Chapter XXII: Act THE THIRD

SCENE I.--_A Room in the_ Wise-woman’s _House_.

_Enter 2nd_ Luce, _in_ woman’s _apparel, and the_ Wise-woman.

Wise-woman.
Jack, thou art my boy.

2nd Luce.
Mistress!

Wise-woman.
I’ll be a mother to thee, no mistress. Come, lad, I must have thee
sworn to the orders of my house, and the secrets thereof.

2nd Luce.
As I am an honest lad, I am yours to command. But, mistress, what
mean all these women’s pictures, hanged here in your
withdrawing-room?

Wise-woman.
I’ll tell thee, boy--marry, thou must be secret. When any citizens
or young gentlemen come hither, under a colour to know their
fortunes, they look upon these pictures, and which of them they best
like, she is ready with a wet finger.[4.27] Here they have all the
furniture belonging to a private-chamber,--bed, bed-fellow, and all.
But mum! thou knowest my meaning, Jack.

2nd Luce.
But I see, coming and going, maids, or such as go for maids, some of
them as if they were ready to lie down, sometimes two or three
delivered in one night; then suddenly leave their brats behind them,
and convey themselves into the city again:--what becomes of their
children?

Wise-woman.
Those be kitchen-maids, and chamber-maids, and sometimes good
men’s daughters, who, having catched a clap,[4.28] and growing
near their time, get leave to see their friends in the country, for
a week or so: then hither they come, and for a matter of money here
they are delivered. I have a midwife or two belonging to the house,
and one Sir Boniface, a deacon, that makes a shift to christen the
infants; we have poor, honest, and secret neighbours, that stand for
common gossips.[4.29] But dost not thou know this?

2nd Luce.
Yes, now I do; but what after becomes of the poor infants?

Wise-woman.
Why, in the night we send them abroad, and lay one at this man’s
door, and another at that, such as are able to keep them; and what
after becomes of them, we inquire not. And this is another string to
my bow.

2nd Luce.
[_Aside_.] Most strange, that woman’s brain should apprehend
Such lawless, indirect, and horrid means
For covetous gain! How many unknown trades
Women and men are free of, which they never
Had charter for!
But, mistress, are you so cunning as you make yourself? you can
neither write nor read: what do you with those books you so often
turn over?

Wise-woman.
Why, tell[4.30] the leaves; for to be ignorant, and seem ignorant,
what greater folly!

2nd Luce.
[_Aside_.] Believe me, this is a cunning woman; neither hath she her
name for nothing, who out of her ignorance can fool so many that
think themselves wise.--But wherefore have you built this little
closet close to the door, where sitting, you may hear every word
spoken by all such as ask for you?

Wise-woman.
True, and therefore I built it. If any knock, you must to the door
and question them, to find what they come about,--if to this
purpose, or to that. Now, they ignorantly telling thee their errand,
which I, sitting in my closet, overhear, presently come forth, and
tell them the cause of their coming, with every word that hath
passed betwixt you in private; which they admiring, and thinking it
to be miraculous, by their report I become thus famous.

2nd Luce.
This is no trade, but a mystery; and, were I a wise-woman, as indeed
I am but a foolish boy, I need not live by your service. But,
mistress, we lose ourselves in this discourse: is not this the
morning in which I should be married?

Wise-woman.
Now, how had I forgot myself! Mistress Luce promised to be with me
half an hour ago, but masked and disguised, and so shalt thou be
too: here’s a black veil to hide thy face against the rest come.

[_2nd_ Luce _puts on the veil_.

_Enter_ Sir Boniface.

Sir Boniface.
_Sit tibi bona dies, salus et quies_.

Wise-woman.
Into the withdrawing-room, Sir Boniface.

Sir Boniface.
Without any compunction, I will make the conjunction. [_Exit_.

Wise-woman.
Now keep thy countenance, boy.

2nd Luce.
Fear not me; I have as good a face in a mask as any lady in the land
could wish to have. But to my heart,--he comes, or he comes not--now
am I in a pitiful perplexity, until I see the event of all.

Wise-woman.
No more Jack now, but Mistress Luce.

2nd Luce.
I warrant you, mistress.--That it happens so luckily, that my name
should be Luce too, to make the marriage more firm!

_Enter_ Young Chartley _disguised, and in a visard_.

Young Chartley.
My honey-sweet hag, where’s Luce?

Wise-woman.
Here, sweetheart, but disguised and veiled, as you are visarded.

Young Chartley.
But what’s the reason we are thus hoodwinked?

Wise-woman.
No discovery of yourselves for a million! There’s Sir Boniface
within--shall he blab who you are? besides, there’s a young heir
that hath stolen a lord’s daughter from the Court, and would not
have their faces seen for a world. Cannot you be content to fare
well, and keep your own counsel? And see, yonder they come.

_Enter, severally_, Boyster _visarded and_ Luce _masked_.

Young Chartley.
Gramercy, my sugar-candy sweet Trot!

Wise-woman.
Mum, no more words.

Young Chartley.
If the great heir and the young lady be so dainty of their
complexions, they shall see, my sweet Luce, we can visard it with
the best of them.

Luce. [_Looking at_ Boyster.]
That gentleman, by the wise-woman’s description, should be Master
Chartley.

Boyster.
That gallant wench, if my grannam fable not, should be Luce; but
what be those other?

Wise-woman.
You wrong me but to ask. Who but a young heir, and a lady of the
Court? That’s Luce; take her, and keep your promise.

Boyster.
_Pocas palabras_.[4.31]

Wise-woman.
That’s Chartley; take him, Luce.

Luce.
But who be they?

Wise-woman.
A lord and lady. Shall Sir Boniface stay?
Rather than so, strive who should lead the way.

[_Exeunt_ Chartley _with 2nd_ Luce, Boyster _with_ Luce.

Wise-woman.
Now, Jack my boy, keep thine own counsel and countenance, and I
shall cry quittance with my young gallant. Well, by this time Sir
Boniface is at his book. But because there is a mistake, known only
to my boy and myself, the marriage shall be no sooner ended but
I’ll disturb them by some sudden outcry, and that too before they
have leisure to unmask, and make known themselves one to another;
for, if the deceit were known, I should fall into the danger of that
young mad rascal. And now this double apprehension of the lord and
the lady shall fetch me off from all. I know it is Sir Boniface’s
custom to make short work, and hath dispatched by this. And now,
wise-woman, try if thou canst bestir thyself like to a
mad-woman.--Shift for yourselves! Warrants and pursuivants! Away!
warrants and pursuivants! shift for yourselves!

_Re-enter, as affrighted and amazed_, Young Chartley, Boyster,
Sir Boniface, Luce, _and 2nd_ Luce.

Young Chartley.
I’ll take this way.

Boyster.
I this.

[_Exeunt_ Young Chartley _and_ Boyster.

Sir Boniface.
_Curro, curris, cucurri_: my cheeks are all murrey,[4.32] and I am
gone in an hurry. [_Exit_.

Luce.
O Heaven! what shall become of me?

2nd Luce.
I know what shall become of me already.

Wise-woman.
O sweet daughter, shift clothes with this lady. Nay, as thou lovest
thy credit and mine, change habits--[_They change their outer
garments_.]--So, if thou be’st taken in her garments, finding the
mistake will let thee pass; and should they meet her in thine, not
knowing her, would no way question her; and this prove to both your
securities and my safety.

Luce.
As fast as I can, good mother. So, madam, farewell. [_Exit_.

2nd Luce.
All happy joys betide you! [_Exit_.

Wise-woman.
Ha, ha! let me hold my sides, and laugh. Here were even a plot to
make a play on, but that Chartley is so fooled by my boy Jack: well,
he’ll make a notable wag, I’ll warrant him. All the jest will be, if
Boyster should meet with him in Luce’s habit, which he hath now on,
he would think himself merely gulled and cheated; and should
Chartley meet with Luce as she is now robed, he would be confident
he had married her. Let me see how many trades have I to live by:
first, I am a wise-woman, and a fortune-teller, and under that I
deal in physic and fore-speaking, in palmistry, and recovering of
things lost; next, I undertake to cure mad folks; then I keep
gentlewomen lodgers, to furnish such chambers as I let out by the
night; then I am provided for bringing young wenches to bed; and,
for a need, you see I can play the match-maker.
She that is but one, and professeth so many,
May well be termed a wise-woman, if there be any. [_Exit_.

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?[4.33] 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 woe[4.34] 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.[4.35]

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
fitters[4.36] 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 toy[4.37]
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
popering[4.38] 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
cope[4.39] 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.[4.40]

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
Bristowe[4.41] 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 branched[4.42]
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_.