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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
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