SCENE—LONDON AND HOGSDON.
ACT THE FIRST.
ENTER, AS NEWLY COME FROM PLAY, YOUNG CHARTLEY, SENCER, BOYSTER, AND HARINGFIELD.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
Price of my life! now, if the devil have bones,
These dice are made of his. Was ever such
A cast seen in this age? Could any gull
In Europe, saving myself, fling such a cast?
BOYSTER.
Ay.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
No.
BOYSTER.
Yes.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
But I say no: I have lost an hundred pound,
And I will have my saying.
BOYSTER.
I have lost another hundred, I’ll have mine.
Ay, yes, I flung a worse,—a worse by odds.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
I cry you mercy, sir; losers may speak;
I’ll not except ’gainst you: but let me see
Which of these two that pocket up our cash
Dares contradict me?
SENCER.
Sir, not I:
I say you have had bad casting.
HARINGFIELD.
So say I.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
I say this hat’s not made of wool:
Which of you all dares say the contrary?
SENCER.
It may be ’tis a beaver.
HARINGFIELD.
Very likely so: ’tis not wool, but a plain beaver.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
’Tis wool, but which of you dares say so?—[Aside.] I would fain pick a quarrel with them, to get some of my money again; but the slaves now they have got it, are too wise to part with it. I say it is not black.
HARINGFIELD.
So say we too.
BOYSTER.
’Tis false: his cap’s of wool; ’tis black and wool, and wool and black.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
I have nought to say to losers. Have I nothing left to set at a cast? Ay, finger, must you be set in gold, and not a jot of silver in my purse? A bale[1] of fresh dice! Ho, come at this ring!
SENCER.
Fie, Master Chartley! ’tis time to give over.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
That’s the winner’s phrase. Hold me play, or he that hath uncrowned me, I’ll take a speedy order with him.
BOYSTER.
Fresh dice! This jewel I will venture more:
Take this and all. I’ll play in spite of luck.
HARINGFIELD.
Since you will needs, trip for the dice. I see it is hard to go a winner from this company.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
The dice are mine. This diamond I value at twenty marks:[2] I’ll venture it at a throw.
HARINGFIELD.
’Tis set you.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
Then at all. All’s mine. Nay, Master Boyster, I bar you: let us work upon the winners. Gramercy, cinques! Nay, though I owe you no quarrel, yet you must give me leave to draw.
HARINGFIELD.
I had rather you should draw your sword
Than draw my money thus.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
Again, sweet dice. Nay, I bar swearing: gentlemen, let’s play patiently. Well, this at the candlestick, so— [He throws out.
BOYSTER.
Now, dice, at all. Todo, quoth the Spaniard.
SENCER.
Here’s precious luck.
BOYSTER.
Why, via! I think ’tis quicksilver; it goes and comes so fast: there’s life in this.
HARINGFIELD.
He passes all with treys.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
With treys, how say by that? Oh, he’s old dog at bowls and treys!
SENCER.
Lend me some money: be my half one cast.
I’ll once out-brave this gamester with a throw.
So, now the dice are mine, wilt be my half?
HARINGFIELD.
I will.
SENCER.
Then once I’ll play the frank gamester.
Let me but see how much you both can make,
And I’ll cast at all, all, every cross.[3]
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
Now, bless us all, what will you every cross?
SENCER.
I will not leave myself one cross to bless me.
BOYSTER.
I set.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
And so do I.
SENCER.
Why, then, at all. How! [He flings out.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
Nay, swear not; let’s play patiently.
SENCER.
Damned dice! did ever gamester see the like?
BOYSTER.
Never, never.
SENCER.
Was ever known such casting?
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
Drunk nor sober, I ne’er saw a man cast worse.
SENCER.
I’ll prove this hat of mine an helmet. Which of you here dares say the contrary?
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
As fair an helmet as any man in Europe needs to wear.
SENCER.
Chartley, thy hat is black.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
Upon better recollection, ’tis so indeed.
SENCER.
I say ’tis made of wool.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
True, my losing had took away my senses,
Both of seeing and feeling; but better luck
Hath brought them to their right temper.
But come—a pox of dice! ’tis time to give over.
SENCER.
All times are times for winners to give over,
But not for them that lose. I’ll play till midnight,
But I will change my luck.
HARINGFIELD.
Come, come, you shall not.
Give over; tush, give over; do, I pray,
And choose the fortune of some other hour:
Let’s not, like debauched fellows, play our clothes,
Belts, rapiers, nor our needful ornaments:
’Tis childish, not becoming gentlemen.
Play was at first ordained to pass the time;
And, sir, you but abuse the use of play
To employ it otherwise.
SENCER.
You may persuade me.
For once I’ll leave a loser.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
Then come, put on your helmet; let’s leave this abominable game, and find out some better exercise. I cannot endure this chafing when men lose.
SENCER.
And there’s not a more testy waspish companion than thyself when thou art a loser, and yet thou must be vexing others with “Play patiently, gentlemen, and let’s have no swearing.”
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
A sign that I can give good counsel better than take it: but say, where be the prettiest wenches, my hearts?
SENCER.
Well remembered; this puts me in mind of an appointment I had with a gentlewoman of some respect.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
I have you, sir, I have you; but I think you will never have her: ’tis Gratiana, the knight’s daughter in Gracious Street.[4] Have I touched you?
SENCER.
You have come somewhat near me, but touched me not. Master Haringfield, will you bear me company thither? Have you seen the gentlewoman, Master Chartley?
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
Never, sir.
SENCER.
How have you heard of her?
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
That she hath as other women have; that she goes for a maid, as others do, &c.[5]
SENCER.
I can assure you she is a proper gentlewoman.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
Then, if she have you, she is like to have a proper gentleman.
SENCER.
You should tell them so that know it not. Adieu, gentlemen.
[EXEUNT SENCER AND
HARINGFIELD.
BOYSTER.
I am glad yet they go so lightly away.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
What will you do, Master Boyster?
BOYSTER.
Somewhat.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
You will not acquaint me with your business?
BOYSTER.
No. I am in love; my head is full of proclamations. There is a thing called a virgin. Nature hath showed her art in making her. Court her I cannot, but I’ll do as I may.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
Do you go or stay, sir?
BOYSTER.
Go. [Exit.
YOUNG CHARTLEY.
You before, I’ll follow.—He thinks, with his blunt humour, to enter as far as I with my sharp. No, my true Trojan, no: there is a fair, sweet, modest rogue, her name is Luce; with this dandiprat, this pretty little ape’s face, is yon blunt fellow in love; and no marvel, for she hath a brow bewitching, eyes ravishing, and a tongue enchanting; and, indeed, she hath no fault in the world but one, and that is, she is honest; and were it not for that, she were the only sweet rogue in Christendom. As I live, I love her extremely, and to enjoy her would give anything; but the fool stands in her own light, and will do nothing without marriage. But what should I do marrying? I can better endure gyves than bands of matrimony. But in this meditation, I am glad I have won my money again. Nay, and she may be glad of it too; for the girl is but poor, and in my pocket I have laid up a stock for her,—’tis put to use already. And if I meet not with a dice-house or an ordinary by the way, no question but I may increase it to a sum. Well, I’ll unto the Exchange to buy her some pretty novelty: that done, I’ll visit my little rascal, and solicit instantly. [Exit.
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 intend[6] 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 fancy[7] 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 bring[10] 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 John[12] 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.