But here comes Raymond, disconsolate and sad;
And here's the gallant that must have the wench.
Jer. I prythee, Raymond, leave these solemn dumps:
Revive thy spirits. Thou, that before hast been
More watchful than the day-proclaiming cock:
As sportive as a kid, as frank and merry
As mirth herself!
If aught in me may thy content procure,
It is thine own, thou mayst thyself assure.
Ray. Ha! Jerningham, if any but thyself
Had spoke that word, it would have come as cold
As the bleak northern winds upon the face
Of winter. From thee they have some power
Upon my blood; yet being from thee,
Had but that hollow sound come from the lips
Of any living man, it might have won
The credit of mine ear; from thee it cannot.
Jer. If I understand thee, I am a villain:
What! dost thou speak in parables to thy friend?
Enter Young Clare.
Come, boy, and make me this same groaning love,
Troubled with stitches and the cough o' th' lungs,
That wept his eyes out, when he was a child,
And ever since hath shot at hoodman-blind:[262]
Make her leap, caper, jerk, and laugh, and sing,
And play me horse tricks.
Make Cupid wanton as his mother's dove;
But in this sort, boy, I would have thee love.
Fab. Why, how now, madcap? what, my lusty Frank,
So near a wife, and will not tell your friend?
But you will to this gear in hugger-mugger:[263]
Art thou turn'd miser, rascal, in thy loves?
Jer. Who, I? s'blood, what should all you see in me, that I should look like a married man, ha? Am I bald? Are my legs too little for my hose? If I feel anything in my forehead, I am a villain. Do I wear a nightcap? do I bend in the hams? what dost thou see in me, that I should be towards marriage, ha?
Y. Clare. What, thou married? let me look upon thee; rogue, who has given this out of thee? how cam'st thou into this ill-name? what company hast thou been in, rascal?
Fab. You are the man, sir, must have Millicent,
The match is making in the garden now;
Her jointure is agreed on, and the old men,
Your fathers, mean to launch their busy bags;[264]
But in the meantime to thrust Mounchensey off.
For colour of this new-intended match,
Fair Millicent to Cheston must be sent,
To take the approbation for a nun.
Ne'er look upon me, lad: the match is done.