Boyster. He cannot. I arrest you. Luce. At whose suit? Boyster. Not at mine own, that’s dashed; I love thee not. Thou art a Spaniard, gipsy, a mere blackamoor: Again I say I love thee not. Luce. A blackamoor, a gipsy! Sure I am changed indeed, and that’s the cause My husband left me so; this gentleman Once termed me beautiful. How look I, Joseph? Joseph. As well as e’er you did--fat, fresh, and fair. Boyster. You lie, boy; pocket that, and now be gone. Joseph. And what shall then become of my mistress? Boyster. I’ll wait upon your mistress. Luce. I know you will not wait on such a gipsy. Boyster. Yes, Luce, on such a gipsy. Boy, _abi, abi_. Joseph. Abide, sir! you need not fear that; I have no purpose to leave her. Boyster. Now you are going to the wedding-house. You are bid to be a bridemaid, are you not? Luce. What wedding, sir, or whose? Boyster. Why, Chartley’s. Luce, hath he been thy friend so long, And would not bid thee to wait on his bride? Why look’st thou red and pale, and both, and neither? Luce. To Master Chartley’s bridals? Why, to whom Should he be married? Boyster. To Grace of Gracious-street. Luce. To Gratiana! Beshrew you, sir, you do not use me well, To buzz into mine ears these strange untruths: I tell you, sir, ’tis as impossible They two should match, as Earth and Heaven to meet. Boyster. You’ll not believe it? Pray then hark within The nuptial music echoing to their joys. But you give credit to no certainties: I told you but a tale, a lie, a fable, A monstrous, a notorious idle untruth-- That you were black, and that I loved you not-- And you could credit that! [_Enter_ Sir Harry, Haringfield, Young Chartley _leading_ Gratiana _by the arm_, Taber, _and_ Attendants.] Who’s tell-troth now? Know you that man, or know you that fine virgin Whom by the arm he leads? Luce. I’ll not endure’t.--Heaven give you joy, sir! Young Chartley. I thank you. Luce! [_She faints_. Sir Harry. Look to the maid; she faints. [Boyster _holds her up_. Young Chartley. Grace, come not near her, Grace. Father, keep off; on, gentlemen, apace. She’s troubled with the falling sickness, for Oft hath she fallen before me. Sir Harry. Nay, if it be no otherwise, on, gentlemen, Let those with her strive to recover her. Keep off; the disease is infectious. Young Chartley. If it were in a man, it were nothing, but the falling sickness in a woman is dangerous. [_Enter_ Luce’s Father.] My tother father-in-law! Now shall I be utterly shamed. If he assure to know me, I’ll outface him. Luce’s Father. Son, you’re well met. Young Chartley. How, fellow! Luce’s Father. I cry you mercy, sir. Young Chartley. No harm done, friend, no harm done. [_Exeunt_ Sir Harry, Haringfield, Young Chartley, _and_ Gratiana.