MOR. My Lord of Kent, the latter motion Doth bind me to you in a higher degree Than all those many favours gone before: And now the issue of my help relies Only on Mariana's gentleness, Who, if she will, in such a common good, Put to her helping-hand, the match is made. LACY. You need not make a doubt of Marian, Whose love unto her lady were enough, Besides her cousin's and her own consent, To move her to a greater thing than this. MAR. My lords, if aught there be in Marian, That may or pleasure you or profit her, Ye shall not need to doubt of my consent. MOR. Gramercy, Marian; and indeed the thing Is in itself a matter of no moment, If it be weigh'd aright, and therefore this: Thou know'st the bargain 'twixt me and the doctor, Concerning marriage with my only daughter, Whom I determined that my Lord of Kent Should have espoused: but I see her mind Is only set upon thy cousin Musgrave, And in her marriage to use constraint Were bootless; therefore thus we have devised. Lord Lacy is content to lose his part, And to resign his title to young Musgrave; But now the doctor will not yield his right. Thus we determine to beguile his hopes: Thou shalt this night be brought unto his bed Instead of her, and he shall marry thee: Musgrave shall have my daughter, she her will; And so shall all things sort[444] to our content. LACY. And this thou shalt be sure of, Marian, The doctor's wealth will keep thee royally: Besides, thou shalt be ever near thy friends, That will not see thee wrong'd by any man. Say then, wilt thou resolve to marry him? MAR. My lords, you know I am but young: The doctor's fit for one of riper years: Yet, in regard of Honorea's good, My cousin's profit, and all your contents, I yield myself to be the doctor's wife. MOR. 'Tis kindly spoken, gentle Marian. _Enter_ CASTILIANO. But here the doctor comes. LACY. Then I'll away, Lest he suspect aught by my being here. [_Exit_. MOR. Do, and let me alone to close with him. CAS. May he ne'er speak that makes a woman speak! She talks now sure for all the time that's pass'd: Her tongue is like a scarecrow in a tree, That clatters still with every puff of wind. I have so haunted her from place to place: About the hall, from thence into the parlour, Up to the chamber, down into the garden, And still she rails, and chafes, and scolds, As if it were the sessions-day in hell. Yet will I haunt her with an open mouth, And never leave her till I force her love me. MOR. Now, master doctor; what, a match or no? CAS. A match, quoth you? I think the devil himself Cannot match her; for, if he could, I should. [_Aside_.]