SCENE IV.--_Inside a Tavern_.

_Enter_ Bess _and_ Young Geraldine, _meeting_.

Young Geraldine. Bess! How dost thou, girl?

Bess. Faith, we may do how we list for you, you are grown So great a stranger: we are more beholding To Master Delavil; he’s a constant guest: And howsoe’er to some, that shall be nameless, His presence may be graceful, yet to others-- I could say somewhat.

Young Geraldine. He’s a noble fellow, And my choice friend.

Bess. Come, come, he is what he is; And that the end will prove.

Young Geraldine. And how’s all at home? Nay, we’ll not part without a glass of wine, And meet so seldom.--Boy!

_Enter_ Drawer.

Drawer. Anon, anon, sir.

Young Geraldine. A pint of claret, quickly. [_Exit_ Drawer.] Nay, sit down: The news, the news, I pray thee; I am sure, I have been much inquired of thy old master, And thy young mistress too.

Bess. Ever your name Is in my master’s mouth, and sometimes too In hers, when she hath nothing else to think of. Well, well, I could say somewhat.

_Re-enter_ Drawer.

Drawer. Here’s your wine, sir.

Young Geraldine. Fill, boy. Here, Bess, this glass to both their healths. [_Exit_ Drawer. Why dost thou weep, my wench?

Bess. Nay, nothing, sir.

Young Geraldine. Come, I must know.

Bess. In troth, I love you, sir, And ever wished you well; you are a gentleman Whom always I respected; know the passages And private whisperings of the secret love Betwixt you and my mistress--I dare swear, On your part well intended, but--

Young Geraldine. But what?

Bess. You bear the name of landlord, but another Enjoys the rent; you dote upon the shadow, But another he bears away the substance.

Young Geraldine. Be more plain.

Bess. You hope to enjoy a virtuous widowhood; But Delavil, whom you esteem your friend, He keeps the wife in common.

Young Geraldine. You’re to blame, And, Bess, you make me angry: he’s my friend, And she my second self; in all their meetings I never saw so much as cast of eye Once entertained betwixt them.

Bess. That’s their cunning.

Young Geraldine. For her, I have been with her at all hours, Both late and early; in her bed-chamber, And often singly ushered her abroad: Now, would she have been any man’s alive, She had been mine. You wrong a worthy friend And a chaste mistress; you’re not a good girl. Drink that, speak better of her; I could chide you, But I’ll forbear. What you have rashly spoke, Shall ever here be buried.

Bess. I am sorry My freeness should offend you, but yet know I am her chamber-maid.

Young Geraldine. Play now the market-maid, And prithee ’bout thy business.

Bess. Well, I shall.-- That man should be so foolèd! [_Exit_.

Young Geraldine. She a prostitute! Nay, and to him, my troth-plight, and my friend As possible it is that Heaven and earth Should be in love together, meet and kiss, And so cut off all distance. What strange frenzy Came in this wench’s brain, so to surmise? Were she so base, his nobleness is such He would not entertain it for my sake; Or he so bent, his hot and lust-burnt appetite Would be so quenched at the mere contemplation Of her most pious and religious life. The girl was much to blame; perhaps her mistress Hath stirred her anger by some word or blow, Which she would thus revenge--not apprehending At what a high price honour’s to be rated; Or else some one that envies her rare virtue Might hire her thus to brand it; or, who knows But the young wench may fix a thought on me, And to divert me from her mistress’ love, May raise this false aspersion? Howsoever, My thoughts on these two columns fixèd are, She’s good as fresh, and purely chaste as fair.

_Enter_ Clown _with a letter_.

Clown. Oh, sir, you are the needle, and if the whole county of Middlesex had been turned to a mere bottle[3.35] of hay, I had been enjoined to have found you out, or never more returned back to my old master: there’s a letter, sir.

Young Geraldine. I know the hand that superscribed it well; Stay but till I peruse it, and from me Thou shalt return an answer. [_Reads letter_.

Clown. I shall, sir. This is market-day, and here acquaintance commonly meet; and whom have I encountered? my gossip Pint-pot, and brim-full; nay, I mean to drink with you before I part. And how doth all your worshipful kindred? your sister Quart, your pater Pottle (who was ever a gentleman’s fellow), and your old grandsire Gallon; they cannot choose but be all in health, since so many healths have been drunk out of them: I could wish them all here, and in no worse state than I see you are in at this present. Howsoever, gossip, since I have met you hand to hand, I’ll make bold to drink to you--nay, either you must pledge me, or get one to do’t for you, Do you open your mouth towards me? well, I know what you would say: “Here, Roger, to your master and mistress, and all our good friends at home. Gramercy, gossip, if I should not pledge thee, I were worthy to be turned out to grass, and stand no more at livery.” And now, in requital of this courtesy, I’ll begin one health to you and all your society in the cellar--to Peter Pipe, Harry Hogshead, Bartholomew Butt, and little Master Randal Rundlet, to Timothy Taster, and all your other great and small friends.

Young Geraldine. He writes me here That at my discontinuance he’s much grieved; Desiring me, as I have ever tendered Or him or his, to give him satisfaction Touching my discontent; and that in person, By any private meeting.

Clown. Ay, sir, ’tis very true; the letter speaks no more than he wished me to tell you by word of mouth.

Young Geraldine. Thou art then of his counsel?

Clown. His Privy,[3.36] an’t please you.

Young Geraldine. Though ne’er so strict hath been my father’s charge, A little I’ll dispense with’t, for his love. Commend me to thy master, tell him from me, On Monday night (then will my leisure serve) I will by Heaven’s assistance visit him.

Clown. On Monday, sir? that’s, as I remember, just the day before Tuesday.

Young Geraldine. But ’twill be midnight first, at which late hour Please him to let the garden door stand ope; At that I’ll enter, but conditionally That neither wife, friend, servant, no third soul Save him, and thee to whom he trusts this message, Know of my coming in, or passing out; When, tell him, I will fully satisfy him Concerning my forced absence.

Clown. I am something oblivious; your message would be the trulier delivered if it were set down in black and white.

Young Geraldine. I’ll call for pen and ink, And instantly despatch it.

[_Exeunt_.

ACT THE FOURTH.