snared!—the maid, for mistress sought,
Turn out a wife.

Nev.  How say you, Master Waller?
Things quite as strange have fallen!

Wed.  Impossible!

True.  Impossible!  Most possible of things—
If thou’rt in love!  Where merit lies itself,
What matters it to want the name, which weighed,
Is not the worth of so much breath as it takes
To utter it!  If, but from Nature’s hand,
She is all you could expect of gentle blood,
Face, form, mien, speech; with these, what to belong
To lady more behoves—thoughts delicate,
Affections generous, and modesty—
Perfectionating, brightening crown of all!—
If she hath these—true titles to thy heart—
What does she lack that’s title to thy hand?
The name of lady, which is none of these,
But may belong without?  Thou mightst do worse
Than marry her.  Thou wouldst, undoing her,
Yea, by my mother’s name, a shameful act
Most shamefully performed!

Wal.  [Starting up and drawing.]  Sir!

Nev.  [And the others, interposing.]  Gentlemen!

True.  All’s right!  Sit down!—I will not draw again.
A word with you: If—as a man—thou sayest,
Upon thy honour, I have spoken wrong,
I’ll ask thy pardon!—though I never hold
Communion with thee more!

Wal.  [After a pause, putting up his sword.]
My sword is sheathed?
Wilt let me take thy hand?

True.  ’Tis thine, good sir,
And faster than before—A fault confessed
Is a new virtue added to a man!
Yet let me own some blame was mine.  A truth
May be too harshly told—but ’tis a theme
I am tender on—I had a sister, sir,
You understand me!—’Twas my happiness
To own her once—I would forget her now!—
I have forgotten!—I know not if she lives!—
Things of such strain as we were speaking of,
Spite of myself, remind me of her!—So!—

Nev.  Sit down!  Let’s have more wine.

Wild.  Not so, good sirs.
Partaking of your hospitality,
I have overlooked good friends I came to visit,
And who have late become sojourners here—
Old country friends and neighbours, and with whom
I e’en take up my quarters.  Master Trueworth,
Bear witness for me.

True.  It is even so.
Sir William Fondlove and his charming daughter.

Wild.  Ay, neighbour Constance.  Charming, does he say?
Yes, neighbour Constance is a charming girl
To those that do not know her.  If she plies me
As hard as was her custom in the country,
I should not wonder though, this very day,
I seek the home I quitted for a month! [Aside.]

Good even, gentlemen.

Hum.  Nay, if you go,
We all break up, and sally forth together.

Wal.  Be it so—Your hand again, good Master Trueworth!
I am sorry I did pain you.

True.  It is thine, sir.

[They go out.]

SCENE III.—Sir William Fondlove’s House.—A Room.

[Enter Sir William Fondlove.]

Sir Wil.  At sixty-two, to be in leading-strings,
Is an old child—and with a daughter, too!
Her mother held me ne’er in check so strait
As she.  I must not go but where she likes,
Nor see but whom she likes, do anything
But what she likes!—A slut bare twenty-one!
Nor minces she commands!  A brigadier
More coolly doth not give his orders out
Than she!  Her waiting-maid is aide-de-camp;
My steward adjutant; my lacqueys serjeants;
That bring me her high pleasure how I march
And counter-march—when I’m on duty—when
I’m off—when suits it not to tell it me
Herself—“Sir William, thus my mistress says!”
As saying it were enough—no will of mine
Consulted!  I will marry.  Must I serve,
Better a wife, my mistress, than a daughter!
And yet the vixen says, if I do marry,
I’ll find she’ll rule my wife, as well as me!

[Enter Trueworth.]

Ah, Master Trueworth!  Welcome, Master Trueworth!

True.  Thanks, sir; I am glad to see you look so well!

Sir Wil.  Ah, Master Trueworth, when one turns the hill,
’Tis rapid going down!  We climb by steps;
By strides we reach the bottom.  Look at me,
And guess my age.

True.  Turned fifty.

Sir Wil.  Ten years more!
How marvellously well I wear!  I think
You would not flatter me!—But scan me close,
And pryingly, as one who seeks a thing
He means to find—What signs of age dost see?

True.  None!

Sir Wil.  None about the corners of the eyes?
Lines that diverge like to the spider’s joists,
Whereon he builds his airy fortalice?
They call them crow’s feet—has the ugly bird
Been perching there?—Eh?—Well?

True.  There’s something like,
But not what one must see, unless he’s blind
Like steeple on a hill!

Sir Wil.  [After a pause.]  Your eyes are good!
I am certainly a wonder for my age;
I walk as well as ever!  Do I stoop?

True.  A plummet from your head would find your heel.

Sir Wil.  It is my make—my make, good Master Trueworth;
I do not study it.  Do you observe
The hollow in my back?  That’s natural.
As now I stand, so stood I when a child,
A rosy, chubby boy!—I am youthful to
A miracle!  My arm is firm as ’twas
At twenty.  Feel it!

True.  [Feeling Sir William’s arm.]  It is deal!

Sir Wil.  Oak—oak,
Isn’t it, Master Trueworth?  Thou hast known me
Ten years and upwards.  Thinkest my leg is shrunk?

True.  No.

Sir Wil.  No! not in the calf?

True.  As big a calf
As ever!

Sir Wil.  Thank you, thank you—I believe it!
When others waste, ’tis growing-time with me!
I feel it, Master Trueworth!  Vigour, sir,
In every joint of me—could run!—could leap!
Why shouldn’t I marry?  Knife and fork I play
Better than many a boy of twenty-five—
Why shouldn’t I marry?  If they come to wine,
My brace of bottles can I carry home,
And ne’er a headache.  Death! why shouldn’t I marry?

True.  I see in nature no impediment.

Sir Wil.  Impediment?  She’s all appliances!—
And fortune’s with me, too!  The Widow Green
Gives hints to me.  The pleasant Widow Green
Whose fortieth year, instead of autumn, brings,
A second summer in.  Odds bodikins,
How young she looks!  What life is in her eyes!
What ease is in her gait!—while, as she walks,
Her waist, still tapering, takes it pliantly!
How lollingly she bears her head withal:
On this side now—now that!  When enters she
A drawing-room, what worlds of gracious things
Her curtsey says!—she sinks with such a sway,
Greeting on either hand the company,
Then slowly rises to her state again!
She is the empress of the card-table!
Her hand and arm!—Gods, did you see her deal—
With curved and pliant wrist dispense the pack,
Which, at the touch of her fair fingers fly!
How soft she speaks—how very soft!  Her voice
Comes melting from her round and swelling throat,
Reminding you of sweetest, mellowest things—
Plums, peaches, apricots, and nectarines—
Whose bloom is poor to paint her cheeks and lips.
By Jove, I’ll marry!

True.  You forget, Sir William,
I do not know the lady.

Sir Wil.  Great your loss.
By all the gods I’ll marry!—but my daughter
Must needs be married first.  She rules my house;
Would rule it still, and will not have me