_Sir Wil_. At sixty-two, to be in leading-strings, Is an old child--and with a daughter, too! Her mother held me ne'er in check so strait As she. I must not go but where she likes, Nor see but whom she likes, do anything But what she likes!--A slut bare twenty-one! Nor minces she commands! A brigadier More coolly doth not give his orders out Than she! Her waiting-maid is aide-de-camp; My steward adjutant; my lacqueys serjeants; That bring me her high pleasure how I march And counter-march--when I'm on duty--when I'm off--when suits it not to tell it me Herself--"Sir William, thus my mistress says!" As saying it were enough--no will of mine Consulted! I will marry. Must I serve, Better a wife, my mistress, than a daughter! And yet the vixen says, if I do marry, I'll find she'll rule my wife, as well as me! [Enter TRUEWORTH.] Ah, Master Trueworth! Welcome, Master Trueworth! _True_. Thanks, sir; I am glad to see you look so well! _Sir Wil_. Ah, Master Trueworth, when one turns the hill, 'Tis rapid going down! We climb by steps; By strides we reach the bottom. Look at me, And guess my age. _True_. Turned fifty. _Sir Wil_. Ten years more! How marvellously well I wear! I think You would not flatter me!--But scan me close, And pryingly, as one who seeks a thing He means to find--What signs of age dost see? _True_. None! _Sir Wil_. None about the corners of the eyes? Lines that diverge like to the spider's joists, Whereon he builds his airy fortalice? They call them crow's feet--has the ugly bird Been perching there?--Eh?--Well? _True_. There's something like, But not what one must see, unless he's blind Like steeple on a hill! _Sir Wil_. [After a pause.] Your eyes are good! I am certainly a wonder for my age; I walk as well as ever! Do I stoop? _True_. A plummet from your head would find your heel. _Sir Wil_. It is my make--my make, good Master Trueworth; I do not study it. Do you observe The hollow in my back? That's natural. As now I stand, so stood I when a child, A rosy, chubby boy!--I am youthful to A miracle! My arm is firm as 'twas At twenty. Feel it! _True_. [Feeling SIR WILLIAM'S arm.] It is deal! _Sir Wil_. Oak--oak, Isn't it, Master Trueworth? Thou hast known me Ten years and upwards. Thinkest my leg is shrunk? _True_. No. _Sir Wil_. No! not in the calf? _True_. As big a calf As ever! _Sir Wil_. Thank you, thank you--I believe it! When others waste, 'tis growing-time with me! I feel it, Master Trueworth! Vigour, sir, In every joint of me--could run!--could leap! Why shouldn't I marry? Knife and fork I play Better than many a boy of twenty-five-- Why shouldn't I marry? If they come to wine, My brace of bottles can I carry home, And ne'er a headache. Death! why shouldn't I marry? _True_. I see in nature no impediment.