Act 2 — [Scene VIII.][3059]
Reading edition
[Scene VIII.][3059]
Enter old Merrythought.
Mer. [sings.] When it was grown to dark midnight, And all were fast asleep, In came Margaret’s grimly ghost, And stood at William’s feet. I have money, and meat, and drink beforehand, 5 till to-morrow at noon: why should I be sad? Methinks I have half-a-dozen jovial spirits within me! [Sings.] I am three merry men, and three merry men! To what end should any man be sad in this 10 world? Give me a man who when he goes to hanging cries, Troul[3060] the black bowl to me! and a woman that will sing a catch in her travail! I have seen a man come by my door 15 with a serious face, in a black cloak, without a hatband, carrying his head as if he lookt for pins in the street; I have lookt out of my window half a year after, and have spied that man’s head upon London-bridge.[3061] ’T is vile: never 20 trust a tailor that does not sing at his work; his mind is of nothing but filching.
Wife. Mark this, George; ’t is worth noting: Godfrey my tailor, you know, never sings, and he had fourteen yards to make this gown: 25 and I ’ll be sworn, Mistress Penistone the draper’s wife had one made with twelve.
Mer. [sings.]
’T is mirth that fills the veins with blood, More than wine, or sleep, or food; Let each man keep his heart at ease,30 No man dies of that disease. He that would his body keep From diseases, must not weep; But whoever laughs and sings, Never he his body brings35 Into fevers, gouts, or rheums, Or ling’ringly his lungs consumes, Or meets with aches in the bone, Or catarrhs or griping stone; But contented lives for aye;40 The more he laughs, the more he may.
Wife. Look, George; how sayest thou by this, George? Is’t not a fine old man?—Now, God’s blessing a’ thy sweet lips!—When wilt thou be so merry, George? Faith, thou art 45 the frowning’st little thing, when thou art angry, in a country.
Enter Merchant [Venturewell].
Cit. Peace, cony; thou shalt see him taken down too, I warrant thee. Here’s Luce’s father come now. 50
Mer. [sings.] As you came from Walsingham, From that holy land, There met you not with my true love By the way as you came? Vent. Oh, Master Merrythought, my daughter’s gone!55 This mirth becomes you not; my daughter’s gone! Mer. [sings.] Why, an if she be, what care I? Or let her come, or go, or tarry. Vent. Mock not my misery; it is your son (Whom I have made my own, when all forsook him)60 Has stoln my only joy, my child, away. Mer. [sings.] He set her on a milk-white steed, And himself upon a grey; He never turn’d his face again, But he bore her quite away.65 Vent. Unworthy of the kindness I have shown To thee and thine! too late I well perceive Thou art consenting to my daughter’s loss.
Mer. Your daughter! what a stir ’s here wi’ your daughter? Let her go, think no more 70 on her, but sing loud. If both my sons were on the gallows, I would sing,
Down, down, down they fall; Down, and arise they never shall. Vent. Oh, might I behold her once again,75 And she once more embrace her aged sire!
Mer. Fie, how scurvily this goes! “And she once more embrace her aged sire?” You’ll make a dog on her, will ye? She cares much for her aged sire, I warrant you.
[Sings.]
She cares not for her daddy, nor81 She cares not for her mammy, For she is, she is, she is, she is My lord of Lowgave’s lassy. Vent. For this thy scorn I will pursue that son85 Of thine to death. Mer. Do; and when you ha’ kill’d him, [Sings.] Give him flowers enow, palmer, give him flowers enow; Give him red, and white, and blue, green, and yellow.
Vent. I’ll fetch my daughter——
Mer. I’ll hear no more a’ your daughter; it spoils my mirth. 91
Vent. I say, I’ll fetch my daughter.
Mer. [sings.]
Was never man for lady’s sake, Down, down, Tormented as I, poor Sir Guy,95 De derry down, For Lucy’s sake, that lady bright, Down, down, As ever men beheld with eye, De derry down.100
Vent. I’ll be reveng’d, by Heaven!
Exeunt [severally].
Music.
Wife. How dost thou like this, George?
Cit. Why, this is well, cony; but if Ralph were hot once, thou shouldst see more.
Wife. The fiddlers go again, husband. 105
Cit. Ay, Nell; but this is scurvy music. I gave the whoreson gallows money, and I think he has not got me the waits of Southwark. If I hear ’em not anon, I’ll twinge him by the ears.—You musicians, play Baloo! 110
Wife. No, good George, let’s ha’ Lachrymae!
Cit. Why, this is it, cony.
Wife. It’s all the better, George. Now, sweet lamb, what story is that painted upon the cloth? The Confutation of St. Paul? 115
Cit. No, lamb; that’s Ralph and Lucrece.
Wife. Ralph and Lucrece! Which Ralph? Our Ralph?
Cit. No, mouse; that was a Tartarian.[3062]
Wife. A Tartarian! Well. I would the 120 fiddlers had done, that we might see our Ralph again!