EUPH. Tell me, uncle: I hear Sir Argent Scrape is at her house. FREE. Nephew, 'tis true; and, which thou'lt wonder at, That marriage, which we talk'd of as a jest, In earnest now's concluded of, and shall To-morrow morning be solemnised. EUPH. Betwixt Sir Argent and the Lady Covet? I do not think it strange; there's but one hedge Has a long time divided them--I mean Their large estates; and 'tis th' estate that marries. FREE. But is't not strange, nay, most unnatural-- And I may say ridiculous, for those years To marry, and abuse the ordinance? My Lady Covet is, at least, fourscore, And he, this year, is fourscore and fifteen: Besides, he has been bed-rid long, and lame Of both his feet. EUPH. Uncle, he's not too old To love--I mean her money; and in that The chiefest end of marriage is fulfill'd: He will increase and multiply his fortunes: Increase, you know, is the true end of marriage! FREE. They have already almost the whole country. EUPH. But you shall see how now they'll propagate. FREE. Is such a marriage lawful? EUPH. Ah! good uncle, Dispute not that, the church has nought in this; Their lawyer is the priest that marries them, The banns of matrimony are the indentures, The bounds and landmarks are the ring that joins them. ART. But there's no love at all. EUPH. Yes, pretty cousin, If thou art read in amorous books, thou'lt find That Cupid's arrow has a golden head; And 'twas a golden shaft that wounded them. FREE. Well, thither we must go; but, prythee, nephew, Forbear thy jesting there. EUPH. I warrant you; I'll flatter the old lady, and persuade her How well she looks: but when they go to bed, I'll write their epitaph. FREE. How, man! their epitaph? Their epithalamium thou mean'st. EUPH. No, sirs; Over their marriage-bed I'll write their ages, And only say, Here lies Sir Argent Scrape, Together with his wife, the Lady Covet. And whosoever reads it will suppose The place to be a tomb, no marriage-bed. LADY W. How strangely thou art taken with this wedding, Before thou see'st it! EUPH. And then, let me see: To fit them for an Hymeneal song, Instead of those so high and spirited strains, Which the old Grecian lovers us'd to sing When lusty bridegrooms rifled maidenheads, I'll sing a quiet dirge, and bid them sleep In peaceful rest, and bid the clothes, instead Of earth, lie gently on their aged bones----[7] FREE. Thou'lt ne'er have done. Well, gallants, 'tis almost The time that calls us: I must needs be gone. LADY W. We'll wait upon you, sir. FREE. Your servant, madam. [_Exeunt_ LADY WHIMSEY, FREEMAN, DOTTEREL, _and_ BARNET. ART. Stay, cousin, I have a request to thee. EUPH. Thou canst not fear that I'll deny it thee. Speak it: 'tis done.