Volume Ix Part 53 (1/2)

[_Exit_ ROBIN GOODFELLOW.

FORTUNATUS.

And if you do, by this hand, I'll play the conjuror.

Blush, Fortunatus, at the base conceit!

To stand aloof, like one that's in a trance, And with thine eyes behold that miscreant imp, Whose tongue['s] more venom['s] than the serpent's sting, Before thy face thus taunt thy dearest friends-- Ay, thine own father--with reproachful terms!

Thy sister Lelia, she is bought and sold, And learned Sophos, thy thrice-vowed friend, Is made a stale by this base cursed crew And d.a.m.ned den of vagrant runagates: But here, in sight of sacred heav'ns, I swear By all the sorrows of the Stygian souls, By Mars his b.l.o.o.d.y blade, and fair Bellona's bowers, I vow, these eyes shall ne'er behold my father's face, These feet shall never pa.s.s these desert plains; But pilgrim-like, I'll wander in these woods, Until I find out Sopho's secret walks.

And sound the depth of all their plotted drifts.

Nor will I cease, until these hands revenge Th'injurious wrong, that's offer'd to my friend, Upon the workers of this stratagem.

[_Exit_.

_Enter_ PEG _sola_.

I' faith, i' faith, I cannot tell what to do; I love, and I love, and I cannot tell who: Out upon this love! for, wot you what?

I have suitors come huddle, twos upon twos, And threes upon threes: and what think you Troubles me? I must chat and kiss with all comers, Or else no bargain.

_Enter_ WILL CRICKET, _and kisses her_.

WILL CRICKET.

A bargain, i' faith: ha, my sweet honey-sops! how dost thou?

PEG.

Well, I thank you, William; now I see y'are a man of your word.

WILL CRICKET.

A man o' my word, quotha? why, I ne'er broke promise in my life that I kept.

PEG.

No, William, I know you did not; but I had forgotten me.

WILL CRICKET.

Dost hear, Peg? if e'er I forget thee, I pray G.o.d, I may never remember thee.

PEG.

Peace! here comes my granam Midnight.

_Enter_ MOTHER MIDNIGHT.

MOTHER MIDNIGHT.

What, Peg! what, ho! what, Peg, I say! what, Peg, my wench? where art thou, trow?

PEG.

Here, granam, at your elbow.

MOTHER MIDNIGHT.

What mak'st thou here this t.w.a.tter light? I think thou'rt in a dream; I think the fool haunts thee.

WILL CRICKET.

Zounds, fool in your face! Fool? O monstrous int.i.tulation. Fool? O, disgrace to my person. Zounds, fool not me, for I cannot brook such a cold rasher, I can tell you. Give me but such another word, and I'll be thy tooth-drawer--even of thy b.u.t.ter-tooth, thou toothless trot, thou!

MOTHER MIDNIGHT.