I reverence, yet refuse; and I pray tell me,
Why do you make so many errands hither,
Send me so many letters, fasten on me
So many favours? What’s your meaning in’t?
Young Chartley.
Hark in thine ear, I’ll tell thee;—nay, hear me out. Is’t possible so soft a body should have so hard a soul? Nay, now I know my penance; you will be angry, and school me for tempting your modesty: a fig for this modesty! it hinders many a good man from many a good turn, and that’s all the good it doth. If thou but knew’st, Luce, how I love thee, thou wouldst be far more tractable. Nay, I bar chiding when you speak; I’ll stop thy lips if thou dost but offer an angry word—by this hand, I’ll do’t, and with this hand too. Go to now, what say you?
Luce.
Sir, if you love me, as you say you do,
Show me the fruits thereof.
Young Chartley.
The stock I can; thou mayst see the fruits hereafter.
Luce.
Can I believe you love me, when you seek
The shipwreck of mine honour?
Young Chartley.
Honour! there’s another word to flap in a man’s mouth! Honour! what shouldst thou and I stand upon our honour, that were neither of us yet Right Worshipful?
Luce.
I am sorry, sir, I have lent so large an ear
To such a bad discourse; and I protest
After this hour never to do the like.
I must confess, of all the gentlemen
That ever courted me, you have possessed
The best part in my thoughts: but this coarse language
Exiles you quite from thence. Sir, had you come,
Instead of changing this mine honest name
Into a strumpet’s, to have honoured me
With the chaste title of a modest wife,
I had reserved an ear for all your suits;
But since I see your rudeness finds no limit,
I leave you to your lust.
Young Chartley.
You shall not, Luce.
Luce.
Then keep your tongue within more moderate bounds.
Young Chartley.
I will,—as I am virtuous, I will.—[Aside.] I told you the second word would be marriage. It makes a man forfeit his freedom, and makes him walk ever after with a chain at his heels, or a jackanapes hanging at his elbow. Marriage is like Dædalus’s labyrinth, and, being once in, there’s no finding the way out. Well, I love this little property most intolerably, and I must set her on the last, though it cost me all the shoes in my shop.—Well, Luce, thou seest my stomach is come down: thou hast my heart already; there’s my hand.
Luce.
But in what way?
Young Chartley.
Nay, I know not the way yet, but I hope to find it hereafter, by your good direction.
Luce.
I mean, in what manner? in what way?
Young Chartley.
In the way of marriage, in the way of honesty, in the way that was never gone yet. I hope thou art a maid, Luce?
Luce.
Yes, sir; and I accept it: in exchange
Of this your hand, you shall receive my heart.
Young Chartley.
A bargain, and there’s earnest on thy lips.
Luce.
I’ll call my father, sir, to witness it.
See, here he comes.
EnterLuce’sFather,a plainCitizen.
Young Chartley.
Father, save you! You have happened of an untoward son-in-law; here I am, how do you like me?
Luce’s Father.
Sir, I was nearer than you were aware,
And overheard both sum and circumstance.
Young Chartley.
[Aside.] Then I perceive you are an old eavesdropper.—But what do you think of it, father?
Luce’s Father.
I entertain the motion with all love,
And I rejoice my daughter is preferred
And raised to such a match; I heard the contract,
And will confirm it gladly: but pray, sir,
When shall the merry day be?
Young Chartley.
Marry, even to-morrow by that we can see: nay, we’ll lose no more time; I’ll take order for that.
Luce.
Stay but a month.
Young Chartley.
A month! thou canst not hire me to’t. Why, Luce, if thou beest hungry, canst thou stay a month from meat? Nay, if I see my diet before me, I love to fall to when I have a stomach. Here, buy thee a new smock; let’s have a new bed too, and look it be strong; there’s a box of rings and jewels, lay them up. Ha, sirrah! methinks the very name of wedlock hath brought me to a night-cap already, and I am grown civil on the sudden. There’s more money for dishes, platters, ladles, candlesticks, &c., as I shall find them set down in the inventory.
Luce’s Father.
But whom shall we invite unto the wedding?
Enter2ndLucein the habit of aPage;she retires.
Young Chartley.
Ay, thereby hangs a tale. We will have no more at our marriage but myself, to say, “I take thee, Luce;” thou to say, “I, Luce, take thee, Robin;” the vicar to put us together; and you, father, to play the clerk, and cry “Amen.”
Luce’s Father.
Your reason for that?
Young Chartley.
I would not for a world it should be known to my friends, or come to my father’s ear. It may be ten thousand pounds out of my way. For the present, therefore, this is my conceit:[9]let us be married privately, and Luce shall live like a maid still, and bear the name. ’Tis nothing, Luce: it is a common thing in this age to go for a maid, and be none. I’ll frequent the house secretly. Fear not, girl; though I revel abroad o’ days, I’ll be with thee to bring[10]o’ nights, my little whiting-mop.[11]
Luce.
But so I may incur a public scandal,
By your so oft frequenting to my chamber.
Young Chartley.
Scandal! what scandal? Why, to stop the mouth of all scandal, after some few days do I appear in my likeness, married man and honest housekeeper, and then what becomes of your scandal? Come, send for Master Vicar; and what we do, let’s do suddenly.
2nd Luce.
Cold comfort for me. [Aside.
Luce.
If you purpose to be so privately married, I know one excellent at such an exploit. Are you not acquainted with the Wise-woman of Hogsdon?
Young Chartley.
Oh, the witch, the beldam, the hag of Hogsdon?
Luce.
The same, but I hold her to be of no such condition. I will anon make a step thither, and punctually acquaint her with all our proceedings: she is never without a Sir John[12]at her elbow, ready for such a stratagem.
Young Chartley.
Well, be’t so, then.
[Exeunt all except2ndLuce.
2nd Luce.
Heigh-ho! have I disguised myself, and stolen out of the country thus far, and can light of no better news to entertain me? Oh, this wild-headed, wicked Chartley, whom nothing will tame! To this gallant was I, poor gentlewoman, betrothed, and the marriage day appointed; but he, out of a fantastic and giddy humour, before the time prefixed, posts up to London. After him come I thus habited, and you see my welcome—to be an ear-witness of his second contracting. Modesty would not suffer me to discover myself, otherwise I should have gone near to have marred the match. I heard them talk of Hogsdon, and a wise-woman, where these aims shall be brought to action. I’ll see if I can insinuate myself into her service; that’s my next project: and now good luck of my side! [Exit.
Enter theWise-woman,aCountrymanwith a urinal, twoCitizens’ Wives,Taber,and aKitchen-maid.
Wise-woman.
Fie, fie! what a toil and a moil it is
For a woman to be wiser than all her neighbours!
I pray, good people, press not too fast upon me;
Though I have two ears, I can hear but one at once.
You with the urine.
Enter 2ndLucein Boy’s clothes; she stands aside.
Countryman.
Here, forsooth, mistress.
Wise-woman.
And who distilled this water?
Countryman.
My wife’s limbeck, if it please you.
Wise-woman.
And where doth the pain hold her most?
Countryman.
Marry, at her heart, forsooth.
Wise-woman.
Ay, at her heart, she hath a griping at her heart?
Countryman.
You have hit it right.
Wise-woman.
Nay, I can see so much in the urine.
2nd Luce.
Just so much as is told her. [Aside.
Wise-woman.
She hath no pain in her head, hath she?
Countryman.
No, indeed, I never heard her complain of her head.
Wise-woman.
I told you so, her pain lies all at her heart;
Alas, good heart! but how feels she her stomach?
Countryman.
Oh, queasy[13]and sick at stomach.
Wise-woman.
Ay, I warrant you, I think I can see as far into a mill-stone as another. You have heard of Mother Nottingham, who for her time was prettily well skilled in casting of waters; and after her, Mother Bomby; and then there is one Hatfield in Pepper Alley, he doth pretty well for a thing that’s lost. There’s another in Coleharbour, that’s skilled in the planets. Mother Sturton, in Golden Lane, is for fore-speaking;[14]Mother Phillips, of the Bankside, for the weakness of the back; and then there’s a very reverend matron on Clerkenwell Green, good at many things. Mistress Mary on the Bankside is for ’recting a figure;[15]and one (what do you call her?) in Westminster, that practiseth the book and the key, and the sieve and the shears: and all do well, according to their talent. For myself, let the world speak. Hark you, my friend, you shall take— [She whispers.
2nd Luce.
’Tis strange the ignorant should be thus fooled!
What can this witch, this wizard, or old trot,
Do by enchantment, or by magic spell?
Such as profess that art should be deep scholars.
What reading can this simple woman have?
’Tis palpable gross foolery.
[ExitCountryman.
Wise-woman.
Now, friend, your business?
Taber.
I have stolen out of my master’s house, forsooth, with the kitchen-maid, and I am come to know of you whether it be my fortune to have her or no.
Wise-woman.
And what’s your suit, lady?
Kitchen-maid.
Forsooth, I come to know whether I be a maid or no.
Wise-woman.
Why, art thou in doubt of that?
Kitchen-maid.
It may be I have more reason than all the world knows.
Taber.
Nay, if thou comest to know whether thou be’st a maid or no, I had best ask to know whether I be with child or no.
Wise-woman.
Withdraw into the parlour there; I’ll but talk with this other gentlewoman, and I’ll resolve you presently.
Taber.
Come, Cicely, if she cannot resolve thee, I can; and in the case of a maidenhead do more than she, I warrant thee.
[ExeuntTaberandKitchen-maid.
1st Citizen Wife.
Forsooth, I am bold, as they say——
Wise-woman.
You are welcome, gentlewoman.
1st Citizen Wife.
I would not have it known to my neighbours that I come to a wise-woman for any thing, by my truly.
Wise-woman.
For should your husband come and find you here—
1st Citizen Wife.
My husband, woman! I am a widow.
Wise-woman.
Where are my brains? ’Tis true, you are a widow; and you dwell—let me see, I can never remember that place.
1st Citizen Wife.
In Kent-street.
Wise-woman.
Kent-street, Kent-street! and I can tell you wherefore you come.
1st Citizen Wife.
Why, and say true?
Wise-woman.
You are a wag, you are a wag: why, what do you think now I would say?
1st Citizen Wife.
Perhaps to know how many husbands I should have.
Wise-woman.
And if I should say so, should I say amiss?
1st Citizen Wife.
I think you are a witch.
Wise-woman.
In, in: I’ll but read a little of Ptolemy and Erra Pater[16]; and when I have cast a figure, I’ll come to you presently. [ExeuntCitizens’ Wives.] Now, wag, what wouldst thou have?
2nd Luce.
[Aside.] If this were a wise-woman, she could tell that without asking. Now methinks I should come to know whether I were a boy or a girl.—Forsooth, I lack a service.
Wise-woman.
By my fidelity, and I want a good trusty lad.
2nd Luce.
[Aside.] Now could I sigh, and say “Alas! this is some bawd trade-fallen, and out of her wicked experience is come to be reputed wise.” I’ll serve her, be’t but to pry into the mystery of her science.
Wise-woman.
A proper stripling, and a wise, I warrant him.—Here’s a penny for thee, I’ll hire thee for a year by the Statute of Winchester;[17]prove true and honest, and thou shalt want nothing that a good boy—
2nd Luce.
Here, wise-woman, you are out again: I shall want what a good boy should have, whilst I live.—Well, here I shall live both unknown, and my sex unsuspected. But whom have we here?
EnterHaringfield,andYoungChartleyhalf drunk.
Young Chartley.
Come, Haringfield, now we have been drinking of Mother Red-cap’s ale, let us now go make some sport with the wise-woman.
Haringfield.
We shall be thought very wise men of all such as shall see us go in to the wise-woman’s.
Young Chartley.
See, here she is. How now, witch! How now, hag! How now, beldam! You are the wise-woman, are you? and have wit to keep yourself warm enough, I warrant you.
Wise-woman.
Out, thou knave!
2nd Luce.
And will these wild oats never be sown? [Aside.
Young Chartley.
You enchantress, sorceress, she-devil! you Madam Hecate, Lady Proserpine! you are too old, you hag, now, for conjuring up spirits yourself; but you keep pretty young witches under your roof, that can do that.
Wise-woman.
I or my family conjure up any spirits! I defy thee, thou young hare-brained—
Haringfield.
Forbear him till he have his senses about him, and I shall then hold thee for a wise-woman indeed: otherwise, I shall doubt thou hast thy name for nothing. Come, friend, away, if thou lovest me.
Young Chartley.
Away, you old dromedary! I’ll come one of these nights, and make a racket amongst your she-caterwaulers.
Haringfield.
I prithee let’s be civil.
Young Chartley.
Out of my sight, thou she-mastiff!
[ExeuntYoungChartleyandHaringfield.
2nd Luce.
Patience, sweet mistress.
Wise-woman.
Now, bless me, he hath put me into such a fear, as makes all my bones to dance and rattle in my skin: I’ll be revenged on that swaggering companion.
2nd Luce.
Mistress, I wish you would; he’s a mere mad-cap, and all his delight is in misusing such reverend matrons as yourself.
Wise-woman.
Well, what’s thy name, boy?
2nd Luce.
I am even little better than a turnbroach, for my name is Jack.
Wise-woman.
Honest Jack, if thou couldst but devise how I might cry quittance with this cutting Dick[18]I will go near to adopt thee my son and heir.
2nd Luce.
Mistress, there is a way, and this it is:
To-morrow morning doth this gentleman
Intend to marry with one Mistress Luce,
A goldsmith’s daughter; do you know the maid?
Wise-woman.
My daughter, and a pretty smug-faced girl. I had a note but late from her, and she means to be with me in the evening: for I have bespoke Sir Boniface to marry her in the morning.
2nd Luce.
Do but prevent this gallant of his wife,
And then your wrongs shall be revenged at full.
Wise-woman.
I’ll do’t, as I am matron; ay, and show him a new trick for his learning.
EnterBoyster.
Boyster.
Morrow.
Wise-woman.
You’re welcome, sir.
Boyster.
Art wise?
2nd Luce.
He should be wise, because he speaks few words.
Wise-woman.
I am as I am, and there’s an end.
Boyster.
Canst conjure?
Wise-woman.
Oh, that’s a foul word! but I can tell you your fortune, as they say; I have some little skill in palmistry, but never had to do with the devil.
Boyster.
And had the devil never anything to do with thee? thou look’st somewhat like his dam. Look on me: canst tell what I ail?
Wise-woman.
Can you tell yourself? I should guess you be mad, or not well in your wits.
Boyster.
Thou’rt wise, I am so: men being in love are mad, and I being in love am so.
Wise-woman.
Nay, if I see your complexion once, I think I can guess as near as another.
Boyster.
One Mistress Luce I love; know’st thou her, grannam?
Wise-woman.
As well as the beggar knows his dish. Why, she is one of my daughters.
Boyster.
Make her my wife, I’ll give thee forty pieces.
2nd Luce.
Take them, mistress, to be revenged on Chartley.
Wise-woman.
A bargain; strike me luck. Cease all your sorrow;
Fair Luce shall be your bride betimes to-morrow.
Boyster.
Thou’rt a good grannam; and, but that thy teeth stand like hedge-stakes in thy head, I’d kiss thee. [Exit.
Wise-woman.
Pray will you in? Come hither, Jack; I have a new trick come into my head: wilt thou assist me in’t?
2nd Luce.
If it concern the crossing of the marriage with Mistress Luce, I’ll do’t, whate’er it be.
Wise-woman.
Thou shalt be tired like a woman. Can you make a curtsey, take small strides, simper, and seem modest? methinks thou hast a woman’s voice already.
2nd Luce.
Doubt not of me, I’ll act them naturally.
Wise-woman.
I have conceited to have Luce married to this blunt gentleman, she mistaking him for Chartley; and Chartley shall marry thee, being a boy, and take thee for Luce. Will’t not be excellent?
2nd Luce.
Oh, super, super-excellent!
Wise-woman.
Play but thy part as I’ll act mine. I’ll fit him with a wife, I warrant him.
2nd Luce.
And a wife I’ll warrant him.
[Exeunt.
EnterSirHarryandTaber.
Sir Harry.
Ha, then thou sawest them whispering with my daughter?
Taber.
I saw them, if it shall please you, not whisper, but—
Sir Harry.
How then, thou knave!
Taber.
Marry, sir knight, I saw them in sad[19]talk; but to say they were directly whispering, I am not able.
Sir Harry.
Why, Taber, that sad talk was whispering.
Taber.
Nay, they did not greatly whisper, for I heard what was said, and what was said I have the wit to keep to myself.
Sir Harry.
What said the unthrift, Taber? tell me, knave;
Tell me, good knave, what did the unthrift say?
Taber.
I am loth to be called in question about men and women’s matters, but as soon as ever he saw your daughter I heard what was spoke.
Sir Harry.
Here, sirrah, take thy quarter’s wages afore-hand,
And tell me all their words, and what their greeting
Was at their first encounter; hold thine hand.
Taber.
Thanks, noble sir; and now I’ll tell you. Your daughter being walking to take the air of the fields, and I before her, whom should we meet just in the nick—
Sir Harry.
Just in the nick, man!
Taber.
In the highway I meant, sir.
Sir Harry.
Ha, and what conference passed betwixt them, Taber?
Taber.
As well as my pipe can utter, you shall know, sir. This gentleman meeting with my young mistress full butt—imagine you were she, and I young Master Sencer; now there you come, and here I meet you; he comes in this manner, and puts off his hat in this fashion.
Sir Harry.
Ay, but what said he?
Taber.
“Be with you,[20]fair gentlewoman;” and so goes quite away, and scarce so much as once looked back: and if this were language to offer to a young lady, judge you.
Sir Harry.
But spake he nothing else?
Taber.
Nothing, as I am true.
Sir Harry.
Why, man, all this was nothing.
Taber.
Yes, sir, it was as much as my quarter’s wages afore-hand.
EnterSencer, Haringfield,andGratiana.
Gratiana.
Here are two gentlemen, with great desire,
Crave conference with my father. Here he is:
Now, gallants, you may freely speak your minds.
Sencer.
Save you, sir! my name is Sencer; I am a Northamptonshire gentleman, born to a thousand pound land by the year: I love your daughter, and I am come to crave your good-will.
Sir Harry.
Have you my daughter’s, that you covet mine?
Sencer.
No, sir, but I hope in time I shall have.
Sir Harry.
So hope not I, sir. Sir, my daughter’s young,
And you a gentleman unknown. Sencer! ha, Sencer?
Oh, sir, your name I now remember well;
’Tis ranked ’mongst unthrifts, dicers, swaggerers, and drunkards:
Were not you brought before me, some month since,
For beating of the watch? by the same token,
I sent you to the Counter.[21]
Sencer.
I confess myself to have been in that action, but note the cause, sir: you could not have pleasured me so much, in giving me a piece of gold, as at the same time to help me to that Counter.
Sir Harry.
Why, sir, what cause had you to beat the watch,
And raise a midnight tumult in the streets?
Sencer.
Nay, but hear me, sweet Sir Harry. Being somewhat late at supper at the Mitre, the doors were shut at my lodging; I knocked at three or four places more; all were a-bed, and fast; inns, taverns, none would give me entertainment. Now, would you have had me despaired, and lain in the streets? No, I bethought me of a trick worth two of that, and presently devised, having at that time a charge of money about me, to be lodged, and safely too.
Sir Harry.
As how, I pray you?
Sencer.
Marry, thus: I had knocked my heels against the ground a good while, knew not where to have a bed for love or money. Now, what did I, but, spying the watch, went and hit the constable a good souse on the ear, who provided me of a lodging presently? and the next day, being brought before your worship, I was then sent thither back again, where I lay three or four days without control.
Sir Harry.
Oh, you’re a gallant! Is that gentleman
A suitor too?
Haringfield.
I am a suitor in my friend’s behalf,
No otherwise. I can assure you, sir,
He is a gentleman descended well,
Derived from a good house, well qualified,
And well possessed; but that which most should move you,
He loves your daughter.
Gratiana.
[Aside.] But were I to choose
Which of these two should please my fancy best,
I sooner should affect this gentleman,
For his mild carriage and his fair discourse,
Than my hot suitor. Ruffians I detest;
A smooth and square behaviour likes me most.
Sencer.
What say you to me, lady?
Gratiana.
You had best ask my father what I should say.
Sencer.
Are you angry, sweet lady, that I asked your father’s consent?
Gratiana.
No; if you can get his consent to marry him, shall it displease me?
Haringfield.
Indeed you therein much forget yourself,
To sound her father ere you tasted her.[22]
You should have first sought means for her goodwill,
And after compassed his.
Sir Harry.
He can prevail with neither.—Gentlemen,
If you will come to revel, you are welcome;
If to my table, welcome; if to use me
In any grateful office, welcome too;
But, if you come as suitors, there’s the door.
Sencer.
The door!
Sir Harry.
I say the door.
Sencer.
Why, sir, tell not me of your door, nor going out of it. Your company is fair and good, and so is your daughter’s; I’ll stay here this twelvemonth, ere I’ll offer to trouble your door.
Sir Harry.
Sir, but you shall not.—Taber! where’s that knave?
Sencer.
Why, sir, I hope you do not mean to make us dance, that you call for a tabor.
Haringfield.
Nay, Master Sencer, do not urge the knight;
He is incensed now; choose a fitter hour,
And tempt his love in that. Old men are testy;
Their rage, if stood against, grows violent,
But, suffered and forborne, confounds itself.
Sir Harry.
Where’s Taber?
Taber.[Coming forward.]
At hand, noble master.
Sir Harry.
Show them the door.
Taber.
That I will,—and take money too, if it please them.
Sencer.
Is thy name Taber?
Taber.
I am so yclept, sir.
Sencer.
And, Taber, are you appointed to give us Jack Drum’s entertainment?[23]
Taber.
Why, sir, you do not play upon me.
Sencer.
Though I cannot, yet I have known an hare that could. But, knight, thou dost not forbid us thine house?
Sir Harry.
Yes, and forewarn it too.
Sencer.
But, by thy favour, we may choose whether we will take any warning or no. Well, farewell, old knight! though thou forbid’st me thine house, I’ll honour thee, and extol thee; and, though thou keep’st me from thy daughter, thou shalt not hinder me to love her and admire her, and, by thy favour, sometimes to see her. A cat may look at a king, and so may I at her. Give me thine hand, knight; the next time I come into thy company, thou shalt not only bid me welcome, but hire me to stay with thee, and thy daughter.
Sir Harry.
When I do that enjoy my full consent
To marry Gratiana.
Sencer.
’Tis a match; strike me luck. Wife that may be, farewell; father-in-law that must be, adieu. Taber, play before my friend and I will dance after.
[ExeuntSencer, HaringfieldandTaber.
Sir Harry.
When I receive thee gladly to mine house,
And wage thy stay, thou shalt have Gratiana,
Doubt not thou shalt. Here’s a strange humourist
To come a-wooing. [Re-enterTaber.] Taber, are they gone?
Taber.
I have played them away, if it please your worship; and yonder at the door attends a schoolmaster; you sent for him, if you remember, to teach my little young master and mistress.
Sir Harry.
A proper scholar; pray him to come near.
EnterSir[24]Boniface.
Sir Boniface.
Eques honoratus, ave salutatus! non video quid est in tergo, sed salve, bona virgo.
Sir Harry.
Sir, you may call me nicknames: if you love me,
Speak in your mother-tongue; or, at the least,
If learning be so much allied unto you,
That Latin unawares flows from your lips,
To make your mind familiar with my knowledge,
Pray utter it in English: what’s your name?
Sir Boniface.
Sit faustum tibi omen.
I’ll tell you mynomen.
Sir Harry.
Will you tell it to no men?
I’ll entertain none ere I know their names.
Nay, if you be so dainty of your name,
You are not for my service.
Sir Boniface.
Intende, vir nobilis.
Sir Harry.
Not for twenty nobles:
Trust me, I will not buy your name so dear.
Sir Boniface.
O ignorantia! what it is to deal with stupidity? Sir Henry, Sir Henry, hear me one word: I see,Preceptor legit, vos vero negligitis.
Taber.
I think he saith we are a company of fools and nidgets;[25]but I hope you shall not find us such, Master Schoolmaster.
Sir Harry.
Friend, friend, to cut off all vain circumstance,
Tell me your name, and answer me directly,
Plainly, and to my understanding too,
Or I shall leave you. Here’s a deal of gibberish!
Sir Boniface.
Vir bone——
Sir Harry.
Nay, nay, make me no bones,[26]but do’t.
Sir Boniface.
Then, in plain vulgar English, I am called Sir Boniface Absee.
Sir Harry.
Why, this is somewhat like, Sir Boniface!
Give me thine hand; thou art a proper man,
And in my judgment, a great scholar too.
What shall I give thee by the year?
Sir Boniface.
I’ll trust, sir, to your generosity;
I will not bargain, but account myself,
Mille et mille modis, bound to you.
Sir Harry.
I cannot leave my mills; they’re farmed already:
The stipend that I give shall be in money.
Taber.
Sure, sir, this is some miller that comes to undermine you, in the shape of a schoolmaster.
Gratiana.
You both mistake the scholar.
Sir Harry.
I understand my English, that I know;
What’s more than modern doth surpass my reach.
Sir Boniface, come to me two days hence,
You shall receive an answer; I have now
Matters of some import that trouble me,
Thou shouldst be else despatched.
Taber.
Sir Boniface, if you come to live in our house, and be a familist amongst us, I shall desire your better acquaintance; your name and my physiognomy should have some consanguinity, good Sir Boniface.
Sir Boniface.
Quomodo vales, quomodo vales.
Taber.
Go with you to the ale-house? I like the motion well; I’ll make an excuse out of doors and follow you. I am glad yet, we shall have a good-fellow come into the house amongst us.
Sir Boniface.
Vale, vir magne.
Sir Harry.
You shall not have me at Saint Magnes, my house is here in Gracious-street.
Sir Boniface.
I know it, sweet knight, I know it. Then,virgo formosa et Domine gratiose valete.
Sir Harry.
Ay, in Gracious-street you shall hear of me, Sir Boniface.
[ExitSirBoniface.]
He shall instruct my children; and to thee,
Fair Gratiana, read the Latin tongue.
Taber.
Who shall? Sir Bawdy-face?
Sir Harry.
Sir Boniface, you fool.
Taber.
His name is so hard to hit on.
Sir Harry.
Come, daughter, if things fall out as I intend,
My thoughts shall peace have, and these troubles end.
[Exeunt.
Enter 2ndLuce,inwoman’sapparel, and theWise-woman.
Wise-woman.
Jack, thou art my boy.
2nd Luce.
Mistress!
Wise-woman.
I’ll be a mother to thee, no mistress. Come, lad, I must have thee sworn to the orders of my house, and the secrets thereof.
2nd Luce.
As I am an honest lad, I am yours to command. But, mistress, what mean all these women’s pictures, hanged here in your withdrawing-room?
Wise-woman.
I’ll tell thee, boy—marry, thou must be secret. When any citizens or young gentlemen come hither, under a colour to know their fortunes, they look upon these pictures, and which of them they best like, she is ready with a wet finger.[27]Here they have all the furniture belonging to a private-chamber,—bed, bed-fellow, and all. But mum! thou knowest my meaning, Jack.
2nd Luce.
But I see, coming and going, maids, or such as go for maids, some of them as if they were ready to lie down, sometimes two or three delivered in one night; then suddenly leave their brats behind them, and convey themselves into the city again:—what becomes of their children?
Wise-woman.
Those be kitchen-maids, and chamber-maids, and sometimes good men’s daughters, who, having catched a clap,[28]and growing near their time, get leave to see their friends in the country, for a week or so: then hither they come, and for a matter of money here they are delivered. I have a midwife or two belonging to the house, and one Sir Boniface, a deacon, that makes a shift to christen the infants; we have poor, honest, and secret neighbours, that stand for common gossips.[29]But dost not thou know this?
2nd Luce.
Yes, now I do; but what after becomes of the poor infants?
Wise-woman.
Why, in the night we send them abroad, and lay one at this man’s door, and another at that, such as are able to keep them; and what after becomes of them, we inquire not. And this is another string to my bow.
2nd Luce.
[Aside.] Most strange, that woman’s brain should apprehend
Such lawless, indirect, and horrid means
For covetous gain! How many unknown trades
Women and men are free of, which they never
Had charter for!
But, mistress, are you so cunning as you make yourself? you can neither write nor read: what do you with those books you so often turn over?
Wise-woman.
Why, tell[30]the leaves; for to be ignorant, and seem ignorant, what greater folly!
2nd Luce.
[Aside.] Believe me, this is a cunning woman; neither hath she her name for nothing, who out of her ignorance can fool so many that think themselves wise.—But wherefore have you built this little closet close to the door, where sitting, you may hear every word spoken by all such as ask for you?
Wise-woman.
True, and therefore I built it. If any knock, you must to the door and question them, to find what they come about,—if to this purpose, or to that. Now, they ignorantly telling thee their errand, which I, sitting in my closet, overhear, presently come forth, and tell them the cause of their coming, with every word that hath passed betwixt you in private; which they admiring, and thinking it to be miraculous, by their report I become thus famous.
2nd Luce.
This is no trade, but a mystery; and, were I a wise-woman, as indeed I am but a foolish boy, I need not live by your service. But, mistress, we lose ourselves in this discourse: is not this the morning in which I should be married?
Wise-woman.
Now, how had I forgot myself! Mistress Luce promised to be with me half an hour ago, but masked and disguised, and so shalt thou be too: here’s a black veil to hide thy face against the rest come.
[2ndLuceputs on the veil.
EnterSirBoniface.
Sir Boniface.
Sit tibi bona dies, salus et quies.
Wise-woman.
Into the withdrawing-room, Sir Boniface.
Sir Boniface.
Without any compunction, I will make the conjunction. [Exit.
Wise-woman.
Now keep thy countenance, boy.
2nd Luce.
Fear not me; I have as good a face in a mask as any lady in the land could wish to have. But to my heart,—he comes, or he comes not—now am I in a pitiful perplexity, until I see the event of all.
Wise-woman.
No more Jack now, but Mistress Luce.
2nd Luce.
I warrant you, mistress.—That it happens so luckily, that my name should be Luce too, to make the marriage more firm!
EnterYoungChartleydisguised, and in a visard.
Young Chartley.
My honey-sweet hag, where’s Luce?
Wise-woman.
Here, sweetheart, but disguised and veiled, as you are visarded.
Young Chartley.
But what’s the reason we are thus hoodwinked?
Wise-woman.
No discovery of yourselves for a million! There’s Sir Boniface within—shall he blab who you are? besides, there’s a young heir that hath stolen a lord’s daughter from the Court, and would not have their faces seen for a world. Cannot you be content to fare well, and keep your own counsel? And see, yonder they come.
Enter, severally,Boystervisarded andLucemasked.
Young Chartley.
Gramercy, my sugar-candy sweet Trot!
Wise-woman.
Mum, no more words.
Young Chartley.
If the great heir and the young lady be so dainty of their complexions, they shall see, my sweet Luce, we can visard it with the best of them.
Luce.[Looking atBoyster.]
That gentleman, by the wise-woman’s description, should be Master Chartley.
Boyster.
That gallant wench, if my grannam fable not, should be Luce; but what be those other?
Wise-woman.
You wrong me but to ask. Who but a young heir, and a lady of the Court? That’s Luce; take her, and keep your promise.
Boyster.
Pocas palabras.[31]
Wise-woman.
That’s Chartley; take him, Luce.
Luce.
But who be they?
Wise-woman.
A lord and lady. Shall Sir Boniface stay?
Rather than so, strive who should lead the way.
[ExeuntChartleywith 2ndLuce, BoysterwithLuce.
Wise-woman.
Now, Jack my boy, keep thine own counsel and countenance, and I shall cry quittance with my young gallant. Well, by this time Sir Boniface is at his book. But because there is a mistake, known only to my boy and myself, the marriage shall be no sooner ended but I’ll disturb them by some sudden outcry, and that too before they have leisure to unmask, and make known themselves one to another; for, if the deceit were known, I should fall into the danger of that young mad rascal. And now this double apprehension of the lord and the lady shall fetch me off from all. I know it is Sir Boniface’s custom to make short work, and hath dispatched by this. And now, wise-woman, try if thou canst bestir thyself like to a mad-woman.—Shift for yourselves! Warrants and pursuivants! Away! warrants and pursuivants! shift for yourselves!
Re-enter, as affrighted and amazed, YoungChartley, Boyster, SirBoniface, Luce,and 2ndLuce.
Young Chartley.
I’ll take this way.
Boyster.
I this.
[ExeuntYoungChartleyandBoyster.
Sir Boniface.
Curro, curris, cucurri: my cheeks are all murrey,[32]and I am gone in an hurry. [Exit.
Luce.
O Heaven! what shall become of me?
2nd Luce.
I know what shall become of me already.
Wise-woman.
O sweet daughter, shift clothes with this lady. Nay, as thou lovest thy credit and mine, change habits—[They change their outer garments.]—So, if thou be’st taken in her garments, finding the mistake will let thee pass; and should they meet her in thine, not knowing her, would no way question her; and this prove to both your securities and my safety.
Luce.
As fast as I can, good mother. So, madam, farewell. [Exit.
2nd Luce.
All happy joys betide you! [Exit.