A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Vol. VII (4th edition) - Various
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MR BAR. O, persuade, persuade!
Wife, Mistress Goursey, shall I win your thoughts
To composition of some kind effects?
Wife, if you love your credit, leave this strife,
And come shake hands with Mistress Goursey here.
MRS BAR. Shall I shake hands? let her go shake her heels;
She gets nor hands nor friendship at my hands:
And so, sir, while I live, I will take heed,
What guests I bid again unto my house.
MR BAR. Impatient woman, will you be so stiff
In this absurdness?
MRS BAR. I am impatient now I speak;
But, sir, I'll tell you more another time:
Go to, I will not take it as I have done.
[_Exit_.
MRS GOUR. Nay, she might stay; I will not long be here
To trouble her. Well, Master Barnes,
I am sorry that it was our haps to-day,
To have our pleasures parted with this fray:
I am sorry too for all that is amiss,
Especially that you are mov'd in this;
But be not so, 'tis but a woman's jar:
Their tongues are weapons, words their blows of war;
'Twas but a while we buffeted, you saw,
And each of us was willing to withdraw;
There was no harm nor bloodshed, you did see:
Tush, fear us not, for we shall well agree.
I take my leave, sir. Come, kind-hearted man,
That speaks his wife so fair--ay, now and then;
I know you would not for an hundreth pound,
That I should hear your voice's churlish sound;
I know you have a far more milder tune
Than "Peace, be quiet, wife;" but I have done.
Will ye go home? the door directs the way;
But, if you will not, my duty is to stay[225].
MR BAR. Ha, ha! why, here's a right woman, is there not?
They both have din'd, yet see what stomachs they have!
MR. GOUR. Well, Master Barnes, we cannot do withal[226]:
Let us be friends still--
MR BAR. O Master Goursey, the mettle of our minds,
Having the temper of true reason in them.
Affords[227] a better edge of argument
For the maintain of our familiar loves
Than the soft leaden wit of women can;
Wherefore with all the parts of neighbour-love
I [do] impart[228] myself to Master Goursey.
MR GOUR. And with exchange of love I do receive it:
Then here we'll part, partners of two curs'd wives.
MR BAR. O, where shall we find a man so bless'd that is not?
But come; your business and my home-affairs
Makes me deliver that unfriendly word
'Mongst friends--farewell.
MR GOUR. Twenty farewells, sir.
MR BAR. But hark ye, Master Goursey;
Look ye persuade at home, as I will do:
What, man! we must not always have them foes.
MR GOUR. If I can help it.
MR BAR. God help, God help!
Women are even untoward creatures still.
[_Exeunt_.
_Enter_ PHILIP, FRANCIS, _and his_ BOY, _from bowling_.
PHIL. Come on, Frank Goursey: you have had good luck
To win the game.
FRAN. Why, tell me, is't not good,
That never play'd before upon your green?
PHIL. 'Tis good, but that it cost me ten good crowns;
That makes it worse.
FRAN. Let it not grieve thee, man; come o'er to us;
We will devise some game to make you win
Your money back again, sweet Philip.
PHIL. And that shall be ere long, and if I live:
But tell me, Francis, what good horses have ye,
To hunt this summer?
FRAN. Two or three jades, or so.
PHIL. Be they but jades?
FRAN. No, faith; my wag-string here
Did founder one the last time that he rid--
The best grey nag that ever I laid my leg over.
BOY. You mean the flea-bitten.
FRAN. Good sir, the same.
BOY. And was the same the best that e'er you rid on?
FRAN. Ay, was it, sir.
BOY. I'faith, it was not, sir.
FRAN. No! where had I one so good?
BOY. One of my colour, and a better too.
FRAN. One of your colour? I ne'er remember him:
One of that colour!
BOY. Or of that complexion.
FRAN. What's that ye call complexion in a horse?
BOY. The colour, sir.
FRAN. Set me a colour on your jest, or I will--
BOY. Nay, good sir, hold your hands!
FRAN. What, shall we have it?
BOY. Why, sir, I cannot paint.
FRAN. Well, then, I can;
And I shall find a pencil for ye, sir.
BOY. Then I must find the table, if you do.
FRAN. A whoreson, barren, wicked urchin!
BOY. Look how you chafe! you would be angry more,
If I should tell it you.
FRAN. Go to, I'll anger ye, and if you do not.
BOY. Why, sir, the horse that I do mean
Hath a leg both straight and clean,
That hath nor spaven, splint, nor flaw,
But is the best that ever ye saw;
A pretty rising knee--O knee!
It is as round as round may be;
The full flank makes the buttock round:
This palfrey standeth on no ground,
When as my master's on her back,
If that he once do say but, tack:[229]
And if he prick her, you shall see
Her gallop amain, she is so free;
And if he give her but a nod,
She thinks it is a riding-rod;
And if he'll have her softly go,
Then she trips it like a doe;
She comes so easy with the rein,
A twine-thread turns her back again;
And truly I did ne'er see yet
A horse play proudlier on the bit:
My master with good managing
Brought her first unto the ring;[230]
He likewise taught her to corvet,
To run, and suddenly to set;
She's cunning in the wild-goose race,
Nay, she's apt to every pace;
And to prove her colour good,
A flea, enamour'd of her blood,
Digg'd for channels in her neck,
And there made many a crimson speck:
I think there's none that use to ride
But can her pleasant trot abide;
She goes so even upon the way,
She will not stumble in a day;
And when my master--
FRAN. What do I?
BOY. Nay, nothing, sir.
PHIL. O, fie, Frank, fie!
Nay, nay, your reason hath no justice now,
I must needs say; persuade him first to speak,
Then chide him for it! Tell me, pretty wag,
Where stands this prancer, in what inn or stable?
Or hath thy master put her out to run,
Then in what field, what champion,[231] feeds this courser,
This well-pac'd, bonny steed that thou so praisest?
BOY. Faith, sir, I think--
FRAN. Villain, what do ye think?
BOY. I think that you, sir, have been ask'd by many,
But yet I never heard that ye told any.
PHIL. Well, boy, then I will add one more to many.
And ask thy master where this jennet feeds.
Come, Frank, tell me--nay, prythee, tell me, Frank,
My good horse-master, tell me--by this light,
I will not steal her from thee; if I do,
Let me be held a felon to thy love.
FRAN. No, Philip, no.
PHIL. What, wilt thou wear a point[232] but with one tag?
Well, Francis, well, I see you are a wag.
_Enter_ COOMES.
COOMES. 'Swounds, where be these timber-turners,
these trowl-the-bowls, these green-men, these--
FRAN. What, what, sir?
COOMES. These bowlers, sir.
FRAN. Well, sir, what say you to bowlers?
COOMES. Why, I say they cannot be saved.
FRAN. Your reason, sir?
COOMES. Because they throw away their souls at every mark.
FRAN. Their souls! how mean ye?
PHIL. Sirrah, he means the soul of the bowl.
FRAN. Lord, how his wit holds bias like a bowl!
COOMES. Well, which is the bias?
FRAN. This next to you.
COOMES. Nay, turn it this way, then the bowl goes true.
BOY. Rub, rub!
COOMES. Why rub?
BOY. Why, you overcast the mark, and miss the way.
COOMES. Nay, boy, I use to take the fairest of my play.
PHIL. Dick Coomes, methinks thou art[233] very pleasant:
Where[234] got'st thou this merry humour?
COOMES. In your father's cellar, the merriest place in th' house.
PHIL. Then you have been carousing hard?
COOMES. Yes, faith, 'tis our custom, when your father's men and we meet.
PHIL. Thou art very welcome thither, Dick.
COOMES. By God, I thank ye, sir, I thank ye, sir: by God, I have a quart
of wine for ye, sir, in any place of the world. There shall not a
servingman in Barkshire fight better for ye than I will do, if you have
any quarrel in hand: you shall have the maidenhead of my new sword; I
paid a quarter's wages for't, by Jesus.
PHIL. O, this meat-failer Dick!
How well't has made the apparel of his wit,
And brought it into fashion of an honour!
Prythee, Dick Coomes, but tell me how thou dost?
COOMES. Faith, sir, like a poor man of service.
PHIL. Or servingman.
COOMES. Indeed, so called by the vulgar.
PHIL. Why, where the devil hadst thou that word?
COOMES. O, sir, you have the most eloquent ale in all the[235] world;
our blunt soil affords none such.
FRAN. Philip, leave talking with this drunken fool. Say, sirrah,
where's my father?
COOMES. "Marry, I thank ye for my very good cheer,--O Lord, it is not
so much worth.--You see I am bold with ye.--Indeed, you are not so bold
as welcome; I pray ye, come oft'ner.--Truly, I shall trouble ye." All
these ceremonies are despatch'd between them, and they are gone.
FRAN. Are they so?
COOMES. Ay, before God, are they.
FRAN. And wherefore came not you to call me then?
COOMES. Because I was loth to change my game.
FRAN. What game?
COOMES. You were at one sort of bowls as I was at another.
PHIL. Sirrah, he means the butt'ry bowls of beer.
COOMES. By God, sir, we tickled it.
FRAN. Why, what a swearing keeps this drunken ass?
Canst thou not say but swear at every word?
PHIL. Peace, do not mar his humour, prythee, Frank.
COOMES. Let him alone; he's a springall; he knows not what belongs
to an oath.
FRAN. Sirrah, be quiet, or I do protest--
COOMES. Come, come, what do you protest?
FRAN. By heaven, to crack your crown.
COOMES. To crack my crown! I lay ye a crown of that, lay it down, and
ye dare; nay, 'sblood, I'll venture a quarter's wages of that. Crack my
crown, quotha!
FRAN. Will ye not yet be quiet? will ye urge me?
COOMES. Urge ye, with a pox! who urges ye? You might have said so much
to a clown, or one that had not been o'er the sea to see fashions: I
have, I tell ye true; and I know what belongs to a man. Crack my crown,
and ye can.
FRAN. And I can, ye rascal!
PHIL. Hold, hair-brain, hold! dost thou not see he's drunk?
COOMES. Nay, let him come: though he be my master's son, I am my
master's man, and a man is a man in any ground of England. Come, and he
dares, a comes upon his death: I will not budge an inch, no, 'sblood,
will I[236] not.
FRAN. Will ye not?
PHIL. Stay, prythee, Frank. Coomes, dost thou hear?
COOMES. Hear me no hears: stand away, I'll trust none of you all. If I
have my back against a cartwheel, I would not care if the devil came.
PHIL. Why, ye fool, I am your friend.
COOMES. Fool on your face! I have a wife.
FRAN. She's a whore, then.
COOMES. She's as honest as Nan Lawson.
PHIL. What's she?
COOMES. One of his whores.
PHIL. Why, hath he so many?
COOMES. Ay, as many as there be churches in London.
PHIL. Why, that's a hundred and nine.
BOY. Faith, he lies a hundred.
PHIL. Then thou art a witness to nine.
BOY. No, by God, I'll be witness to none.
COOMES. Now do I stand like the George at Colebrook.
BOY. No, thou stand'st like the Bull at St Alban's.
COOMES. Boy, ye lie--the Horns.[237]
BOY. The bull's bitten; see, how he butts!
PHIL. Coomes, Coomes, put up;[238] my friend and thou art friends.
COOMES. I'll hear him say so first.
PHIL. Frank, prythee, do; be friends, and tell him so.
FRAN. Go to, I am.
BOY. Put up, sir; and ye be a man, put up.
COOMES. I am easily persuaded, boy.
PHIL. Ah, ye mad slave!
COOMES. Come, come, a couple of whoremasters I found ye,
and so I leave ye.
[_Exit_.
PHIL. Lo, Frank, dost thou not see he's drunk,
That twits thee[239] with thy disposition?
FRAN. What disposition?
PHIL. Nan Lawson, Nan Lawson.
FRAN. Nay, then--
PHIL. Go to, ye wag, 'tis well:
If ever ye get a wife, i'faith I'll tell.
Sirrah, at home we have a servingman;
He is[240] not humour'd bluntly as Coomes is,
Yet his condition[241] makes me often merry:
I'll tell thee, sirrah, he's a fine neat fellow,
A spruce slave; I warrant ye, he will[242] have
His cruel garters[243] cross about the knee,
His woollen hose as white as th'driven snow,
His shoes dry-leather neat, and tied with red ribbons,
A nosegay bound with laces in his hat--
Bridelaces, sir--and his hat all green[244],
Green coverlet for such a grass-green wit.
"The goose that grazeth on the green," quoth he,
"May I eat on, when you shall buried be!"
All proverbs is his speech, he's proverbs all.
FRAN. Why speaks he proverbs?
PHIL. Because he would speak truth,
And proverbs, you'll confess, are old-said sooth.
FRAN. I like this well, and one day I will see him:
But shall we part?
PHIL. Not yet, I'll bring ye somewhat on your way,
And as we go, between your boy and you
I'll know where that brave prancer stands at livery.
FRAN. Come, come, you shall not.
PHIL. I'faith, I will.
[_Exeunt_.
_Enter_ MASTER BARNES _and his Wife_.
MR BAR. Wife, in my mind to-day you were to blame,
Although my patience did not blame ye for it:
Methought the rules of love and neighbourhood
Did not direct your thoughts; all indiscreet[245]
Were your proceedings in the entertain
Of them that I invited to my house.
Nay, stay, I do not chide, but counsel, wife,
And in the mildest manner that I may:
You need not view me with a servant's eye,
Whose vassal[246] senses tremble at the look
Of his displeased master. O my wife,
You are myself! when self sees fault in self,
Self is sin-obstinate, if self amend not:
Indeed, I saw a fault in thee myself,
And it hath set a foil upon thy fame,
Not as the foil doth grace the diamond.
MRS BAR. What fault, sir, did you see in me to-day?
MR BAR. O, do not set the organ of thy voice
On such a grunting key of discontent!
Do not deform the beauty of thy tongue
With such misshapen answers. Rough wrathful words
Are bastards got by rashness in the thoughts:
Fair demeanours are virtue's nuptial babes,
The offspring of the well-instructed soul;
O, let them call thee mother, then, my wife!
So seem not barren of good courtesy.
MRS BAR. So; have ye done?
MR BAR. Ay, and I had done well,
If you would do what I advise for well.
MRS BAR. What's that?
MR BAR. Which is, that you would be good friends
With Mistress Goursey.
MRS BAR. With Mistress Goursey!
MR BAR. Ay, sweet wife.
MRS BAR. Not so, sweet husband.
MR BAR. Could you but show me any grounded cause.
MRS BAR. The grounded cause I ground, because I will not.
MR BAR. Your will hath little reason, then, I think.
MRS BAR. Yes, sir, my reason equalleth my will.
MR BAR. Let's hear your reason, for your will is great.
MRS BAR. Why, for I will not.
MR BAR. Is all your reason "for I will not," wife?
Now, by my soul, I held ye for more wise,
Discreet, and of more temp'rature in sense,
Than in a sullen humour to affect
That woman's[247] will--borne, common, scholar phrase:
Oft have I heard a timely-married girl,
That newly left to call her mother mam,
Her father dad: but yesterday come from
"That's my good girl, God send thee a good husband!"
And now being taught to speak the name of husband,
Will, when she would be wanton in her will,
If her husband ask'd her why, say "for I will."
Have I chid men for[248] [an] unmanly choice,
That would not fit their years? have I seen thee
Pupil such green young things, and with thy counsel
Tutor their wits? and art thou now infected
With this disease of imperfection?
I blush for thee, ashamed at thy shame.
MRS BAR. A shame on her that makes thee rate me so!
MR BAR. O black-mouth'd rage, thy breath is boisterous,
And thou mak'st virtue shake at this high storm!
She is[249] of good report; I know thou know'st it.
MRS BAR. She is not, nor I know not, but I know
That thou dost love her, therefore think'st her so;
Thou bear'st with her, because she bears with thee.
Thou may'st be ashamed to stand in her defence:
She is a strumpet, and thou art no honest man
To stand in her defence against thy wife.
If I catch her in my walk, now, by Cock's[250] bones,
I'll scratch out both her eyes.
MR BAR. O God!
MRS BAR. Nay, never say "O God" for the matter:
Thou art the cause; thou bad'st her to my house,
Only to blear the eyes of Goursey, did'st not?
But I will send him word, I warrant thee,
And ere I sleep too, trust upon it, sir.
[_Exit_.
MR BAR. Methinks this is a mighty fault in her;
I could be angry with her: O, if I be so,
I shall but put a link unto a torch,
And so give greater light to see her fault.
I'll rather smother it in melancholy:
Nay, wisdom bids me shun that passion;
Then I will study for a remedy.
I have a daughter,--now, heaven invocate,
She be not of like spirit as her mother!
If so, she'll be a plague unto her husband,
If that he be not patient and discreet,
For that I hold the ease of all such trouble.
Well, well, I would my daughter had a husband,
For I would see how she would demean herself
In that estate; it may be, ill enough,--
And, so God shall help me, well-remembered now!
Frank Goursey is his father's son and heir:
A youth that in my heart I have good hope on;
My senses say a match, my soul applauds
The motion: O, but his lands are great,
He will look high; why, I will strain myself
To make her dowry equal with his land.
Good faith, and 'twere a match, 'twould be a means
To make their mothers friends. I'll call my daughter,
To see how she's dispos'd to marriage.--
Mall, where are ye?
_Enter_ MALL.
MALL. Father, here I am.
MR BAR. Where is your mother?
MALL. I saw her not, forsooth, since you and she
Went walking both together to the garden.
MR BAR. Dost thou hear me, girl? I must dispute with thee.
MALL. Father, the question then must not be hard,
For I am very weak in argument.
MR BAR. Well, this it is; I say 'tis good to marry.
MALL. And this say I, 'tis not good to marry.
MR BAR. Were it not good, then all men would not marry;
But now they do.
MALL. Marry, not all; but it is good to marry.
MR BAR. Is it both good and bad; how can this be?
MALL. Why, it is good to them that marry well;
To them that marry ill, no greater hell.
MR BAR. If thou might marry well, wouldst thou agree?
MALL. I cannot tell; heaven must appoint for me.
MR BAR. Wench, I am studying for thy good indeed.
MALL. My hopes and duty wish your thoughts good speed.
MR BAR. But tell me, wench, hast thou a mind to marry?
MALL. This question is too hard for bashfulness;
And, father, now ye pose my modesty.
I am a maid, and when ye ask me thus,
I, like a maid, must blush, look pale and wan,
And then look red[251] again; for we change colour,
As our thoughts change. With true-fac'd passion
Of modest maidenhead I could adorn me,
And to your question make a sober cour'sey,
And with close-clipp'd civility be silent;
Or else say "No, forsooth," or "Ay, forsooth."
If I said, "No, forsooth," I lied forsooth:
To lie upon myself were deadly sin,
Therefore I will speak truth and shame the devil.
Father, when first I heard ye name a husband,
At that same very time my spirits quickened.
Despair before had kill'd them, they were dead:
Because it was my hap so long to tarry,
I was persuaded I should never marry;
And sitting sewing thus upon the ground,
I fell in trance of meditation;
But coming to myself, "O Lord," said I,
"Shall it be so I must I unmarried die?"
And, being angry, father, farther, said--
"Now, by Saint Anne, I will not die a maid!"
Good faith, before I came to this ripe growth,
I did accuse the labouring time of sloth;
Methought the year did run but slow about,
For I thought each year ten I was without.
Being fourteen and toward the tother year,
Good Lord, thought I, fifteen will ne'er be here!
For I have heard my mother say that then
Pretty maids were fit for handsome men:
Fifteen past, sixteen, and seventeen too,
What, thought I, will not this husband do?
Will no man marry me? have men forsworn
Such beauty and such youth? shall youth be worn
As rich men's gowns, more with age than use?
Why, then I let restrained fancy loose,
And bad it gaze for pleasure; then love swore me
To do whate'er my mother did before me;
Yet, in good faith, I have been very loth,
But now it lies in you to save my oath:
If I shall have a husband, get him quickly,
For maids that wear cork shoes may step awry.
MR BAR. Believe me, wench, I do not reprehend[252] thee,
But for this pleasant answer do commend thee.
I must confess, love doth thee mighty wrong,
But I will see thee have thy right ere long;
I know a young man, whom I hold most fit
To have thee both for living and for wit:
I will go write about it presently.
MALL. Good father, do. [_Exit_ [BARNES].
O God, methinks I should
Wife it as fine as any woman could!
I could carry a port to be obeyed,
Carry a mastering eye upon my maid,
With "Minion, do your business, or I'll make ye,"
And to all house authority betake me.
O God! would I were married! by my troth,
But if I be not, I swear I'll keep my oath.
_Enter_ MRS BARNES.
MRS BAR. How now, minion, where have you been gadding?
MALL. Forsooth, my father called me forth to him.
MRS BAR. Your father! and what said he to ye, I pray?
MALL. Nothing, forsooth.
MRS BAR. Nothing! that cannot be; something he said.
MALL. Ay, something that as good as nothing was.
MRS BAR. Come, let me hear that something-nothing, then.
MALL. Nothing but of a husband for me, mother.
MRS BAR. A husband! that was something; but what husband?
MALL. Nay, faith, I know not, mother: would I did!
MRS BAR. Ay, "would ye did!" i'faith, are ye so hasty?
MALL. Hasty, mother! why, how old am I?
MRS BAR. Too young to marry.
MALL. Nay, by the mass, ye lie.
Mother, how old were you when you did marry?
MRS BAR. How old soe'er I was, yet you shall tarry.
MALL. Then the worse for me. Hark, mother, hark!
The priest forgets that e'er he was a clerk:
When you were at my years, I'll hold my life,
Your mind was to change maidenhead for wife.
Pardon me, mother, I am of your mind,
And, by my troth, I take it but by kind.[253]
MRS BAR. Do ye hear, daughter? you shall stay my leisure.
MALL. Do you hear, mother? would you stay from pleasure,
When ye have mind to it? Go to, there's no wrong
Like this, to let maids lie alone so long:
Lying alone they muse but in their beds,
How they might lose their long-kept maidenheads.
This is the cause there is so many scapes,
For women that are wise will not lead apes
In hell: I tell ye, mother, I say true;
Therefore come husband: maidenhead adieu! [_Exit_.
MRS BAR. Well, lusty guts, I mean to make ye stay,
And set some rubs in your mind's smoothest way[254].
_Enter_ PHILIP.
PHIL. Mother--
MRS BAR. How now, sirrah; where have you been walking?
PHIL. Over the meads, half-way to Milton, mother,
To bear my friend, Frank Goursey, company.
MRS BAR. Where's your blue coat[255], your sword and buckler, sir?
Get you such like habit for a serving-man,
If you will wait upon the brat of Goursey.
PHIL. Mother, that you are mov'd, this makes me wonder;
When I departed, I did leave ye friends:
What undigested jar hath since betided?
MRS BAR. Such as almost doth choke thy mother, boy,
And stifles her with the conceit of it;
I am abus'd, my son, by Goursey's wife.
PHIL. By Mistress Goursey.
MRS BAR. Mistress Flirt--yea[256], foul strumpet,
Light-a-love, short-heels! Mistress Goursey
Call her again, and thou wert better no.
PHIL. O my dear mother, have some patience!
MRS BAR. Ay, sir, have patience, and see your father
To rifle up the treasure of my love,
And play the spendthrift upon such an harlot!
This same will make me have patience, will it not?
PHIL. This same is women's most impatience:
Yet, mother, I have often heard ye say,
That you have found my father temperate,
And ever free from such affections.
MRS BAR. Ay, till[257] my too much love did glut his thoughts,
And make him seek for change.
PHIL. O, change your mind!
My father bears more cordial love to you.
MRS BAR. Thou liest, thou liest, for he loves Goursey's wife,
Not me.
PHIL. Now I swear, mother, you are much to blame;
I durst be sworn he loves you as his soul.
MRS BAR. Wilt thou be pampered by affection?
Will nature teach thee such vild[258] perjury?
Wilt thou be sworn, ay, forsworn,[259] careless boy?
And if thou swear't, I say he loves me not.
PHIL. [Mother] he loves[260] ye but too well, I swear,
Unless ye knew much better how to use him.
MRS BAR. Doth he so, sir? thou unnatural boy!
"Too well," sayest thou? that word shall cost thee[261] somewhat:
O monstrous! have I brought thee up to this?
"Too well!" O unkind, wicked, and degenerate,
Hast thou the heart to say so of thy mother?
Well, God will plague thee for't, I warrant thee:
Out on thee, villain! fie upon thee, wretch!
Out of my sight, out of my sight, I say!
PHIL. This air is pleasant, and doth please me well,
And here I will stay.
MRS BAR. Wilt thou, stubborn villain?
_Enter_ MR BARNES.
MR BAR. How now, what's the matter?
MRS BAR. Thou sett'st thy son to scoff and mock at me:
Is't not sufficient I am wrong'd of thee,
But he must be an agent to abuse me?
Must I be subject to my cradle too?
O God, O God, amend it!
[_Exit_.
MR BAR. Why, how now, Philip? is this true, my son?
PHIL. Dear father, she is much impatient:
Ne'er let that hand assist me in my need,
If I more said than that she thought amiss
To think that you were so licentious given;
And thus much more, when she inferr'd it more,
I swore an oath you lov'd her but too well:
In that as guilty I do hold myself.
Now that I come to more considerate trial,
I know my fault: I should have borne with her:
Blame me for rashness, then, not for want of duty.