Scene II Before the Wise-woman’s House
Enter Boyster.
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 marry in 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 2nd Luce, 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 woe34 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 fitters36 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.
Enter Young Chartley and his Man, and Luce, 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 toy37 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—
Enter Gratiana in haste, a Serving-man before her, and Taber after 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.
[Exeunt Gratiana and Serving-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-enter Taber.
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 popering38 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 cope39 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.
Enter Luce and her Father.
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 Bristowe41 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.—[Exit Luce.]—Let me see, how much branched42 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-enter Luce with 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.
Enter Boyster.
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-enter Boyster.
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.