Sir Lionel. Yes, nimble-chaps; what say you to that?
Joyce. Nothing; but that I wish his Christian name were Water.[168]
Gert. Sir, I'm at your disposing; but my mind
Stands not as yet towards marriage.
Were you so pleas'd, I would a little longer
Enjoy the quiet of a single bed.
Sir Lionel. Here's the right trick of them all: let a man
Be motion'd to 'em, they could be content
To lead a single life, forsooth: when the harlots
Do pine and run into diseases,
Eat chalk and oatmeal, cry and creep in corners,
Which are manifest tokens of their longings;
And yet they will dissemble. [Aside.] But, Gertude,
As you do owe me reverence, and will pay it,
Prepare yourself to like this gentleman,
Who can maintain thee in thy choice of gowns,
Of tires, of servants, and of costly jewels;
Nay for a need, out of his easy nature,
May'st draw him to the keeping of a coach
For country, and caroch[169] for London:
Indeed, what might'st thou not?
Enter a Servant.
Ser. Sir, here's one come from Master Bubble.
To invite you to the funeral of his uncle.
Sir Lionel. Thank the messenger, and make him drink.
Tell him, I will not fail to wait the corse:
Yet stay, I will go talk with him myself.
Gertrude, think upon what I have told you,
And let me, ere it be long, receive your answer.
[Exeunt Sir Lionel and Servant.
Joyce. Sister, sister!
Gert. What say you, sister?
Joyce. Shall I provide a cord?