Young Chartley. Stay but a month, ’tis but four weeks--nay, ’tis February, the shortest month of the year--and in that time I shall be at full age; and the land being entailed, my father can disinherit me of nothing. Is your spleen down now? Have I satisfied you? Well, I see you choleric hasty men are the kindest when all is done. Here’s such wetting of handkerchiefs! he weeps to think of his wife; she weeps to see her father cry! Peace, fool! we shall else have thee claim kindred of the woman killed with kindness.[4.40] Luce’s Father. Well, son, my anger’s past; yet I must tell you, It grieves me that you should thus slight it off, Concerning us in such a dear degree. In private be it spoke, my daughter tells me She’s both a wife and maid. Young Chartley. That may be helped.--Now, Luce, your father’s pacified, will you be pleased? I would endure a quarter’s punishment for thee, and wilt not thou suffer a poor month’s penance for me? ’Tis but eight and twenty days, wench; thou shalt fare well all the time, drink well, eat well, lie well: come, one word of comfort at the latter end of the day. Luce. Yours is my fame, mine honour, and my heart Linked to your pleasure, and shall never part. Young Chartley. Gramercy, wench; thou shalt wear this chain no longer for that word; I’ll multiply the links in such order that it shall have light to shine about thy neck oftener than it doth: this jewel--a plain Bristowe[4.41] stone, a counterfeit. How base was I, that coming to thee in the way of marriage, courted thee with counterfeit stones! Thou shalt wear right, or none. Thou hast no money about thee, Luce? Luce. Yes, sir, I have the hundred pounds that you gave me to lay up last. Young Chartley. Fetch it.--[_Exit_ Luce.]--Let me see, how much branched[4.42] satin goes to a petticoat? and how much wrought velvet to a gown? then for a beaver for the city, and a black bag for the country: I’ll promise her nothing, but if any such trifles be brought home, let her not thank me for them. [_Re-enter_ Luce _with the bag_.] Gramercy, Luce.--Nay, go in, Gravity and Modesty; ten to one but you shall hear of me ere you see me again. Luce’s Father. I know you kind; impute my hasty language Unto my rage, not me. Young Chartley. Why, do not I know you, and do not I know her? I doubt you’ll wish shortly that I had never known either of you: now, what sayst thou, my sweet Luce? Luce. My words are yours, so is my life: I am now Part of yourself, so made by nuptial vow.