Wise-woman. Those be kitchen-maids, and chamber-maids, and sometimes good men’s daughters, who, having catched a clap,[4.28] and growing near their time, get leave to see their friends in the country, for a week or so: then hither they come, and for a matter of money here they are delivered. I have a midwife or two belonging to the house, and one Sir Boniface, a deacon, that makes a shift to christen the infants; we have poor, honest, and secret neighbours, that stand for common gossips.[4.29] But dost not thou know this? 2nd Luce. Yes, now I do; but what after becomes of the poor infants? Wise-woman. Why, in the night we send them abroad, and lay one at this man’s door, and another at that, such as are able to keep them; and what after becomes of them, we inquire not. And this is another string to my bow. 2nd Luce. [_Aside_.] Most strange, that woman’s brain should apprehend Such lawless, indirect, and horrid means For covetous gain! How many unknown trades Women and men are free of, which they never Had charter for! But, mistress, are you so cunning as you make yourself? you can neither write nor read: what do you with those books you so often turn over? Wise-woman. Why, tell[4.30] the leaves; for to be ignorant, and seem ignorant, what greater folly! 2nd Luce. [_Aside_.] Believe me, this is a cunning woman; neither hath she her name for nothing, who out of her ignorance can fool so many that think themselves wise.--But wherefore have you built this little closet close to the door, where sitting, you may hear every word spoken by all such as ask for you? Wise-woman. True, and therefore I built it. If any knock, you must to the door and question them, to find what they come about,--if to this purpose, or to that. Now, they ignorantly telling thee their errand, which I, sitting in my closet, overhear, presently come forth, and tell them the cause of their coming, with every word that hath passed betwixt you in private; which they admiring, and thinking it to be miraculous, by their report I become thus famous. 2nd Luce. This is no trade, but a mystery; and, were I a wise-woman, as indeed I am but a foolish boy, I need not live by your service. But, mistress, we lose ourselves in this discourse: is not this the morning in which I should be married? Wise-woman. Now, how had I forgot myself! Mistress Luce promised to be with me half an hour ago, but masked and disguised, and so shalt thou be too: here’s a black veil to hide thy face against the rest come. [_2nd_ Luce _puts on the veil_. _Enter_ Sir Boniface. Sir Boniface. _Sit tibi bona dies, salus et quies_. Wise-woman. Into the withdrawing-room, Sir Boniface. Sir Boniface. Without any compunction, I will make the conjunction. [_Exit_. Wise-woman. Now keep thy countenance, boy.