Chapter XXI: Act THE SECOND

SCENE I.--_Before the_ Wise-woman’s _House_.

_Enter the_ Wise-woman, _a_ Countryman _with a urinal, two_ Citizens’ Wives, Taber, _and a_ Kitchen-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 2nd_ Luce _in 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[4.13] 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;[4.14] 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;[4.15] 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.

[_Exit_ Countryman.

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.

[_Exeunt_ Taber _and_ Kitchen-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[4.16];
and when I have cast a figure, I’ll come to you presently.
[_Exeunt_ Citizens’ 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;[4.17] 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?

_Enter_ Haringfield, _and_ Young Chartley _half 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!

[_Exeunt_ Young Chartley _and_ Haringfield.

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[4.18] 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.

_Enter_ Boyster.

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_.

SCENE II.--_A Room in_ Sir Harry’s _House_.

_Enter_ Sir Harry _and_ Taber.

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[4.19] 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,[4.20] 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.

_Enter_ Sencer, Haringfield, _and_ Gratiana.

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.[4.21]

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.[4.22]
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?[4.23]

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.

[_Exeunt_ Sencer, Haringfield _and_ Taber.

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-enter_ Taber.] 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.

_Enter_ Sir[4.24] 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 my _nomen_.

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;[4.25] 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,[4.26] 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.
[_Exit_ Sir Boniface.]
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_.