Bri. I never hid my self; whence flows this fury, with which, as it appears, you come to fright me?
Lew. I smell a plot, meer conspiracy amongst ye all to defeat me of my Daughter; and if she be not suddenly deliver'd, untainted in her reputation too, the best of France shall know how I am jugled with. She is my Heir, and if she may be ravish'd thus from my care, farewel Nobility; Honour and Blood are meer neglected nothings.
Bri. Nay then, my Lord, you go too far, and tax him, whose innocency understands not what fear is. If your unconstant Daughter will not dwell on certainties, must you thenceforth conclude that I am fickle? what have I omitted, to make good my integrity and truth? nor can her lightness, nor your supposition, cast an aspersion on me.
Lew. I am wounded in fact, nor can words cure it: do not trifle, but speedily, once more I do repeat it, restore my Daughter as I brought her hither, or you shall hear from me in such a kind, as you will blush to answer.
Bri. All the world, I think, conspires to vex me, yet I will not torment my self: some sprightful mirth must banish the rage and melancholy which hath almost choak'd me; t' a knowing man 'tis Physick, and 'tis thought on; one merry hour I'll have in spight of Fortune, to chear my heart, and this is that appointed; this night I'll hug my Lilly in mine arms, provocatives are sent before to chear me, we old men need 'em, and though we pay dear for our stoln pleasures, so it be done securely, the charge much like a sharp sauce, gives 'em relish. Well, honest Andrew, I gave you a Farm, and it shall have a Beacon, to give warning to my other Tenants when the Foe approaches; and presently, you being bestowed else-where, I'le graff it with dexterity on your forehead; indeed I will, Lilly, I come, poor Andrew. [Exit.
ACTUS IV. SCENA II.
Enter Miramont, Andrew.
Mir. Do they [chafe] roundly?
And. As they were rubb'd with Soap, Sir, and now they swear aloud, now calm again; like a Ring of Bells, whose sound the wind still alters, and then they sit in counsel what to do, and then they jar again what shall be done; they talk of Warrants from the Parliament, Complaints to the King, and Forces from the Province; they have a thousand heads in a thousand minutes, yet ne'er a one head worth a head of Garlick.
Mir. Long may they chafe, and long may we laugh at 'em; a couple of pure Puppies yok'd together. But what sayes the young Courtier Master Eustace, and his two warlike Friends?