_Old Mer._ When it was grown to dark midnight, And all were fast asleep, In came _Margarets_ grimly Ghost, And stood at _William_'s feet. I have money, and meat, and drink before hand, till to morrow at noon, why should I be sad? methinks I have halfe a dozen jovial spirits within me, I am three merry men, and three merry men: To what end should any man be sad in this world? give me a man that when he goes to hanging cries troul the black boul to me: and a Woman that will sing a catch in her Travel. I have seen a man come by my door, with a serious face, in a black cloak, without a Hatband, carrying his head as if he lookt for pins in the street. I have lookt out of my window halfe a year after, and have spied that mans head upon _London Bridge_: 'tis vile, never trust a Tailor that does not sing at his work, his mind is of nothing but filching. _Wife._ Mark this _George_, 'tis worth noting: _Godfrey_ my Tailor, you know never sings, and he had fourteen yards to make this Gown; and I'll be sworn, Mistriss _Penistone_ the Drapers Wife had one made with twelve. _Old Mer._ 'Tis mirth that fills the veins with blood, More than Wine, or Sleep, or Food, Let each man keep his heart at ease No man dies of that disease. He that would his body keep From diseases, must not weep, But whoever laughs and sings, Never [he] his body brings Into Feavers, Gouts, or Rhumes, Or lingringly his Lungs consumes: Or meets with aches in the bone, Or Catarrhs, or griping Stone: But contented lives for aye, The more he laughs, the more he may. _Wife._ Look _George_, how sayst thou by this _George_? is't not a fine old man? Now Gods blessing a thy sweet lips. When wilt thou be so merry _George_? Faith thou art the frowningst little thing, when thou art angry, in a Countrey. _Enter_ Merchant. _Cit._ Peace Conny, Thou shalt see him took down too I warrant thee: here's _Luce's_ Father come now. _Old Mer._ As you came from _Walsingam_, from the Holy Land, there met you not with my true love by the way as you came. _Mer._ O Master _Merry-thought_! my Daughters gone, This mirth becomes you not, my Daughter's gone. _Old Mer._ Why an if she be, what care I? Or let her come, or go, or tarry. _Merch._ Mock not my misery, it is your Son, Whom I have made my own, when all forsook him, Has stoln my only joy, my child away. _Old Mer._ He set her on a milk white Steed, and himself upon a gray, He never turn'd his face again, but he bore her quite away. _Merch._ Unworthy of the kindness I have shewn To thee, and thine: too late, I well perceive Thou art consenting to my Daughters loss.