Scene Thirteenth. The Same

Enter Mal.

[Mal]. Am I alone? doth not my mother come?
Her torch I see not, which I well might see,
If any way she were comming toward me:
Why, then, belike shees gone some other way;
And may she go till I bid her turne!
Farre shall her way be then, and little faire,
For she hath hindered me of my good turne;
God send her wet and wearie ere she turne!
I had beene at Oxenford, and to morrow
Have beene releast from all my maidens sorrow,
And tasted joy, had not my mother bin;
God, I beseech thee, make it her worst sinne!
How many maides this night lyes in their beds,
And dreame that they have lost their maidenheads!
Such dreames, such slumbers I had to[o] enjoyde,
If waking mallice had not them destroide.
A starved man with double death doth dye,
To have the meate might save him in his eye,
And may not have it: so am I tormented,
To starve for joy I see, yet am prevented.
Well, Franke, although thou woedst and quickly wonne,
Yet shall my love to thee be never done;
Ile run through hedge and ditch, through brakes and briers,
To come to thee, sole lord of my desires:
Short woing is the best, an houre, not yeares,
For long debating love is full of feares.
But, hearke! I heare one tread. O, wert my brother,
Or Franke, or any man, but not my mother!

[Enter Sir Raph Smith from the fields.]

S. Rap. O, when will this same yeare of night have end?
Long lookt for daies sunne, when wilt thou ascend?
Let not this theefe friend, misty vale of night,
Incroach on day, and shadow thy faire light,
Whilst thou com'st tardy from thy Thetes bed,
Blushing foorth, golden haire and glorious red;
O, stay not long, bright lanthorne of the day,
To light my mist way feete to my right way!

Mall. It is a man, his big voice tels me so,
Much am I not acquainted with it tho;
And yet mine eare, sounds true distinguisher,
Boyes that I have been more familiar
With it then now I am: well, I doe judge,
It is not envies fellon, not of grudge;
Therefore Ile plead acquaintance, hyer his guiding,
And buy of him some place of close abiding,
Till that my mothers mallice be expired,
And we may joy in that is long desired [Aside].—
Whose there?

Ra. Are ye a maide?—No question this is she
My man doth misse: faith, since she lights on me,
I doe not meane till day to let her goe;
For what she is my mans love I will know [Aside].—
Harke ye, mayde, if mayde, are ye so light
That you can see to wander in the night?

Mal. Harke ye, true man, if true, I tell you, no;
I cannot see at all which way I goe.

Ra. Fayre mayde, ist so? say, had ye nere a fall?

Mal. Fayre man, not so; no, I had none at all.

Ra. Could you not stumble on one man, I pray?

Mal. No, no such blocke till now came in my way.

Ra. Am I that blocke, sweete tripe? then, fall and try.

Ma. The grounds too hard a feather-bed; not I.

Ra. Why, how and you had met with such a stumpe?

Mal. Why, if he had been your height, I meant to jumpe.

Ra. Are ye so nimble?

Mal. Nimble as a doe.

Ra. Backt in a pye.

Mal. Of ye.

Ra. Good meate ye know.

Mall. Ye hunt sometimes?

Ra. I do.

Mal. What take ye?

Ra. Deare.

Mall. You'l nere strike rascall?

Ra. Yes, when ye are there.

Mal. Will ye strike me?

Rap. Yes: will ye strike againe?

Mall. No, sir; it fits not maides to fight with men.

Ra. I wonder, wench, how I thy name might know.

Mall. Why, you may finde it, sir, in the Christcrosse row.

Rap. Be my schoolemistresse, teach me how to spell it.

Mall. No, faith, I care not greatly if I tell it;
My name is Marie Barnes.

Ra. How, wench? Mall Barnes!

Mal. The verie same.

Rap. Why, this is strange.

Mal. I pray, sir, whats your name?

Raph. Why, sir Raph Smith doth wonder, wench, at this;
Why, whats the cause thou art abroad so late?

Mal. What, sir Raph Smith! nay, then, I will disclose
All the hole 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 Raph, if you my blush might see,
You then would say I am ashamed to be
Found, like a wandring stray, by such a knight,
So farre from home at such a time of night:
But my excuse is good; love first by fate
Is crost, controulde, and sundered by fell hate.
Franke Goursey is my love, and he loves me;
But both our mothers hate and disagree;
Our fathers like the match and wish it don;
And so it had, had not our mothers come;
To Oxford we concluded both to go;
Going to meete, they came; we parted so;
My mother followed me, but I ran fast,
Thinking who went from hate had need make hast;
Take me she cannot, though she still persue:
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.

Ra. Alas, good heart, I pitty thy hard hap!
And Ile employ all that I may for thee.
Franke Goursey, wench! I do commend thy choyse:
Now I remember I met one Francis,
As I did seeke my man,—then, that was he,—
And Philip too,—belike that was thy brother:
Why, now I find how I did loose myself,
And wander up and down, mistaking so.
Give me thy hand, Mall: I will never leave
Till I have made your mothers friends againe,
And purchast to ye both your hearts delight,
And for this same one bad many a good night.
Twill not be long ere that Aurora will,
Deckt in the glory of a goldon sunne,
Open the christall windowes of the east,
To make the earth enamourde of her face,
When we shall have cleare light to see our way:
Come; night being done, expect a happy day.

Exeunt.