The Wise-Woman of Hogsdon
Act the First
Scene I A Room in a Tavern
Enter, as newly come from play, Young Chartley, Sencer, Boyster, and Haringfield.
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 bale1 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.
[Exeunt Sencer and Haringfield.
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.