Jer. Raymond Mounchensey, now I touch thy grief
With the true feeling of a zealous friend.
And as for fair and beauteous Millicent,
With my vain breath I will not seek to slubber[265]
Her angel-like perfections: but thou know'st
That Essex hath the saint that I adore:
Where-e'er didst meet me, that we two were jovial,
But like a wag thou hast not laugh'd at me,
And with regardless jesting mock'd my love?
How[266] many a sad and weary summer night
My sighs have drunk the dew from off the earth,
And I have taught the nightingale to wake,
And from the meadows sprung the early lark
An hour before she should have list to sing:
I have loaded the poor minutes with my moans,
That I have made the heavy slow-pac'd hours
To hang like heavy clogs upon the day.
But, dear Mouncheusey, had not my affection
Seiz'd on the beauty of another dame,
Before I'd wrong the chase, and leave the love
Of one so worthy and so true a friend,
I will abjure both beauty and her sight,
And will in love become a counterfeit.
Moun. Dear Jerningham, thou hast begot my life,
And from the mouth of hell, where now I sat,
I feel my spirit rebound against the stars,
Thou hast conquer'd me, dear friend, in my free soul,
There time nor death can by their power control.
Fab. Frank Jerningham, thou art a gallant boy;
And were he not my pupil, I would say
He were as fine a metall'd gentleman,
Of as free spirit and of as fine a temper,
As is in England; and he is a man
That very richly may deserve thy love.
But, noble Clare, this while of our discourse,
What may Mounchensey's honour to thyself
Exact upon the measure of thy grace?
Y. Clare. Raymond Mounchensey, I would have thee know,
He does not breathe this air, whose love I cherish,
And whose soul I love more than Mounchensey's:
Nor ever in my life did see the man
Whom, for his wit and many virtuous parts,
I think more worthy of my sister's love.
But since the matter grows unto this pass,
I must not seem to cross my father's will;
But when thou list to visit her by night,
My horse is saddled, and the stable door
Stands ready for thee; use them at thy pleasure.
In honest marriage wed her frankly, boy,
And if thou gett'st her, lad, God give thee joy.
Moun. Then, care away! let fate my fall pretend,
Back'd with the favours of so true a friend!
Fab. Let us alone, to bustle for the set;
For age and craft with wit and art have met.
I'll make my spirits to dance such nightly jigs
Along the way 'twixt this and Tot'nam Cross,
The carriers' jades shall cast their heavy packs,
And the strong hedges scarce shall keep them in:
The milkmaids' cuts[267] shall turn the wenches off,
And lay their dossers[268] tumbling in the dust:
The frank and merry London 'prentices,
That come for cream and lusty country cheer,
Shall lose their way; and, scrambling in the ditches
All night shall whoop and hallo, cry and call,
Yet none to other find the way at all.
Moun. Pursue the project, scholar: what we can do
To help endeavour, join our lives thereto. [Exeunt.
Enter Banks, Sir John, and Smug.
Banks. Take me with you,[269] good Sir John:[270] a plague on thee, Smug, and thou touchest liquor, thou art foundered straight. What! are your brains always watermills? must they ever run round?