_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 fevers, gouts, or rhumes, Or lingringly his lungs consumes; Or meets with achés in the bone, Or catarrhs, or griping stone: But contented lives by aye, The more he laughs, the more he may." _Wife._ Look, George. How say'st thou by this, George? Is't not a fine old man? Now God's 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 country. _Enter_ MERCHANT. _Cit._ Peace, coney; thou shalt see him took down too, I warrant thee. Here's Luce's father come now. _Old Mer._ "As you came from Walsingham, From the Holy Land, There met you not with my true love By the way as you came?" _Merch._ Oh, Master Merry-thought! my daughter's 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 stol'n my only joy, my child, away. _Old Mer._ "He set her on a milk-white steed, And himself upon a gray, He never turned his face again, But he bore her quite away." _Merch._ Unworthy of the kindness I have shown To thee and thine; too late, I well perceive Thou art consenting to my daughter's loss. _Old Mer._ Your daughter? what a stir's here wi' y'r daughter? Let her go, think no more on her, but sing loud. If both my sons were on the gallows I would sing, "Down, down, down: they fall Down, and arise they never shall." _Merch._ Oh, might but I behold her once again, And she once more embrace her aged sire. _Old Mer._ Fie, how scurvily this goes: "And she once more embrace her aged sire?" You'll make a dog on her, will ye; she cares much for her aged sire, I warrant you. "She cares not for her daddy, nor She cares not for her mammy, For she is, she is, she is my Lord of Low-gaves lassie." _Merch._ For this thy scorn I will pursue That son of thine to death. _Old Merch._ Do, and when you ha' killed him, "Give him flowers enow, Palmer, give him flowers enow, Give him red and white, blue, green, and yellow." _Merch._ I'll fetch my daughter. _Old Mer._ I'll hear no more o' your daughter, it spoils my mirth. _Merch._ I say I'll fetch my daughter.