MOTHER MIDNIGHT.  Marry, God’s benison light o’ thy good heart for’t.  Ha, that I were young again! i’ faith, I was an old doer at these love-songs when I was a girl.

NURSE. 
Now, by the Mary matins, Peg, thou hast got the merriest wooer in all
womanshire.

PEG. 
Faith, I am none of those that love nothing but tum, dum, diddle.  If
he had not been a merry shaver, I would never have had him.

WILL CRICKET.

    But come, my nimble lass,
    Let all these matters pass,
    And in a bouncing bravation,
    Let’s talk of our copulation.

What good cheer shall we have to-morrow?  Old grandsire Thickskin, you that sit there as melancholy as a mantle-tree, what will you give us toward this merry meeting?

GRIPE. 
Marry, because you told me a merry goose case, I’ll bestow a fat goose
on ye, and God give you good luck.

MOTHER MIDNIGHT. 
Marry, well-said, old master:  e’en God give them joy indeed; for, by my
vay, they are a good, sweet young couple.

WILL CRICKET. 
Granam, stand out o’ the way; for here come gentlefolk will run o’er
you else.

    Enter FORTUNATUS, SOPHOS, and LELIA.

NURSE. 
Master, here comes your son again.

GRIPE. 
Is Fortunatus there?  Welcome, Fortunatus:  Where’s Sophos?

FORTUNATUS. 
Here Sophos is, as much o’erworn with love,
As you with grief for loss of Lelia.

SOPHOS. 
And ten times more, if it be possible: 
The love of Lelia is to me more dear,
Than is a kingdom or the richest crown
That e’er adorn’d the temples of a king.

GRIPE. 
Thou welcome, Sophos—­thrice more welcome now,
Than any man on earth—­to me or mine: 
It is not now with me as late it was;
I low’r’d at learning, and at virtue spurn’d: 
But now my heart and mind, and all, is turn’d. 
Were Lelia here, I soon would knit the knot
’Twixt her and thee, that time could ne’er untie,
Till fatal sisters victory had won,
And that your glass of life were quite outrun.

WILL CRICKET. 
Zounds, I think he be spurblind; why, Lelia stands hard by him.

LELIA. 
And Lelia here falls prostrate on her knee,
And craves a pardon for her late offence.

GRIPE. 
What, Lelia my daughter?  Stand up, wench: 
Why, now my joy is full;
My heart is lighten’d of all sad annoy: 
Now fare well, grief, and welcome home, my joy.—­
Here, Sophos, take thy Lelia’s hand: 
Great God of heav’n your hearts combine,
In virtue’s lore to raise a happy line.

SOPHOS. 
Now Phaeton hath check’d his fiery steeds,
And quench’d his burning beams that late were wont
To melt my waxen wings, when as I soar’d aloft;
And lovely Venus smiles with fair aspect
Upon the spring-time of our sacred love. 
Thou great commander of the circled orbs,
Grant that this league of lasting amity
May lie recorded by eternity.