.]

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. Do you observe
The hollow in my back? That's natural.
As now I stand, so stood I when a child,
A rosy, chubby boy!--I am youthful to
A miracle! My arm is firm as 'twas
At twenty. Feel it!

_True_. [Feeling SIR WILLIAM'S arm.] It is deal!

_Sir Wil_. Oak--oak,
Isn't it, Master Trueworth? Thou hast known me
Ten years and upwards. Thinkest my leg is shrunk?

_True_. No.

_Sir Wil_. No! not in the calf?

_True_. As big a calf
As ever!

_Sir Wil_. Thank you, thank you--I believe it!
When others waste, 'tis growing-time with me!
I feel it, Master Trueworth! Vigour, sir,
In every joint of me--could run!--could leap!
Why shouldn't I marry? Knife and fork I play
Better than many a boy of twenty-five--
Why shouldn't I marry? If they come to wine,
My brace of bottles can I carry home,
And ne'er a headache. Death! why shouldn't I marry?

_True_. I see in nature no impediment.

_Sir Wil_. Impediment? She's all appliances!--
And fortune's with me, too! The Widow Green
Gives hints to me. The pleasant Widow Green
Whose fortieth year, instead of autumn, brings,
A second summer in. Odds bodikins,
How young she looks! What life is in her eyes!
What ease is in her gait!--while, as she walks,
Her waist, still tapering, takes it pliantly!
How lollingly she bears her head withal:
On this side now--now tha