How beautiful, JOHN. (handling his mourning.) And comely do these mourning garments shew! Sure Grief hath set his sacred impress here, To claim the world's respect! they note so feelingly By outward types the serious man within.— A cleaving sadness native to the brow, All sweet condolements of like-grieved friends, (That steal away the sense of loss almost) Men's pity, and good offices Which enemies themselves do for us then, Putting their hostile disposition off, As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks. (Pauses, and observes the pictures.) These pictures must be taken down: The portraitures of our most antient family listen'd, To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride, Holding me in his arms, a prating boy, And pointing to the pictures where they hung, Repeat by course their worthy histories, (As Hugh de Widville, Walter, first of the name, And Anne the handsome, Stephen, and famous John: Telling me, I must be his famous John.) Now, no more Must I grow proud upon our house's pride. And fashions of the world when he was young: How England slept out three and twenty years, While Carr and Villiers rul'd the baby king: JOHN. Comes Margaret here to witness my disgrace? And diminution of my honor's brightness. MARGARET. Old times should never be forgotten, John. JOHN. I did refuse you, Margaret, in my pride. MARGARET. If John rejected Margaret in his pride, (As who does not, being splenetic, refuse Sometimes old play-fellows,) the spleen being gone, The offence no longer lives. O Woodvil, those were happy days, When we two first began to love. When first, Under pretence of visiting my father, (Being then a stripling nigh upon my age) You came a wooing to his daughter, John. With what a coy reserve and seldom speech, JOHN. O Margaret, Margaret! These your submissions to my low estate, Then when you left in virtuous pride this house, MARGARET. Dost yet remember the green arbour, John, |