Thomas Clifford, baronet.”

Clif.  Indeed!
Whence comes that letter?

Ste.  From abroad.

Clif.  Which is it?

Ste.  So please you, this, Sir Thomas.

Clif.  Give it me.

Ste.  That letter brings not news to wish him joy upon.  If he was disturbed before, which I guessed by his looks he was, he is not more at ease now.  His hand to his head!  A most unwelcome letter!  If it brings him news of disaster, fortune does not give him his deserts; for never waited servant upon a kinder master.

Clif.  Stephen!

Ste.  Sir Thomas!

Clif.  From my door remove
The plate that bears my name.

Ste.  The plate, Sir Thomas!

Clif.  The plate—collect my servants and instruct them
To make out each their claims, unto the end
Of their respective terms, and give them in
To my steward.  Him and them apprise, good fellow,
That I keep house no more.  As you go home,
Call at my coachmaker’s and bid him stop
The carriage I bespoke.  The one I have
Send with my horses to the mart whereat
Such things are sold by auction.  They’re for sale;
Pack up my wardrobe, have my trunks conveyed
To the inn in the next street; and when that’s done,
Go round my tradesmen and collect their bills,
And bring them to me at the inn.

Ste.  The inn!

Clif.  Yes; I go home no more.  Why, what’s the matter?
What has fallen out to make your eyes fill up?
You’ll get another place.  I’ll certify
You’re honest and industrious, and all
That a servant ought to be.

Ste.  I see, Sir Thomas,
Some great misfortune has befallen you?

Clif.  No!
I have health; I have strength; my reason, Stephen, and
A heart that’s clear in truth, with trust in God.
No great disaster can befall the man
Who’s still possessed of these!  Good fellow, leave me.
What you would learn, and have a right to know,
I would not tell you now.  Good Stephen, hence!
Mischance has fallen on me—but what of that?
Mischance has fallen on many a better man.
I prithee leave me.  I grow sadder while
I see the eye with which you view my grief.
’Sdeath, they will out!  I would have been a man,
Had you been less a kind and gentle one.
Now, as you love me, leave me.

Ste.  Never master
So well deserved the love of him that served him.

[Stephen goes out.]

Clif.  Misfortune liketh company; it seldom
Visits its friends alone.  Ha!  Master Walter,
And ruffled too.  I’m in no mood for him.

[Enter Master Walter.]

Wal.  So, Sir—Sir Thomas Clifford! what with speed
And choler—I do gasp for want of breath.

Clif.  Well, Master Walter?

Wal.  You’re a rash young man, sir;
Strong-headed and wrong-headed, and I fear, sir,
Not over delicate in that fine sense
Which men of honour pride themselves upon!

Clif.  Well, Master Walter?

Wal.  A young woman’s heart, sir,
Is not a stone to carve a posy on!
Which knows not what is writ on’t; which you may buy,
Exchange, or sell, sir, keep or give away, sir:
It is a richer—yet a poorer thing;
Priceless to him that owns and prizes it;
Worthless, when owned, not prized; which makes the man
That covets it, obtains it, and discards it—
A fool, if not a villain, sir.

Clif.  Well, sir?

Wal.  You never loved my ward, sir!

Clif.  The bright Heavens
Bear witness that I did!

Wal.  The bright Heavens, sir,
Bear not false witness.  That you loved her not
Is clear—for had you loved her, you’d have plucked
Your heart from out your breast, ere cast her from your heart!
Old as I am, I know what passion is.
It is the summer’s heat, sir, which in vain
We look for frost in.  Ice, like you, sir, knows
But little of such heat!  We are wronged, sir, wronged!
You wear a sword, and so do I.