Tub, Awdrey, Hilts, Metaphore, Lady, Pol-martin.
Tub.
Welcome again, my Awdrey: welcome, Love:
You shall with me; in faith deny me not.
I cannot brook the second hazard, Mistris.
Awd.
Forbear, Squire Tub, as mine own Mother says,
I am not for your mowing. You'll be flown
Ere I be fledg'd.
Hil.
Hast thou the Money, Miles?
Met.
Here are two Bags, there's Fifty Pound in each.
Tub.
Nay, Awdrey, I possess you for this time:
Sirs, take that Coyn between you, and divide it.
My pretty Sweeting, give me now the leave
To challenge Love, and Marriage at your hands.
Awd.
Now, out upon you, are you not asham'd?
What will my Lady say? In faith, I think
She was at our House: and I think she ask'd for you:
And I think she hit me i' th' teeth with you,
I thank her Ladyship: and I think she means
Not to go hence, till she has found you. How say you?
Tub.
Was then my Lady Mother at your House?
Let's have a word aside.
Awd.
Yes, Twenty words.
Lad.
'Tis strange, a Motion, but I know not what,
Comes in my mind, to leave the way to Totten,
And turn to Kentish-town, again my Journey:
And see my Son, Pol-martin, with his Awdrey:
Ere while we left her at her Father's House:
And hath he thence remov'd her in such haste!
What shall I do? Shall I speak fair, or chide?
Pol.
Madam, your worthy Son, with dutious care,
Can govern his Affections: Rather than
Break off their Conference, some other way,
Pretending ignorance of what you know.
Tub.
And this all, fair Awdrey: I am thine.
Lad.
Mine you were once, though scarcely now
your own.
Hil.
'Slid, my Lady! my Lady!
Met.
Is this my Lady bright?
Tub.
Madam, you took me now a little tardy.
Lad.
At Prayers, I think you were: What, so devout
Of late, that you will shrive you to all Confessors
You meet by chance? Come, go with me, good Squire,
And leave your Linnen: I have now a business,
And of importance, to impart unto you.
Tub.
Madam, I pray you, spare me but an hour;
Please you to walk before, I follow you.
Lad.
It must be now, my business lies this way.
Tub.
Will not an hour hence, Madam, excuse me?
Lad.
Squire, these Excuses argue more your Guilt.
You have some new Device now, to project,
Which the poor Tile-man scarce will thank you for.
What? will you go?
Tub.
I ha' tane a charge upon me,
To see this Maid conducted to her Father,
Who, with the Chanon Hugh, stays her at Pancras,
To see her married to the same John Clay.
Lad.
'Tis very well: but, Squire, take you no care.
I'll send Pol martin with her, for that Office: <!-- sic no hyphen -->
You shall along with me; it is decreed.
Tub.
I have a little business with a friend, Madam.
Lad.
That friend shall stay for you, or you for him.
Pol-martin, take the Maiden to your care:
Commend me to her Father.
Tub.
I will follow you.
Lad.
Tut, tell not me of following.
Tub.
I'll but speak a word.
Lad.
No whispering: you forget your self,
And make your Love too palpable: A Squire?
And think so meanly? fall upon a Cow-shard?
You know my mind. Come, I'll to Turfe's House,
And see for Dido, and our Valentine.
Pol-martin, look to your charge; I'll look to mine.
[They all go out but Pol-martinand Awdrey.
Pol.
I smile to think, after so many profers
This Maid hath had, she now should fall to me:
That I should have her in my custody:
'Twere but a mad trick to make the Essay,
And jump a Match with her immediately:
She's fair and handsome; and she's rich enough:
Both time and place minister fair occasion.
Have at it then: Fair Lady, can you love?
Awd.
No Sir: What's that?
Pol.
A Toy which Women use.
Awd.
If't be a Toy, it's good to play withal.
Pol.
We will not stand discoursing o' the Toy:
The way is short, please you to prov't, Mistris?
Awd.
If you do mean to stand so long upon it.
I pray you let me give it a short cut, Sir.
Pol.
It's thus, fair Maid; Are you dispos'd to marry?
Awd.
You are dispos'd to ask.
Pol.
Are you to grant?
Awd.
Nay, now I see you are dispos'd indeed.
Pol.
I see the Wench wants but a little Wit;
And that Defect, her Wealth may well supply;
In plain terms, tell me, Will you have me, Awdrey?
Awd.
In as plain terms, I tell you who would ha' me.
John Clay would ha' me, but he hath too hard Hands;
I like not him: Besides, he is a Thief.
And Justice Bramble, he would fain ha' catch'd me:
But the young Squire, he, rather than his life,
Would ha' me yet; and make me a Lady, he says,
And be my Knight; to do me true Knights service,
Before his Lady Mother. Can you make me
A Lady, would I ha' you?
Pol.
I can gi' you
A Silken Gown, and a Rich Petticoat:
And a French Hood. All Fools love to be brave:
I find her Humour, and I will pursue it.