SIR SAMPSON, VALENTINE, SCANDAL, JEREMY, _and_ LAWYER. VALENTINE _upon a
couch disorderly dressed_.
SIR SAMP. How now, what’s here to do?
VAL. Ha! Who’s that? [_Starting_.]
SCAN. For heav’n’s sake softly, sir, and gently; don’t provoke him.
VAL. Answer me: who is that, and that?
SIR SAMP. Gads bobs, does he not know me? Is he mischievous? I’ll
speak gently. Val, Val, dost thou not know me, boy? Not know thy own
father, Val? I am thy own father, and this is honest Brief Buckram, the
lawyer.
VAL. It may be so—I did not know you—the world is full. There are
people that we do know, and people that we do not know, and yet the sun
shines upon all alike. There are fathers that have many children, and
there are children that have many fathers. ’Tis strange! But I am
Truth, and come to give the world the lie.
SIR SAMP. Body o’ me, I know not what to say to him.
VAL. Why does that lawyer wear black? Does he carry his conscience
withoutside? Lawyer what art thou? Dost thou know me?
BUCK. O Lord, what must I say? Yes, sir,
VAL. Thou liest, for I am Truth. ’Tis hard I cannot get a livelihood
amongst you. I have been sworn out of Westminster Hall the first day of
every term—let me see—no matter how long. But I’ll tell you one thing:
it’s a question that would puzzle an arithmetician, if you should ask
him, whether the Bible saves more souls in Westminster Abbey, or damns
more in Westminster Hall. For my part, I am Truth, and can’t tell; I
have very few acquaintance.
SIR SAMP. Body o’ me, he talks sensibly in his madness. Has he no
intervals?
JERE. Very short, sir.
BUCK. Sir, I can do you no service while he’s in this condition. Here’s
your paper, sir—he may do me a mischief if I stay. The conveyance is
ready, sir, if he recover his senses.