Boyster. Yet ask thine heart, and see what may be done. Luce. In troth, I am sorry you should spend a sigh For my sake unrequited, or a tear,-- Ay, or a word. Boyster. ’Tis no matter for my words, they are not many and those not very wise ones neither. Luce. Yet I beseech you spend no more in vain. I scorn you not; disdain’s as far from me As are the two poles distant: therefore, sir, Because I would not hold you in suspense, But tell you what at first to trust unto, Thus in a word, I must not fancy[4.07] you. Boyster. Must not! Luce. I cannot, nor I may not. Boyster. I am gone: Thou hast given me, Luce, a bone to gnaw upon. [_Exit_. Luce. Alas, that beauty should be sought of more Than can enjoy it! Might I have my wish, I would seem fair but only in his eye That should possess me in a nuptial tie. _Enter_ Young Chartley, _with gloves, ring, purse, &c._ Young Chartley. Morrow, Luce; in exchange of this kiss, see what I have brought thee from the Exchange. Luce. What mean you, sir, by this? Young Chartley. Guess that by the circumstance: here’s a ring, wear’t for my sake; twenty angels, pocket them, you fool. Come, come, I know thou art a maid: say nay, and take them.[4.08] Luce. Sweet Master Chartley, do not fasten on me More than with ease I can shake off: your gift I reverence, yet refuse; and I pray tell me, Why do you make so many errands hither, Send me so many letters, fasten on me So many favours? What’s your meaning in’t? Young Chartley. Hark in thine ear, I’ll tell thee;--nay, hear me out. Is’t possible so soft a body should have so hard a soul? Nay, now I know my penance; you will be angry, and school me for tempting your modesty: a fig for this modesty! it hinders many a good man from many a good turn, and that’s all the good it doth. If thou but knew’st, Luce, how I love thee, thou wouldst be far more tractable. Nay, I bar chiding when you speak; I’ll stop thy lips if thou dost but offer an angry word--by this hand, I’ll do’t, and with this hand too. Go to now, what say you? Luce. Sir, if you love me, as you say you do, Show me the fruits thereof. Young Chartley. The stock I can; thou mayst see the fruits hereafter. Luce. Can I believe you love me, when you seek The shipwreck of mine honour? Young Chartley. Honour! there’s another word to flap in a man’s mouth! Honour! what shouldst thou and I stand upon our honour, that were neither of us yet Right Worshipful?