YOUNG B. You’ll be too ripe for marriage,
If you delay by day and day thus long. 
There is the noble Wigmore, Lord of the March
That lies on Wye, Lug[308], and the Severn streams: 
His son is like the sun’s sire’s Ganymede,
And for your love hath sent a lord to plead. 
His absence I did purpose to excuse,

    Enter LEICESTER.

But Leicester is the man for him that sues.

FITZ.  My cousin Bruce hath been your broker, Leicester;
At least hath broke the matter to my girl.

LEI.  O, for a barber at the time of need,
Or one of these that dresses periwigs,
To deck my grey head with a youthful hair! 
But I must to’t.  Matilda, thus it is! 
Say, can you love me?  I am Wigmore’s son.

MAT.  My cousin said he look’d like Ganymede;
But you, but you—­

LEI.  But I, but I, you say,
Am rather like old Chremes in a play[309];
But that’s a nice objection:  I am he,
But by attorneyship made deputy.

MAT.  He’s never like to speed well all his life,
That by attorney sues to win a wife: 
But grant you are, whom you seem nothing like,
Young Wigmore, the heir to this noble lord—­
He for his son hath sent us ne’er a word.

OLD B. If you grant love, when [that] his son doth woo,
Then in your jointure he’ll send, say, and do.

YOUNG B. And for a doer, cousin, take my word: 
Look for a good egg, he was a good bird;
Cock o’ the game, i’ faith, [O,] never fear.

MAT.  Ay, but I fear the match will fall out ill,
Because he says his son is named Will.

FITZ.  And why, good daughter? hath some palmister,
Some augur, or some dreaming calculator
(For such, I know, you often hearken to),
Been prating ’gainst the name? go to, go to;
Do not believe them.  Leicester, fall to woo.

MAT.  I must believe my father; and ’tis you
That, if I ought misdid, reprov’d me still,
And chiding said, “You’re wedded to your will.”

FITZ.  God, for thy mercy! have ye catch’d me there? 
Wigmore is William, woman.  Leicester, speak: 
Thou art the simplest wooer in the world.

LEI.  You have put me out, and she hath took me down;
You with your talk, she with her ready tongue. 
You told me I should find her mild and still,
And scarce a word came from her in an hour: 
Then did I think I should have all the talk,
Unhinder’d by your willingness to help,
Unanswer’d, till I had no more to say;
And then—­

YOUNG B. What, then? 
She with a courtly court’sy saying Nay!

MAT.  Your friend’s attorney might have gone his way
With as great credit as did that orator
Which, handling an oration some three hours,
Ill for the matter, worse than bad for phrase,
Having said dixi, look’d, and found not one
To praise or dispraise his oration;
For, wearied with his talk, they all were gone.