FREE. Health to this good society: I am sorry That my poor house must not to-day enjoy The happiness to entertain you all. We are invited to th' old Lady Covet's; And thither must our company remove.
LADY W. Sir, I'll be govern'd by you. I was bold To come and see Mistress Artemia.
FREE. She's much beholden to your ladyship For doing her that honour.
EUPH. Tell me, uncle: I hear Sir Argent Scrape is at her house.
FREE. Nephew, 'tis true; and, which thou'lt wonder at, That marriage, which we talk'd of as a jest, In earnest now's concluded of, and shall To-morrow morning be solemnised.
EUPH. Betwixt Sir Argent and the Lady Covet? I do not think it strange; there's but one hedge Has a long time divided them--I mean Their large estates; and 'tis th' estate that marries.
FREE. But is't not strange, nay, most unnatural-- And I may say ridiculous, for those years To marry, and abuse the ordinance? My Lady Covet is, at least, fourscore, And he, this year, is fourscore and fifteen: Besides, he has been bed-rid long, and lame Of both his feet.
EUPH. Uncle, he's not too old To love--I mean her money; and in that The chiefest end of marriage is fulfill'd: He will increase and multiply his fortunes: Increase, you know, is the true end of marriage!
FREE. They have already almost the whole country.
EUPH. But you shall see how now they'll propagate.
EUPH. Ah! good uncle, Dispute not that, the church has nought in this; Their lawyer is the priest that marries them, The banns of matrimony are the indentures, The bounds and landmarks are the ring that joins them.
EUPH. Yes, pretty cousin, If thou art read in amorous books, thou'lt find That Cupid's arrow has a golden head; And 'twas a golden shaft that wounded them.
FREE. Well, thither we must go; but, prythee, nephew, Forbear thy jesting there.
EUPH. I warrant you; I'll flatter the old lady, and persuade her How well she looks: but when they go to bed, I'll write their epitaph.
FREE. How, man! their epitaph? Their epithalamium thou mean'st.
EUPH. No, sirs; Over their marriage-bed I'll write their ages, And only say, Here lies Sir Argent Scrape, Together with his wife, the Lady Covet. And whosoever reads it will suppose The place to be a tomb, no marriage-bed.