CLARE. Mine host, is not Sir Richard Mounchensey come yet, according to our appointment, when we last dined here?
HOST. The knight's not yet apparent. Marry, here's a forerunner that summons a parley, and, faith, he'll be here top and top-gallant presently.
CLARE. 'Tis well; good mine host, go down and see breakfast be provided.
HOST. Knight, thy breath hath the force of a woman, it takes me down; I am for the baser element of the kitchen: I retire like a valiant soldier, face point-blank to the foeman, or, like a courtier, that must not show his prince his posteriors: vanish to know my canvasadoes and my interrogatories, for I serve the good Duke of Norfolk. [_Exit._
CLARE. How doth my lady? are you not weary, madam? Come hither, I must talk in private with you; My daughter Millicent must not overhear. [_Speaking low._
MIL. Ay, whispering? pray God it tend to my good! Strange fear assails my heart, usurps my blood.
CLARE. You know our meeting with the knight Mounchensey Is to assure our daughter to his heir.
DOR. 'Tis without question. [_Speaking low._
CLARE. Two tedious winters have pass'd o'er, since first These couple lov'd each other, and in passion Glued first their naked hands with youthful moisture-- Just so long, on my knowledge.
CLARE. This morning should my daughter lose her name, And to Mounchensey's house convey our arms, Quartered within his 'scutcheon: the affiance made 'Twixt him and her this morning should be seal'd.
CLARE. But there are crosses,[246] wife; here's one in Waltham, Another at the Abbey, and a third At Cheston;[247] and it is ominous to pass Any of these without a pater-noster. Crosses of love still thwart this marriage, Whilst that we two (like spirits) walk in night About those stony and hard-hearted plots.
MIL. O God! what means my father? [_Aside._
CLARE. For look you, wife, the riotous old knight Hath overrun his annual revenue, In keeping jolly Christmas all the year: The nostrils of his chimneys are still stuff'd With smoke, more chargeable than cane-tobacco; His hawks devour his fattest hogs,[248] whilst Simple, His leanest cur, eats his hounds' carrion. Besides, I heard of late his younger brother, A Turkey merchant, hath sore[249] suck'd the knight, By means of some great losses on the sea; That (you conceive me), before God, all's naught, His seat is weak: thus, each thing rightly scann'd, You'll see a flight, wife, shortly of his land.