Wincott. I wonder whence this strangeness should proceed, Or wherein I, or any of my house, Should be the occasion of the least distaste: Now, as I wish him well, it troubles me; But now the time grows on from his own mouth To be resolved, and I hope satisfied. [_Enter_ Clown _and_ Young Geraldine.] Sir, as I live, of all my friends, to me Most wishedly you are welcome: take that chair, I this: nay, I entreat, no compliment.-- Attend; fill wine. Clown. Till the mouths of the bottles yawn directly upon the floor, and the bottoms turn their tails up to the ceiling; whilst there’s any blood in their bellies I’ll not leave them. Wincott. I first salute you thus. Young Geraldine. It could not come From one whom I more honour; sir, I thank you. Clown. Nay, since my master begun it, I’ll see’t go round to all three. Wincott. Now give us leave. Clown. Talk you by yourselves, whilst I find something to say to this:[3.43] I have a tale to tell him shall make his stony heart relent. [_Exit_. Young Geraldine. Now, first, sir, your attention I entreat: Next, your belief that what I speak is just, Maugre all contradiction. Wincott. Both are granted. Young Geraldine. Then I proceed; with due acknowledgment Of all your more than many courtesies: You’ve been my second father, and your wife My noble and chaste mistress; all your servants At my command; and this your bounteous table As free and common as my father’s house: Neither ’gainst any, or the least of these, Can I commence just quarrel. Wincott. What might then be The cause of this constraint, in thus absenting Yourself from such as love you? Young Geraldine. Out of many, I will propose some few: the care I have Of your as yet unblemishèd renown, The untouched honour of your virtuous wife, And (which I value least, yet dearly too) My own fair reputation. Wincott. How can these In any way be questioned? Young Geraldine. Oh, dear sir, Bad tongues have been too busy with us all; Of which I never yet had time to think, But with sad thoughts and griefs unspeakable. It hath been whispered by some wicked ones, But loudly thundered in my father’s ears, By some that have maligned our happiness, (Heaven, if it can brook slander, pardon them!) That this my customary coming hither Hath been to base and sordid purposes: To wrong your bed, injure her chastity, And be mine own undoer, which, how false! Wincott. As Heaven is true, I know’t.