LUCY
      Even so well,
      That if this Widow were my guest, not yours,
      She should have coach enough, and scope to ride. 
      My merry groom should in a trice convey her
      To Sarum Plain, and set her down at Stonehenge,
      To pick her path through those antiques at leisure;
      She should take sample of our Wiltshire flints. 
      O, be not lightly jealous! nor surmise,
      That to a wanton bold-faced thing like this
      Your modest shrinking Katherine could impart
      Secrets of any worth, especially
      Secrets that touch’d your peace.  If there be aught,
      My life upon’t, ’tis but some girlish story
      Of a First Love; which even the boldest wife
      Might modestly deny to a husband’s ear,
      Much more your timid and too sensitive Katherine.

      SELBY
      I think it is no more; and will dismiss
      My further fears, if ever I have had such.

      LUCY
      Shall we go walk?  I’d see your gardens, brother;
      And how the new trees thrive, I recommended. 
      Your Katherine is engaged now—­

      SELBY
      I’ll attend you. [Exeunt.]

SCENE.—­Servants’ Hall.

      HOUSEKEEPER, PHILIP, and OTHERS, laughing.

      HOUSEKEEPER
      Our Lady’s guest, since her short ride, seems ruffled,
      And somewhat in disorder.  Philip, Philip,
      I do suspect some roguery.  Your mad tricks
      Will some day cost you a good place, I warrant.

      PHILIP
      Good Mistress Jane, our serious housekeeper,
      And sage Duenna to the maids and scullions,
      We must have leave to laugh; our brains are younger,
      And undisturb’d with care of keys and pantries. 
      We are wild things.

      BUTLER
      Good Philip, tell us all.

      ALL
      Ay, as you live, tell, tell—­

      PHILIP
      Mad fellows, you shall have it. 
      The Widow’s bell rang lustily and loud—­

      BUTLER
      I think that no one can mistake her ringing.

      WAITING-MAID
      Our Lady’s ring is soft sweet music to it,
      More of entreaty hath it than command.

      PHILIP
      I lose my story, if you interrupt me thus. 
      The bell, I say, rang fiercely; and a voice,
      More shrill than bell, call’d out for “Coachman Philip.” 
      I straight obey’d, as ’tis my name and office. 
      “Drive me,” quoth she, “to the next market town,
      Where I have hope of letters.”  I made haste. 
      Put to the horses, saw her safely coach’d,
      And drove her—­

      WAITING-MAID
      —­By the straight high-road to Andover,
      I guess—­

      PHILIP
      Pray, warrant things within your knowledge,
      Good Mistress Abigail; look to your dressings,
      And leave the skill in horses to the coachman.