hold!
Deny me, Frank? they are not worth your anger?

_Wellb._ For once thou hast redeem'd them from
this sceptre: [_Shaking his Cudgel._
But let them vanish;
For if they grumble, I revoke my pardon.

_Froth._ This comes of your prating, husband! you presum'd
On your ambling wit, and must use your glib tongue,
Though you are beaten lame for't.

_Tap._ Patience, Froth,
There's no law to cure our bruises.

[_They go off into the House._

_Wellb._ Sent for to your mother?

_Allw._ My lady, Frank! my patroness! my all!
She's such a mourner for my father's death,
And, in her love to him, so favours me,
That I cannot pay too much observance to her.
There are few such stepdames.

_Wellb._ 'Tis a noble widow,
And keeps her reputation pure, and clear
From the least taint.
Pr'ythee, tell me
Has she no suitors?

_Allw._ Even the best of the shire, Frank,
My lord excepted: such as sue, and send,
And send, and sue again; but to no purpose.
Their frequent visits have not gain'd her presence;
Yet, she's so far from sullenness and pride,
That, I dare undertake, you shall meet from her
A liberal entertainment.

_Wellb._ I doubt it not: but hear me, Allworth,
And take from me good counsel, I am bound to give it.----
Thy father was my friend; and that affection
I bore to him, in right descends to thee:
Thou art a handsome, and a hopeful youth,
Nor will I have the least affront stick on thee,
If I with any danger can prevent it.

_Allw._ I thank your noble care; but, pray you, in what
Do I run the hazard?

_Wellb._ Art thou not in love?
Put it not off with wonder.

_Allw._ In love?

_Wellb._ You think you walk in clouds, but are transparent.
I have heard all, and the choice that you have made;
And with my finger, can point out the north star,
By which the loadstone of your folly's guided.
And, to confirm this true, what think you of
Fair Margaret, the only child, and heir
Of cormorant Overreach? Dost blush and start,
To hear her only nam'd? Blush at your want
Of wit and reason.

_Allw._ Howe'er you have discovered my intents,
You know my aims are lawful; and if ever
The queen of flowers, the glory of the Spring,
The sweetest comfort to our smell, the rose,
Sprang from an envious briar, I may infer,
There's such disparity in their conditions,
Between the goddess of my soul, the daughter,
And the base churl her father.

_Wellb._ Grant this true,
As I believe it; canst thou ever hope
To enjoy a quiet