SCENE II.
An old fashioned Apartment, in Barton's House, in the Village. Rusty Arms, and other Military Paraphernalia hanging up, in different Parts; &c.
La Varenne and Barton.
Barton. Nay, sir, thank not me:
I am no trader, I, in empty forms;
In neat congees, and kickshaw compliments;
In your,—"Dear sirs," and "Sir, you make me blush;"—
I'm for plain speaking; plain and blunt; besides,
I've been a soldier:—and, I take it, sir,
You, who are still in service, are aware
That blushing seldom troubles the profession.
La Var. Still, friend, I thank thee.—Thou hast shelter'd me,
At a hard trying moment, when the buffets
Of tainting fortune rather would persuade
Friends to shrink back, than serve me.
Barton. 'Faith, good sir,
I know not how you have been buffetted:—
But this I know,—at least I think I know it—
If there's a soldier, in the world's wide army,
Who will not, in the moment of distress,
Stretch forth his hand to save a falling comrade,
Why, then, I think, that he has little chance
Of being found in Heaven's muster-roll.
La Var. I like thy plainness well.
Barton. Nay, sir, my plainness
Is such as Nature gave me: and would men
Leave Nature to herself, good faith, her work
Is pretty equal;—but we will be garnishing;
Until the heart, like to a beauty's face,
Which she ne'er lets alone till she has spoil'd it,
Is so befritter'd round, with worldly nonsense,
That we can scarcely trace sweet Nature's outlines.
La Var. Who of our party, pr'ythee, since the battle
Have shelter'd here among the villagers?—
Canst tell their names?
Barton. Ay, marry, can I, sir.
But can and will are birds of diff'rent feather.
Can is a swan, that bottles up its music,
And never lets it out till death is near;
But will's a piping bullfinch, that does ever
Whistle forth every note it has been taught,
To any fool that bids it. Now, sir, mark;—
Whoever's here, would fain be private here;
Whoever's here, depend on't, tell I can;—
Whoever's here, depend on't, tell I will not.
La Var. Why, this is over-caution!—would not they
Rejoice as readily at seeing me,
As I at seeing them?
Barton. I know not that:
I am no whisper-monger;—and if, once,
A secret be entrusted to my charge,
I keep it, as an honest agent should,
Lock'd in my heart's old strong box; and I'll answer
No draught from any but my principal.
La Var. If now thou hast a charge, old trusty, I,
(Believe me), am next heir to't.
Barton. Very like.
Yet, sir, if heirs had liberty to draw
For what is not their own, till time shall give it them,
I fear the stock would soon be dry;—and, then,
The principals might have some cause to grumble.
La Var. Thou art the strangest fellow! What's thy name?
Barton. Barton;—that I may trust you with.
La Var. No more?
Barton. No, not a pin's point more. Pshaw! here comes one,
To let all out. Children, and fools, and women,
Will still be babbling.
Enter Prince Edward.
Prince. Oh! my lord, is't you!
La Var. Oh, my young sir! how my heart springs to meet you!
Where is your royal mother? is she safe?
Prince. She's in this house, my lord.—Last night,
This honest man received us:—and another,—
His friend—not quite so honest as he might be—
Did bring us hither;—'twas a rogue, my lord;—
Yet no rogue neither;—and, to say the sooth,
The rogue, my lord, 's a very honest man.
Lord, how this meeting will rejoice my mother!
And she was wishing, now, within this minute,
To see the Seneschal of Normandy.
Barton. So!
This is the Seneschal of Normandy!
Here is another secret.—Plague take secrets!
This is in token of their liking me;—
Just as an over hospitable host,
Out of pure kindness to his visitor,
Crams the poor bursting soul with meat he loaths.
La Var. I cannot blame thee, friend;—thou knew'st me not:
And, thou hast, now, a jewel in thy care,
Well worth thy utmost caution in preserving.
Barton. I need not to be told the value on't.
I have been sworn his mother's subject, sir; and since
My poor house has been honour'd with her presence,
The tender scenes, I've been a witness to,
'Twixt her, and this young bud of royalty,
Would make me traitor to humanity,
Could I betray her. There is a rapturous something,
That plays about an English subject's heart,
When female majesty is seen employ'd
In these sweet duties of domestic love,
Which all can feel,—but very few describe!
La Var. Oh! how thou warm'st me, fellow, with thy zeal!
Come, my young lord!—now lead us to her majesty. [To Barton.
Barton. Why, as things are, I'll lead you where she is:—
But were they otherwise, and you had not
Discover'd where she is—you'll pardon me—
But I had led you, sir, a pretty dance
Ere I had led you to her. Come, I'll conduct you. [Exeunt.