University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—The Outside of the Castle of Altorf.—Alpine Scenery in the Background.
Enter Waldman and Michael.
Wal.
Don't tell me, Michael! Thou dost lead a life
As bootless as a jester's—worse than his,
For he has high retaining. Every one
Calls thee his fool—the gallant and the boy,
The gentle-born and base! Thy graceless name
Is ever tagg'd to feasts, and shows, and games,
And saucy brawls, which men as young as thou
Discourse of with grave looks. What comes of this?
Will't make thee rich? Will't give thee place in life?
Will't buy thee honour, friendship, or esteem?
Will't get thee reverence 'gainst grey hairs?

Mic.
Good father!—

Wal.
The current of thy life doth counter run
To that of other men's. Thy spirits, which
Were reason in thee, when thou wast a child,
As tameless still, now thou'rt become a man,
Are folly! Thriftless life, that may be call'd
More rational, when in the nurse's lap,
Than when in manhood's chair. Survey those towers,
And act the revel o'er of yesternight!
Think of the tyrants whom they lodge, and then
Link hands with fools and braggarts o'er their wine!
Fancy the sounds their dungeons hear, and tell
Of such and such a joke of thine, that made
Thy wanton comrades roar!

Mic.
Dear father!

Wal.
Pshaw!
Thou canst not try to speak with gravity,
But one perceives thou wagg'st an idle tongue!
Thou canst not try to look demure, but, spite
Of all thou dost, thou show'st a laugher's cheek!
Thou canst not e'en essay to walk sedate,
But in thy very gait one sees the wag,
That's ready to break out in spite of all
Thy seeming!

Mic.
I'm a melancholy man,
That can't do that which with good will I would!
I pray thee, father, tell me what will change me?

Wal.
Hire thyself to a sexton, and dig graves.
Never keep company but at funerals.
Beg leave to take thy bed into the church,
And sleep there. Fast, until thine abstinence
Upbraid the anchorite with gluttony.
And when thou talk'st reflection, feast on naught
But water and stale bread. Ne'er speak, except
At prayers and grace; and as to music, be
Content with ringing of the passing-bell
When souls do go to their account.

Mic.
But if
The bells, that ring as readily for joy
As grief, should chance to ring a merry peal,
And they should drop the corse—

Wal.
Then take the rope,
And hang thyself. I know no other way
To change thee.

Mic.
Nay, I'll do some great feat yet.

Wal.
You'll do some great feat! Take me Gesler's castle!

Mic.
Humph! that would be a feat, indeed! I'll do it!

Wal.
You'll do it? You'll get married, and have children,
And be a sober citizen, before
You pare your bread o'the crust! You'll do it? You'll
Do nothing! Live until you are a hundred,
When death shall catch you, 'twill be laughing. Do it?
Look grave, talk wise, live sober, thou wilt do
A harder thing, but that thou'lt never do.
[Waldman goes out.

Mic.
Hard sentence, that! Dame Nature! gentle mother,
If thou hast made me of too rich a mould
To bring the common seed of life to fruit,
Is it a fault? Kind Nature, I should lie
To say it was. Who would not have an eye
To see the sun, where others see a cloud?
A skin so temper'd as to feel the rain,
Gave other men the ague, him refresh'd?
A frame so vernal, as, in spite of snow,
To think it's genial summer all year round;
And bask himself in bleak December's scowl,
While others sit and shiver o'er a hearth?
His worship's self, I've heard, when he was young—
Some fifty years ago—was even such
A man! Shall I upbraid my heart because
It hath been so intent to keep me in
An ample revenue of precious mirth,
It hath forgot to hoard the duller coin
That worldlings trade on? No, not I, no more
Than I would empt my coffers of their gold,
Were they so furnish'd, to make room for brass;
Or disenthrone the diamond of my ring—
Supposed the gemméd toy my finger wore—
To seat a sparkless pebble in its place!
Yet here comes that, despite my wealth of mirth,
Can make a beggar of me! Father, could
You see me now, you'd find me sans a smile
In all my jester's scrip!

Enter Gesler's Archers, escorting some Swiss Peasants, prisoners; they cross the Stage, and enter the Porch of the Castle, —Tell, at a short distance, following them.
Tell.
[To Michael, who is looking after them as they enter the porch.]
Do you know them?

Mic.
No.

Tell.
Nor I, thank Heaven! How like you that?

Mic.
What?

Tell.
That.

Mic.
I like it not.

Tell.
It might as well be you or I.

Mic.
It might.

Tell.
Do you live in Altorf?

Mic.
Yes.

Tell.
How go they on
In Altorf?

Mic.
As you see. What was a sight
A month ago, hath not the wonder now
To draw them 'cross the threshold!

Tell.
Would you like—

Mic.
What wouldst thou say to me?

Tell.
No matter, friend.
Something so slight, that in the thinking on't
'Twas gone. The field of Grutli, Tell!—The hour's
At hand. The spirits are expecting thee,
Shall bring thy country back the times again
She'd wonder this to see!

Mic.
Stay, friend! a word.
If of my mind thou haply art, and think'st,
When fortune will not make us theme of mirth,
Ourselves may take the task in hand—

Tell.
For mirth!—
Good day!

[Exit hastily.
Mic.
Acquaintance briefly broke as made!
Take Gesler's castle, did my father say?
Would I were well within the ramparts, and
At large as now! I might do such a thing.
Soft! Who comes here? Jagheli! Ha! a youth,
That's tender as a love-sick damsel's sigh.
What brings him sighing here? The Seneschal
Has a fair daughter! Friend Jagheli, mind
Thy secret. Half on't I have got already
Without thy leave; the rest thyself shalt give me.

[Retires.
Enter Jagheli and three Savoyards, with guitars.
Jag.
You know the air, I'm sure. 'Tis very sweet:
The young musician who composed it loved;
But 'twas a bootless flame! You must have heard
The story? It is said he taught the lady,
Who was of high degree, and made that strain
To sing to her the love he dared not speak:—
Don't you remember it? The sequel was
A mournful one! The lady liked the strain,
But did not see the tender minstrel's drift;
And still she'd have him sing it, which he did
With pining heart, o'er hopeless labour breaking!
He sung it till he died!—and then, at last,
The lady found his theme; when, strange to tell!
With sweet contrition she dissolved away,
And ne'er press'd bridal bed, save the cold one
They made for her beside him! Draw thy hand
Across the strings, and wake thy saddest chord:
Perchance 'twill mind me of it. Thou hast hit it!
See if the rhymes I've strung for it agree.

[Michael listens at the back of the stage, unseen by Jagheli and Savoyards.
AIR.—Savoyards.

Mic.
I pray you, have the ditty o'er again!
Of all the strains that mewing minstrels sing,
The lover's one for me! I could expire
To hear a man, with bristles on his chin,
Sing soft, with upturn'd eyes, and archéd brows,
Which talk of trickling tears, that never fall,
And through the gamut whine his tender pain;
While A and B and C such anguish speak,
As never lover felt for mistress lost.
Let's have the strain again!

Jag.
To make thee mirth?
When I'm thy lackey, honest Michael, I'll
Provide thee music. There, with thanks to boot.
[Gives money to Savoyards, who go out.
I am not in thy pay.

Mic.
No; but I mean
To take thee into it. Wilt thou hire with me?
Nay, hang thy coyness, man! Why, thinkest thou
Thou art the only man in Altorf knows
The Seneschal has a fair daughter?

Jag.
Fair
Or not, she's nought to me.

Mic.
Indeed? Oh, then,
I'll tell her so!

Jag.
You do not know her?

Mic.
No;
For any profit it can bring to thee.
I pray thee, tell me, hath she not black teeth?

Jag.
Thou know'st 'twould take the pearl to challenge them!

Mic.
Her nose, I think, is somewhat set awry?

Jag.
It sits like dignity on beauty's face!

Mic.
Her hair is a dull black?

Jag.
'Tis shining gold!

Mic.
Her figure's squat?

Jag.
Betwixt the full and slim—
A mould where vie the richest charms of both!

Mic.
Well, then, she hobbles in her gait?

Jag.
She moves the light and flexile chamois—
If you could lend the chamois her beauty,
And add to that her modest stateliness!

Mic.
You are a hopeful painter, sir! How well
You've drawn the daughter of the Seneschal!

Jag.
Good Michael, thou'rt a jester; but thou'rt kind.
Thy mirth doth feast at every man's expense;
Yet with such grace of frankest confidence,
That none begrudge thee. Wilt thou be my friend?
I love the daughter of the Seneschal;
Help me to see her.

Mic.
Come to church with me
Next Sunday.

Jag.
I was there last Sunday, Michael—
And Sunday before last—and Sunday, too,
Preceding that. I ne'er miss church, for there
I see the daughter of the Seneschal.

Mic.
How wondrously devout thou'rt grown of late!
They say there is a young man in the church
That has his prayers by heart—unless, indeed,
He reads them in a certain angel's face;
On which he looks, and says them word for word,
From end to end, nor e'er is seen to turn
To other page. Can it be thou they mean?
Thou'lt have a name for most rare sanctity!

Jag.
Good Michael, canst thou help me?

Mic.
If I knew
The lady.

Jag.
What! dost thou not know her, then,
With what impediments is love environ'd!

Mic.
Why, that's love's gain! It would not else be love.
Love's the impediments that lovers meet;
Or wherefore sing it, as your poets do,
A thing that lives in plots and stratagems?
They know not love who need but woo to wed,
But they who fain would wed, but dare not woo!
That's to be sound in love—to feel it from
The heart's deep centre to the fingers' ends!
As sweetest fruit is that which is forbid,
So fairest maid is she that is withheld.
Whene'er I fall in love, I'll pick a maid
Whose sire has vow'd her to a nunnery;
And she shall have, moreover, for her warders,
Two maiden aunts, past wooing; and to these
I'll add an abigail, who has stood bridesmaid
To twenty younger cousins, yet has ne'er
Been ask'd herself; and under her I'll set
A male retainer of the family,
For twenty years or more, as surly as
A mastiff on the chain; and, that my fair
May lack no sweet provocative of love,
Her tempting lattice shall be grated, and
Her bower shall be surrounded with a wall
Full ten feet high, on which an iron row
Of forkéd shrubs shall stand and frown on me:
And then I'll be a lover!

Jag.
Show me how
Thou'dst win thy love by winning mine for me.

Mic.
Hush! here's the servant of the Seneschal;
A dog he sends on errands, without brains
To take them half a yard? What wouldst attempt
To win the daughter of the Seneschal?
Wouldst enter Gesler's castle?

Jag.
Yes!

Mic.
The man—
The very man for me!—Aside, and mark!

[They retire.
Enter Braun, from Porch.
Bra.
Three yards of buckram—Right! Thread thereunto—
But how much thread?—A hank? A hank's too much
To sew three yards of buckram! It must be
A skein. A skein it is!—Right there. What next?
Twelve buckles with the straps—That is, twelve straps,
Oh, very right! In the fourth place, a score
Of needles—Twenty needles to the score.
I'm right again, by that! And lastly—What
Comes lastly? Something is behind, I know,
For I bethought me of my fingers, to
Enter Seneschal.
Remember, there were five things I should get;
And what's the fifth? Or have I counted wrong?
There's buckram, one—thread, two—a skein of thread,
Twelve buckles, and the straps—The straps and they
Do go together—three: the fourth thing is
A score of needles. There's my little finger
Remaining yet. I'd give my hand to know
For what that finger stands.

Sen.
What stands it for?

Bra.
Dear master!

Sen.
Dolt!

Bra.
Kind master!

Sen.
Jackanapes!
What stands it for?

Bra.
I'll tell, but give me time.

Sen.
What time? a day? a week? a month? a year?
Or till my daughter's dead?

Bra.
I was to fetch
A leech to cure your daughter.

Sen.
Wast thou so?
Wilt thou forget again?

[Shaking his cane at him.
Bra.
No, sir!

Sen.
Thou wilt!
Or that, or something else.

Bra.
Indeed, sir, no!

Sen.
Then say thy errand o'er again! Say't out!
See thou are right in every tittle on't,
Or look to't. Now!

Bra.
Three yards of buckram—

Sen.
No!
Begin with the leech.

Bra.
I set the leech against
My little finger, sir.

Sen.
Begin with him!

Bra.
My little finger, sir, stands for the leech.

Sen.
I say, begin with the leech!

Bra.
I will! I will!
Well, then, the leech. I go to bring him to
My lady, your daughter; for she's sick.

Sen.
Go on.

Mic.
[Aside to Jagheli.]
Jagheli, thou must play the leech! Away!

[Jagheli goes out.
Sen.
Go on.

Bra.
Three yards of buckram, I'm to fetch;
Twelve buckles and the straps; and to conclude,
A score of needles.

Sen.
[Striking him.]
Rascal, where's the thread
To sew the buckram? Bring'st thou needles, fool!
And not the thread? Eh, starling? Eh? Wilt sew
The buckram without thread?

Mic.
[Coming forward, and striking him.]
Eh? rascal! Eh?
Heard ever mortal man the like of this?
Eh, platter! tankard! nightcap! good for naught
Except to eat, and drink, and sleep! Forget
Thy errand! Serve thy worthy master thus!
Thy patient master! thy kind master!—Get
Three meals a day, thy lodging, clothing, hire,
And civil words to boot; and yet not be
Trustworthy to the fetching of a skein
Of thread! Eh! Stomach!—Master Seneschal,
I'll run your errand straight. A leech; three yards
Of buckram; thread; a skein; a gross of needles—
Bring needles without thread! Eh? gullet!—and
A dozen buckles with the straps.

Sen.
Good lad!
What art thou, prithee?

Mic.
Sir, a sober youth,
Son to a worthy burgher of the town;
Was brought up in a monastery, has
Read Greek and Latin, knows to cast accounts,
And writes a hand as good as any clerk's
In Altorf, sir, with sundry other gifts,
As people say, but which 'twere not discreet
In me to speak of.

Sen.
Why, a modest lad.
Dost want a service?

Mic.
Not as varlets want
A service, sir, who let their duty out
For coin; I have enough: but I would serve
For love at any time, especially
The Seneschal of Altorf. Shall I run
Your errand?

Sen.
Why, a model of a youth!
Thou shalt. Give him the money, sir.

Bra.
The money!

Mic.
Ay, Sit-over-meals! can I provide the things
Without the money?

Sen.
Rascal, where's the money?

Bra.
I put it in this pocket, sir, I'm sure
I put it in this pocket!

[Feeling for it.
Sen.
Empty it, sir.

Mic.
[Searching the pocket.]
What's this?
A crust of cheese! O ne'er-content!

Sen.
Well! where is it?

Bra.
Or could it be in this?

Sen.
Out with't.

Mic.
[Searching the other pocket.]
What's here? a head of garlic, and
A capon's leg! O cormorant!

Sen.
The money!

Bra.
Yes, sir!

Sen.
Thy vest, try that! The money, sirrah!

Bra.
Good sir, this instant!

Sen.
Instant, dog! Wilt swear
Thou'lt find it in an hour?

Mic.
Or in a day.
Eh? lack-grace! knave! incorrigible knave,
To chafe so sweet a temper'd gentleman—
What's that thou keep'st the last three fingers of
Thy careful hand upon?

Bra.
The money!—There's
The money.

[Opens his hand slowly, and shows the money.
Sen.
Give it him!

Mic.
A patch, a rag,
The tatter of a serving man! To carry
His master's money in his greasy hand,
Or think of thrusting it into his poke—
Receptacle of musty eatables—
Cheese, garlic, scraps of meat, to wit; instead
Of lodging't in a safe and comely purse.
I'll run your errand, sir. Three yards of buckram;
A skein of thread; a score of needles, and
Twelve buckles with straps; not to forget
To bring a leech to cure your daughter, sir.
A turnspit cur—I'll run your errand, sir!

[They go out severally.

SCENE II.

—The Field of Grutli.—A Lake and Mountains.
Enter Tell, with a long bow.
Tell.
Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!
I hold to you the hands you first beheld,
To show they still are free. Methinks I hear
A spirit in your echoes answer me,
And bid your tenant welcome home, again!
Hail!—Hail! O sacred forms, how proud you look!
How high you lift your heads into the sky!
How huge you are! how mighty, and how free!
How do you look, for all your baréd brows,
More gorgeously majestical than kings
Whose loaded coronets exhaust the mine!
Ye are the things that tower—that shine—whose smile
Makes glad—whose frown is terrible—whose forms,
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear
Of awe divine—whose subject never kneels
In mockery, because it is your boast
To keep him free! Ye guards of liberty,
I'm with you once again!—I call to you
With all my voice! I hold my hands to you
To show they still are free! I rush to you
As though I could embrace you!

Erni
[without].
William! William!

Tell.
[Looks out.]
Here, Erni, here!

Enter Erni.
Erni.
Thou'rt sure to keep the time,
That comest before the hour.

Tell.
The hour, my friend,
Will soon be here. O, when will liberty
Be here? My Erni, that's my thought, which still
I find beside. Scaling yonder peak,
I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow:
O'er the abyss his broad expanded wings
Lay calm and motionless upon the air,
As if he floated there without their aid,
By the sole act of his unlorded will,
That buoy'd him proudly up. Instinctively
I strung my bow; yet kept he rounding still
His airy circle, as in the delight
Of measuring the ample range beneath,
And round about, absorb'd, he heeded not
The death that threaten'd him!—I could not shoot!—
'Twas liberty. I turn'd the shaft aside,
And let him soar away!

Verner
[without].
Tell!—Tell!

Enter Verner.
Tell.
Here, Verner!

Furst
[without].
Tell!

Enter Furst.
Tell.
Here, friends!—Well met!—Do we go on?

Ver.
We do.

Tell.
Then you can reckon on the friends you named?

Ver.
On every man of them.

Furst.
And I on mine.

Erni.
Not one I sounded, but doth rate his blood
As water in the cause! Then fix the day
Before we part.

Ver.
No, Erni: rather wait
For some new outrage to amaze and rouse
The common mind, which does not brood so much
On wrongs gone by, as it doth rankle with
The sense of present ones.

Tell.
[To Verner.]
I wish with Erni,
But I think with thee. Yet when I ask myself
On whom the wrong shall light for which we wait—
Whose vineyard they'll uproot—whose flocks they'll ravage—
Whose threshold they'll profane—whose hearth pollute—
Whose roof they'll fire?—When this I ask myself;
And think upon the blood of pious sons,
The tears of venerable fathers, and
The shrieks of mothers, fluttering round their spoil'd
And nestless young—I almost take the part
Of generous indignation, that o'erboils
At such expense to wait on sober prudence!

Furst.
Yet it is best.

Tell.
On that we're all agreed!
Who fears the issue when the day shall come?

Ver.
Not I!

Furst.
Nor I!

Erni.
Nor I!

Tell.
I'm not the man
To mar this harmony—Nor I, no more
Than any of you! You commit to me
The warning of the rest. Remember, then,
My dagger sent to any one of you—
As time may press—is word enough. The others
I'll see myself. Our course is clear.—Dear Erni,
Remember me to Melchtal.—Furst, provide
What store you can of arms. Do you the same.
[To Erni and Verner.
The next aggression of the tyrant is
The downfall of his power?—Remember me
To Melchtal, Erni:—to my father. Tell him
He has a son that was not born to him!
Farewell!—When next we meet upon this theme,
All Switzerland shall witness what we do!

[They go out severally.

SCENE III.

—A Chamber in the inside of the Castle, with an open window.
Enter Anneli and Agnes.
Ann.
Art sure thou heard'st him?

Agn.
Do I hear you, coz?
As sure did I hear him, and see him, too,
From yonder casement.

Ann.
Sweet! look out again!
Perhaps he lingers there.

Agn.
I wonder, cousin,
You'd send another's eyes to look for that
You'd give your own to see! You silly thing!
Look out yourself.

[They go to the window.
Ann.
Ah, sweet! look out for me!
For should he not be there, 'twill pain me less
To miss him by your eyes than by my own.
In sooth, you've set my heart a beating so,
I know not, coz, if I have ears or eyes
To see or hear him!

Agn.
Well, lend me your hand,
To help me up. [Anneli assists Agnes to climb up to the casement.]
Dear love, you tremble so
You'll pull me down! Oh, silly, silly thing,
To be so scared at what you so desire!

Ann.
Fear, coz, you know, is offspring to desire.

Agn.
A gentle mother to a froward child!
Love finds out wonders, coz; but find not I
The thing I look for. No; he is not there.

Ann.
Nay, look again.

Agn.
I cannot make him there
By looking, coz—Could you?

Ann.
I would I could!
I'd look my eyes blind till he came.

Agn.
Indeed!
And see him then?

Ann.
And see him then! The thought
That I might see him then would bring me back
My sight.

Agn.
It would! oh, wonder-working love!
I would not have you risk your sight, dear coz;
But I would have you try another thing,
You'd run no risk to lose, unless they wrong
Our sex, who say its voice is lasting as
'Tis sweet. Sing, coz! He'll hear and come. Come, sing.

Ann.
Sing, coz!

Agn.
Ay, sing!

Ann.
Am I not sick?—confined
To my own chamber—sick, coz—doubly sick—
For hate of one I would not wed; for love
Of one I would? Have they not sent just now
To bring the leech to see me? And you'd have
Me sing! Oh, thoughtless coz!

Agn.
For too much thought!
Never at rest to do my cousin good.
Did I not bid thee hate the Castellain,
When thou didst say thou couldst not love him, coz?
Did I not bid thee love the burgher's son,
When thou didst say thou ne'er couldst love but him?
And when thy father swore he'd have thee wed,
And thou didst vow thou'dst sooner die than wed!
Did I not bid thee, coz, fall sick at once,
And die? And now, when to the casement comes
The man thou'dst wish the casement, door, and all,
Were open to; would I not have thee sing,
To let him know there's neither bolt nor bar?
He'd wish to draw in love and honesty,
You'd wish him not? But, cousin, as you say
You're sick, and as for your sweet health 'tis good
That others think so, I'll try and e'en
Sing for you, coz.

AIR.—Agnes.

Enter the Seneschal.
Sen.
How now! What's this? Ha! Singing at the casement?

Agn.
To please my cousin, sir.

Sen.
How? Anneli!

Agn.
I coax'd her from her chamber. Change, they say,
Is physic to the sick, when medicine
More costly's virtueless!

Sen.
And who made thee
A doctor?

Agn.
Nature!

Sen.
Nature? Yes, I doubt not
'Twas nature taught thee change was good! it is
Thy sex's universal remedy—
Physic they swallow without making faces,
Anneli!

Ann.
Sir?

Sen.
Art better, girl?

Ann.
No, sir.

Sen.
Better or worse I'll have thee soon. The leech
Will straight be here—He should be coming now.
Thy chamber!

Ann.
[To Agnes.]
Should he find I am not ill!

Agn.
He'll find he's not a ducat richer by it,
So never fear!—He'll find thee very ill.
If thou'rt not well until he makes thee so,
Thou shalt be sick, coz, to thy heart's content!

[Anneli goes out.
Sen.
Agnes.

Agn.
Yes, sir.

Sen.
What says thy cousin?

Agn.
Nought.

Sen.
What didst thou say to her?

Agn.
I told her, sir,
To keep her heart up, and not fear the leech.

Sen.
Not fear the leech!

Agn.
E'er since you spoke of him,
She has done nothing, sir, but talk of lancets,
Caustics, and blisters; powders, nauseous draughts,
With fifty other shocking things, that much
I fear me, sir, she will feign well, to cheat
The leech.

Sen.
Ha! think'st thou so?

Agn.
I'm sure on't, sir.
She has been practising e'er since you named him.

Sen.
I thought she look'd much better!

Agn.
Better, sir!
She's worse, much worse! The mischief's inward, sir.
In short, she's dying—dying, sir: and yet
She'd sooner die than undergo the leech.

Sen.
Ne'er fear, ne'er fear! She shall not cheat him so.
I'll not believe him, though he says she's well.
I'll make him think her ill. No drug he has
But shall be fully tried on her. His pills,
Emplastrums, ointments, julaps, cataplasms,
Shall take their turn with her; and if these fail,
We'll bring his knives and lancets to her; nor,
When all is done, shall he give o'er, until
She's well again, and weds the Castellain

Enter Braun.
Braun.
The leech is here, sir.

Enter Michael, with Jagheli, disguised as a Leech.
Mic.
Sir, I've brought the gentleman,
And all the articles you bade me get.

Sen.
Good lad, and active!
Welcome, sir! Methinks
He's very young. Art sure he is a leech?

Mic.
A leech, sir! Ay, and such a one!—There's not
His fellow to be found in Altorf, sir.
Remember, sir, it is the use of time,
Not time itself, that's written in our looks.
Forty is younger far than twenty, sir,
When that sees husbanding, but this does not.
But never take my word for't! Only try
His lancet—Do, sir—'Tis miraculous
How skilfully he can phlebotomize.
No scratch, sir, prick of a pin, or flea-bite, sir,
But real blade-work. Let him bleed you, sir!

Sen.
On second looks, methinks he's not
So young.

Mic.
Past forty, sir.

Sen.
Past forty! Come,
Take ten from that.

Mic.
Ten, sir!—I pray you, lady,
Provide a ribbon for the Seneschal,
And something soft to make a compress of.
[Agnes goes out.
Ten do you say, sir? Ten? Ten years ago
He bled and blister'd me—I'll show you, sir,
The mark of his lancet.

Sen.
Nay, good youth, don't strip
Thy sleeve!

Mic.
Strip yours, then, sir, and let him try
His skill upon you. Fetch a basin, rascal!
[Braun goes out.
'Twill do you good, sir. For a healthy man,
You're over-full of blood. To lose a little
Will benefit you much. Your cheek's a tint
Too florid, sir. There's indigestion in't,
Which breeds vertigo; for preventing which
[Getting a chair.
There's nothing like the breathing of a vein.

Re-enter Agnes, with a ribbon, &c.; Braun, with a basin.
Mic.
Sit down, sir.

Sen.
Nay, good lad!—

[Sits.
Mic.
Good master leech,
Your case of instruments, wherein you store
Your lancets, scalpels, and your scarifiers—
The Seneschal wants bleeding.

Sen.
No, no, no!
[Rises up and runs.
I am content that he's a man of skill.

Mic.
Just let him take a single ounce of blood,
To see how he can use a lancet, sir.

Sen.
I tell thee, no!—I'm sure he is a leech.—

Mic.
But half an ounce.

Sen.
Good youth, I would not wrong
The worthy man, by asking him to take
A single drop. I'm sure he is a leech!
One needs but look at him to know that he
Can bleed; and for his years, to see him close,
He's far from young; past forty, at the least.
Good sir, put up your case of instruments,
And come along with me to see my daughter.
And, Agnes, give this youth a cup of wine,
With what you have that's best, to relish it.
A most sagacious leech, I'm sure!—A leech
Than whom none ever better look'd his calling.

[They go out.