HOST. Thou shalt have it without any more discontinuance, release, or attournment. What! we know our terms of hunting and the sea-card.
BIL. And do you serve the good Duke of Norfolk still?
HOST. Still and still, and still, my soldier of Saint Quintin's. Come follow me. I have Charles's-wain[256] below in a butt of sack: 'twill[257] glister like your crab-fish.
BIL. You have fine scholar-like terms: your Cooper's Dictionary[258] is your only book to study in a cellar, a man shall find very strange words in it. Come, my host, let's serve the good Duke of Norfolk.
HOST. And still, and still, and still, my boy, I'll serve the good Duke of Norfolk.
_Enter_ SIR ARTHUR CLARE, HARRY CLARE, _and_ MILLICENT.[259]
CLARE. What gentleman is that? I know him not.
SIR RICH. 'Tis Master Fabel, sir, a Cambridge scholar, My son's dear friend.
FAB. Command me, sir, I am affected to you For your Mounchensey's sake.
CLARE. Alas! for him, I not respect whether he sink or swim! [_Aside._ A word in private, Sir Ralph Jerningham.
RAY. Methinks your father looketh strangely on me: Say, love, why are you sad?
MIL. I am not, sweet; Passion is strong, when woe with woe doth meet.
CLARE. Shall's in to breakfast? After, we'll conclude The cause of this our coming: in and feed, And let that usher a more serious deed. [_Exit._
MIL. Whilst you desire his grief, my heart shall bleed. [_Exit._
Y. CLARE. Raymond Mounchensey, come, be frolic, friend; This is the day thou hast expected long.
RAY. Pray God, dear Harry Clare, it prove so happy!
Y. CLARE. There's nought can alter it; be merry, lad.
FAB. There's nought shall alter it; be lively, Raymond: Stand any opposition 'gainst thy hope, Art shall confront it with her largest scope.
FAB. Good old Mounchensey, is thy hap so ill, That for thy bounty and thy royal parts Thy kind alliance should be held in scorn, And after all these promises, my[260] Clare, Refuse to give his daughter to thy son, Only because thy revenues cannot reach To make her dowage of so rich a jointure As can the heir of wealthy Jerningham? And therefore is the false fox now in hand To strike a match betwixt her and the other; And the old grey-beards now are close together, Plotting it in the garden. Is't even so? Raymond Mounchensey, boy, have thou and I Thus long at Cambridge read the liberal arts, The metaphysics, magic, and those parts Of the most secret deep philosophy? Have I so many melancholy nights Watch'd on the top of Peter-house highest tower, And come we back unto our native home, For want of skill to lose the wench thou lov'st? I'll first hang Enfield[261] in such rings of mist As never rose from any dampish fen: I'll make the brined sea to rise at Ware, And drown the marshes unto Stratford Bridge: I'll drive the deer from Waltham in their walks, And scatter them (like sheep) in every field. We may perhaps be cross'd; but, if we be, He shall cross the devil, that but crosses me.