Scene II The Street Outside the Goldsmith’s Shop
Enter Boyster.
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.
Enter Luce and Joseph.
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!
[Enter Sir Harry, Haringfield, Young Chartley leading Gratiana by the arm, Taber, and Attendants.]
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.
[Boyster holds 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. [Enter Luce’s Father.] 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.
[Exeunt Sir Harry, Haringfield, Young Chartley, and Gratiana.
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 Fields48
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.
Is this his damasked kirtle fringed with gold,
His black bag, and his beaver? ’Tis well yet
I have a sword.
Luce.
And I have a project in my brain begot,
To make his own mouth witness to the world
My innocence, and his incontinence.
Leave it to me, I’ll clear myself from blame,
Though I the wrong, yet he shall reap the shame.
[Exeunt.