Scene II Before the Goldsmith’s Shop
Enter Luce at work upon a laced handkerchief, and Joseph.
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.
Enter Boyster.
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 intend6 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 fancy7 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.
Enter Young Chartley, 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
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.
Enter Luce’s Father, a plain Citizen.
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?
Enter 2nd Luce in the habit of a Page; 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 bring10 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 John12 at her elbow, ready for such a stratagem.
Young Chartley.
Well, be’t so, then.
[Exeunt all except 2nd Luce.
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.