True. Turned fifty.
Sir Wil. Ten years more!
How marvellously well I wear! I think
You would not flatter me!—But scan me close,
And pryingly, as one who seeks a thing
He means to find—What signs of age dost see?
True. None!
Sir Wil. None about the corners of the eyes?
Lines that diverge like to the spider’s joists,
Whereon he builds his airy fortalice?
They call them crow’s feet—has the ugly bird
Been perching there?—Eh?—Well?
True. There’s something like,
But not what one must see, unless he’s blind
Like steeple on a hill!
Sir Wil. [After a pause.] Your eyes are good!
I am certainly a wonder for my age;
I walk as well as ever! Do I stoop?
True. A plummet from your head would find your heel.
Sir Wil. It is my make—my make, good Master Trueworth;
I do not study it. Do you observe
The hollow in my back? That’s natural.
As now I stand, so stood I when a child,
A rosy, chubby boy!—I am youthful to
A miracle! My arm is firm as ’twas
At twenty. Feel it!
True. [Feeling Sir William’s arm.] It is deal!
Sir Wil. Oak—oak,
Isn’t it, Master Trueworth? Thou hast known me
Ten years and upwards. Thinkest my leg is shrunk?