 | The Warde |  |
scaena 3.
enter, Sir Wary Wastefull thrust forth on the stage in a couche sicke; the Lady Wastefull, Mr. Tingle, & Blinko comfortinge him.Lady Wast.
Pray Sir be yet a little comforted;
“patience is the best cure & phisique too
“for all diseases: Nature works sometimes
beyond the reach of art, if with a quiet
& sweet Tranquility, we can beare our fitts.
53
Patience is stale (my deare); uh, uh, coughs
bidde a phrenetique man be patient,
or one in flames embroild, & not to turne
or seeke for ease, & then uh, uh, I may be patient.
Blinko.
good Sir, remember the new purchase, thinke
of a killing a fat brace of buckes, & then
of rinzing downe the venison, with pure claret.
Tingle.
These are the strangest comfort's to a sicke man
that I ere I heard of: Venison & bucks, & claret,
why these are able to make a sound man Sicke.
the very steeme is able to dispatch him.
Sir Wary.
uh. uh. coughs. oh I am deadly sicke.
my very Inwards burne. bring hither,
whole butts of my large River! or carry mee
up to the climbing hills, that I may sucke
the breath of Boreas, till my sinews quake. uh.
Lady Wast.
o Sir. Temperance is better
& a more powerfull cooler, then all these.
Tis time & patience with the helpes of art,
must weare the virulent cansers of this heate
into a naturall temper. your Impatience
adds to the fury of your fierce disease.
Sir.
your babling scalds mee. prethe peace; no more.
Blink.
please you to taste the barbary conserves
were left to coole yee?
Sir Wary.
Barbarous conserves? noe give them to the Indians.
Tingle.
Hearke sister! sure he raves.
Lady Was.
Tis the impatience, of his furious paine
makes him to scatter these unmanly words.
Sir Wary.
where is my sonne?
Lad.
The boy is gone to scoole, Sir very earely
this morning about 5 a clocke.—
Sir W.
send for him. gone to scoole
at 5 a clocke?
54
yes Sir, tis the scollers houre
5 in the morning; and at 4 yeeres old,
we keep our colts (till their just growth) from backing,
& then 'tis held ill horsemanship, to streine them,
but for our onely children, out of pure love
we send them before day, for to be nipt
by frostes, & then at scoole for to be whipt.
Blinko.
a very godly resolution. is't not.
we know our beasts are but for a short time,
& therefore spare them, to make them last
the longer. but four our children,
we know they are immortal; and should they
swivell into a pithole, we have more
for to enjoy, our mannours & our store.
Ting.
an eloquent Blinko.
I see thou lovst the pastime better then
the quarry; when 'tis gotten.—
Blink.
I were noe good falconer else.
Lad.
peace, & disturbe him not, you see he nodds;
send for the boy, from scoole.
Ting.
we goe to bid the little ward to play.
his fathers death makes him a Holiday.
| The Warde | |