FRAN. Ay, you know, You found the way to sorrow long ago. Father, God be wi' ye[293]: you have sent your son To seek on earth an earthly day of doom, Where I shall be adjudged, alack the ruth, To penance for the follies of my youth! Well, I must go; but, by my troth, my mind Is not capable to love [in][294] that kind. O, I have look'd upon this mould of men, As I have done upon a lion's den! Praised I have the gallant beast I saw, Yet wish'd me no acquaintance with his paw: And must I now be grated with them? well, Yet I may hap to prove a Daniel; And, if I do, sure it would make me laugh, To be among wild beasts and yet be safe. Is there a remedy to abate their rage? Yes, many catch them, and put them in a cage. Ay, but how catch them? marry, in your hand Carry me forth a burning firebrand, For with his sparkling shine, old rumour says, A firebrand the swiftest runner frays: This I may do; but, if it prove not so, Then man goes out to seek his adjunct woe. Philip, away! and, father, now adieu! In quest of sorrow I am sent by you. MR GOUR. Return, the messenger of joy, my son. FRAN. Seldom in this world such a work is done. PHIL. Nay, nay, make haste, it will be quickly night. FRAN. Why, is it not good to woo by candle-light? PHIL. But, if we make not haste, they'll be a-bed. FRAN. The better, candles out and curtains spread. [_Exeunt_ FRANCIS and PHILIP.] MR GOUR. I know, though that my son's years be not many, Yet he hath wit to woo as well as any. Here comes my wife: I am glad my boy is gone. _Enter_ MISTRESS GOURSEY. Ere she came hither. How now, wife? how is't? What, are ye yet in charity and love With Mistress Barnes? MRS GOUR. With Mistress Barnes! why Mistress[295] Barnes, I pray? MR GOUR. Because she is your neighbour and-- MRS GOUR. And what? And a jealous, slandering, spiteful quean she is, One that would blur my reputation With her opprobrious malice, if she could; She wrongs her husband, to abuse my fame: 'Tis known that I have lived in honest name All my lifetime, and been your right true wife. MR GOUR. I entertain no other thought, my wife, And my opinion's sound of your behaviour. MRS GOUR. And my behaviour is as sound as it; But her ill-speeches seeks to rot my credit, And eat it with the worm of hate and malice. MR GOUR. Why, then, preserve it you by patience. MRS GOUR. By patience! would ye have me shame myself, And cosen myself to bear her injuries? Not while her eyes be open, will I yield A word, a letter, a syllable's value. But equal and make even her wrongs to me To her again. MR GOUR. Then, in good faith, wife, ye are more to blame. MRS GOUR. Am I to blame, sir? pray, what letter's this? [_Snatches the letter_.] MR GOUR. There is a dearth of manners in ye, wife, Rudely to snatch it from me. Give it me. MRS GOUR. You shall not have it, sir, till I have read it. MR GOUR. Give me it, then, and I will read it to you.