Must I serve,
Better a wife, my mistress, than a daughter!
And yet the vixen says, if I do marry,
I'll find she'll rule my wife, as well as me!
[Enter TRUEWORTH.]
Ah, Master Trueworth! Welcome, Master Trueworth!
True. Thanks, sir; I am glad to see you look so well!
Sir Wil. Ah, Master Trueworth, when one turns the hill,
'Tis rapid going down! We climb by steps;
By strides we reach the bottom. Look at me,
And guess my age.
True. Turned fifty.
Sir Wil. Ten years more!
How marvellously well I wear! I think
You would not flatter me!--But scan me close,
And pryingly, as one who seeks a thing
He means to find--What signs of age dost see?
True. None!
Sir Wil. None about the corners of the eyes?
Lines that diverge like to the spider's joists,
Whereon he builds his airy fortalice?
They call them crow's feet--has the ugly bird
Been perching there?--Eh?--Well?
True. There's something like,
But not what one must see, unless he's blind
Like steeple on a hill!
Sir Wil. [After a pause.] Your eyes are good!
I am certainly a wonder for my age;
I walk as well as ever! Do I stoop?
True. A plummet from your head would find your heel.
Sir Wil. It is my make--my make, good Master Trueworth;
I do not study it.
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