Scene VI.
Count, Christophero.
Count. Well, go your ways, away. How now, Christophero,
What news with you?
Chr. I have an humble suit to your good lordship.
Count. A suit, Christophero! what suit, I prithee?
Chr. I would crave pardon at your lordship's hands,
If it seem vain or simple in your sight.
Count. I'll pardon all simplicity, Christophero;
What is thy suit?
Chr. Perhaps, being now so old a batchelor,
I shall seem half unwise, to bend myself
In strict affection to a poor young maid.
Count. What! is it touching love, Christophero?
Art thou dispos'd to marry? why 'tis well.
Chr. I, but your lordship may imagine now,
That I, being steward of your honour's house,
If I be married once, will more regard
The maintenance of my wife, and of my charge,
Than the due discharge of my place and office.
Count. No, no, Christophero, I know thee honest.
Chr. Good faith, my lord, your honour may suspect it;
But ————
Count. Then I should wrong thee; thou hast ever been
Honest and true, and will be still I know.
Chr. I, but this marriage alters many men,
And you may fear it will do me, my lord;
But ere it do so, I will undergo
Ten thousand several deaths.
Count. I know it, man.
Who wouldst thou have, I prithee?
Chr. Rachel de Prie,
If your good lordship grant me your consent.
Count. Rachel de Prie! what the poor beggar's daughter?
She's a right handsome maid, how poor soever,
And thou hast my consent with all my heart.
Chr. I humbly thank your honour; I'll now ask
Her father. [Exit.]
Count. Do so, Christophero; thou shalt do well.
'Tis strange (she being so poor) he should affect her!
But this is more strange that myself should love her.
I spy'd her lately at her father's door,
And if I did not see in her sweet face
Gentry and nobleness, ne'er trust me more;
But this persuasion fancy wrought in me,
That fancy being created with her looks;
For where love is, he thinks his basest object
Gentle and noble: I am far in love,
And shall be forc'd to wrong my honest steward,
For I must sue and seek her for myself.
How much my duty to my late dead wife,
And my own dear renown, soe'er it sways,
I'll to her father straight, love hates delays.