University of Virginia Library

Scæne 3.

Iaques, Count.
Count.
Here is the poore old man,

Iaq.
Out of my soule another, comes he hither?

Count.
Be not dismaid old man, I come to cheere you.

Iaq.
To me by heauen,
Turne ribs to brasse, turne voice into a trumpet,
To rattle out the barrels of my thoughts,
One comes to hold me talke, while th'other robbes me.

Exit.
Count.
He has forgot me sure: what should this meane?
He feares authority, and my want of wife
Will take his daughter from him to defame her:
He that hath naught on earth but one poore daughter,
May take this extasie of care to keepe her.

Enter Iaques.
Iaq.
And yet tis safe: they meane not to vse force,
But fawning comming. I shall easly know
By his next question, if he thinke me rich,
Whom see I? my good Lord?

Count.

Stand vp good father, I call thee not father for thy
age;

But that I gladly wish to be thy sonne,
In honoured marriage with thy beauteous daughter.

Iaq.
O, so, so, so, so, so, this is for gold,
Now it is sure, this is my daughters neatnesse,
Makes them beleeue me rich. No, my good Lord,
Ile tell you all; how my poore haplesse daughter
Got that attire she weares from top to toe.

Count.
Why father, this is nothing.

Iaq.
O yes, good my Lord.

Count.
Indeed it is not.

Iaq.
Nay sweet Lord pardon me? do not dissemble,
Heare your poore beads-man speake; tis requisite
That I (so huge a beggar) make account
Of things that passe my calling: she was borne
T'enioy nothing vnderneath the sonne:
But that, if she had more then other beggars
She should be enuied: I will tell you then
How she had all she weares, her warme shooes (God wot)
A kind maide gaue her, seeing her go barefoot
In a cold frosty morning; God requite her;
Her homely stockings

Count.
Father, Ile heare no more, thou mou'st too much
With thy too curious answere for thy daughter,
That doth deserue a thousand times as much,
Ile be thy Sonne in law, and she shall weare
Th'attire of Countesses.

Iaq.
O good my Lord,
Mock not the poore, remembers not your Lordship,
That pouerty is the piccious gift of God.
As well as riches, tread vpon me, rather
Then mocke my poorenes.

Count.
Rise I say:
When I mocke poorenes, then heauens make me poore.

Enter Nuntius.