Volume Xi Part 70 (1/2)

STAINES. 'Tis true, and that's her maid before her.

W. RASH. What a night of conspiracy is here! more villany? there's another goodly mutton going: my father is fleeced of all; grief will give him a box, i' faith--but 'tis no great matter; I shall inherit the sooner. Nay, soft, sir; you shall not pa.s.s so current with the matter, I'll shake you a little. Who goes there?

SPEND. Out with the candle [_Aside._]: who's that asks the question?

W. RASH. One that has some reason for't.

SPEND. It should be, by the voice, young Rash. Why, we are honest folks.

W. RASH. Pray, where do you dwell? Not in town, I hope?

SPEND. Why, we dwell--zounds! where do we dwell? I know not where.

W. RASH. And you'll be married, you know not when--zounds, it were a Christian deed to stop thee in thy journey: hast thou no more spirit in thee, but to let thy tongue betray thee? Suppose I had been a constable, you had been in a fine taking, had you not?

SPEND. But, my still worthy friend, Is there no worse face of ill bent towards me Than that thou merrily putt'st on?

W. RASH. Yes, here's four or five faces more, but ne'er an ill one, though never an excellent good one. Boy, up with your lanthorn of light, and show him his a.s.sociates, all running away with the flesh, as thou art. Go, yoke together, you may be oxen one day, and draw altogether in a plough; go, march together, the parson stays for you; pay him royally.

Come, give me the lanthorns, for you have light sufficient, for night has put off his black cap, and salutes the morn. Now farewell, my little children of Cupid, that walk by two and two, as if you went a-feasting: let me hear no more words, but be gone.

SPEND. _and_ STAINES. Farewell.

GERT. _and_ JOYCE. Farewell, brother.

[_Exeunt. Manet_ WILL RASH.

W. RASH. Ay, you may cry farewell; but if my father should know of my villany, how should I fare then? But all's one, I ha' done my sisters good, my friends good, and myself good; and a general good is always to be respected before a particular. There's eightscore pounds a year saved by the conveyance of this widow. I hear footsteps: now, darkness, take me into thy arms, and deliver me from discovery. [_Exit._

_Enter_ SIR LIONEL.

SIR LIONEL. Lord, Lord, what a careless world is this! neither bride nor bridegroom ready; time to go to church, and not a man unroosted: this age has not seen a young gallant rise with a candle; we live drowned in feather-beds, and dream of no other felicity. This was not the life when I was a young man. What makes us so weak as we are now? A feather-bed.

What so unapt for exercise? A feather-bed. What breeds such pains and aches in our bones? why, a feather-bed or a wench--or at least a wench in a feather-bed. Is it not a shame that an old man as I am should be up first, and in a wedding-day? I think, in my conscience, there's more mettle in lads of threescore than in boys of one-and-twenty.

_Enter_ BASKETHILT.

Why, Baskethilt!

BAS. Here, sir.

SIR LIONEL. Shall I not be trussed to-day?

BAS. Yes, sir; but I went for water.

SIR LIONEL. Is Will Rash up yet?

BAS. I think not, sir; for I heard n.o.body stirring in the house.

SIR LIONEL. Knock, sirrah, at his chamber. [_Knock within._

The house might be pluck'd down and builded again Before he'd wake with the noise. [WILL RASH _aloft_.