Cle. I thank my youth then
For the tender of your service; 'tis the last
Good turn it did me. But by this my fears
Instruct me, when the old bald man, call'd Time,
Comes stealing on me, and shall steal away
What you call beauty, my neglected face
Must be enforc'd to go in quest for a new
Knight-errant.
San. Slander not my constant faith,
Nor doubt the care Fate hath to stop the motion
Of envious Time, might it endanger so
Supreme a beauty.
Cle. Sure, my lord, Fate hath
More serious business, or divines make bold
T' instruct us in a schism. But grant I could
Induce myself (which I despair I shall)
To hear and talk that empty nothing Love,
Is't now in season, when an army lies
Before our city-gates, and every hour
A battery expected? Dear my lord,
Let's seal our testament, and prepare for heaven;
And, as I am inform'd by them who seem
To know some part o' th' way, Love's not the nearest
Path that leads thither.
San. Madam, he is but
A coward lover whom or death or hell
Can fright from's mistress: and, for danger now
Threat'ning the city, how can I so arm
Myself, as by your favour proof against
All stratagems of war?
Cle. Your lordship then
Shall walk as safe as if a Lapland witch
(You will not envy me the honour of
The metaphor) preserv'd you shot-free. But
Who is your confessor? Yet spare his name;
His function will forgive the glory of it:
Sure he's ill-read in cases to allow
A married lord the freedom of this courtship.
San. Can you think, madam, that I trust my sins
(But virtues are those loves I pay your beauty)
To th' counsel of a cassock? Who hath art
To judge of my confession, must have had
At least a privy chamberer to his father.
We of the court commit not, as the vulgar,
Dull, ignorant sins: then, that I'm married, madam,
Is rather safety to our love.
Cle. My heart!
How sick am I o' th' sudden! Good my lord,
Call your dwarf hither.
San. Garragantua! boy.
Enter Browfildora.
Cle. Prythee, thy pedigree?