LADY MORE.
This is your fashion still; I must know nothing.
Call Master Catesby; he shall straight to court,
And see how my lord does: I shall not rest,
Until my heart leave panting on his breast.
[Enter Sir Thomas More merrily, Servants attending.]
DAUGHTER.
See where my father comes, joyful and merry.
MORE.
As seamen, having passed a troubled storm,
Dance on the pleasant shore; so I—oh, I could speak
Now like a poet! now, afore God, I am passing light!—
Wife, give me kind welcome: thou wast wont to blame
My kissing when my beard was in the stubble;
But I have been trimmed of late; I have had
A smooth court shaving, in good faith, I have.—
[Daughters kneel.]
God bless ye!—Son Roper, give me your hand.
ROPER.
Your honor’s welcome home.
MORE.
Honor! ha ha!—And how dost, wife?
ROPER.
He bears himself most strangely.
LADY MORE.
Will your lordship in?