Luce. I have great reason, when my name is tossed In every gossip’s mouth, and made a bye-word Unto such people as it least concerns. Nay, in my hearing, as they pass along, Some have not spared to brand my modesty, Saying, “There sits she whom young Chartley keeps: There hath he entered late, betimes gone forth.” Where I with pride was wont to sit before, I’m now with shame sent blushing from the door. Young Chartley. Alas, poor fool! I am sorry for thee, but yet cannot help thee, as I am a gentleman. Why, say, Luce, thou losest now forty shillings worth of credit, stay but a time, and it shall bring thee in a thousand pounds worth of commodity. Luce’s Father. Son, son, had I esteemed my profit more Than I have done my credit, I had now Been many thousands richer; but you see, Truth and good dealing bear an humble sail. That little I enjoy, it is with quiet, Got with good conscience, kept with good report; And that I still shall labour to preserve. Young Chartley. But do you hear me? Luce’s Father. Nothing I’ll hear that tends unto the ruin Of mine or of my daughter’s honesty. Shall I be held a broker to lewd lust, Now in my wane of years? Young Chartley. Will you but hear me? Luce’s Father. Not in this case. I that have lived thus long, Reported well, esteemed a welcome guest At every burthened table, there respected, Now to be held a pander to my daughter! That I should live to this! Young Chartley. But hark you, father! Luce’s Father. A bawd to mine own child! Young Chartley. Father! Luce’s Father. To my sweet Luce! Young Chartley. Father! Luce’s Father. Deal with me like a son, then call me father. I that have had the tongues of every man Ready to crown my reputation, The hands of all my neighbours to subscribe To my good life, and such as could not write Ready with palsied and unlettered fingers To set their scribbling marks-- Young Chartley. Why, father-in-law! Luce’s Father. Thou hadst a mother, Luce--’tis woe with me To say thou hadst, but hast not; a kind wife, And a good nurse she was: she, had she lived To hear my name thus canvassed, and thus tossed, Seven years before she died, I had been a widower Seven years before I was. Heaven rest her soul! She is in Heaven, I hope. [_He wipes his eyes_. Young Chartley. Why, so now, these be good words: I knew these storms would have a shower, and then they would cease. Now, if your anger be over, hear me. Luce’s Father. Well, say on, son.