SCENE II.--_A Room in_ Old Wincott’s _House_.

_Enter_ Wincott, _his_ Wife, _the two_ Lionels, Owner, Delavil, Prudentilla, Reignald, _and_ Rioter.

Wincott. You’ve entertained me with a strange discourse Of your man’s knavish wit; but I rejoice That in your safe return all ends so well. Most welcome you, and you, and indeed all; To whom I am bound, that at so short a warning, Thus friendly, you will deign to visit me.

Old Lionel. It seems my absence hath begot some sport; Thank my kind servant here.

Reignald. Not so much worth, sir.

Old Lionel. But, though their riots tripped at my estate, They have not quite o’erthrown it.

_Enter_ Old _and_ Young Geraldine.

Wincott. But see, gentlemen, These whom we most expected come at length. This I proclaim the master of the feast, In which, to express the bounty of my love, I’ll show myself no niggard.

Young Geraldine. Your choice favours I still taste in abundance.

Wife. Methinks it would not misbecome me, sir, To chide your absence, that have made yourself To us so long a stranger.

[Young Geraldine _turns sadly away_.

Young Geraldine. Pardon me, sir, That have not yet, since your return from sea, Voted[3.56] the least fit opportunity To entertain you with a kind salute.

Old Lionel. Most kindly, sir, I thank you.

Delavil. Methinks, friend, You should expect green rushes[3.57] to be strowed After such discontinuance.

Young Geraldine. Mistress Prue, I have not seen you long, but greet you thus: May you be lady of a better husband Than I expect a wife!

Wincott. I like that greeting. Nay, enter, gentlemen; dinner perhaps Is not yet ready, but the time we stay, We’ll find some fresh discourse to spend away.

[_Exeunt all but_ Delavil.

Delavil. Not speak to me, nor once vouchsafe an answer, But slight me with a poor and base neglect! No, nor so much as cast an eye on her, Or least regard, though in a seeming show She courted a reply! ’Twixt him and her, Nay, him and me, this was not wont to be; If she have brain to apprehend as much As I have done, she’ll quickly find it out.-- [_Re-enter_ Young Geraldine _and_ Wife.] Now, as I live, as our affections meet, So our conceits, and she hath singled him To some such purpose. I’ll retire myself, Not interrupt their conference. [_Exit_.

Wife. You are sad, sir.

Young Geraldine. I know no cause.

Wife. Then can I show you some. Who could be otherways, to leave a father So careful, and each way so provident? To leave so many and such worthy friends? To abandon your own country? These are some; Nor do I think you can be much the merrier For my sake.

Young Geraldine. Now your tongue speaks oracles; For all the rest are nothing: ’tis for you-- Only for you I cannot.

Wife. So I thought; Why, then, have you been all this while so strange? Why will you travel, suing a divorce Betwixt us of a love inseparable; For here shall I be left as desolate Unto a frozen, almost widowed bed, Warmed only in that future stored in you; For who can in your absence comfort me?

Young Geraldine. [_Aside_.] Shall my oppressèd sufferance yet break forth Into impatience, or endure her more?

Wife. But since by no persuasion, no entreats, Your settled obstinacy can be swayed, Though you seem desperate of your own dear life, Have care of mine, for it exists in you. Oh, sir, should you miscarry I were lost, Lost and forsaken! Then, by our past vows, And by this hand once given me, by these tears Which are but springs begetting greater floods, I do beseech thee, my dear Geraldine, Look to thy safety, and preserve thy health; Have care into what company you fall; Travel not late, and cross no dangerous seas; For till Heavens bless me in thy safe return, How will this poor heart suffer!

Young Geraldine. [_Aside_.] I had thought Long since the sirens had been all destroyed; But one of them I find survives in her: She almost makes me question what I know, A heretic unto my own belief:-- O thou mankind’s seducer!

Wife. What, no answer!

Young Geraldine. Yes, thou hast spoke to me in showers; I will Reply in thunder: thou adulteress, That hast more poison in thee than the serpent Who was the first that did corrupt thy sex, The devil!

Wife. To whom speaks the man?

Young Geraldine. To thee, Falsest of all that ever man termed fair. Hath impudence so steeled thy smooth soft skin, It cannot blush? Or sin so obdured thy heart, It doth not quake and tremble? Search thy conscience; There thou shalt find a thousand clamorous tongues To speak as loud as mine doth.

Wife. Save from yours, I hear no noise at all.

Young Geraldine. I’ll play the doctor To open thy deaf ears. Monday the ninth Of the last month--canst thou remember that, That night more black in thy abhorrèd sin Than in the gloomy darkness?--that the time.

Wife. Monday!

Young Geraldine. Wouldst thou the place know?--thy polluted chamber, So often witness of my sinless vows. Wouldst thou the person?--one not worthy name, Yet, to torment thy guilty soul the more, I’ll tell him thee--that monster Delavil. Wouldst thou your bawd know?--midnight, that the hour. The very words thou spake?--“Now what would Geraldine Say, if he saw us here?”--to which was answered, “Tush, he’s a coxcomb, fit to be so fooled!” No blush! What, no faint fever on thee yet! How hath thy black sins changed thee! Thou Medusa! Those hairs that late appeared like golden wires Now crawl with snakes and adders. Thou art ugly.

Wife. And yet my glass, till now, ne’er told me so. Who gave you this intelligence?

Young Geraldine. Only He That, pitying such an innocency as mine Should by two such delinquents be betrayed,-- He brought me to that place by miracle, And made me an ear-witness of all this.

Wife. I am undone!

Young Geraldine. But think what thou hast lost To forfeit me! I, notwithstanding these, (So fixèd was my love and unalterable,) I kept this from thy husband, nay, all ears, With thy transgressions smothering mine own wrongs, In hope of thy repentance.

Wife. Which begins Thus low upon my knees--

Young Geraldine. Tush! bow to Heaven, Which thou hast most offended; I, alas! Save in such scarce unheard-of treachery, Most sinful, like thyself. Wherein, oh, wherein Hath my unspotted and unbounded love Deserved the least of these? Sworn to be made a stale For term of life, and all this for my goodness! Die, and die soon; acquit me of my oath, But prithee die repentant. Farewell ever: ’Tis thou, and only thou, hast banished me Both from my friends and country.

Wife. Oh, I am lost! [_Sinks down_.

_Re-enter_ Delavil, _meeting_ Young Geraldine _going out_.

Delavil. Why, how now, what’s the business?

Young Geraldine. Go, take her up, whom thou hast oft thrown down. Villain! [_Exit_.

Delavil. That was no language from a friend, It had too harsh an accent. But how’s this? My mistress thus low cast upon the earth, Grovelling and breathless! Mistress, lady, sweet--

Wife. Oh, tell me if thy name be Geraldine: Thy very looks will kill me!

Delavil. View me well; I am no such man; see, I am Delavil.

Wife. Thou’rt then a devil, that presents before me My horrid sins, persuades me to despair, When he, like a good angel sent from Heaven, Besought me of repentance. Swell, sick heart, Even till thou burst the ribs that bound thee in! So, there’s one string cracked. Flow, and flow high, Even till thy blood distil out of mine eyes, To witness my great sorrow.

Delavil. Faint again! Some help within there! No attendant near? Thus to expire! In this I am more wretched Than all the sweet fruition of her love Before could make me happy.

_Re-enter_ Wincott, Old Geraldine, Young Geraldine, _the two_ Lionels, Ricott, Owner, Prudentilla, _and_ Reignald; _also enter_ Clown.

Wincott. What was he Clamoured so loud, to mingle with our mirth This terror and affright?

Delavil. See, sir, your wife In these my arms expiring.

Wincott. How!

Prudentilla. My sister!

Wincott. Support her, and by all means possible Provide for her dear safety.

Old Geraldine. See, she recovers.

Wincott. Woman, look up.

Wife. Oh, sir, your pardon! Convey me to my chamber; I am sick, Sick even to death. Away, thou sycophant, Out of my sight! I have, besides thyself, Too many sins about me.

Clown. My sweet mistress!

[Prudentilla _and_ Clown _lead_ Wife _off_.

Delavil. The storm is coming; I must provide for harbour. [_Exit_.

Old Lionel. What strange and sudden alteration’s this! How quickly is this clear day overcast! But such and so uncertain are all things That dwell beneath the moon.

Young Lionel. A woman’s qualm, Frailties that are inherent to her sex-- Soon sick, and soon recovered.

Wincott. If she misfare, I am a man more wretched in her loss Than had I forfeited life and estate; She was so good a creature.

Old Geraldine. I the like Suffered, when I my wife brought to her grave; So you, when you were first a widower: Come, arm yourself with patience.

Ricott. These are casualties That are not new, but common.

Reignald. Burying of wives!-- As stale as shifting shirts, or for some servants To flout and gull their masters.

Owner. Best to send And see how her fit holds her.

_Re-enter_ Prudentilla _and_ Clown.

Prudentilla. Sir, my sister In these few lines commends her last to you, For she is now no more. What’s therein writ, Save Heaven and you, none knows: this she desired You would take view of, and with these words expired.

Wincott. Dead!

Young Geraldine. She hath made me then a free release Of all the debts I owed her.

Wincott. [_Aside, reading_.] “My fear[3.58] is beyond pardon. Delavil Hath played the villain; but for Geraldine, He hath been each way noble; love him still. My peace already I have made with Heaven; Oh, be not you at war with me! my honour Is in your hands to punish, or preserve; I am now confessed, and only Geraldine Hath wrought on me this unexpected good. The ink I write with, I wish had been my blood, To witness my repentance.”--Delavil! Where’s he? go seek him out.

Clown. I shall, I shall, sir. [_Exit_.

Wincott. The wills of dead folk should be still obeyed: However false to me, I’ll not reveal’t; Where Heaven forgives, I pardon.--Gentlemen, I know you all commiserate my loss; I little thought this feast should have been turned Into a funeral.--[_Re-enter_ Clown.] What’s the news of him?

Clown. He went presently[3.59] to the stable, put the saddle upon his horse, put his foot into the stirrup, clapped his spurs into his sides, and away he’s galloped, as if he were to ride a race for a wager.

Wincott. All our ill lucks go with him! Farewell he! But all my best of wishes wait on you, [_To_ Young Geraldine. As my chief friend! This meeting, that was made Only to take of you a parting leave, Shall now be made a marriage of our love, Which none save only death shall separate.

Young Geraldine. It calls me from all travel, and from henceforth With my country I am friends.

Wincott. The lands that I have left, You lend me for the short space of my life; As soon as Heaven calls me, they call you lord.-- First feast, and after mourn; we’ll, like some gallants That bury thrifty fathers, think’t no sin To wear blacks without, but other thoughts within.

[_Exeunt_.

THE WISE-WOMAN OF HOGSDON.

_The Wise-Woman of Hogsdon_ was printed in 1638. Of its history nothing is known; that it was popular is implied by the statement on the title-page--“As it hath been sundry times acted with great applause.” The technical cleverness of the last Act is noticeable. In the original editions the play is divided into acts but not into scenes. These are now indicated for the first time.

Hogsdon, _i.e._ Hoxton, in the parish of St. Leonard’s, Shoreditch, was described by Stow, in 1598, as “a large street with houses on both sides.” It was in the adjacent fields that the duel was fought between Ben Jonson and Gabriel Spenser, a player belonging to Henslowe’s company, which resulted in the death of the latter and put Jonson in peril of his life.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Young Chartley, a wild-headed Gentleman.

Boyster, a blunt Fellow.

Sencer, a conceited Gentleman.

Haringfield, a civil Gentleman.

Luce’s Father, a Goldsmith.

Joseph, his Apprentice.

Old Master Chartley.

Sir Harry, a Knight, who is no Scholar.

Sir Boniface, an ignorant Schoolmaster.

Young Chartley’s Man.

Old Chartley’s Men.

Taber, Sir Harry’s Man.

A Countryman, Client to the Wise-Woman.

A Serving-man.

Luce, a Goldsmith’s Daughter.

The second Luce.

Gratiana, Sir Harry’s Daughter.

The Wise-Woman of Hogsdon.

A Kitchen-maid.

Two Citizens’ Wives.

SCENE--London and Hogsdon.

THE WISE-WOMAN OF HOGSDON.

ACT THE FIRST.