MAL. Will ye strike me?
SIR RALPH. Yes: will ye strike again?
MAL. No, sir: it fits not maids to fight with men.
SIR RALPH. I wonder, wench, how I thy name might know.
MAL. Why, you may find it, sir, in th'Christcross row[419].
SIR RALPH. Be my schoolmistress, teach me how to spell it.
MAL. No, faith, I care not greatly, if I tell it; My name is Mary Barnes.
SIR RALPH. How, wench? Mall Barnes!
MAL. The very same.
SIR RALPH. Why, this is strange.
MAL. I pray, sir, what's your name?
SIR RALPH. Why, Sir Ralph Smith doth wonder, wench, at this; Why, what's the cause thou art abroad so late?
MAL. What, Sir Ralph Smith! nay, then, I will disclose All the whole cause to him, in him repose My hopes, my love: God him, I hope, did send Our loves and both our mothers' hates to end. [_Aside_.]
--Gentle Sir Ralph, if you my blush might see, You then would say I am ashamed to be Found, like a wand'ring stray, by such a knight, So far from home at such a time of night: But my excuse is good; love first by fate Is cross'd, controll'd, and sundered by fell hate.
Frank Goursey is my love, and he loves me; But both our mothers hate and disagree; Our fathers like the match and wish it done; And so it had, had not our mothers come; To Oxford we concluded both to go; Going to meet, they came; we parted so; My mother followed me, but I ran fast, Thinking who went from hate had need make haste; Take me she cannot, though she still pursue: But now, sweet knight, I do repose on you; Be you my orator and plead my right, And get me one good day for this bad night.
SIR RALPH. Alas, good heart, I pity thy hard hap!
And I'll employ all that I may for thee.
Frank Goursey, wench! I do commend thy choice: Now I remember I met one Francis, As I did seek my man,--then, that was he,-- And Philip too,--belike that was thy brother: Why, now I find how I did lose myself, And wander[420] up and down, mistaking so.
Give me thy hand, Mall: I will never leave, Till I have made your mothers friends again, And purchas'd to ye both your hearts' delight, And for this same one bad many a good night.
'Twill not be long, ere that Aurora will, Deck'd in the glory of a golden sun, Open the crystal windows of the east, To make the earth enamour'd of her face, When we shall have clear light to see our way: Come; night being done, expect a happy day.
[_Exeunt.
Enter_ MISTRESS BARNES.
MRS BAR. O, what a race this peevish girl hath led me!
How fast I ran, and now how weary I am!
I am so out of breath I scarce can speak,-- What shall I do?--and cannot overtake her.
'Tis late and dark, and I am far from home: May there not thieves lie watching hereabout, Intending mischief unto them they meet?
There may; and I am much afraid of them, Being alone without all company.
I do repent me of my coming forth; And yet I do not,--they had else been married, And that I would not for ten times more labour.
But what a winter of cold fear I thole[421], Freezing my heart, lest danger should betide me!
What shall I do to purchase company?
I hear some halloo here about the fields: Then here I'll set my torch upon this hill, Whose light shall beacon-like conduct them to it; They that have lost their way, seeing a light, For it may be seen far off in the night, Will come to it. Well, here I'll lie unseen, And look who comes, and choose my company.
Perhaps my daughter may first come to it.
[_Enter_ MISTRESS GOURSEY.]
MRS GOUR. Where am I now? nay, where was I even now?
Nor now, nor then, nor where I shall be, know I.
I think I am going home: I may as well Be[422] going from home; 'tis[423] so very dark, I cannot see how to direct a step.
I lost my man, pursuing of my son; My son escap'd me too: now, all alone, I am enforc'd[424] to wander up and down.
Barnes's wife's[425] abroad: pray God, that she May have as good a dance, nay, ten times worse!
O, but I fear she hath not; she hath light To see her way. O, that some[426] bridge would break, That she might fall into some deep digg'd ditch, And either break her bones or drown herself!
I would these mischiefs I could wish to her Might light on her!--but, soft; I see a light: I will go near; it is comfortable, After this night's sad spirits-dulling darkness.
How now? what, is it set to keep itself?
MRS BAR. A plague on't, is she there? [_Aside_.]
MRS GOUR. O, how it cheers and quickens up my thoughts!
MRS BAR. O that it were the basilisk's fell eye, To poison thee! [_Aside_.]
MRS GOUR. I care not, if I take it-- Sure none is here to hinder me-- And light me home.
MRS BAR. I had rather she were hang'd Than I should set it there to do her good. [_Aside_.]
MRS GOUR. I'faith, I will.
MRS BAR. I'faith, you shall not, mistress; I'll venture a burnt finger but I'll have it. [_Aside_.]
MRS GOUR. Yet Barnes's wife would chafe, if that she knew, That I had this good luck to get a light.
MRS BAR. And so she doth; but praise your[427] luck at parting.
[_Aside_.]
MRS GOUR. O, that it were[428] her light, good faith, that she Might darkling walk about as well as I!
MRS BAR. O, how this mads me, that she hath her wish! [_Aside_.]
MRS GOUR. How I would laugh to see her trot about!
MRS BAR. O, I could cry for anger and for rage! [_Aside_.]
MRS GOUR. But who should set it here, I marv'l, a God's name.
MRS BAR. One that will have't from you in the devil's name. _Aside_.]
MRS GOUR. I'll lay my life that it was Barnes's son.
MRS BAR. No, forsooth, it was Barnes's wife.
MRS GOUR. A plague upon her, how she made me start! [_Aside_.]
Mistress, let go the torch.
MRS BAR. No, but I will not.