Actus primus, Scena prima.

PRice of my life: now if the Devill have bones, these Dyce are made of his. Was ever such a cast seene in this Age? Could any Gull in Eu­rope (saving my selfe) fling such a cast?

Eye.

No.

Yes.

So [...]ay I.

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It may bee [...].

Very likely [...] Beaver.

[...] would faine [...] a [...] with [...], to get [...] of [...] money againe; but the [...] they have [...] wise to part with it.

I say it is not blacke.

So say wee too.

[...] false: his Cap's of Wooll, ▪tis blacke, and Wooll, and Wooll and blacke.

Fie M. [...], 'tis time to [...] over.

That's the Winners phrase: Hold me play; Or hee that hath uncrown'd me, [...] take a [...] order with him.

'Tis [...] you.

Againe sweet Dice: nay I barre swearing, Gentlemen, let's play patiently. Well, this At the Candlesticke, so—

Now Dic [...] at all. To tho, quoth the [...].

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[...] precious lucke.

Hee [...] all with [...].

I will.

Now blesse us all, what will you every Crosse [...]

I will not leave my selfe one Crosse to blesse me.

I set.

And so doe I.

Why then at all. How▪

Nay, sweare not, lets play patiently.

Damn'd Dice: did ever Gamester see the like?

Never, never.

Was ever knowne such [...]?

Drunke nor sober, I ne're saw a man cast worse.

As faire an Helmet as any man in [...] Needs to weare.

[...], thy Hat is blacke.

Vpon better recollection, 'tis so indeed.

I say 'tis made of Wooll.

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Then [...] put on your Helmet; let's leave this abominable Game, and find out some better Exercise. I can­not indure this [...] when men loose.

And there's not a more testie waspish Companion then thy selfe when thou art a looser, and yet thou must bee vexing others with, Play patiently Gentlemen, and lets have no swearing.

A signe that I can giv [...] good counsell better than take it: but say, Where be the prettiest wenches, my hearts?

Well remembred, this puts mee in mind of an ap­pointment I had with a Gentlewoman of some respect.

I have you sir, I have you; but I think you will ne­ver have her: 'tis [...] the Knights daughter in Graci­ous Street. Have I toucht you?

You have come somewhat neere me, but toucht me not. Master Haringfield, will you beare me company thither? Have you seene the Gentlewoman, M. [...]?

Never sir.

How have you heard of her?

I can assure you, shee is a proper G [...]ntlewoman.

Then i [...] she have you, she is like to have a proper Gentleman.

You should tell them so that know it not. Adjew Gentlemen.

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I am glad yet they goe so lightly away.

What will you doe M. Boyster?

Somewhat.

You will not acquaint me with your businesse.

No: I am in love, my head is full of Proclama­tions. There is a thing call'd a Virgin. Nature hath shewed her Art in making her. Court her I cannot, but Ile doe as I may.

Doe you goe, or stay sir?

Goe.

You before, Ile follow. He thinkes with his blunt humour, to enter as farre as I with my sharpe: No, my true Trojan, no: There is a faire sweet modest rogue, her name is Luce: with this Dandiprat, this pretty little Apes face, is yon blunt fellow in love; and no marvell, for shee hath a Browe bewitching, Eyes ravishing, and a Tongue en­chanting: And indeed shee hath no fault in the world but one, and that is, shee is honest: and were it not for that, shee were the onely sweet Rogue in Christendome. As I live, I love her extreamely, and to enjoy her would give any thing: But the foole stands in her owne light, and will doe nothing without Marriage: but what should I doe marrying? I can better indure Gives, than Bands of Matrimonie. But in this Meditation, I am glad I have wonne my Money againe. Nay, and shee may be glad of it too: for the Girle is but poore, and in my pockett I have layd up a Stocke for her, 'tis put to use alreadie. And if I meete not with a Dyce-house, or an Ordinary by the way, no question but I may increase it to a summe. Well, Ile unto the Exchange to buy her some prettie Noveltie: That done, Ile visite my little Rascall, and sollicite instantly.

Actus primus, Scena secunda.

Where is my Father? Ioseph.

Yonders Luce. Save thee.

Yes.

Ioseph, shew the Gentleman.

Tis heere that I would buy.

Thee.

Mee?

Yes, thee.

You are fayre.

You flout mee.

Well, you may say your pleasure.

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I love thee.

Oh Sir!

As I live, I doe.

Love mee, prethee now, doe if thou canst▪

I cannot.

[...], if thou canst.

Indeed I cannot.

Y [...]t aske thine heart, an [...] see what may be done.

Must-not?

I cannot, nor I may not.

What meane you Sir, by this?

Guesse that by the circumstance, here's a Ring▪ weare't for my sake; twenty Angels, pocket them you foole; come, come, I know thou art a Maid, say nay, and take them.

Harke in thine eare, Ile tell thee; nay heare me out, is't possible so soft a body should have so hard a soule? Nay now I know my penance, you will be angry, and schoole me for tempting your modesty: a figge for this modesty, it hin­ders many a g [...]od man from many a good turne, & that's all the good it doth. If thou but knewst, Luce, how I love thee, thou wouldst be farre more tractable. Nay, I barre chiding when you speake▪ Ile stop thy lips if thou dost but offer an angry word, by this hand Ile di' [...], and with this hand too. Goe to now, what say you?

The stocke I can, thou maist see the fruits here­after.

Honour! there's another word to flap in a mans mouth: Honour! what shouldst thou and I stand upon our Honour, that were neither of us yet, Right Worship­full?

You shall not, Luce.

Then keepe your tongue within more moderate bounds.

I will, as I am vertuous, I will: I told you, the second word would be Marriage. It makes a man forfeit his Freedome, and makes him walke ever after with a Chaine at his heeles, or a Iack-an-Apes hanging at his el­bow: Marriage is like [...] his labyrinth, and being once in, there's no finding the way out. Well, I love this little property most intollerably, and I must set her on the Last, though it cost me all the shooes in my shop. Well Luce, thou seest my stomacke is come downe; thou hast my heart already, there's my hand.

But in what way?

Nay, I know not the way yet, but I hope to find it hereafter, by your good direction.

I meane, in what manner? in what way?

In the way of marriage, in the way of honesty, in the way that was never gone yet: I hop [...] thou art a Maid, Luce.

A bargaine, and there's earnest on thy lips▪

Father, save you, you have happened of an [...] ­ward Son-in-Law; here I am, how doe you like mee?

Marry, even to morrow by that we can see; [...], [...] lose no more time, [...]le [...]ake order for that.

Stay but a moneth.

A [...] I thou canst not hire me too't. Why L [...]ce, if thou beest hungry, [...] thou stay a moneth from meat? Nay, if I see my diet before me, I love to fall too when I have a stomacke. Here, buy thee a new Smocke; let's have a new Bed too, and looke it be strong: there's a box of Rings and Jewels, lay the [...] up. Ha [...]; me thinkes the very name of Wedlock h [...]th brought me to a Night-cap already, and I am growne civill on the [...]. There's more money for Dishes, Platters, Ladles, Candlesticks, &c. as I shall [...] them [...] downe in the Inventorie.

But whom shall wee invite unto the Wed­ding?

Ey, thereby hangs a Tale, we will have no more at our marriage, but my selfe, 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 Clerke, and cry Amen.

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Your reason for that.

I would not for a world it should bee knowne to my Friendes, or come to my Fathers care. It may bee tenne thousand pounds out of my way for the pre­sent: therefore this is my conceite, Let us bee marryed privately, and L [...]ce shall live like a Mayde still, and beare the Name. Tis nothing L [...]ce: it is a common thing in this age to goe for a Mayde, and bee none. Ile frequent the house secretly: [...]eare not Girle, though I revell abroad a dayes, Ile bee with thee to bring a nights, my little Whi­ting Mopp.

Scandall? what scandall? Why to stopp the mouth of all scandall, after some few dayes do [...] I ap­peare in my likenesse, marri [...]d man and honest hous-keeper, and then what becomes of your scandall? Come, send for M ^r. Vicar, and what we doe, lets doe suddenly.

Cold comfort for me.

If you purpose to be so privately married, I know one excellent at such an exployt: are you not acquainted with the [...] of Hogsdon?

O the Witch, the Beldame, the Hagge of Hog [...]don.

The same, but I hold her to bee of no such con­dition. I will anone make a steppe thither▪ and pun­ctually acquaint her vvith all our proceedings: shee is never without a Sir Iohn at her elbow, ready for such a stratagem.

Well, bee't so then.

Heigh ho [...]: have I disguis'd my selfe, and stolne out of the Countrey thus farre, and can light of no better newes to entertaine mee? Oh this wild-headed wicked Chartley, whome nothing will tame. To this Gallant was I poore Gentle-woman betroathed, and the Marriage day appoynted: But hee out of a fantastick and [Page] giddy humour, before the time prefixed, posts up to Lon­don. After him come I thus habited, and you see my welcome, to bee an [...]are-witnesse of his second Contra­cting. Modestie would not suffer mee to discover my selfe, otherwise, I should have gone neere to have marred the match. I heard them talke of Hogsdon, and a Wise-wo­man, where these Aymes shall bee brought to Action. Ile see if I can insinuate my selfe into her service: that's my next project: and now good luck of my side.

Actus secundus, Scena prima.

Here forsooth Mistresse.

And who distill'd this water?

My wives Limbeck, if it pl [...]ase you.

And where doth the paine hold her most?

Marry at her heart forsooth.

Ey, at hor heart, [...] hath a griping at her heart.

You have hit it right.

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Nay, I can see so much in the Vrine.

Iust so much as is told her.

Shee hath no paine in her head, hath shee?

No indeed, I never heard her complaine of her head.

O queasie, and sicke at stomacke.

Ey, I warrant you, I thinke I can see as farre into a Mill-stone as another: you have heard of Mother Notingham, who for her time, was prettily well skill'd in casting of Waters: and after her, Mother Bombye; and then there is one Hatfield in Pepper-Alley, hee doth prettie well for a thing that's lost. There's another in Coleharbour, that's skill'd in the Planets. Mother Sturton in Goulden-lane, is for Forespeaking: Mother Phillips of the Banke-side, for the weaknesse of the backe: and then there's a very reverent Matron on Clarkenwell-Green, good at many things: Mistris Mary on the [...]-side, is for recting a Figure: and one (what doe you cal [...] her) in Westminster, that practiseth the Booke and the Key, and the Sive and the Sheares: and all doe well, according to their talent. For my selfe, let the world speake: harke you my friend, you shall take—

Now friend, your businesse?

And what's your suit, Lady?

Forsooth, I come to know whether I be a Maid or no.

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Why, art thou in doubt of that?

It may bee I have more reason then all the world knowes.

Nay, if thou com'st to know whether thou beest a Maid or no, I had best aske to know whether I be with c [...]ild or no.

Withdraw into the Parlour there, Ile but talke with this other Gentlewoman, and He resolve you pre­sently.

Come Si [...]y, if shee cannot resolve thee, I can, and in the Case of a Mayden-head doe more then shee, I warrant thee.

Forsooth I am bold, as they say.

You are welcome Gentlewoman.—

I would not have it knowne to my Neighbours, that I come to a Wise-woman for any thing, by my truly.

For should your Husband come and find you here.

My Husband woman, I am a Widdow.

Where are my braines? 'tis true, you are a Widdow; and you dwell, let me see, I can never remember that place.

In K [...]ntstreet.

Kentstreet, Kentstreet! and I can tell you wher­fore you come.

Why, and say true?

You are a Wagge, you are a Wagge: why, what doe you thinke now I would say?

Perhaps, to know how many Husbands I should have.

And if I should say so, sh [...]uld I say amisse?

I thinke you are a Witch.

In, in, Ile but reade a little of Ptolomie, and Erra Pater; and when I have cast a Figure, Ile come to you presently.

[Page]Now Wagge, what wouldst thou have?

If this were a Wisewoman, shee could tell that without asking. Now me thinkes I should come to know whether I were a Boy or a Girle; forsooth I lacke a service.

By my Fidelitie, and I want a good t [...]sty Lad.

Now could I sigh, and say, Alas, [...] is some Bawd trade-falne, and out of her wicked experience, is come to bee reputed wise. Ile serve her, bee't but to pry m­to the mysterie of her Science.

A proper strip [...]ing, and a wise, I warrant him; here's a penie for thee, Ile hire thee for a yeare by the Statute of Winchester: prove true and honest, and thou shalt want nothing that a good Boy—

Here Wise-woman you are o [...]t againe, I shall want what a good Boy should have▪ whilst I live: well, here I shall live both unknowne, and my Sex unsuspected. But whom have wee here?

Come Harin [...]ld, now wee have beene drink­ing of Mother Red-caps Ale, let us now goe make some sport with the Wise-woman.

Wee shall be thought very wise men, of all such as shall see us goe in to the Wise-womans.

See, heere shee is; how now Witch? How now Hagge? How now Beldame? You are the Wise­woman, are you? and have wit to keepe your selte warme enough, I warrant you.

Out thou knave.

And will these wild oates never [...] sown [...]?

You Inchantresse, [...], Shee-devill▪ you Madam [...], Lady [...], you are too old, you Hagge, now, for con [...]uring up Spirits your selfe; but you keepe prettie yong Witches [...] your roofe, that can do [...] that.

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I, or my Family conjure up any Spirits! I defie thee, thou yong Hare-brain'd—

Forbeare 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.

Away you old Dromadary, Ile come one of these nights, and make a racket amongst your Shee­Catterwaullers.

I prethee let's be civill.

Out of my sight, thou Shee-mastiffe.

Patience, [...]weet Mistris.

Now blesse mee, hee hath put mee into such a feare, as makes all my bones to dance, and rattle in my skin: Ile be reveng'd on that swaggering companion.

Mistris, I wish you would, hee's a meere Mad­cap, and all his delight is in mis-using such reverent Ma­trons as your selfe.

Well, what's thy name, Boy?

I am even little better th [...]n a Turn-broach, for my name is Iacke.

Honest Iacke, if thou couldst but devise how I might cry quittance with this [...] Dicke, I will goe neare to adopt thee my So [...]e and heire.

Ile [...], as I am Matron; Ey, and shew him a new tricke for his learning.

Morrow.

Y'are welcome Sir.

Art wise?

Hee should be wise, because hee speakes few words.

I am as I am, and there's an end.

Canst conjure?

Oh that's a foule word! but I can tell you your Fortune, as they say; I have some little skill in Palmistry, but never had to doe with the devill.

And had the devill never any thing to doe with thee? thou look'st somewhat like his damme. Looke on mee ca [...]st tell what I ayle?

Can you tell your selfe? I should guesse, you be mad, or not well in your wits.

Nay, if I see your complexion once, I thinke I can guesse as neare as another.

One Mistris Luce I love, knowst thou her, Gran­nam?

As well as the Beggar knowes his Dish. Why shee is one of my Daughters.

Make her my wife, Ile give thee forty pieces.

Take them Mistris, to be reveng'd on Chartley.

Th▪art a good Grannam; and, but that thy teeth stand like hedge-stakes in thy head, I'de kisse thee.

Thou shalt be tyred like a woman; can you make a curtesie, take small strides, simper, and s [...]me modest? me thinkes thou hast a womans voyce already.

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Doubt not of me, th [...] act them naturally.

I have conceited, to have Luc [...] married to this blunt Gentleman; shee mistaking him for Chartley, and Ch [...]tley shall [...] thee, being a Boy, and take thee for Luce. Wilt not be excellent?

Oh super, super-excellent!

Play but thy part, as Ile act mine, Ile fit him with a Wife, I warrant him.

And a Wife Ile warrant him.

Ha, then tho [...] sawest them whispering with my Daughter.

I saw them, if it shall please you, not whisper, but—

How then, thou knave?

Marry Sir Knight, I saw them in sad talke; but to say they were directly whispering, I am not able.

Why Taber, that sad talke was whispering.

Nay, they did not greatly whisper, for I heard what was said, and what was said, I have the wit to keepe to my selfe.

What said the unthrift, Taber, tell me knave? Tell me, good knave, what did the unthrift say?

I am loath to be call'd in question about men and wom [...]s matters, but as soone as ever he saw your Daugh­ter, I heard what was spoke.

Here sirra, take thy Quarters wages afore-hand, and tell me all their words, and what their greeting was at their first encounter; hold thine hand.

Thankes, Noble Sir, and now Ile tell you. Your daughter being wal [...]ing to take the aire of the fields, and I before her; whom should wee meet just in the nicke?

Iust in the nicke, man?

In the high-way I meant, Sir.

Ha, and what conference past betwixt them, Taber?

As well as my Pipe can utter, you shall know Sir. [Page] This Gentleman meeting with my yong Mistris full butt; imagine you were she, and I yong Master Sencer; now there you come, and here I meet you; he comes in this manner, and put off his hat in this fashion.

I, but what said hee?

Be with you, faire Gentlewoman; and so goes quite away, and scarse so much as once look' [...] backe: and if this were lang [...]age to o [...]r to a yong Ladie, judge you.

But spake hee nothing else?

Nothing as I am true.

Why man, all this was nothing.

Yes Sir, it was as much as my Quarters wages afore-hand.

Save you Sir, my name is Sencer; I am a Northamp­ton-shire Gentleman, borne to a thousand pound Land by the yeare: I love your Daughter, and I am come to crave your good-will.

Have you my Daughters, that you covet mine?

No Sir, but I hope in time I shall have.

So hope not I. Sir, Sir, my Daughters yong, and you a Gentleman unknowne, Sencer? ha, Sencer? O Sir, your name I now remember well, 'tis rank't 'mo [...]st [...] ­thrifts, dicers, swaggerers, and drunkards: were no [...] [...]ou brought before me, some moneth since, for beating of the Watch, by the same token, I sent you to the Counter?

I confesse my selfe to have been [...] in that act [...]on, bu [...] note the cause, Sir: you could not have pleasur'd mee so much, in giving mee a piece of gold, as at the same time to helpe me to that Counter.

Why Sir, what cause had you to beat the Watch, and raise a midnight tumult in the streets?

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Nay, but heare mee, sweet Sir Harry: Being somewhat late at Supper at the Miter, the doores were shut at my Lodging, I knock't at three or foure places more, all were a-bed, and fast: Innes, Tavernes, none would give me entertainment. Now, would you have had me dispair'd, and layne in the streets? No, I bethought me of a tricke worth two of that, and presently devis'd, ha­ving at that time a charge of money about me, to be lodg'd, and safely too.

As how, I pray you?

Marry thus: I had knockt my heeles against the ground a good while, knew not where to have a Bed for love nor money. Now what did I? but spying the Watch, went and hit the Constable a good sowse on the Eare, who provided me of a lodging presently; and the next day, being brought before your Worship, I was then sent thither backe againe, where I lay three or foure dayes without controule.

What say you to me, Lady.

You had best aske my Father what I should say.

Are you angry, sweet Lady, that I ask't your Fa­thers consent?

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No, if you can get his consent to marry him, shall it [...] mee?

The doore!

I say the doore.

Why Sir? tell not me of your doore, nor going out of it, your companie is faire and good, and so is your Daughters; Ile stay here this twelve-moneth, e're Ile offer to trouble your doore.

Sir, but you shall not. Taber! where's that knave?

Why Sir, I hope you doe not meane to make us dance, that you call for a Taber.

Where's Taber?

At hand, noble Master.

Shew them the doore.

That I will, and take money too, if it please them.

Is thy name Taber?

I am so eclip't Sir.

And Taber, are you appointed to give us Iacke Drum's entertainment?

Why sir, you doe not play upon me.

Though I cannot, yet I have knowne an Hare [Page] that could. But Knight, thou doest not forbid us th [...] House.

Yes, and forewarne it too.

But by thy favour, wee may chuse whether we will take any warning or no. Well, farewell olde Knight, though thou forbidst mee thine house, Ile honour [...], and extoll thee; and though thou keepst mee from thy Daughter, thou shalt not hinder mee to love her, and ad­mire her: and by thy favour, sometimes to see her: A Catt may looke 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 onely bid me welcome, but hire mee to stay with thee, and thy daughter.

I have plaid them away, if it please your Worship▪ and yonder at the doore attends a Schoolmaster, you sent for him, if you remember, to teach my little yong Master and Mistris.

A proper Scholler, pray him to come [...].

Eques [...]: [...]: non [...] quid est in Tergo, sed salve bona virgo.

Sir, you may call me nick-names: if you love me, speake in your Mother-tongue; or at the [...], if Lear­ning be so much ally'd unto you, that Latine unawares slowes from your lips: to make your mind [...] with my knowledge, pray utter it in English: what's your name?

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Intende [...].

I thinke he saith we are a companie of fooles, and Nigits, but I hope you shall not find us such, Mast [...]r School­master.

Vir bone.

Nay, nay, make me no bones, but do't.

Then in plaine vulgar English I am call'd, Sir Boniface Absee.

Sure Sir, this is some Miller that comes to under­mine you, in the shape of a Schoolmaster.

You both mistake the Scholler.

Sir Boniface, if you come to live in our house, and be a Familist amongst us, I shall desire you better acquain­tance, your Name and my Phisnomy should have some con­sanguinitie, good Sir Boniface.

[...] vales, [...] vales.

Goe with you to the Ale-house? I like the mo­tion well; Ile make an excuse out of doores and follow you. I am glad yet, we shall have a Good-fellow come into the house amongst us.

[...] vir [...].

You shall not have me at Saint Magnes, my house is here in [...].

Who, shall Sir Bawdy-face?

Sir Boniface, you foole.

His name is so hard to hit on.

Actus tertius, Scena prima.

Iack, thou art my Boy.

Mistris!

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Ile be a Mother to thee, no Mistris: come Lad, I must have thee sworne to the orders of my house, and the secrets thereof.

As I am an honest Lad, I am yours to com­mand. But Mistris, what meane all these womens pictures, hang'd here in your withdrawing roome?

Ile tell thee, Boy; marry thou must be secret. When any Citizens, or yong Gentlemen come hither, under a colour to know their Fortunes, they looke upon these pi­ctures, and which of them they best like, she is ready with a wet finger: here they have all the furniture belonging to a privat-chamber, bedde, bed-fellow and all; but mum, thou knowest my meaning, Iacke.

But I see comming and going, Maids, or such as goe [...] Maids, some of them, as if they were ready to lie downe, sometimes two or three delivered in one night; then suddenly leave their Brats behind them, and conveigh themselves into the Citie againe: what becomes of their Children?

Those be Kitchin-maids, and Chamber-maids, and sometimes good mens Daughters; who having catcht a clap, and growing neare their time, get leave to see their friends in the Countrey, for a weeke or so: then [...] they come, and for a matter of money, here they are delivered. I have a Mid wife or two belonging to the house, and one Sir Boniface a Deacon, that makes a shift to christe [...] the In­fants: we have poore, honest, and secret Neighbours, that stand for common Gossips. But dost not thou know this?

Yes, now I doe: but what after becomes of the poore Infants?

Why, in the night we send them abroad, and lay one at this mans doore, and another at that, such as are able to keepe them; and what after becomes of them, we inquire not. And this is another string to my Bowe.

Why tell the leaves; for to be ignorant, and seeme ignorant, what greater folly?

Beleeve me, this is a cunning Woman; neither hath shee her name for nothing, who out of her ignorance, can foole so many that thinke themselves wise. But where­fore have you built this little [...] to the doore, where sitting, you may heare every [...] spoken, by all such as aske for you.

True, and therefore I built it: if any knock, you must to the doore and question them, to find what th [...]y come about, if to this purpose, or to that. Now they ignorantly telling thee their errand, which I sitting in my Closet, [...] heare, presently come forth, and tell them the cause of their comming, with every word that hath past betwixt you in private: which they admiring, and thinking it to [...] mira­culous, by their report I become thus famous.

This is no Trade, but a Mysterie; and were I a Wise-woman, as indeed I am but a foolish Boy, I need not live by your service. But Mistris, we lose our selves in this discourse, is not this the morning in which I should be married?

Now, how had I forgot my selfe? Mistris Luce promist to be with mee halfe an houre [...], but [...] and disguis'd, and so shalt thou be too: here's a blacke Vaile to hide thy face against the rest come.

Sit tibi bona dies: salus & quies.

Into the withdrawing roome, Sir [...].

Without any compunction, I will make the Conjunction.

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Now keepe thy countenance, Boy.

Feare not mee, I have as good a face in a Maske, as any Lady in the Land could wish to have: but to my heart, hee comes, or he comes not; now am I in a pittifull [...]rlexity, untill I see the event of all.

No more Iacke now, but Mistris Luce.

I warrant you Mistris: that it happens so luckily, that my name should be Luce too, to make the marriage more firme!

My honey svveet Hagge, vvhere's Luce?

[...] svveet heart, but disguis'd and vail'd, as you are visarded.

[...] vvhat's the reason vvee are thus Hood­winkt?

No discovery of your selves for a million, there's Sir Boniface within, shall hee blab vvho you are? Besides, there's a yong Heire that hath stolne a Lords Daughter from the Court, and vvould not have their faces seene for a World: cannot you be content to fare well, and keepe your ovvne counsell, and see, yonder they come.

Gramarcie my Sugar-candie svveet Trot.

Mum, no more vvords.

If the great Heire and the yong Lady be so dainty of their Complexions, they shall see (my svveet Luce) vvee can visard it vvith the best of them.

That Gentleman, by the Wisevvomans description, should be Master Chartley. (Meaning Boyster.)

You vvrong mee, but to aske, vvho but a yong [Page] Heire, and a Lady of the Court: that's Luce, take her, and keepe your promise.

Poc [...] palabras.

That's Chartley, take him Luce.

But who be they?

Now Iack my Boy, keepe thine owne counsell, and counten [...]nce, and I shall cry quittance with my yong Gallant. Well, by this time Sir Boniface is at his Booke. But because there is a mistake, knowne onely to my Boy and my selfe; the Marriage shall be no sooner ended, but Ile disturbe them by some sudden out-cry, and that too, before they have leasure to unmaske, and make knowne themselves one to another; for if the deceite were knowne, I should fall into the danger of that yong mad Rascall. And now this double apprehension of the Lord and the Lady shall fetch mee off from all; I know it is Sir Boniface his custome, to make short vvorke, and hath dispatcht by this: And novv Wise-vvoman, try if thou canst b [...]stir thy selfe like to a Mad-vvoman—shift for your selves, Warrants and Pursevants! Away, Warrants and Pursevants! shift for your selves.

Ile take this way.

I this.

O Heaven! vvhat shall become of me?

I knovv vvhat shall become of me already.

O svveet Daughter, shift cloathes vvith this [Page] Lady! Nay, as thou lov'st thy credit and mine, change Habits—So, if thou bee'st taken in her Garments, finding the mistake, vvill let thee passe; and should they meet her in thine, not knovving her, vvould no vvay [...] her: and this prove to both your securities and my [...].

As fast as I can, good Mother: So Madam fare­well.

All happy joyes betide you.

Ha, ha, let me hold my sides, and laugh: Here were even a Plot to make a play on, but that Chartley is so fool'd by my Boy [...]: Well, heele make a nota­ble Wagge, Ile warrant him. All the Iest will bee, if Boyster should meete with him in Luce's habitt, which hee hath novv on, hee would thinke himselfe meerely gull'd and cheated; and should Chartley meet with Luce as shee is now Roab'd, hee would bee confident hee had marryed her. Let mee see how many Trades have I to live by: First, I am a VVise-vvoman, and a Fortune­teller, and under that I deale in Physicke and Fore-spea­king, in Palmistry, and recovering of things lost. Next, I undertake to cure Madd folkes. Then I keepe 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. Shee that is but one, and professeth so ma­ny, may well bee tearmed a Wise-woman, if there bee any.

Why, runne away, and leave my Wench behind? Ile backe: vvhat have Warrants and Pursevants to doe with mee? with mee? why should I budge? why should I weare Maske or Visard? If Lords or Ladies offend, let Lords and Ladies ansvver; let mee better bethinke mee. Why should I play at Hob-man blinde? Hum; vvhy marry in Tenebris, ha! is there no tricke in it? If my [Page] Grannam should make mee a yonger Brother now, and instead of Luce, pop mee off vvith some broken com­moditie, I vvere finely serv'd: most sure I am, to be in for better and worse, but with vvhom, Heaven and my Grannam knovves.

I am stolne out of doores, to see if I can meet my Husband; with vvhom I purpose to make some sport, ere I suddenly disclose my selfe: vvhat's hee?

Heyday, what have vvee here, an Hoberdehoy? come hither you.

What art thou?

Doe you not know mee?

That Maske and Robe I know?

I hope so, or else I vvere in a vvo [...] case.

That Maske, that Gowne I married.

Then you have no reason, but to injoy both them and me too, and so you are like; I should be loath to divorce Man and Wife.

I am fool'd, but vvhat crackt vvare are you, forsooth?

I belong to the old Gentlevvoman of the house.

Ile set her house on fire: I am finely bobb'd.

But I hope you will not bobb me.

No I'se vvarrant thee: vvhat art thou? Girle or Boy?

Both, and neither; I vvas a Ladd last night, but in the morning I vvas conjured into a Lasse: And being a Girle novv, I shall be translated to a Boy anon. Her [...]'s all I can at this time say for my selfe: Fare­vvell.

Yes, and be hang'd vvithall. O for some Gun [Page] powder to blovv up this Witch, this [...], this damn'd [...]! O I could teare her to fitters vvith my teeth! Yet I must be patient, and put up all, lest I bee made a jeere to such as knovv mee: fool'd by a Boy! Goe too, of all the rest, the Girle Luce must not knovv it.

So, now am I the same man I was yesterday; who can say I was disguis'd? or who can distinguish my condition now? or reade in my face, whether I be a mar­ried man, or a Batchelor?

Who's that?

Luce.

Sweet Husband, is it you?

The newes?

Never so frighted in my dayes.

What's become of the Lord and the Lady?

The Lord fled after you, the Lady staid; who maskt, and halfe unready, ran fast after her poore affrighted Husband: now all's quiet.

This storme is then well past, and now conveigh your selfe home as privately as you can: and see you make this knowne to none but your Father.

I am your Wife and Servant.

This name of Luce hath beene ominous to mee; one [...] I should have married in the Countrey, and just the night before, a toy tooke me in the head, and mounting my H [...]se, I left Capons, Ducks, Geese, Poultry, Wild­fowle, Father, and Bride and all, and posted up to Lon­don, where I have ever since continued Batchelor, till▪ now. And now—

Nay on, I Pretkee fellow on, my Father will won­der where I have beene visiting. Now, vvhat had I forgot? Taber, there's money, goe to the Gold-smiths, bid him send mee my Fanne; and make a quicke returne: on, fel­low on.

Her Fanne at the Gold-smiths! now had I for­got to aske her his name, or his signe: but I will after to know.

I shall; ho, you: Friend, you.

Who's that calls?

'Twas I.

Your businesse? you should be one, though not of my cognisance, yet of my condition: a Serving-creature, as I take it: pray vvhat's your vvill vvith mee?

Pray Sir, what might I call that Gentle­vvoman, on vvhom you were attendant?

You may call her vvhat you please, but if you call her otherwise then in the vvay of honestie, you may perchance heare on't.

Nay, be not offended: I say, vvhat do [...] you call her?

Why Sir, I call her as it shall best please mee, sometimes yong Lady, sometimes yong Mistris; and vvhat hath any man to doe with that?

Are you so captious, sirrah, vvhat's her name? Speake, and be briefe.

Ey marry Sir, you speake to purpose, and I can resolve you: her name is Gratiana. But all this vvhile I have forgot my Mistris Fanne.

Gratiana! oft have I heard of her, but saw her [Page] not till now: 'tis a [...] wench, a very prettie wench, nay, a very, very, very prettie wench. But what a Rogue am I, of a married man? nay, that have not beene mar­ried this six houres, and to have my shittle-wits runne a Wooll-gathering already? What vvould poore Luce say if shee should heare of this? I may very well call her poore Luce, for I cannot presume of five pounds to her portion: what a Coxcombe was I, being a Gentle­man, and well deriv'd, to match into so beggarly a kin­dred? What needed I to have grafted in the stocke of such a Choake Peare, and such a goodly Popering as this to escap [...] mee? Escape m [...]e (said I?) if shee doe, shee shall doe it narrowly: but I am married already, and therefore it is not possible, unlesse I should make away my wife, to compasse her. Married! why who knowes it? Ile out-face tho Priest, and then there is none but shee and her Father, and their evidence is not good in Law: and if they put mee in suite, the best is, they are poore, and cannot follow it. I 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 hee is a weary of her, and cope her away like a bad commoditie: if every new Moone a man might have a new Wife, that's every yeare a do­zen. But this, Till Death us depart, is tedious: I will goe a wooing to her, I will; but how shall I doe for jewels and tokens? Luce hath mine in her custodie, mo­ney and all; tush, Ile juggle them from her well enough: see, here shee comes.

Here is my Husband, I pray move him in it.

[...], [...] [...] what, melancholly already▪ [...]re thou hast had good cause to be m [...]rry, and [...] what [...] was.

Alas poore foole, I am sorry for thee, but yet can­not helpe thee, as I am a Gentleman. Why say [...], thou losest now [...] shillings worth of Credit, stay but a time, and it shall bring thee in a thousand pounds worth of com­moditie.

But doe you heare mee?

Will you but heare [...]?

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But harke you Father?

A Bawd to mine owne child▪

Father?

To my sweet L [...]ce!

Father?

Why Father in Law?

Why so now, these be good words, I knew these stormes would have a showre, and then they would [...]. Now if your anger be over, heare me.

Well, say on Son.

Stay but a Moneth, 'tis but foure Weekee; nay, 'tis February, the shortest Moneth of the yeare, and in that time I shall be at full age; and the Land being in­tail'd, my Father can dis-inherit mee of nothing. Is your [...] I satisfied you? Well, I see you chollericke hasty men, are the kindest when all is done. Here's such [...] of [...], [...] weepes to thinke of his Wife, shee weepes to see her Fa­ther cry ▪ Peace [...], wee shall else have thee [...] [...] ­dred of the Woman kill'd with kindnesse.

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That may be help't.

Now Luce, your Fathers pacifi'd, will you be pleas'd? I would indure a Quarters punishment for thee, and wilt not thou suffer a poore Moneths penance for mee? 'Tis but eight and twenty dayes, Wench; thou shalt fare well all the time, drinke well, eate well, lie well: come, one word of comfort at the later end of the day.

Gramercie Wench, thou shalt weare this chaine no longer for that word, Ile multiply the linkes in such order, that it shall have light to shine about thy necke, oftener then it doth: this jewell, a plaine Bristowe stone, a counterfeit. How base was I, that comming to thee in the way of Marriage, courted thee with counter­feit stones? Thou shalt weare right, or none: thou hast no money about [...], Luce?

Yes Sir, I have the hundred pounds that you gave me to lay up last.

Fetch it; let mee see, how much branch'd Sat­tin goes to a Petticoat? and how much wrought Velvet to a Gowne? then for a Bever for the Citle, and a Black­bagge for the Country: Ile promise her nothing, but if any such [...] bee brought home, let her not thanke mee for them.

Gramercie Luce, Nay, goe in, Gravitie and Modestie, ten to one but you shall heare of mee, [...] you see mee againe.

I know you kinde, [...] my hastie Lan­guage [Page] unto my rage, not mee.

Why, doe not I know you, and doe not I know her? I doubt you'l wish [...] that I had ne­ver knowne either of you: now, what sayst thou, my sweet Luce?

My words are yours. so is my life: I am now part of your selfe, so made by Nuptiall vowes.

What a Pagan am I, to practise such villany a­gainst this honest Christian! If Gratiana did come into my thoughts, I should fall into a vaine 'to pittie [...]er: but now that I talk of her, I have a tongue to▪ wooe her, Tokens to win her; and that done, if I doe not find a tricke, both to weare her, and wearie her, it may prove a piece of a Wonder. Thou seest, Luce, I have some store of Crownes about me, there are brave things to be bought in the Ci­tie; Cheapside, and the Exchange, afford varietie and ra­ritie. This is all I will say now, but thou mayest heare more of mee hereafter.

Ile in before.

I cannot shun him, but Ile shake him off.

Morrow.

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As much to you.

I'le use few words, Canst love me?

Deed Sir no.

Why th [...] farewell, the way I came, Ile goe.

Sweare that thou wilt not love me.

Even farewell then.

Actus 4ꝰ. Scena prima.

I am satisfied good M. Harringsfield touch­ing your friend, and since I see you haue left his dangerous company, I limit you to bee a welcome guest vnto my Table.

You haue bin alwayes noble.

Taber: the newes with thee?

May it please the right worshipfull to vnderstand that there are some at the Gate who dance a turne or two without, and desire to bee admitted to speake with you within.

The Scholler is it not.

Nay sir, there are two Schollers, and they are spow­ting Latin one against the other; And in my simple Iudge­ment the stranger is the better Scholler, and is somewhat too hard for sir Boniface: For he speakes lowder, and that you know is ever the signe of the most learning, and hee also hath a great desire to serue your Worship.

Two schollers; My house hath not place for two, thus it shall bee. Taber admit them both, wee though vnlearned will heare them two dispute, and hee that of the two seemes the best read, shall bee receiued, the other quite casheired.

In that you showe but Iustice, in all persons merit should bee regarded.

Venerabilis magistri: Absint vobis capistri.

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This approues him to be excellent, but I thank my breeding I vnderstand not a word, you tong-men you whose wealth lyes in your braines; Not in your bud­gets heere mee: Be it knowne, my house affords roome for one Schoole-master but not for more. And I am thus resolved, take you that side gentle sir Boniface, and sir pos­sesse you that.

Hee of you two in arguing prooues the best. To him will I subscribe are you agreed.

Nec animo, nec corde, nec vtroque.

No more of that nec corde, noble Knight, he wishes you nec corde, thinke of that.

Domine currogas:

I find my selfe abus'd.

Yet patience good syr Harry, and heare more pray sir Boniface: of what Vniversitie? Were you of.

I was student in Brazen nose.

A man might guesse so much by your pimples, and of what place were you:

Petrus dormit securus; I was Sir of Peeter house Sir Boniface. Natus eram, in Woxford, and I proceeded in Oxford.

Est mihi bene nostrum, thou wouldest say, in Gotam; For my part sir Harry, I can reade Seruice and Marry, Que genus et flexum, though I goe in genes Fus­tion, scalpellum et charta I was not brought vp at Plowe & cart, I can teach Qui mihi, and neyther laugh nor tee-hee, sed as in presente, if your worship at this present, Iste, Ista Istud, will doe mee any good, to giue mee legem pone in [Page] Gold or in monie. Piper atque papauer, I'le deserue it with my labour.

But when goe you to dispute.

Nomnativo hic prediculus, his words are most ridiculous: But tu thou, qui the which, deridest those that bee rich, con [...]teruc hanc sententiam, constrne mee this sentence. Est modus in rebus sunt certi denique fines:

I warrant you he hath his answer ready.

Dij boni boni.

Heele giue you more bones then those to kn [...]w on Sir Boniface.

Kartere Moosotropos Poluphiltate phile poetatis Tes Logikes retoon, onch elashiste sophoon.

That is as much as to say, in our m [...]terna lingna I will make you sir Boniface, confesse your selfe an Asse in English, speake open and broad words, for want of Latin, and Denique instruct mee to resolue such questions as I shall aske you in our moderne tongue.

Confesse him an Asse, speake obsceane words after intreate thee to resolve thy questions. Doe that, possese the place.

Di do and dum: No more words but mum:

Noble sir Harry; Nunquam sic possit?

Sir Boniface is sicke already and calls [...] possit, no marvell, being so threatned.

You Boniface, decline mee I am a no after the first coniugation, amo [...], vocito vocitavi. Titubo titubavi?

Bene bene.

I am an as?

Most treue most treue, vos estis, ut egojum [...], [...] [Page] [...] [Page] [Page] that what he confest is, as true as the pestis.

This Scholler workes by magick hee hath made him confesse himselfe an Asse.

Per has meas manus vir, tues insanus,

Ile make him fret worse yet; Sir Bouiface: quid est grammatica.

Grammatica est ars,

Fye, fye, no more of these words good sir Boniface.

Nobis ut carmina dicunt.

Di quoth ha, out on him for a beastly man.

I would not h [...]ue him teach my children so for more then I am worth.

O! but reverend syr Harry you must subaudi.

Ile never bee so baudy whilest I liue, nor any of mine I hope.

O! Propria quae maribus:

[...]y Boniface, it is those maribo [...], that makes you talke so broadly?

Venerabilis vir hom [...] ille est ebrius.

What doth hee meane by that.

H [...] saith, I can speake Hebrewe

Now to the last, ile taske syr Boniface, but with an [...] question. Tell mee syr: Whats Latin for this Earth?

Facile and easy more fit for the pupill then the preceptor: whats Latin for this Earth? Tellus.

Tell you; no syr, it belongs to you to tell mee.

I say Tellus is Latin for the Earth.

And I say, I will not tell you what is Latin for the Earth; vnlesse you yeild mee victor▪

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Hee hath deserv'd it well.

Sir Timothy not possible.

Hee will not speake it for shame.

That you shall heere; Magister Boniface.

Quid ais domine Timothy.

Who was Pasiphas husband Queene of Creete.

Who knowes not that, why Minos was her Husband.

That his nose was; did I not tell you so.

I say that Min [...]s was:

That his Nose was ha has.

Ile not beleeue it.

My daughter Gratiana; the newes Taber.

Of another gallant noble sir that p [...]etends to haue businesse, both with you and my mistresse,

Admit him.

Lusty Iuventus; will it please you to draw neere.

Noble Knight, whil'st you peruse that sweete Lady, tell mee how you like this:

Mad Chartly; what makes desperation heere.

To the word wooer let mee add the name speeder my father hath written to your father, and the cause of his writing at this present, is to let you vnderstand, that hee feares you haue liu'd a maide too long: and therefore to prevent all diseases incident to the same; as the greene sicknesse and others. Hee sent mee like a skilfull Physitian, to take order with you against all such maladies. If you will not credit mee, list but how fervently my father writes in my behalfe.

Hee is my onely sonne, and shee I take as your onely daughter, what should hinder then,

To make a match betweene them, (well tis well tis good I like it) I will make her Ioynter three hundred pounds a yeare.

How say you by that sweete Lady three hundred pounds a yeare and a proper man to boote.

But Ile bee sworne he never writ it.

And this his seale at Armes.

Refase no Chaine nor Iewels, heart nor ha [...]d, but in exchange of these bestowe thy selfe thine owne deere selfe vpon him.

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My selfe on him, whom I tell now I neere saw? Well since I must, your will's to mee a law.

Nay then tis time to speake, shall I stand heere wavting like a Coxcombe, [...]nd see her giuen away before my face? stay your hand syr Harry; and let mee claime my promise.

My promise ile performe syr Timothy, you shall haue all your wages duly paid.

Farewell good syr Timothy; farewell learn'd syr Timothy.

Not all this while once see mee.

His occasions, perhaps inforce his absence.

You know that Gentleman.

Escape him if thou canst.

Hee cannot, I arrest you;

At whose suite.

As well as ere you did, fat, fre [...]h, and fayre▪

You lye boy, pocket that, and now be gon.

And what shall then become of my Mistresse▪

Ile waite vpon your Mistresse.

I know you will not waite on such a Gipsie.

Yes Luce on such a Gipfie: Boy, abi abi.

Abide fir, you neede not feare that I haue no purpose to leaue her.

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What wedding sir, or whose?

Why Chartleyes; Luce hath hee bin thy friend so long, and would not bid thee to w [...]ite on his Bride. Why lookst thou red and pale, and both, and neither.

To Mr. Chartleyes Bridals, why, to whom, Should hee be married.

To Grace of Gratious street.

I'le not indure't: Heauen giue you joy sir:

I thanke you: Luce?

Looke to the Maid shee faints.

If it were in a man, it were nothing, but the falling sicknesse in a woman is dangerous.

My tother father in Lawe, now shall I bee vtterly sham'd, If hee assure to know mee, I'le out face him.

Sonne your well met.

How fellow.

I cry you mercy sir.

No harme done friend, no harme done.

If hee? hee could not but haue known mee there, Yet he was wondrous like him.

How cheare you Luce, whence grew this passion.

Yes: and to supply his place, see where thy fa­ther comes.

I would I had not seene you at this time neither, farewell.

If hee be gone? then call mee vent my griefe, ▪ Father I am vndone,

Forbid it Heauen.

Disgrac't, despis'd, discarded, and cast off.

How, mine owne child:

My Husband, O my husband?

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What of him.

Bee not so rash.

Ile haue my Sword.

I'le make him play at Leap-frog, well I heare thee

Well I heare thee.

Now or never, looke about thee Sencer, tomorrow is the Marriage day which to preuent, ly [...] not within the compasse of my appr [...]hension, therefore I haue thus disgui­sed my selfe, to goe to the, Looming womans, the Fortune tellers. The a [...]y thing, the nothing, this over against mo­ther Red-caps is her house, ile knocke.

Whose there? What would you haue.

I would speake with the wise gentlewoman of the house.

O belike you [...] lost somewhat.

You are in the wrong [...] youth.

I am somewhat thicke of [...], pray speak out.

The [...] you belike are cro [...] in Loue, and come to know what successe you shall haue.

Thou hast hit it sweete ladde; thou hast hit it.

What is it, you say sir:

Thou hast [...]it it?

I pray [...] in, ile bring you to my Mistresse▪

This is the house, knock Ioseph, my businesse craues dispatch.

Now am I as angry, as thou art timerous, and now to vent the next thing I meete, O tis the doore.

Who's there, what are you.

A maid and a wife.

Boy, where's your Mistresse.

You tell mee your name is Sencer, I knew it before, and that Chartly is to bee married, I could haue told it you.

Married to morrow, O mee!

Ey but you tell mee, that Chartly before to morrow shall bee disappointed of his, make that good, Thou shalt haue twenty Angels.

Ile doo't, stand aside, ile haue but a word or two with this Gentlewoman; and I am for you presently.

O! Mother, mother.

My husband marry another wife tomorrow? O changeable destinie, no sooner married to him, bu [...] in­stantly to loose him. Nor death it grieues mee so much that I am a wife, but that I am a maid too, to carry one of them [Page] well is as much as any is bound to doe, but to be tid [...]e to both, is more then flesh and blood can indure.

Well trust to mee, and I will sell all things streight.

Wher's this Witch, this hagge, this beldan, this wisard, and haue I found thee, thus then will I teare, mu [...] ­ble and maule thee.

Helpe, help [...], and if you be a gentleman.

Forbeare this rudenesse, hee that touches her, Drawes against mee.

Against you sir, apply thou, that shall be tride.

Helpe, helpe, part them helpe.

With patience heare her speake.

Now Trot, now Granam, what canst thou say for thy selfe: what Luce heare be patient and put vp them, shee must not see the end.

Then first to mee.

You would preuent young Chartlyes marriage, you shall: harke in your eare.

It pleaseth mee.

You-forestall Gratiane [...] wedding, 'tis but thus.

Ile doo't,

You would inioy Luce as your wife, and lye with her to morrow night. Harke in your care.

Fiat.

Farewell till soone:

You know your meeting place.

Wee doe?

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You shall report mee wiser and cunning too.

Fye, fye, what a time of trouble is this to morrow to morrow is my mistresse to be married, and wee seruing­men are so pusled.

Lick cleane good sir Boniface, and saue the scra­per a labour.

Most heartily welcome, would you speake with any heere.

Pray is the yong gentleman of the house at leisure▪

Meane you the Bridegroome M. Chartly.

I haue a Letter for him. You seeme to be a gen­tleman your selfe, acquaint him with my attendance, and I shall rest yours in all good offices.

Sir Boniface, pray keepe the gentleman company I will first acquaint your lippes with the vertue of the Seller.

Adesdem come neere, and tast of your beere. Welcome, sine dole, for puntis te vole,

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Most heartily welcome: your curtesie I beseech you, ply it off [...] intreate you, pray sir Boniface keepe the Gentleman company; till I acquaint my yong master with his businesse.

Taber, I shall besolas manus.

A vostre seruitor.

Hee what art thou,

A hanger on, if it please you:

O. Mr Bridegroome.

Gentlemen, the Ladies call vpon you to dance, they will be out of measure displeased, if dinner beeing done, you bee not ready to leade them a me [...]sure:

Indeede women love not to bee scanted of their measure.

Fie sir Boniface: haue you forgot your selfe, Whilst you are in the Hall, there's never a whetstone for their wits in the Parler?

I will enter and set an edge vpon their I ngenies.

To mee sir, from whom? a letter to her most deere, most louing, most kind friend Mr. Chartly these bee deliuered: sure from some wench or other I long to know the contents.

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Now to cry quittance with you for my farewell learn'd sir Timothy.

Good newes, as I liue, there's for thy paines my good sir Pandarus: Hadst thou brought mee word my fa­ther had turnd vp his heeles. Thou couldst scarcely haue pleased mee better: (Hee reades) though I disclaime the name of wife, of which I account my selfe altogether vn­worthy, yet let mee claime some small interest in your loue, this night I lye at the house where wee were married, (the Wisewomans I meane) where my maiden-head is to bee rifled, bid fayre for it, and inioy it, see mee this night or ne­ver, so may you marrying Gratiana, and louing mee, haue a sweete wife and a true friend: This night or never, your quo [...]dam wife: Hereafter your poore sweet-heart no other: Luce. So when I am tyr'd with Gratiana, that is when I am past grace. With her I can make my rendevowz, ile not slip this occasion, nor sleepe till I see her, thou art an honest ladde, and maist prooue a good Pimpe in time. Canst thou advise mee what colour, I may haue to compasse this com­modity.

Sir, shee this night expe [...]ts you, and prepares a costly banquet for you.

Ile goe, although the Devill and mischance looke bigge,

Feyne some newes that such a peece of Land is falne to you, and you must instantly ride to take possession of it, or which is more probable, cannot you perswade them you haue receiu'd a letter that your Father lyes a dying.

You rogue, I would hee did but the name of that newes is cal'd, too good to be true.

And that if ever you will see him aliue, you must ride post into the Country.

Enough: if ever I prooue Knight errant thou shalt bee mine owne proper squire, for this thou hast fitted mee with a plot, doe but waite heere note how I will man­age it,

[Page] Tabor my horse, for I must ride to night▪

To night sir.

So tell my Bride and Father, I haue newes that quite confounds my [...]nces.

My Father, O my Father:

What of him.

What of your father, Sonne?

Goe thy wayes for thou shalt ha't.

But doe you meane to ride.

Ey Grace, all this night.

As shee shall knowe it:

And how I meane this night to toyle my selfe.

Marry hang you brock.

Thou would be moane my travell.

I know t'would grieue her:

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Wee'l see my sonne take horse.

Saue you gentlewoman, I haue a message to de­liver to one Mistre [...] Gratiana, this should bee the Knights house her father.

Are you the Lady,

Sir I am the poore gentlewoman▪

There is a conning woman dwells not [...].

At Hogsden Lady, famous for her skill.

Be [...]des some private talke that much concernes your for­tunes in your love. Shee hath to shewe you this night if it shall please you walke so farre as to her house, an admirable suite.

At sixe à clocke.

I will not fayle the houre.

Actus 5ꝰ. Scena prima.

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Good heauen; This London is a stranger growne, and out of my acquaintance, this seauen yeares I haue not seene Pauls steeple, or Cheape, crosse.

Sir.

Hast thou not made inquiry for my Sonne.

Disperse your selues▪ [...]quire about the Ta­vernes, O [...]dinaryes, Bowle-allyes, Te [...]courts, Gaming-hou­ses. For there (I feare) hee will be found.

But where shall wee heare of your wo [...]ship againe.

At Grace Church by the Conduit, [...] [...]ir Harry, but stay, leaue off a while [...] bootlesse search, had e're man such a wild braine to hi [...] [...]row, of such small hope, who when [...] should haue married a fayre, a modest, and a vertuous maide, rich and revenewed well, and even the night before the marriage day, tooke horse, road thence whether Heaven knowes, since the distracted virgin hath left her Fathers house, but neather feumd, yet in their search wee haue measured out much Ground.

Your [...]orship will bee there.

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Brother Chartly; I am glad to see you.

Why mee?

What wedding sir.

Is Grace bestow'd? Of whom I pray,

Nay, then I see:

You'l stirre my patience, know this forward match tooke its first birth from you.

From mee?

Why then the jack your hand did counterfeit.

Why then hee did so, where's that vnthrift speake?

But will sir Harry come.

Presume [...] will, and Chartly too.

Ile haue the kna [...]e by the eares.

Nay patience sir, leaue your revenge to mee.

Granam I am come according to promise.

And welcome to the best hole that I haue in Hogsden.

Good even.

That shall bee my prayer too.

Come what shall's doo.

Call mee some halfe an houre hence.

Your Ladiship is most lovingly welcome. A low stoole for the Gentlewoman boy: I made bold to send to you to take view of such a peece of worke, as I presume you haue seldome seene the like.

of whose doing, I pray.

A friend of yours and mine. Please you withdraw Ile bring you too't.

Mistresse.

Here sir in this retyring Chamber.

Thanks most fayre.

The gentlewoman will waite on you by and by [...].

The Knight you seeke was heere, or will bee [...]reight, and if you bee the man you name your selfe. You are most welcome, and you shall not backe, sill you haue scene si [...] Harry.

[...] youth.

[Page]I saw him [...] heere, and under priviledge of [...] [...] ­tance made I [...] to stay.

And you are welcome sir, [...] I pray.

Harke, theres on [...] knocks 'tis [...] on my life▪

My Husband?

What young Chartly?

How? My [...].

Come, come away with this wailing in woe, if thou putst finger in the eye a little longer, I shall plunge in paine too presently.

O husband, husband.

Husband?

What [...] thou my sweete wife,

Wife? O my hart.

In that name [...] I [...] a poore childs part.

O husband; How haue you [...]?

I hope hee doth not [...] to [...] her so.

I hope so too,

My [...] is a Witch.

Nay [...], sweete wife [...] weeping if [...] mee,

O can you blame mee, knowing that the [...] of all these Springs tooke their [...], from you, you know, you [...] will know, not [...] since are past, since wee were married.

Married, I can [...] no longer.

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It cannot bee.

It is not possible.

Ile bee even with thee, for this old granam.

I'le sc [...]tch her eyes out first, although I love her.

Heeres one saith nay to that,

Was that your journey:

Why I [...] too much of Grace already▪

Thou hast no grace at all.

How i [...] it possible you can loue [...], and go [...] about to marry another.

Dost thou not know [...] rich? Why you foole as soone as I haue got her dower, it is but giuing her a dram, or a pill to purge m [...]choly to make her turne vp her heeles, and then withall that wealth, come I [...]o li [...] with thee my sweete raskall.

Shee thanks you, and is much beholding to you.

I am betraide.

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What shall I say, or thinke, or doe, I am at [...] Nonplus.

Who drew thee to this folly?

Who but the old dotard thy Father, who when I was honestly married to a civill maide, [...] perswa [...]ed mee to leaue her, I was loath at first but after intreating, vr­ging, and off [...]ring mee large proffers, I must confesse I was seduc't to come a wooing to thee.

My father, villaine.

Ey thy father Grace. And were he heere I would Iu [...]ifie it to the old dota [...] face.

Plots, plots. I can but cry you [...]rcy both, Say that I haue done you wrong, I can bee but sorry for it, but indeede to cleare you, and lay the fault where it ought to bee. All this comes from mine owne father in the coun­trey, who hearin [...] I had married with Luce. Sends mee word of. his blessing to bee divorst from her, and to come a suiter to your daughter, I thinke you haue his hand and [...] to show.

My hand and seale, when was that letter wri [...].

Heyda, if you get one word more of mee to night, but scurvy lookes, ile giue you leaue to hang mee▪

Vilde boy,

Vngratious villaine.

Trecherous youth?

No [...] at all?

No [...].

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Bad company hath bin the shame of mee, I was as vertuously giuen as any youth in Europe, till I fell into one Boysters company, 'tis hee that hath done all the harme vp­on mee.

I.

And if hee should deny it?

What then you'd cry him mercy.

I had best bite out my tongue, and speake no more what shall I doe, or what shall I say, there is no out- [...]acing them all [...]ntlemen, Fathers, wiues, or what else. I haue wrongd [...] all. I confesse it that I haue, what would you more, will any of you rayle of mee? Ill beare it, will any of you beate mee? So they strike not too har [...] Ile suffer it, will any of you challenge mee? Ile answer it. What would you haue mee say, or doo? One of these I have married, the other I haue betrothed, yet both maides for mee; Will you haue mee take one, and leaue the tother? I will, will you haue mee keepe them both? I will.

Periured not mine.

What you heere too? Nay then I see all my good friends are met together, wilt thou haue mee Luce? I am thy Husband, and had I not lou'd thee better then Grace. I had not disappointed the marriage day to morrow.

Lasciuious no,

Wilt thou haue mee Grace, for had I not lou'd thee better then Luce. I would never after I had married her bin contracted to thee.

Inconstant no,

Then neither married man, widdow nor batcheller, whats to bee done? Heeres even the proverbe verifi'd, be­tweene too stooles, the tayle goes to ground.

Now I bethinke mee this our meeting heere is wondrous strange, call in the Gentlewoman that ownes this house.

Old trot, ile trounce thee.

Here is the marriage prou'd twixt Luc [...] and Chartly, witch this was not your promise.

Haue patience, and in the end wee'l pay you all. Your worships are most hartily welcome, I made bold to send for you, and you may see to what end, which was to discover vnto you, the wilde [...] of this, of this wan­ton wag pasty, a wil-doates I warrant him, [...] Harry that your daughter hath scap't thi [...] [...], t [...]nke this gentleman, and then make of him as [...] deserues.

O, I remember him.

Thanks my sweete Grace.

Ey and the more the inconstant youth to spight.

I gaue her thee in Chartlyes sight.

There's one gone already, but thi [...] is my wife and her ile keepe in spight [...] of the Devill and his dam.

Not from her law [...]ull Husband.

That am I.

That is the Gentleman, acce [...] ▪ him Luce.

And you then like of her, nay [...] make it good,

This gentleman married you visarded, you him [...] mistaking him for Chartly, which none but my boy Iack was privy too: after shee chang'd her habit with him, as you with Iack.

And you in mistresse Luces habit.

May I beleeue you mother.

This bee your token.

Her that I married, I wrong twice by the finger.

Of that token, my hand was sensible.

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You are the man,

Thanks granam, what thou promist thou hast done.

And leauing him, I take you for my sonne.

Two gone, then wheres the third, this mak [...] mee mad, where is my wife then, for a wife I had.

I should doe none of these.

Then [...] sir, when to all your judgements I see me past grace, do [...] lay hold of Grace, and heere begin to retyre my selfe, this woman hath lent mee a glasse, in which I see all my imperfections, at which my conscience doth more blush inwardly, then my face outwardly, and now I dare confidently vndertake for my selfe I am honest.

Then I dare confidently vndertake to helpe you to a wife who desires to haue an honest man or none, looke on mee well, simple though I stand heere I am your wife, blush not at your folly man, perhaps I haue more in mee, then you expect from mee.

Knavery and riot both which, are now to mee meane fo [...]ige.

You and I haue bin better acq [...]inted and yet search mee not too farre least you shame mee, looke on mee well, nay better, better yet, ile assure you I left of a petti­coate when I put on these breeches,

What say you now, shee skatters her hayre.

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First loue, and best beloved?

Let me bee both or neither.

My boy turn'd girle I hope shee'l keepe my counsell from henceforth, ile never entertaine any servant but ile haue her searcht.

Father, call mee once againe your sonne, [...]nd sir Harry mee your friend: [...] an hand, and mistresse Grace an hart, in honourable loue. Where I hane wrong'd you Luce forgiue. Impute my errours to my youth not [...], with Grace I interchange, an imbrace with you Luce, a parting busse I wish you all joy, devide my [...]art amongst you, thou my soule.

Nay mother midnight theres some loue for you.

Out of thy folly, beeing reputed wise,

Wee, selfe conceated ha [...] our follyes found:

Beare thou the name of all these comick acts.