The Love-Chase | Page 2

Good Master Neville!
True. I should laugh to see The poacher snared!--the maid, for mistress sought, Turn out a wife.
Nev. How say you, Master Waller? Things quite as strange have fallen!
Wed. Impossible!
True. Impossible! Most possible of things - If thou'rt in love! Where merit lies itself, What matters it to want the name, which weighed, Is not the worth of so much breath as it takes To utter it! If, but from Nature's hand, She is all you could expect of gentle blood, Face, form, mien, speech; with these, what to belong To lady more behoves--thoughts delicate, Affections generous, and modesty - Perfectionating, brightening crown of all! - If she hath these--true titles to thy heart - What does she lack that's title to thy hand? The name of lady, which is none of these, But may belong without? Thou mightst do worse Than marry her. Thou wouldst, undoing her, Yea, by my mother's name, a shameful act Most shamefully performed!
Wal. [Starting up and drawing.] Sir!
Nev. [And the others, interposing.] Gentlemen!
True. All's right! Sit down!--I will not draw again. A word with you: If--as a man--thou sayest, Upon thy honour, I have spoken wrong, I'll ask thy pardon!--though I never hold Communion with thee more!
Wal. [After a pause, putting up his sword.] My sword is sheathed? Wilt let me take thy hand?
True. 'Tis thine, good sir, And faster than before--A fault confessed Is a new virtue added to a man! Yet let me own some blame was mine. A truth May be too harshly told--but 'tis a theme I am tender on--I had a sister, sir, You understand me!--'Twas my happiness To own her once--I would forget her now! - I have forgotten!--I know not if she lives! - Things of such strain as we were speaking of, Spite of myself, remind me of her!--So! -
Nev. Sit down! Let's have more wine.
Wild. Not so, good sirs. Partaking of your hospitality, I have overlooked good friends I came to visit, And who have late become sojourners here - Old country friends and neighbours, and with whom I e'en take up my quarters. Master Trueworth, Bear witness for me.
True. It is even so. Sir William Fondlove and his charming daughter.
Wild. Ay, neighbour Constance. Charming, does he say? Yes, neighbour Constance is a charming girl To those that do not know her. If she plies me As hard as was her custom in the country, I should not wonder though, this very day, I seek the home I quitted for a month! [Aside.]
Good even, gentlemen.
Hum. Nay, if you go, We all break up, and sally forth together.
Wal. Be it so--Your hand again, good Master Trueworth! I am sorry I did pain you.
True. It is thine, sir.
[They go out.]
SCENE III.--Sir William Fondlove's House.--A Room.
[Enter SIR WILLIAM FONDLOVE.]
Sir Wil. At sixty-two, to be in leading-strings, Is an old child--and with a daughter, too! Her mother held me ne'er in check so strait As she. I must not go but where she likes, Nor see but whom she likes, do anything But what she likes!--A slut bare twenty-one! Nor minces she commands! A brigadier More coolly doth not give his orders out Than she! Her waiting-maid is aide-de-camp; My steward adjutant; my lacqueys serjeants; That bring me her high pleasure how I march And counter-march--when I'm on duty--when I'm off--when suits it not to tell it me Herself--"Sir William, thus my mistress says!" As saying it were enough--no will of mine Consulted! I will marry. Must I serve, Better a wife, my mistress, than a daughter! And yet the vixen says, if I do marry, I'll find she'll rule my wife, as well as me!
[Enter TRUEWORTH.]
Ah, Master Trueworth! Welcome, Master Trueworth!
True. Thanks, sir; I am glad to see you look so well!
Sir Wil. Ah, Master Trueworth, when one turns the hill, 'Tis rapid going down! We climb by steps; By strides we reach the bottom. Look at me, And guess my age.
True. Turned fifty.
Sir Wil. Ten years more! How marvellously well I wear! I think You would not flatter me!--But scan me close, And pryingly, as one who seeks a thing He means to find--What signs of age dost see?
True. None!
Sir Wil. None about the corners of the eyes? Lines that diverge like to the spider's joists, Whereon he builds his airy fortalice? They call them crow's feet--has the ugly bird Been perching there?--Eh?--Well?
True. There's something like, But not what one must see, unless he's blind Like steeple on a hill!
Sir Wil. [After a pause.] Your eyes are good! I am certainly a wonder for my age; I walk as well as ever! Do I stoop?
True. A plummet from your head would find your heel.
Sir Wil. It is my make--my make, good Master Trueworth; I do not study it. Do you observe The hollow in my back?