FORE. But what do you know of my wife, Sir Sampson?
SIR SAMP. Thy wife is a constellation of virtues; she’s the moon, and thou art the man in the moon. Nay, she is more illustrious than the moon; for she has her chastity without her inconstancy: ’sbud I was but in jest.
SIR SAMP. How now, who sent for you? Ha! What would you have?
FORE. Nay, if you were but in jest—who’s that fellow? I don’t like his physiognomy.
SIR SAMP. My son, sir; what son, sir? My son Benjamin, hoh?
JERE. No, sir, Mr. Valentine, my master; ’tis the first time he has been abroad since his confinement, and he comes to pay his duty to you.
FORESIGHT, SIR SAMPSON, VALENTINE, JEREMY.
SIR SAMP. You’ve had it already, sir; I think I sent it you to-day in a bill of four thousand pound: a great deal of money, brother Foresight.
FORE. Ay, indeed, Sir Sampson, a great deal of money for a young man; I wonder what he can do with it!
SIR SAMP. Body o’ me, so do I. Hark ye, Valentine, if there be too much, refund the superfluity; dost hear, boy?
VAL. Superfluity, sir? It will scarce pay my debts. I hope you will have more indulgence than to oblige me to those hard conditions which my necessity signed to.
SIR SAMP. Sir, how, I beseech you, what were you pleased to intimate, concerning indulgence?
VAL. Why, sir, that you would not go to the extremity of the conditions, but release me at least from some part.
SIR SAMP. Oh, sir, I understand you—that’s all, ha?
VAL. Yes, sir, all that I presume to ask. But what you, out of fatherly fondness, will be pleased to add, shall be doubly welcome.
SIR SAMP. No doubt of it, sweet sir; but your filial piety, and my fatherly fondness would fit like two tallies. Here’s a rogue, brother Foresight, makes a bargain under hand and seal in the morning, and would be released from it in the afternoon; here’s a rogue, dog, here’s conscience and honesty; this is your wit now, this is the morality of your wits! You are a wit, and have been a beau, and may be a—why sirrah, is it not here under hand and seal—can you deny it?
SIR SAMP. Sirrah, you’ll be hanged; I shall live to see you go up Holborn Hill. Has he not a rogue’s face? Speak brother, you understand physiognomy, a hanging look to me—of all my boys the most unlike me; he has a damned Tyburn face, without the benefit o’ the clergy.