Mean. Your worship speaks
Just like yourself: methinks he's noble
That's truly rich. Men may talk much of lines,
Of arms, of blood, of race, of pedigree:
Houses, descents and families; they are
But empty noise, God knows; the idle breath
Of that puff nothing, honour; formal words,
Fit for the tongues of men that ne'er knew yet
What stem, what gentry, nay, what virtue lies
In great revenues.
Sir T. Well and pithy said!
You may work on my daughter, and prevail
For that young stripling. 'Tis a foolish wench,
An unexperienc'd girl; she'd like to have been
Caught by Sir Robert Littleworth's son, if that
I had not banish'd him my house; a youth
Honest enough, I think, but that he's poor;
Born to more name than fortune.
Cre. He is safe
For ever wooing. I have laid his father
Out of harm's way; there's picking meat for him,
And God knows where he's gone: he hath not been
Seen this long while; he's, sure, turn'd vagabond;
No sight of him since the arrest of his father.
Andrew, address yourself to good Sir Thomas.
And. 'Slid, father, you're the strangest man—I won't.
Cre. As God shall mend me, thou'rt the proudest thing——
Thou can'st not compliment, but in caparisons.
And. What's that to you? I'd fain say something yet,
But that I can't, my losses do so vex me.
Cre. Come, think not on't, my boy; I'll furnish thee.
And. Sir, though——
Cre. Nay, to't, I say: help him, sir, help him.
And. Sir, though without my cloak at this time—
To-morrow I shall have one—give me leave
Barely to say I am your servant, sir——
In hose and doublet.