CLARE.
Hold thy chat, queane.
OLD MOUNTCHESNEY.
To which I hearkned willingly, and the rather,
Because I was persuaded it proceeded
From love thou bor'st to me and to my boy;
And gav'st him free access unto thy house,
Here he hath not behaved him to thy child,
But as befits a gentleman to do:
Nor is my poor distressed state so low,
That I'll shut up my doors, I warrant thee.
CLARE.
Let it suffice, Mountchensey, I mislike it;
Nor think thy son a match fit for my child.
MOUNTCHENSEY.
I tell thee, Clare, his blood is good and clear
As the best drop that panteth in thy veins:
But for this maid, thy fair and vertuous child,
She is no more disparaged by thy baseness
Then the most orient and the pretious jewell,
Which still retains his lustre and his beauty,
Although a slave were owner of the same.
CLARE.
She is the last is left me to bestow,
And her I mean to dedicate to God.
MOUNTCHENSEY.
You do, sir?
CLARE.
Sir, sir, I do, she is mine own.
MOUNTCHENSEY.
And pity she is so!
Damnation dog thee and thy wretched pelf!
[Aside.]
CLARE.
Not thou, Mountchensey, shalt bestow my child.