GRIPE.
Tush, man! I care not for that. You ha’
no more children; you’ll make
him your heir, and give him your lands, will you not?
PLOD-ALL.
Yes; he’s e’en all I have; I have nobody
else to bestow it upon.
GRIPE.
You say well.
Enter WILL CRICKET and a boy, with wine and a napkin.
WILL CRICKET.
Nay, hear you; drink, afore you bargain.
GRIPE. Mass, and ’tis a good motion. Boy, fill some wine, [He fills them wine, and gives them the napkin.] Here, neighbour and Master Churms, I drink to you.
BOTH.
We thank you, sir.
WILL CRICKET.
Lawyer, wipe clean. Do you remember?
CHURMS.
Remember? why?
WILL CRICKET.
Why, since you know when.
CHURMS.
Since when?
WILL CRICKET. Why, since you were bumbasted, that your lubberly legs would not carry your lobcock body; when you made an infusion of your stinking excrements in your stalking implements. O, you were plaguy frayed, and foully rayed—
GRIPE.
Prythee, peace, Will! Neighbour Plod-all, what
say you to this match?
shall it go forward?
PLOD-ALL. Sir, that must be as our children like. For my son, I think I can rule him; marry, I doubt your daughter will hardly like of him; for, God wot, he’s very simple.
GRIPE. My daughter’s mine to command; have I not brought her up to this? She shall have him. I’ll rule the roost for that. I’ll give her pounds and crowns, gold and silver. I’ll weigh her down in pure angel gold. Say, man, is’t a match?
PLOD-ALL.
Faith, I agree.
CHURMS.
But, sir, if you give your daughter so large a dowry,
you’ll have some
part of his land conveyed to her by jointure?
GRIPE.
Yes, marry, that I will, and we’ll desire your
help for conveyance.
PLOD-ALL.
Ay, good Master Churms, and you shall be very well
contented for your
pains.
WILL CRICKET.
Ay, marry; that’s it he looked for all this
while. [Aside.
CHURMS.
Sir, I will do the best I can.
WILL CRICKET. But, landlord, I can tell you news, i’ faith. There is one Sophos, a brave gentleman; he’ll wipe your son Peter’s nose of Mistress Lelia. I can tell you, he loves her well.
GRIPE.
Nay, I trow.
WILL CRICKET.
Yes, I know, for I am sure I saw them close together
at poop-noddy in
her closet.
GRIPE.
But I am sure she loves him not.
WILL CRICKET. Nay, I dare take it on my death she loves him, for he’s a scholar, and ‘ware scholars! they have tricks for love, i’ faith; for with a little logic and Pitome colloquium they’ll make a wench do anything. Landlord, pray ye, be not angry with me for speaking my conscience. In good faith, your son Peter’s a very clown to him. Why, he’s as fine a man as a wench can see in a summer’s day.