a she'll not come.
Good Fortunatus, rise: wilt thou shed tears,
And help thy father moan?
If so, say ay; if not, good son, begone.

FORTUNATUS.
What moves my father to these uncouth fits?

WILL CRICKET.
Faith, sir, he's almost mad; I think he cannot tell you: and therefore
I--presuming, sir, that my wit is something better than his at this
time--do you mark, sir?--out of the profound circumambulation of my
supernatural wit, sir--do you understand?--will tell you the whole
superfluity of the matter, sir. Your sister Lelia, sir, you know, is a
woman, as another woman is, sir.

FORTUNATUS.
Well, and what of that?

WILL CRICKET.
Nay, nothing, sir; but she fell in love with one Sophos, a very proper,
wise young man, sir. Now, sir, your father would not let her have him,
sir; but would have married her to one, sir, that would have fed her
with nothing but barley bag-puddings and fat bacon. Now, sir, to tell
you the truth, the fool, ye know, has fortune to land; but Mistress
Lelia's mouth doth not hang for that kind of diet.

FORTUNATUS.
And how then?

WILL CRICKET.
Marry then, there was a certain cracking, cogging, pettifogging,
butter-milk slave, sir, one Churms, sir, that is the very quintessence
of all the knaves in the bunch: and if the best man of all his kin had
been but so good as a yeoman's son, he should have been a marked knave
by letters patents. And he, sir, comes me sneaking, and cosens them both
of their wench, and is run away with her. And, sir, belike, he has
cosened your father here of a great deal of his money too.

NURSE.
Sir, your father did trust him but too much; but I always thought he
would prove a crafty knave.

GRIPE.
My trust's betray'd, my joy's exil'd:
Grief kills the heart, my hope's beguil'd.

FORTUNATUS.
Where golden gain doth blear a father's eyes,
That precious pearl, fetch'd from Parnassus' mount,
Is counted refuse, worse than bull'on brass;
Both joys and hopes hang of a silly twine,
That still is subject unto flitting time,
That turns joy into grief, and hope to sad despair,
And ends his days in wretched worldly care.
Were I the richest monarch under heaven,
And had one daughter thrice as fair
As was the Grecian Menelaus' wife,
Ere I would match her to an untaught swain,
Though one whose wealth exceeded Croesus' store,
Herself should choose, and I applaud her choice
Of one more poor than ever Sophos was,
Were his deserts but equal unto his.
If I might speak without