Jaques, Count.
Count.
Here is the poor old man.
Jaq.
Out of my soul, another! comes he
hither?
Count.
Be not dismay'd, old man, I come
to chear you.
Jaq.
To me, by heaven.
Turn ribs to brass, turn voice into a trumpet,
To rattle out the battles of my thoughts;
One comes to hold me talk, while t'other
robs me.
[ Exit.
Count.
He has forgot me sure; what
should this mean?
He fears authority, and my want of wife
Will take his daughter from him to defame
her:
He that hath nought on earth but one poor
daughter,
May take this extasy of care to keep her.
Enter Jaques.
Jaq.
And yet 'tis safe: they mean not to
use force,
But fawning coming. I shall easily know,
By his next question, if he think me rich.
Whom see I? my good lord?
Count.
Stand up, good father,
I call thee not good father for thy age,
But that I gladly wish to be thy son,
In honour'd marriage with thy beauteous
daughter.
Jaq.
O, so, so, so, so, so this is for gold.
Now it is sure this is my daughter's neat-
ness
Makes them believe me rich. No, my good lord,
I'll tell you all, how my poor hapless daughter
Got that attire she wears from top to toe.
Count.
Why, father, this is nothing.
Jaq.
O yes, good my lord.
Count.
Indeed it is not.
Jaq.
Nay, sweet lord, pardon me, do not
dissemble;
Hear your poor beadsman speak: 'tis re-
quisite
That I (so huge a beggar) make account
Of things that pass my calling. She was
born
To enjoy nothing underneath the sun;
But that, if she had more than other beggars,
She should be envied: I will tell you then
How she had all she wears. Her warm
shoes (God wot)
A kind maid gave her, seeing her go bare-
foot
In a cold frosty morning; God requite her.
Her homely stockings ——
Count.
Father, I'll hear no more, thou
mov'st too much
With thy too curious answer for thy daughter,
That doth deserve a thousand times as
much.
I'll be thy son-in-law, and she shall wear
Th' attire of countesses.
Jaq.
O, good my lord,
Mock not the poor; remembers not your
lordship
That poverty is the precious gift of God,
As well as riches? tread upon me, rather
Than mock my poorness.
Count.
Rise, I say;
When I mock poorness, then heaven make
me poor.