Y. CLARE. Raymond Mounchensey, I would have thee know, He does not breathe this air, whose love I cherish, And whose soul I love more than Mounchensey's: Nor ever in my life did see the man Whom, for his wit and many virtuous parts, I think more worthy of my sister's love. But since the matter grows unto this pass, I must not seem to cross my father's will; But when thou list to visit her by night, My horse is saddled, and the stable door Stands ready for thee; use them at thy pleasure. In honest marriage wed her frankly, boy, And if thou gett'st her, lad, God give thee joy. MOUN. Then, care away! let fate my fall pretend, Back'd with the favours of so true a friend! FAB. Let us alone, to bustle for the set; For age and craft with wit and art have met. I'll make my spirits to dance such nightly jigs Along the way 'twixt this and Tot'nam Cross, The carriers' jades shall cast their heavy packs, And the strong hedges scarce shall keep them in: The milkmaids' cuts[267] shall turn the wenches off, And lay their dossers[268] tumbling in the dust: The frank and merry London 'prentices, That come for cream and lusty country cheer, Shall lose their way; and, scrambling in the ditches All night shall whoop and hallo, cry and call, Yet none to other find the way at all. MOUN. Pursue the project, scholar: what we can do To help endeavour, join our lives thereto. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ BANKS, SIR JOHN, _and_ SMUG. BANKS. Take me with you,[269] good Sir John:[270] a plague on thee, Smug, and thou touchest liquor, thou art foundered straight. What! are your brains always watermills? must they ever run round? SMUG. Banks, your ale is as a Philistine fox; nouns! there's fire i' th' tail on't; you are a rogue to charge us with mugs i' th' rearward; a plague of this wind! O, it tickles our catastrophe![271] SIR JOHN. Neighbour Banks of Waltham, and goodman Smug, the honest smith of Edmonton, as I dwell betwixt you both at Enfield, I know the taste of both your ale-houses; they are good both, smart both. Hem! grass and hay! we are all mortal; let's live till we die, and be merry; and there's an end. BANKS. Well said, Sir John, you are of the same humour still; and doth the water run the same way still, boy? SMUG. Vulcan was a rogue to him; Sir John, lock, lock, lock fast, Sir John; so, Sir John. I'll one' of these years, when it shall please the goddesses and the destinies, be drunk in your company; that's all now, and God send us health. Shall I swear I love you?