University of Virginia Library

Scene IV.

Tub. Hilts. Awdrey.
Tub.
O you are a trusty Governour!

Hil.
What ailes you?
You doe not know when yo'are well, I thinke:
You'ld ha' the Calfe with the white face, Sir, would you?
I have her for you here; what would you more?

Tub.
Quietnes, Hilts, and heare no more of it.

Hil.
No more of it, quoth you? I doe not care,
If some on us had not heard so much of't,
I tell you true; A man must carry, and vetch,
Like Bungy's dog for you.

Tub.
What's he?

Hil.
A Spaniel.
And scarce be spit i' the mouth for't. A good Dog
Deserves, Sir, a good bone, of a free Master:
But, an' your turnes be serv'd, the divell a bit
You care for a man after, ere a Lard of you.
Like will to like, y-faith, quoth the scab'd Squire
To th'mangy Knight, when both met in a dish
Of butter'd vish. One bad, there's nere a good;
And not a barrell better Hering among you.

Tub.
Nay Hilts! I pray thee grow not fram pull now.
Turne not the bad Cow, after thy good soape.
Our plot hath hitherto tane good effect:
And should it now be troubled, or stop'd up,
'Twould prove the utter ruine of my hopes.
I pray thee haste to Pancridge, to the Chanon:
And gi' him notice of our good successe;
Will him that all things be in readinesse.
Faire Awdrey, and my selfe, will crosse the fields,
The nearest path. Good Hilts, make thou some haste,
And meet us on the way. Come gentle Awdrey.

Hil.
Vaith, would I had a few more geances on't:
An' you say the word, send me to Iericho.
Out-cept a man were a Post-horse, I ha' not knowne
The like on't; yet, an' he had kind words,
'Twould never irke 'hun. But a man may breake
His heart out i' these dayes, and get a flap
With a fox-taile, when he has done. And there is all.

Tub.
Nay, say not so Hilts: hold thee; there are Crownes—
My love bestowes on thee, for thy reward.
If Gold will please thee, all my land shall drop
In bounty thus, to recompence thy merit.

Hil.
Tut, keepe your land, and your gold too Sir: I
Seeke neither—nother of 'hun. Learne to get
More: you will know to spend that zum you have
Early enough: you are assur'd of me.
I love you too too well, to live o' the spoyle:
For your owne sake, were there were no worse then I.
All is not Gold that glisters: Ile to Pancridge.

Tub.
See, how his love doth melt him into Teares!
An honest faithfull servant is a Jewell.
Now th'adventurous Squire hath time, and leisure,
To aske his Awdrey how she do's, and heare
A gratefull answer from her. Shee not speakes:
Hath the proud Tiran, Frost, usurp'd the seate
Of former beauty in my Loves faire cheek;
Staining the roseat tincture of her blood,
With the dull die of blew-congealing cold?
No, sure the weather dares not so presume
To hurt an object of her brightnesse. Yet,
The more I view her, shee but lookes so, so.
Ha? gi' me leave to search this mysterie!
O now I have it: Bride, I know your griefe;
The last nights cold, hath bred in you such horror
Of the assigned Bride-groomes constitution,
The Kilborne Clay-pit; that frost-bitten marle;
That lumpe in courage: melting cake of Ice;
That the conceit thereof hath almost kill'd thee.
But I must doe thee good wench, and refresh thee.

Awd.
You are a merry man, Squire Tub, of Totten!
I have heard much o' your words, but not o' your deeds.

Tub.
Thou sayest true, sweet; I' ha' beene too slack in deeds.

Awd.
Yet, I was never so straight-lac'd to you, Squire.

Tub.
Why, did you ever love me, gentle Awdrey?

Awd.
Love you? I cannot tell: I must hate no body,
My Father sayes.

Tub.
Yes, Clay, and Kilburne; Awdrey,
You must hate them.

Awd.
It shall be for your sake then.

Tub.
And for my sake, shall yield you that gratuitie.

He offers to kisse her. She puts him back.
Awd.
Soft, and faire, Squire, there goe two word's to a bargaine.

Tub.
What are those Awdrey?

Awd.
Nay, I cannot tell.
My Mother said, zure, if you married me,
You'ld make me a Lady the first weeke: and put me
In, I know not what, the very day.

Tub.
What was it?
Speake gentle Awdrey, thou shalt have it yet.

Awd.
A velvet dressing for my head, it is,
They say will make one brave: I will not know
Besse Moale, nor Margery Turne-up: I will looke
Another way upon 'hem, and be proud.

Tub.
Troth I could wish my wench a better wit;
But what she wanteth there, her face supplies.
There is a pointed lustre in her eye
Hath shot quite through me, and hath hit my heart:
And thence it is, I first receiv'd the wound,
That ranckles now, which only shee can cure.
Faine would I worke my selfe, from this conceit;
But, being flesh, I cannot. I must love her,
The naked truth is: and I will goe on,
Were it for nothing, but to crosse my Rivall's.
Come Awdrey: I am now resolv'd to ha' thee.