SIMO

H Owe thrives my boy Asotus? is he capable Of your grave precepts? When I see this, I cannot choose but fear Thou canst not find out ways enough to spend it: They will outvie thy pleasures. No, good Asotus; It is thy father's care, a provident care, That wakes him from his sleeps to think of thee: And when I brooding fit upon my bags, And every day turn over my heaps of gold, Each piece I finger makes me start, and cry, This, this, and this, and this is for Asotus. Do you hear him? How sharp and tart his answers are? Old Simo, Th'hast God a witty witty wag, yet deer one, When I behold the vastness of my treasure, How large my coffers, yet how crammed with wealth, That every talon sweats as in a crowd, And grieves not at the prison, but the narrowness. Pray heaven it may! Sage counsel this—Observe it boy—observe it. Ah Ballio! I have lived a dunghill wretch, Grown poor by getting riches, mine own torture, A rust unto my self, as to my gold: To pile up idle treasure starved my body Thus, to a wrinkled skin, and rotten bones, And spiderlike have spun a web of gold Out of my bowels; only knew the care, But not the use of gold—Now, gentle Ballio, I would not have my son so loathed a thing: No, let him live and spend, and buy his pleasures At any rate. Read to him, gentle Ballio, Where are the daintiest meats, the briskest wines, The costliest garments. Let him dice and wench; But with the fairest, be she wife or daughter To our best Burgess: and if Thebes be scarce, Buy me all Corinth for him:—When I sleep Within my quiet grave, I shall have dreams, Fine pleasant dreams, to think with how much pleasure Asotus spends what I with care have God. How thrives my boy?—How forward in his studies? How man? passed drinking? But will he not forget? How feeds my boy? Can he wench? would? Throw, Asotus. And take it boy, and this—and this beside. And because desert may challenge a reward. This for your pains, deer Ballio. A modest—honest—honest man: I'll double it—in faith I will—I am The joyfullest father! Come hither deer, come, let me kiss my son. I am orejoy'd, I am orejoy'd. Thanks to my providence Like a swarm! Wealth falls Not in small drops upon me, (as at first) But Like a torrent overthrows the bank As it would threat a deluge. Were it not pity My boy should not invent sluices enough To drain the copious stream. True Ballio, true. I'll not be ungrateful. It lies in you to turn these silver hairs To a fresh black again, and by one favour Cut forue years away from the grey sum. All this you may and more. If you will place me where I may unseen Make my eye witness of my sons delight, I shall enjoy the pleasures by beholding they. Most Philosophical! I have no words but these To thank you with. How they adore him! and the perilous wag Becomes his state: To see what wealth can do, To those that have the blessing how to spend it! Once more I give thee thanks. Now I am rich indeed, this is true treasure. What and honour Will our blood come to!—I have satisfied For all the Orphans, Widows, and what others My sacred hunger hath devoured. Good, Ballio, good: But which will they prefer? Gracious stars, How blessed shall I be twenty ages hence! Some twenty ages hence. In Elysium, in Elysium. I, to my comfort Ballio. Excellent well. It is a handsome lass. If I were young (As I am not decrepit) I would give A talon for a kiss. Ah, Ballio! Age has made me dry as tinder, And I have taken fire. I burn, I burn. The spark raked up in ashes is broke forth, And will consume me, Ballio. Love, cruel love. I must enjoy that lady What ever price it cost me. Son, or not son. —Let this entreat, and this. Thou art my better Angel. Wilt thou eat gold, drink gold, lie in gold, I have it for thee. Old men are twice children, And so was I, but I am grown again Up to right man. —Thou shalt be my Tutor too. Is there no stools, or tables? I would vault over them, to show the strength And courage of my back. Save you, Gentlemen. If you want gold, here's for you. Give me some wine: Mistress, a health to you: Pledge me, and spice the cup with these and these. Thou shalt have better gowns. She is enamoured. Sure I am younger then I thought my self. Fair Lady, health and wealth attend thee. Buy thee toys with this: I'll send thee more. That I should have so ravishing a face, And never know it! —Miser that I was! I will go home and buy a looking glass, To be acquainted with my parts hereafter. This remnant of my age will make amends For all the time that I have spent in care. That I should live so long, And ignorant of such a wealth as this! When shall we marry? Thou dost not love me. My boy Asotus, my young sprightly boy Has stolen thy heart away. Asotus, good Asotus, I am thy father. All that I have is thine, though I could vie For every silver hair upon my head A piece in gold.— All, all is thine: let me but share A little in thy pleasures: only relish The sweetness of they. Asotus, good Asotus pardon me. It was the dotage of my age, Asotus. I will abjure all pleasures but in thee. It shall be my sport To maintain thine. Thou shalt eat for both, And drink for both.— And here I promise thee to make a jointure Of half the land I have to this fair Lady. This is a pleasure that I care not for. WHy is my boy so sad?—Tell me Asotus: If dissolved gold will cure thee, melt a Treasure. What grieves my hope—my joy. My staff, my comfort? Have I not barricadoed all my doors, And stopped each chink and cranny in my house, To keep out poverty and lean misfortune? Where crept this sorrow in? Would? what story, boy? My friend, my deer friend Tyndarus, Sir, is dead. —And, to augment my sorrow,—killed himself. And yet to add more to my heap of griefs, Left me and Ballio—his estate— Alas! Is not this counterfeit sorrow well expressed? Half his estate to thee, and half to Ballio? A thousand pities. —Gently rest his bones. I cannot but weep with thee. He is rich In nothing but a Tutor. —Good Asotus, Though sorrow be a debt endue to the hearse Of a dead friend, and we must wet the turf Under whose roof he lodges: yet we must not Be too immoderate. GOod morrow boy: how flows thy blood, Asotus, Upon thy wedding day? is it springtide? Findest thou and active courage in thy bones? Wilt thou at night create me Grandfire? would? Oh, I remember with what sprightly courage I bedded thy old mother, and that night Bid fair for thee boy: how I cursed the ceremonies, And thought the youngsters scrambled for my points Too slowly: 'Twas a happy night, Asotus. What ails my boy? unseasonable grief Shall not disturb thy nuptials.—Good Asotus, Be not so passionate. I, this Asotus, There's music boy in this. Sure he is distracted! Asotus, do not grieve so, all thy sorrows Are doubled in thy father: Pity me, If not thy self; Oh pity these grey hairs, Pity my age, Asotus. So I will, my boy: Was there ever father so fortunate in a child? Exit Sim. Thou'lt make me, boy, too hap She shall have anything. What thou wilt, my girl. With all my heart.