MOTHER MIDNIGHT. Marry, God’s benison light o’ thy good heart for’t. Ha, that I were young again! i’ faith, I was an old doer at these love-songs when I was a girl.
Now, by the Mary matins, Peg, thou hast got the merriest wooer in all
Faith, I am none of those that love nothing but tum, dum, diddle. If
he had not been a merry shaver, I would never have had him.
But come, my nimble lass,
Let all these matters pass,
And in a bouncing bravation,
Let’s talk of our copulation.
What good cheer shall we have to-morrow? Old grandsire Thickskin, you that sit there as melancholy as a mantle-tree, what will you give us toward this merry meeting?
Marry, because you told me a merry goose case, I’ll bestow a fat goose
on ye, and God give you good luck.
Marry, well-said, old master: e’en God give them joy indeed; for, by my
vay, they are a good, sweet young couple.
Granam, stand out o’ the way; for here come gentlefolk will run o’er
Enter FORTUNATUS, SOPHOS, and LELIA.
Master, here comes your son again.
Is Fortunatus there? Welcome, Fortunatus: Where’s Sophos?
Here Sophos is, as much o’erworn with love,
As you with grief for loss of Lelia.
And ten times more, if it be possible:
The love of Lelia is to me more dear,
Than is a kingdom or the richest crown
That e’er adorn’d the temples of a king.
Thou welcome, Sophos—thrice more welcome now,
Than any man on earth—to me or mine:
It is not now with me as late it was;
I low’r’d at learning, and at virtue spurn’d:
But now my heart and mind, and all, is turn’d.
Were Lelia here, I soon would knit the knot
’Twixt her and thee, that time could ne’er untie,
Till fatal sisters victory had won,
And that your glass of life were quite outrun.
Zounds, I think he be spurblind; why, Lelia stands hard by him.
And Lelia here falls prostrate on her knee,
And craves a pardon for her late offence.
What, Lelia my daughter? Stand up, wench:
Why, now my joy is full;
My heart is lighten’d of all sad annoy:
Now fare well, grief, and welcome home, my joy.—
Here, Sophos, take thy Lelia’s hand:
Great God of heav’n your hearts combine,
In virtue’s lore to raise a happy line.
Now Phaeton hath check’d his fiery steeds,
And quench’d his burning beams that late were wont
To melt my waxen wings, when as I soar’d aloft;
And lovely Venus smiles with fair aspect
Upon the spring-time of our sacred love.
Thou great commander of the circled orbs,
Grant that this league of lasting amity
May lie recorded by eternity.