Sir Harry. Come, come, you’re welcome. And now I’ll turn my strangeness to true joy. I am glad to see you well, and safe recovered Of your late grievous sickness. Old Chartley. The strange amazèd looks that you cast off You put on me; and blame me not to wonder That you should talk of sickness to sound men. I thank my stars I did not taste the grief Of inward pain or outward malady This seven years day. Sir Harry. But by your favour, brother, Then let me have my wonder back again. Old Chartley. Before I quite part with it, let me know Why you the name of brother put upon me In every clause--a name as strange to me As my recovered sickness. Sir Harry. You are pleasant, And it becomes you well: welcome again, The rather you are come just to the wedding. Old Chartley. What wedding, sir? Sir Harry. That you should ask that question! Why, of my daughter Grace. Old Chartley. Is Grace bestowed? Of whom, I pray? Sir Harry. Of whom but of your son. I wonder, brother Chartley, and my friend, You should thus play on me. Old Chartley. But by your favour, Were you ten knights, Sir Harry--take me with you[4.57]-- My son match with your daughter! my consent Not worthy to be craved! Sir Harry. Nay, then I see You’ll stir my patience; know this forward match Took its first birth from you. Old Chartley. From me? Sir Harry. From you. Peruse this letter: know you your own hand? ’Twas well that I reserved your hand a witness Against your tongue. You had best deny the jointure Of the three hundred pounds made to my daughter; ’Tis that I know you aim at; but your seal-- [_Shows him letter_. Old Chartley. Shall not make me approve it: I deny This seal for mine, nor do I vouch that hand. Your daughter and the dower, letter and all, I quite disclaim. Sir Harry, you much wrong me. Sir Harry. I can bear more than this; heap wrong on wrong, And I’ll support it all; I for this time Will cast my spleen behind me. And yet hear me: This letter your son Chartley, as from you, Delivered me. I like the motion well. Old Chartley. My spleen is further thrown aside than yours, And I am full as patient, and yet hear me; My son’s contracted to another maid. Nay, I am patient still--yet that I writ This letter, sealed this impress, I deny. Sir Harry. Why, then, the jack[4.58] your hand did counterfeit? Old Chartley. Why, then, he did so. Where’s that unthrift, speak? Sir Harry. Some hour ago, he mounted and rid post To give you visit, whom he said lay sick Upon your death-bed. Old Chartley. You amaze me, sir. It is an ill presage; hereon I see Your former salutation took its ground, To see me safe recovered of my sickness.