WILL. A wood-man,[309] lady, but no tyrant I.
LADY. Yes, tyrant-like thou lov'st to see lives die.
SIR RALPH. Lady, no more: I do not like this luck, To hunt all day, and yet not kill a buck.
Well, it is late; but yet I swear I will Stay here all night, but I a buck will kill.
LADY. All night! nay, good Sir Ralph Smith, do not so.
SIR RALPH. Content ye, lady. Will, go fetch my bow: A berry[310] of fair roes I saw to-day Down by the groves, and there I'll take my[311] stand, And shoot at one--God send a lucky hand!
LADY. Will ye not, then, Sir Ralph, go home with me?
SIR RALPH. No, but my men shall bear thee company.-- Sirs, man her home. Will, bid the huntsmen couple, And bid them well reward their hounds to-night.-- Lady, farewell. Will, haste ye with the bow; I'll stay for thee here by the grove below.
WILL. I will; but 'twill be dark, I shall not see: How shall I see ye, then?
SIR RALPH. Why, halloo to me, and I will answer thee.
WILL. Enough, I will.
SIR RALPH. Farewell.
[_Exit_.
LADY. How willingly dost thou consent to go To fetch thy master that same killing bow!
WILL. Guilty of death I willing am in this, Because 'twas our ill-haps to-day to miss: To hunt, and not to kill, is hunter's sorrow.
Come, lady, we'll have venison ere to-morrow.
[_Exeunt_.
_Enter_ PHILIP, FRANK [_and_ BOY].
PHIL. Come, Frank, now are we hard by the[312] house: But how now? Sad?
FRAN. No, to study how to woo thy sister.
PHIL. How, man? how to woo her! why, no matter how; I am sure thou wilt not he ashamed to woo.
Thy cheeks not subject to a childish blush, Thou hast a better warrant by thy wit; I know thy oratory can unfold [A] quick invention, plausible discourse, And set such painted beauty on thy tongue, As it shall ravish every maiden sense; For, Frank, thou art not like the russet youth I told thee of, that went to woo a wench, And being full stuff'd up with fallow wit And meadow-matter, ask'd the pretty maid How they sold corn last market-day with them, Saying, "Indeed, 'twas very dear with [us]."
And, do ye hear, ye[313] had not need be so, For she[314] will, Francis, throughly[315] try your wit; Sirrah, she'll bow the metal of your wits, And, if they crack, she will not hold ye current; Nay, she will weigh your wit, as men weigh angels,[316]
And, if it lack a grain, she will not change with ye.
I cannot speak it but in passion, She is a wicked wench to make a jest; Ah me, how full of flouts and mocks she is!
FRAN. Some aqua-vitae reason to recover This sick discourser! Sound[317] not, prythee, Philip.
Tush, tush, I do not think her as thou sayest: Perhaps she's[318] opinion's darling, Philip, Wise in repute, the crow's bird. O my friend, Some judgments slave themselves to small desert, And wondernise the birth of common wit, When their own[319] strangeness do but make that strange, And their ill errors do but make that good: And why should men debase to make that good?
Perhaps such admiration wins her wit.
PHIL. Well, I am glad to hear this bold prepare For this encounter. Forward, hardy Frank!
Yonder's the window with the candle in't; Belike she's putting on her night attire: I told ye, Frank, 'twas late. Well, I will call her, Marry, softly, that my mother may not hear.
Mall, sister Mall!
_Enter_ MALL _in the window_.
MAL. How now, who's there?
PHIL. 'Tis I.
MAL. 'Tis I! Who I? I, quoth the dog, or what?
A Christcross row I?[320]
PHIL. No, sweet pinkany.[321]
MAL. O, is't you, wild-oats?
PHIL. Ay, forsooth, wanton.
MAL. Well said, scapethrift.
FRAN. Philip, be these your usual best salutes? [_Aside_.]
PHIL. Is this the harmless chiding of that dove? [_Aside_.]
FRAN. Dove! One of those that draw the queen of love? [_Aside_.]
MAL. How now? who's that, brother? who's that with ye?
PHIL. A gentleman, my friend.
MAL. By'r lady, he hath a pure wit.
FRAN. How meane your holy judgment?
MAL. O, well put-in, sir!
FRAN. Up, you would say.
MAL. Well climb'd, gentleman!
I pray, sir, tell me, do you cart the queen of love?
FRAN. Not cart her, but couch her in your eye, And a fit place for gentle love to lie.
MAL. Ay, but methinks you speak without the book, To place a four[322]-wheel waggon in my look: Where will you have room to have the coachman sit?
FRAN. Nay, that were but small manners, and not fit: His duty is before you bare to stand, Having a lusty whipstock[323] in his hand.
MAL. The place is void; will you provide me one?
FRAN. And if you please, I will supply the room.