a plain Bristowe[41]stone, a counterfeit. How base was I, that coming to thee in the way of marriage, courted thee with counterfeit stones! Thou shalt wear right, or none. Thou hast no money about thee, Luce?
Luce.
Yes, sir, I have the hundred pounds that you gave me to lay up last.
Young Chartley.
Fetch it.—[ExitLuce.]—Let me see, how much branched[42]satin goes to a petticoat? and how much wrought velvet to a gown? then for a beaver for the city, and a black bag for the country: I’ll promise her nothing, but if any such trifles be brought home, let her not thank me for them. [Re-enterLucewith the bag.] Gramercy, Luce.—Nay, go in, Gravity and Modesty; ten to one but you shall hear of me ere you see me again.
Luce’s Father.
I know you kind; impute my hasty language
Unto my rage, not me.
Young Chartley.
Why, do not I know you, and do not I know her? I doubt you’ll wish shortly that I had never known either of you: now, what sayst thou, my sweet Luce?
Luce.
My words are yours, so is my life: I am now
Part of yourself, so made by nuptial vow.
Young Chartley.
What a pagan am I, to practise such villainy against this honest Christian! If Gratiana did not come into my thoughts, I should fall into a vein to pity her. But now that I talk of her, I have a tongue to woo her, tokens to win her; and that done, if I do not find a trick both to wear her and weary her, it may prove a piece of a wonder.—Thou seest, Luce, I have some store of crowns about me: there are brave things to be bought in the city; Cheapside and the Exchange afford variety and rarity. This is all I will say now, but thou mayst hear more of me hereafter. [Exit.
Luce.
Heaven speed you where you go, sir! Shall we in?
Though not from scandal, we live free from sin.
Luce’s Father.
I’ll in before. [Exit.
EnterBoyster.
Boyster.
I am still in love with Luce, and I would know
An answer more directly. Fie, fie! this love
Hangs on me like an ague, makes me turn fool,
Coxcomb, and ass. Why should I love her, why?
A rattle-baby, puppet, a slight toy.
And now I could go to buffets with myself,
And cuff this love away. But see, that’s Luce.
Luce.
I cannot shun him, but I’ll shake him oft.
Boyster.
Morrow.
Luce.
As much to you.
Boyster.
I’ll use few words—canst love me?
Luce.
’Deed, sir, no.
Boyster.
Why, then, farewell; the way I came, I’ll go. [Exit.
Luce.
This is no tedious courtship; he’s soon answered;
So should all suitors else be, were they wise;
For, being repulsed, they do but waste their days
In thankless suits, and superficial praise.
Re-enterBoyster.
Boyster.
Swear that thou wilt not love me.
Luce.
Not, sir, for any hate I ever bare you,
Or any foolish pride or vain conceit,
Or that your feature doth not please mine eye,
Or that you are not a brave gentleman,
But for concealèd reasons I am forced
To give you this cold answer, and to swear
I must not: then with patience pray forbear.
Boyster.
Even farewell then. [Exit.
Luce.
The like to you; and, save your hopes in me,
Heaven grant you your best wishes! All this strife
Will end itself, when I am known a wife. [Exit.
EnterSirHarry, Haringfield, Gratiana,with others.
Sir Harry.
I am satisfied, good Master Haringfield,
Touching your friend; and since I see you have left
His dangerous company, I limit[43]you
To be a welcome guest unto my table.
Haringfield.
You have been always noble.
EnterTaber.
Sir Harry.
Taber, the news with thee?
Taber.
May it please thee, right worshipful, to understand that there are some at the gate who dance a turn or two without, and desire to be admitted to speak with you within.
Sir Harry.
The scholar, is it not?
Taber.
Nay, sir, there are two scholars, and they are spouting Latin one against the other; and in my simple judgment the stranger is the better scholar, and is somewhat too hard for Sir Boniface: for he speaks louder, and that you know is ever the sign of the most learning, and he also hath a great desire to serve your worship.
Sir Harry.
Two scholars! my house hath not place for two.
Thus it shall be. Taber, admit them both;
We, though unlearned, will hear them two dispute,
And he that of the two seems the best read
Shall be received, the other quite cashiered.
Haringfield.
In that you show but justice: in all persons
Merit should be regarded.
EnterTaber,ushering inSirBoniface,andSencer,disguised like apedant.
Sir Boniface.
Venerabiles magistri, absint vobis capistri.
Sencer.
Et tu, domine calve, iterum atque iterum salve. Amo amas amavi. Sweet lady, Heaven save ye!
Sir Harry.
This approves him to be excellent, but I thank my breeding I understand not a word.
You tongue-men, you whose wealth lies in your brains,
Not in your budgets, hear me. Be it known,
My house affords room for one schoolmaster,
But not for more; and I am thus resolved:
Take you that side, gentle Sir Boniface,
And, sir, possess you that.
He of you two in arguing proves the best,
To him will I subscribe. Are you agreed?
Sir Boniface.
Nec animo, nec corde, nec utroque.
Sencer.
No more of thatnec corde. Noble knight, he wishes younec corde; think of that.
Sir Harry.
A cord about my neck, Sir Boniface!
Speak, do you use me well?
Sir Boniface.
Domine, cur rogas?
Sencer.
Is this to be endured,—to call a knight
Cur, rogue and ass?
Sir Harry.
I find myself abused.
Haringfield.
Yet patience, good Sir Harry, and hear more.
Pray, Sir Boniface, of what university were you of?
Sir Boniface.
I was student in Brazenose.
Haringfield.
A man might guess so much by your pimples.
And of what place were you?
Sencer.
Petrus dormit securus; I was, sir, of Peterhouse.[44]
Sir Boniface.
Natus eramin Woxford, and I proceeded[45]in Oxford.
Sencer.
Est mihi bene nostrum, thou wouldst say, in Gotham; for my part, Sir Harry, I can read service and marry,Que genus et flexum, though I go in Genes[46]fustian;scalpellum et charta, I was not brought up at plough and cart; I can teachQui mihi, and neither laugh nor tee-hee;sed as in presenti, if your worship at this present,Iste, ista, istud, will do me any good, to give melegem ponein gold or in money,Piper atque papaver, I’ll deserve it with my labour.
Haringfield.
But when go you to dispute?
Sir Boniface.
Nominativo hic prediculus, his words are most ridiculous; buttuthou,quithe which, deridest those that be rich,construe hanc sententiam, construe me this sentence:Est modus in rebus, sunt certi denique fines.
Sencer.
Est modus in rebus, there is mud in the rivers;sunt certi denique fines, and certain little fishes.
Sir Harry.
I warrant you he hath his answer ready.
Sir Boniface.
Dii boni boni.
Haringfield.
He’ll give you more bones than those to gnaw on, Sir Boniface.
Sencer.
Kartere Moosotropos poluphiltate phile poetatis Tes Logikes retoon, ouch elachiste sophoon. That is as much as to say, in ourmaterna lingua, I will make you, Sir Boniface, confess yourself an ass in English, speak open and broad words, for want of Latin, anddeniqueentreat me to resolve such questions as I shall ask you in our modern tongue.
Sir Harry.
Confess himself an ass? speak obscene words?
After entreat thee to resolve thy questions?
Do that; possess the place.
Sencer.
Di doanddum: no more words butmum:
Sir Boniface.
Noble Sir Harry,numquam sic possit?
Sir Harry.
Sir Boniface is sick already and calls for a posset; no marvel, being so threatened.
Sencer.
You, Boniface, decline me I am a no after the first conjugation,amo amavi, vocito vocitavi, Titubo Titubavi?
Sir Boniface.
I am not the preceptor to a pupil,
But can decline it; mark, Sir Timothy.
I am a no.
Sencer.
Bene bene.
Sir Boniface.
I am an as.
Sencer.
Most true, most true,vos estis, ut ego sum testis, that what he confessed is as true as thepestis.
Sir Harry.
This scholar works by magic; he hath made him confess himself an ass.
Sir Boniface.
Per has meas manus, vir, tu es insanus.
Sencer.
I’ll make him fret worse yet. Sir Boniface,quid est grammatica?
Sir Boniface.
Grammatica est ars.
Sir Harry.
Fie, fie! no more of these words, good Sir Boniface.
Sencer.
Attend again, proceed me with this verse of reverend Cato:Si deus est animus.
Sir Boniface.
Nobis ut carmina dicunt.
Taber.
Di—— quotha! out on him for a beastly man!
Sir Harry.
I would not have him teach my children so for more than I am worth.
Sir Boniface.
O! but reverend Sir Harry, you mustsubaudi.
Sir Harry.
I’ll never be so bawdy whilst I live, nor any of mine, I hope.
Sir Boniface.
O!Propria quæ maribus.
Sir Harry.
Ay, Boniface, it is those marrow-bones
That make you talk so broadly!
Sir Boniface.
Venerabilis vir, homo ille est ebrius.
Sir Harry.
What doth he mean by that?
Sencer.
He saith I can speak Hebrew.
Sir Harry.
I believe’t:
But if Sir Boniface still con these lessons,
He’ll speak the French tongue perfect.
Sencer.
Now to the last; I’ll task Sir Boniface
But with an easy question. Tell me, sir,
What’s Latin for this earth?
Sir Boniface.
Facile and easy, more fit for the pupil than the preceptor. What’s Latin for this earth?Tellus.
Sencer.
Tell you? no, sir, it belongs to you to tell me.
Sir Boniface.
I saytellusis Latin for the earth.
Sencer.
And I say, I will not tell you what is Latin for the earth, unless you yield me victor.
Sir Harry.
You have no reason: good Sir Timothy,
The place is yours.
Haringfield.
He hath deserved it well.
Sencer.
But I’ll deserve it better: why, this fellow
Is frantic; you shall hear me make him speak
Idly and without sense. I’ll make him say
His nose was husband to a Queen.
[He whispersSirHarry.
Sir Harry.
Sir Timothy, not possible.
Taber.
He will not speak it for shame.
Sencer.
That you shall hear. Magister Boniface.
Sir Boniface.
Quid ais, domine Timothy?
Sencer.
Who was Pasiphe’s husband, Queen of Crete?
Sir Boniface.
Who knows not that? Why, Minos was her husband.
Sencer.
That his nose was; did I not tell you so?
Sir Boniface.
I say that Minos was.
Sencer.
That his nose was—ha, ha!
Sir Harry.
I’ll not believe it.—
Sir Boniface, there are a brace of angels;
You are not for my turn. Sir Timothy,
You are the man shall read unto my daughter
The Latin tongue, in which I am ignorant.
Confess yourself an ass; speak bawdy words;
And after to talk idly! Hence, away!
You shall have my good word, but not my pay.
Sir Boniface.
Opus est usus; Sir Timothy, you abuse us.
I swear by a noun, had I thy hose down,
Qui, quæ, quod, I would so smoke thee with the rod,
Ille, illa, illud, until I fetched blood.
But,nobiles vaiete, remain inquiete.
[ExeuntSirBonifaceandTaber.
Sir Harry.
Sir Timothy, there is some gold in earnest,
I like you well; take into your tuition
My daughter Gratiana. [Re-enterTaber.] The news, Taber?
Taber.
Of another gallant, noble sir, that pretends to have business both with you and my mistress.
Sir Harry.
Admit him.
EnterYoungChartleyvery gallant, withGratiana.
Taber.
Lusty Juventus,[47]will it please you to draw near?
Young Chartley.
Noble knight, whilst you peruse that [HandsSirHarrya letter], sweet lady, tell me how you like this? [KissesGratiana.
Gratiana.
You press so suddenly upon me, sir,
I know not what to answer.
Sencer.
[Aside.] Mad Chartley! what makes Desperation here?
Young Chartley.
To the word wooer let me add the name speeder; my father hath written to your father, and the cause of his writing at this present is to let you understand that he fears you have lived a maid too long; and therefore, to prevent all diseases incident to the same, as the green sickness and others, he sent me, like a skilful physician, to take order with you against all such maladies. If you will not credit me, list but how fervently my father writes in my behalf.
Sir Harry.
[Reads.] “He is my only son, and she, I take it, your only daughter. What should hinder then to make a match between them?” Well, ’tis well, ’tis good, I like it. “I will make her jointure three hundred pounds a year.”
Young Chartley.
How say you by that, sweet lady? three hundred pounds a year, and a proper man to boot?
Sir Harry.
All’s good, I like it; welcome, Master Chartley.
Thou, Gratiana, art no child of mine
Unless thou bidst him welcome. This I presume
To be your father’s hand?
Young Chartley.
[Aside.] But I’ll be sworn he never writ it.
Sir Harry.
And this his seal at arms?
Young Chartley.
Or else I understand it very poorly. But, lady,
In earnest of further acquaintance, receive this chain,
These jewels, hand and heart.
Sir Harry.
Refuse no chain nor jewels, heart nor hand,
But in exchange of these bestow thyself,
Thine own dear self, upon him.
Gratiana.
Myself on him, whom I till now ne’er saw?
Well, since I must, your will’s to me a law.
Sencer.
Nay, then, ’tis time to speak. Shall I stand here waiting like a coxcomb, and see her given away before my face? Stay your hand, Sir Harry; and let me claim my promise.
Sir Harry.
My promise I’ll perform, Sir Timothy;
You shall have all your wages duly paid.
Sencer.
I claim fair Gratiana by your promise.
No more Sir Timothy, but Sencer now.
You promised me when you received my service,
And with your liberal hand did wage my stay,
To endow me freely with your daughter’s love.
That promise now I claim.
Sir Harry.
Mere cozenage, knavery:
I tied myself to no conditions
In which such guile is practised. Come, son Chartley:
To cut off all disasters incident
To these proceedings, we will solemnise
These nuptial rites with all speed possible.
Young Chartley.
Farewell, good Sir Timothy; farewell, learned Sir Timothy.
[Exeunt all butSencer.
Sencer.
Why, and farewell, learned Sir Timothy.
For now Sir Timothy and I am two:
Boast on, brag on, exalt, exalt thyself,
Swim in a sea of pleasure and content
Whilst my bark suffers wreck! I’ll be revenged.
Chartley, I’ll cryvindictafor this scorn;
Next time thou gorest, it must be with thy horn. [Exit.
EnterBoyster.
Boyster.
I am mad, and know not at what;
I could swagger, but know not with whom;
I am at odds with myself, and know not why:
I shall be pacified, and cannot tell when;
I would fain have a wife, but cannot tell where;
I would fasten on Luce, but cannot tell how.
How; where; when; why; whom; what.
Feeding sure makes me lean, and fasting fat.
EnterLuceandJoseph.
Luce.
Not all this while once see me!
Joseph.
His occasions
Perhaps enforce his absence.
Luce.
His occasions!
Unless he find occasion of new love,
What could enforce such absence from his spouse?
Am I grown foul and black since my espousals?
It should not seem so; for the shop is daily
Customed with store of chapmen, such as come
To cheapen love. O no, I am myself!
But Chartley he is changed.
Joseph.
You know that gentleman.
Luce.
Escape him if thou canst.
Boyster.
He cannot. I arrest you.
Luce.
At whose suit?
Boyster.
Not at mine own, that’s dashed; I love thee not.
Thou art a Spaniard, gipsy, a mere blackamoor:
Again I say I love thee not.
Luce.
A blackamoor, a gipsy!
Sure I am changed indeed, and that’s the cause
My husband left me so; this gentleman
Once termed me beautiful. How look I, Joseph?
Joseph.
As well as e’er you did—fat, fresh, and fair.
Boyster.
You lie, boy; pocket that, and now be gone.
Joseph.
And what shall then become of my mistress?
Boyster.
I’ll wait upon your mistress.
Luce.
I know you will not wait on such a gipsy.
Boyster.
Yes, Luce, on such a gipsy. Boy,abi, abi.
Joseph.
Abide, sir! you need not fear that; I have no purpose to leave her.
Boyster.
Now you are going to the wedding-house.
You are bid to be a bridemaid, are you not?
Luce.
What wedding, sir, or whose?
Boyster.
Why, Chartley’s. Luce, hath he been thy friend so long,
And would not bid thee to wait on his bride?
Why look’st thou red and pale, and both, and neither?
Luce.
To Master Chartley’s bridals? Why, to whom
Should he be married?
Boyster.
To Grace of Gracious-street.
Luce.
To Gratiana!
Beshrew you, sir, you do not use me well,
To buzz into mine ears these strange untruths:
I tell you, sir, ’tis as impossible
They two should match, as Earth and Heaven to meet.
Boyster.
You’ll not believe it? Pray then hark within
The nuptial music echoing to their joys.
But you give credit to no certainties:
I told you but a tale, a lie, a fable,
A monstrous, a notorious idle untruth—
That you were black, and that I loved you not—
And you could credit that!
[EnterSirHarry, Haringfield, YoungChartleyleadingGratianaby the arm,Taber,andAttendants.]
Who’s tell-troth now?
Know you that man, or know you that fine virgin
Whom by the arm he leads?
Luce.
I’ll not endure’t.—Heaven give you joy, sir!
Young Chartley.
I thank you. Luce!
[She faints.
Sir Harry.
Look to the maid; she faints.
[Boysterholds her up.
Young Chartley.
Grace, come not near her, Grace.
Father, keep off; on, gentlemen, apace.
She’s troubled with the falling sickness, for
Oft hath she fallen before me.
Sir Harry.
Nay, if it be no otherwise, on, gentlemen,
Let those with her strive to recover her.
Keep off; the disease is infectious.
Young Chartley.
If it were in a man, it were nothing, but the falling sickness in a woman is dangerous. [EnterLuce’sFather.] My tother father-in-law! Now shall I be utterly shamed. If he assure to know me, I’ll outface him.
Luce’s Father.
Son, you’re well met.
Young Chartley.
How, fellow!
Luce’s Father.
I cry you mercy, sir.
Young Chartley.
No harm done, friend, no harm done.
[ExeuntSirHarry, Haringfield, YoungChartley,andGratiana.
Luce’s Father.
If he, he could not but have known me there,
Yet he was wondrous like him.
Boyster.
How cheer you, Luce? whence grew this passion?
Luce.
Pardon me, sir, I do not know myself:
I am apt to swound, and now the fit is passed me.
I thank you for your help. Is Master Chartley
Vanished so soon?
Boyster.
Yes; and to supply his place, see where thy father comes.
Luce’s Father.
He hath not such a suit; besides, this gallant
Led by the arm a bride, a lusty bride!
How much might I have wronged the gentleman
By craving his acquaintance! This it is
To have dim eyes. Why looks my daughter sad?—
I cry you mercy, sir; I saw not you.
Boyster.
I would I had not seen you at this time neither. Farewell. [Exit.
Luce.
If he be gone, then let me vent my grief.
Father, I am undone!
Luce’s Father.
Forbid it, Heaven!
Luce.
Disgraced, despised, discarded, and cast off.
Luce’s Father.
How, mine own child?
Luce.
My husband, O my husband!
Luce’s Father.
What of him?
Luce.
Shall I the shower of all my grief at once
Pour out before you? Chartley, once my husband,
Hath left me to my shame. Him and his bride
I met within few minutes.
Luce’s Father.
Sure ’twas they;
I met them too: ’twas he; base villain, Jew!
I’ll to the wedding board, and tell him so:
I’ll do’t as I am a man.
Luce.
Be not so rash.
Luce’s Father.
I’ll live and die upon him;
He’s a base fellow, so I’ll prove him too.
Joseph, my sword!
Luce.
This rashness will undo us.
Luce’s Father.
I’ll have my sword;
It hath been twice in France, and once in Spain,
With John-a-Gaunt; when I was young like him
I had my wards, and foins, and quarter-blows,
And knew the way into St. George’s Fields[48]
Twice in a morning. Tuttle, Finsbury,
I knew them all. I’ll to him: where’s my sword?
Luce.
Or leave this spleen, or you will overthrow
Our fortunes quite; let us consult together
What we were best to do.
Luce’s Father.
I’ll make him play at leap-frog! Well, I hear thee.
Luce.
I cannot prove our marriage; it was secret,
And he may find some cavil in the law.
Luce’s Father.
I’ll to him with no law, but Stafford law.[49]
I’ll ferret the false boy—nay, on, good Luce.
Luce.
Part of your spleen if you would change to counsel,
We might revenge us better.
Luce’s Father.
Well, I hear thee.
Luce.
To claim a public marriage at his hands
We want sufficient proof, and then the world
Will but deride our folly, and so add
Double disgrace unto my former wrong.
To law with him—he hath a greater purse,
And nobler friends. How then to make it known?
Luce’s Father.