FAB. Good old Mounchensey, is thy hap so ill, That for thy bounty and thy royal parts Thy kind alliance should be held in scorn, And after all these promises, my[260] Clare, Refuse to give his daughter to thy son, Only because thy revenues cannot reach To make her dowage of so rich a jointure As can the heir of wealthy Jerningham? And therefore is the false fox now in hand To strike a match betwixt her and the other; And the old grey-beards now are close together, Plotting it in the garden. Is't even so? Raymond Mounchensey, boy, have thou and I Thus long at Cambridge read the liberal arts, The metaphysics, magic, and those parts Of the most secret deep philosophy? Have I so many melancholy nights Watch'd on the top of Peter-house highest tower, And come we back unto our native home, For want of skill to lose the wench thou lov'st? I'll first hang Enfield[261] in such rings of mist As never rose from any dampish fen: I'll make the brined sea to rise at Ware, And drown the marshes unto Stratford Bridge: I'll drive the deer from Waltham in their walks, And scatter them (like sheep) in every field. We may perhaps be cross'd; but, if we be, He shall cross the devil, that but crosses me. _Enter_ RAYMOND _and_ YOUNG JERNINGHAM. But here comes Raymond, disconsolate and sad; And here's the gallant that must have the wench. JER. I prythee, Raymond, leave these solemn dumps: Revive thy spirits. Thou, that before hast been More watchful than the day-proclaiming cock: As sportive as a kid, as frank and merry As mirth herself! If aught in me may thy content procure, It is thine own, thou mayst thyself assure. RAY. Ha! Jerningham, if any but thyself Had spoke that word, it would have come as cold As the bleak northern winds upon the face Of winter. From thee they have some power Upon my blood; yet being from thee, Had but that hollow sound come from the lips Of any living man, it might have won The credit of mine ear; from thee it cannot. JER. If I understand thee, I am a villain: What! dost thou speak in parables to thy friend? _Enter_ YOUNG CLARE. Come, boy, and make me this same groaning love, Troubled with stitches and the cough o' th' lungs, That wept his eyes out, when he was a child, And ever since hath shot at hoodman-blind:[262] Make her leap, caper, jerk, and laugh, and sing, And play me horse tricks. Make Cupid wanton as his mother's dove; But in this sort, boy, I would have thee love. FAB. Why, how now, madcap? what, my lusty Frank, So near a wife, and will not tell your friend? But you will to this gear in hugger-mugger:[263] Art thou turn'd miser, rascal, in thy loves?