_Nat._ Monsieur _De-Gard_, I must salute you also, And this fair Gentlewoman: you are welcome from your Travel too. All welcome, all. _De-Gard._ We render ye our loves, Sir: The best Wealth we bring home: By your Favours, Beauties, One of these two: you know my meaning. _Or._ Well, Sir: They are fair and handsom, I must needs confess it; And let it prove the worst, I shall live after it, Whilst I have meat and drink Love cannot starve me; For if I dye o'th' first fit I am unhappy, And worthy to be buried with my heels upward. _Mir._ To marry, Sir? _La-C._ You know I am an old man, And every hour declining to my Grave, One foot already in, more Sons I have not, Nor more I dare not seek whilst you are worthy, In you lies all my hope, and all my name, The making good or wretched of my memory, The safety of my state. _Mir._ And you have provided Out of this tenderness these handsom Gentlewomen, Daughters to this rich man, to take my choice of? _La-C._ I have, dear Son. _Mir._ 'Tis true, ye are old, and feebled; Would ye were young again, and in full vigor; I love a bounteous Fathers life, a long one, I am none of those that when they shoot to ripeness, Do what they can to break the boughs they grew on; I wish ye many years and many Riches, And pleasures to enjoy 'em: But for Marriage, I neither yet believe in't, nor affect it, Nor think it fit. _La-C._ You will render me your reasons? _Mir._ Yes, Sir, both short and pithy, and these they are: You would have me marry a Maid? _La-C._ A Maid? what else? _Mir._ Yes, there be things called Widows, dead mens Wills, I never lov'd to prove those; nor never long'd yet To be buried alive in another mans cold monument. And there be maids appearing, and maids being: The appearing are fantastick things, meer shadows; And if you mark 'em well, they want their heads too; Only the World to cozen misty eyes, Has clapt 'em on new faces. The maids being, A man may venture on, if he be so mad to marry; If he have neither fear before his eyes, nor fortune; And let him take heed how he gathers these too, For look ye, father, they are just like melons, Musk-melons are the emblems of these maids; Now they are ripe, now cut 'em, they taste pleasantly, And are a dainty fruit, digested easily: Neglect this present time, and come to morrow, They are so ripe they are rotten gone, their sweetness Run into humour, and their taste to surfeit. _La-C._ Why, these are now ripe, Son. _Mir._ I'll try them presently, And if I like their taste-- _La-C._ 'Pray ye please your self, Sir. _Mir._ That liberty is my due, and I'll maintain it: Lady, what think you of a handsom man now? _Ros._ A wholsom too, Sir.