A TALE OF A TUB.
167
An you say the word, send me to Jericho.
Outcept a man were a post-horse, I have not known
The like on it; yet, an he had [had] kind words,
I would never irke 'un: but a man may break
His heart out in these days, and get a flap
With a fox-tail, when he has done—and there is all!
Outcept a man were a post-horse, I have not known
The like on it; yet, an he had [had] kind words,
I would never irke 'un: but a man may break
His heart out in these days, and get a flap
With a fox-tail, when he has done—and there is all!
Tub. Nay, say not so, Hilts: hold thee, there are crowns
My love bestows on thee for thy reward;
If gold will please thee, all my land shall drop
In bounty thus, to recompense thy merit.
My love bestows on thee for thy reward;
If gold will please thee, all my land shall drop
In bounty thus, to recompense thy merit.
Hilts. Tut, keep your land, and your gold too, sir, I
Seek neither—neither of 'un. Learn to get
More; you will know to spend that zum you have
Early enough; you are assured of me:
I love you too too well to live o' the spoil—
For your own sake, would there were no worse than I!
All is not gold that glisters. I'll to Pancridge.
[Exit crying.
Seek neither—neither of 'un. Learn to get
More; you will know to spend that zum you have
Early enough; you are assured of me:
I love you too too well to live o' the spoil—
For your own sake, would there were no worse than I!
All is not gold that glisters. I'll to Pancridge.
[Exit crying.
Tub. See how his love does melt him into tears!
An honest faithful servant is a jewel.—
Now the ad vent'rous 'squire hath time and leisure
To ask his Awdrey how she does, and hear
A grateful answer from her. She not speaks.—
Hath the proud tyrant Frost usurp'd the seat
Of former beauty, in my love's fair cheek;
Staining the roseate tincture of her blood
With the dull dye of blue congealing cold?
No, sure the weather dares not so presume
To hurt an object of her brightness. Yet,
The more I view her, she but looks so, so.
Ha! give me leave to search this mystery—
O now I have it: Bride, I know your grief;
An honest faithful servant is a jewel.—
Now the ad vent'rous 'squire hath time and leisure
To ask his Awdrey how she does, and hear
A grateful answer from her. She not speaks.—
Hath the proud tyrant Frost usurp'd the seat
Of former beauty, in my love's fair cheek;
Staining the roseate tincture of her blood
With the dull dye of blue congealing cold?
No, sure the weather dares not so presume
To hurt an object of her brightness. Yet,
The more I view her, she but looks so, so.
Ha! give me leave to search this mystery—
O now I have it: Bride, I know your grief;
