Alb. I heard the echo answer unto one,
That by his speech cannot be far remote
From off this ground; and see, I have descri'd him:
O heavens! it's Carracus, whose reason's seat
Is now usurp'd by madness and distraction;
Which I, the author of confusion,
Have planted here by my accursed deeds.
Car. O, are you come, sir! I was sending
The tavern-boy for you; I have been practising
Here, and can do none of my lofty tricks.
Alb. Good sir, if any spark do yet remain
Of your consumed reason, let me strive——
Car. To blow it out? troth, I most kindly thank you,
Here's friendship to the life. But, Father Wheybeard,
Why should you think me void of reason's fire,
My youthful days being in the height of knowledge?
I must confess your old years gain experience;
But that so much o'errul'd by dotage,
That what you think experience shall effect,
Short memory destroys. What say you now, sir?
Am I mad now, that can answer thus
To all interrogatories?
Alb. But though your words do savour, sir, of judgment,
Yet when they derogate from the due observance
Of fitting times, they ought to be respected
No more than if a man should tell a tale
Of feigned mirth in midst of extreme sorrows.
Car. How did you know
My sorrows, sir? what though I have lost a wife,
Must I be therefore griev'd? am I not happy
To be so freed of a continual trouble?
Had many a man such fortune as I,
In what a heaven would they think themselves,
Being releas'd of all those threat'ning clouds,
Which in the angry skies call'd women's brows
Sit, ever menacing tempestuous storms?
But yet I needs must tell you, old December,
My wife was clear of this; within her brow
She had not a wrinkle nor a storming frown:
But, like a smooth well-polish'd ivory,
It seem'd so pleasant to the looker-on:
She was so kind, of nature so gentle,
That if she'd done a fault, she'd straight go die for't:
Was not she then a rare one?
What, weep'st thou, aged Nestor?
Take comfort, man! Troy was ordain'd by fate
To yield to us, which we will ruinate.
Alb. Good sir, walk with me but where you [may] see
The shadowing elms, within whose circling round
There is a holy spring about encompass'd
By dandling sycamores and violets,
Whose waters cure all human maladies.
Few drops thereof, being sprinkl'd on your temples,
Revives your fading memory, and restores
Your senses lost unto their perfect being.
Car. Is it clear water, sir, and very fresh?
For I am thirsty, [which] gives it a better relish
Than a cup of dead wine with flies in't?
Alb. Most pleasant to the taste; pray, will you go?
Car. Faster than you, I believe, sir.
[Exeunt.