The Spanish Curate: A Comedy. Beaumont Francis

      Some five and twenty, sir.

      You say most true, Sir,

      Just to an hour; 'tis now just five and twenty,

      A fine straight timber'd man, and a brave soldier,

      He married: let me see,—

      De Castro's Daughter.

      The very same.

      Thou art a very Rascal.

      De Castro is the Turk to thee, or any thing:

      The Mony rubbs 'em into strange remembrances,

      For as many Duckets more they would remember Adam.

      Give me your hand, you are welcome to your country,

      Now I remember plainly, manifestly,

      As freshly, as if yesterdy I had seen him,

      Most heartily welcome: sinfull that I am,

      Most sinfull man! why should I lose this Gentleman?

      This loving old Companion? we had all one soul, sir,

      He dwelt here hard by, at a handsome—

      Farm sir,

      You say most true.

      Alonzo Tiveria!

      Lord, Lord that time should play the treacherous knave thus!

      Why, he was the only friend I had in Spain, sir,

      I knew your Mother too, a handsome Gentlewoman,

      She was married very young: I married 'em:

      I do remember now the Maskes and Sports then,

      The Fire-works, and the fine delights; good faith, sir,

      Now I look in your face, whose eyes are those, Diego?

      Nay, if he be not just Alonzo's picture—

      Lord, how I blush for these two impudents!

      Well Gentleman, I think your name's Leandro.

      It is indeed, sir,

      Gra'-mercy letter, thou hadst never known else.

      I have dandled ye, and kist ye and plaid with ye

      A hundred, and a hundred times, and danc'd ye,

      And swong ye in my Bell-ropes, ye lov'd swinging.

      A sweet Boy.

      Sweet lying knaves.

      What would these doe for thousands?

      A wondrous sweet Boy then it was, see now

      Time that consumes us, shoots him up still sweeter.

      How do's the noble Gentleman? how fares he?

      When shall we see him? when will he bless his Country?

      O, very shortly, Sir, till his return

      He has sent me over to your charge.

      And welcome,

      Nay, you shall know you are welcome to your friend, sir.

      And to my Study, Sir, which must be the Law.

      To further which, he would entreat your care

      To plant me in the favour of some man

      That's expert in that knowledge: for his pains

      I have three hundred Duckets more: For my Diet,

      Enough, Sir, to defray me: which I am charged

      To take still, as I use it, from your custodie,

      I have the mony ready, and I am weary.

      Sit down, sit down, and once more ye are most welcome,

      The Law you have hit upon most happily,

      Here is a Master in that art, Bartolus,

      A neighbour by, to him I will prefer ye,

      A learned man, and my most loving neighbour,

      I'le doe ye faithful service, Sir.

      He's an Ass,

      And so wee'll use him; he shall be a Lawyer.

      But if ever he recover this mony again—before, Diego,

      And get some pretty pittance: my Pupill's hungry.

      Pray ye Sir, unlade me.

      I'le refresh ye Sir;

      When ye want, you know your Exchequer.

      If all this get me but access, I am happy.

      Come, I am tender of ye.

      I'le go with ye.

      To have this fort betray'd these fools must fleece me.

      My Amaranta, a retir'd sweet life,

      Private and close, and still, and houswifely,

      Becomes a Wife, sets off the grace of woman.

      At home to be believ'd both young, and handsome,

      As Lilies that are cas'd in crystall Glasses,

      Makes up the wonder: shew it abroad 'tis stale,

      And still the more eyes cheapen it 'tis more slubber'd,

      And what need windowes open to inviting?

      Or evening Tarrasses, to take opinions?

      When the most wholsome air (my wife) blows inward,

      When good thoughts are the noblest Companions,

      And old chast stories, wife, the best discourses;

      But why do I talk thus, that know thy nature?

      You