Tub, Hilts, Awdrey.
O you are a trusty Governour!
Hil. What ails you?
You do not know when yo' are well, I think:
You'ld ha' the Calf with the white Face, Sir, would you?
I have her for you here; what would you more?
Quietness, Hilts, and hear no more of it.
No more of it, quoth you? I do not care,
If some on us had not heard so much of't,
I tell you true; A man must carry and vetch,
Like Bungy's Dog for you.
And scarce be spit i' the mouth for't. A good Dog
Deserves, Sir, a good bone, of a free Master:
But, an' your turns be serv'd, the Devil a bit
You care for a man after, e're a Lard of you.
Like will to like, y-faith, quoth the scabb'd Squire
To th' mangy Knight, when both met in a Dish
Of butter'd Vish. One bad, there's ne'er a good;
And not a Barrel better Herring among you.
Nay, Hilts! I pray thee grow not fram-pull now.
Turn not the bad Cow after thy good Soap.
Our plot hath hitherto tane good effect:
And should it now be troubled, or stopp'd up,
'Twould prove the utter ruine of my hopes.
I pray thee haste to Pancridge, to the Chanon:
And gi' him notice of our good success;
Will him that all things be in readiness.
Fair Awdrey, and my self, will cross the Fields,
The nearest path. Good Hilts, make thou some haste,
And meet us on the way. Come, gentle Awdrey.
Vaith, would I had a few more geances on't:
An' you say the word, send me to Jericho.
Out-cept a man were a Post-horse, I ha' not known
The like on't; yet, an' he had kind words,
'Twould never irke 'un. But a man may break
His heart out i' these days, and get a flap
With a Fox-tail, when he has done. And there is all.
Nay, say not so Hilts: hold thee; there are
My love bestows on thee, for thy reward,
If Gold will please thee, all my Land shall drop
In bounty thus, to recompence thy merit.
Tut, keep your Land, and your Gold too, Sir: I
Seek neither — nother of 'un. Learn to get
More: you will know to spend that zum you have
Early enough: you are assur'd of me.
I love you too too well, to live o' the spoil:
For your own sake, were there were no worse than I.
All is not Gold that glisters; I'll to Pancridge.
See how his love doth melt him into Tears!
An honest faithful Servant is a Jewel.
Now th' adventrous Squire hath time and leisure
To ask his Awdrey how she do's, and hear
A grateful answer from her. She not speaks:
Hath the proud Tyran, Frost, usurp'd the Seat
Of former Beauty in my Loves fair Cheek;
Staining the Roseate tincture of her Blood,
With the dull dye of blue congealing cold?
No, sure the weather dares not so presume
To hurt an Object of her brightness. Yet,
The more I view her, she but looks so, so.
Ha? gi' me leave to search this mystery!
O now I have it: Bride, I know your grief;
The last Nights cold hath bred in you such horror
Of the assigned Bridegroom's constitution,
The Killburn Clay-pit; that Frost-bitten marle;
That lump in Courage: melting Cake of Ice;
That the conceit thereof hath almost kill'd thee.
But I must do thee good, wench, and refresh thee.
You are a merry man, Squire Tub of Totten!
I have heard much o' your words, but not o' your deeds.
Thou sayest true, sweet; I' ha' been too slack in
Yet I was never so straight lac'd to you, Squire.
Why, did you ever love me, gentle Awdrey?
Love you? I cannot tell: I must hate no body,
My Father says.
Yes, Clay and Kilbourne, Awdrey,
You must hate them.
It shall be for your sake then.
And for my sake shall yield you that Gratuity.
[He offers to kiss her.
Soft and fair, Squire, there go two words to a
[She puts him back.
What are those, Awdrey?
Nay, I cannot tell.
My Mother zaid, zure, if you married me,
You'ld make me a Lady the first week: and put me
In, I know not what, the very day.
What was it?
Speak, gentle Awdrey, thou shalt have it yet.
A Velvet Dressing for my Head, it is,
They say will make one brave; I will not know
Besse Moale, nor Margery Turne-up: I will look
Another way upon 'em, and be proud.
Troth, I could wish my Wench a better Wit;
But what she wanteth there, her Face supplies.
There is a pointed lustre in her Eye
Hath shot quite through me, and hath hit my heart:
And thence it is I first receiv'd the wound,
That ranckles now, which only she can cure.
Fain would I work my self from this conceit;
But, being flesh, I cannot. I must love her,
The naked truth is: and I will go on,
Were it for nothing, but to cross my Rivals.
Come, Awdrey: I am now resolv'd to ha' thee.