Project Gutenberg's A Collection of Old English Plays, Vol. III, by Various

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Title: A Collection of Old English Plays, Vol. III

Author: Various

Release Date: January 17, 2004 [EBook #10734]

Language: English

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A COLLECTION OF OLD ENGLISH PLAYS; VOL. III

In Four Volumes


Edited by

A.H. BULLEN


1882-1889.




CONTENTS:

Preface
Sir Gyles Goosecappe
The Wisdome of Dr. Dodypoll
The Distracted Emperor
The Tryall of Chevalry
Footnotes




PREFACE.


I have not been able to give in the present volume the unpublished play
of Heywood's to which I referred in the Preface to Vol. I. When I came
to transcribe the play, I found myself baffled by the villanous scrawl.
But I hope that, with the assistance of some expert in old handwriting,
I may succeed in procuring an accurate transcript of the piece for the
fourth volume.

One of the plays here presented to the reader is printed for the first
time, and the others have not been reprinted. I desire to thank ALFRED
HENRY HUTH, Esq., for the loan of books from his magnificent collection.
It is pleasant to acknowledge an obligation when the favour has been
bestowed courteously and ungrudgingly. To my friend F.G. FLEAY, Esq., I
cannnot adequately express my gratitude for the great trouble that he
has taken in reading all the proof-sheets, and for his many valuable
suggestions. Portions of the former volume were not seen by him in the
proof, and to this cause must be attributed the presence of some slight
but annoying misprints. One serious fault, not a misprint, occurs in the
first scene of the first Act of _Barnavelt's Tragedy_ (p. 213). In the
margin of the corrected proof, opposite the lines,

    "And you shall find that the desire of glory
    Was the last frailty wise men ere putt of,"

I wrote

    "That last infirmity of noble minds,"

a [mis]quotation from _Lycidas_. The words were written in pencil and
enclosed in brackets. I was merely drawing Mr. FLEAY'S attention to the
similarity of expression between Milton's words and the playwright's;
but by some unlucky chance my marginal pencilling was imported into the
text. I now implore the reader to expunge the line. On p. 116, l. 12 (in
the same volume), for _with_ read _witt_; p. 125 l. 2, for _He_ read
_Ile_; p. 128, l. 18, for _pardue_ read _perdue_; p. 232, for _Is_ read
_In_; p. 272, l. 3, for _baste_ read _haste_; p. 336, l. 6, the speaker
should evidently be not _Do_. (the reading of the MS.) but _Sis_., and
_noble Sir Richard_ should be _noble Sir Francis_; p. 422, l. 12, del.
comma between _Gaston_ and _Paris_. Some literal errors may, perhaps,
still have escaped me, but such words as _anottomye_ for _anatomy_, or
_dietie_ for _deity_ must not be classed as misprints. They are
recognised though erroneous forms, and instances of their occurrence
will be given in the Index to Vol. IV.

5, WILLOW ROAD, HAMPSTEAD, N.W.
January 24, 1884.






INTRODUCTION TO SIR GYLES GOOSECAPPE.


This clever, though somewhat tedious, comedy was published anonymously
in 1606. There is no known dramatic writer of that date to whom it could
be assigned with any great degree of probability. The comic portion
shows clearly the influence of Ben Jonson, and there is much to remind
one of Lyly's court-comedies. In the serious scenes the philosophising
and moralising, at one time expressed in language of inarticulate
obscurity and at another attaining clear and dignified utterance,
suggest a study of Chapman. The unknown writer might have taken as his
motto a passage in the dedication of Ovid's _Banquet of Sense_:--
"Obscurity in affection of words and indigested conceits is pedantical
and childish; but where it shroudeth itself in the heart of his subject,
uttered with fitness of figure and expressive epithets, with that
darkness will I still labour to be shrouded." Chapman's _Gentleman
Usher_ was published in the same year as _Sir Gyles Goosecappe_; and I
venture to think that in a passage of Act III., Scene II., our author
had in his mind the exquisite scene between the wounded Strozza and his
wife Cynanche. In Strozza's discourse on the joys of marriage occur
these lines:--

    "If he lament she melts herselfe in teares;
    If he be glad she triumphs; if he stirre
    She moon's his way: in all things his _sweete Ape_."

The charming fitness of the expression "sweet ape" would impress any
capable reader. I cannot think that by mere accident the anonymous
writer lighted on the same words:--

    "Doe women bring no helpe of soule to men?
    Why, friend, they either are mens soules themselves
    Or the most witty imitatrixes of them,
    Or prettiest _sweet apes_ of humane soules."

From a reference to Queen Elizabeth in Act I., Scene I., it is clear
that _Sir Gyles Goosecappe_ was written not later than 1603. The lines I
have quoted may have been added later; or our author may have seen the
_Gentleman Usher_ in manuscript.

Chapman's influence is again (_me judice_) apparent in the eloquent but
somewhat strained language of such a passage as the following:--

    "Alas, my noble Lord, he is not rich,
    Nor titles hath, nor in his tender cheekes
    The standing lake of _Impudence_ corrupts;
    Hath nought in all the world, nor nought wood have
    To grace him in the prostituted light.
    But if a man wood consort with a soule
    Where all mans sea of gall and bitternes
    Is quite evaporate with her holy flames,
    And in whose powers a Dove-like innocence
    Fosters her own deserts, and life and death
    Runnes hand in hand before them, all the skies
    Cleare and transparent to her piercing eyes.
    Then wood my friend be something, but till then
    A _cipher_, nothing, or the worst of men."

_Sir Gyles Goosecappe_ is the work of one who had chosen the "fallentis
semita vitae"; who was more at home in Academic cloisters than in the
crowded highways of the world. None of the characters bears any
impression of having been drawn from actual life. The plot is of the
thinnest possible texture; but the fire of verbal quibbles is kept up
with lively ingenuity, and plenty of merriment may be drawn from the
humours of the affectate traveller and the foolish knight by all who are
not

                                "of such vinegar aspect
    That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile,
    Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable."

The romantic friendship between the noble Lord Monford and the
thoughtful Clarence is a pleasing study, planned and executed with a
grave, sweet sincerity. It is not improbable that Clarence was the
prototype of Charles in Fletcher's _Elder Brother_. The finest passage
in the present play, where Clarence's modesty and Monford's nobility are
portrayed in language of touching charm, was selected by Charles Lamb
(whose judgment was never at fault) for quotation in the "Extracts from
the Garrick Plays."

A second edition of _Sir Gyles Goosecappe_ was issued, after the
author's death, in 1636; and the following dedication was appended by
Hugh Perry, the publisher:--

To the Worshipfull RICHARD YOUNG of Woolleyfarme in the County of Berks,
Esquire.

WORTHY SIR,

_The many favours, and courtesies, that I have Received from you, and
your much Honor'd Father, have put such an obligation upon me, as I have
bin long cogitateing how to expresse myselfe by the requitall of some
part of them; Now this Play having diverse yeeres since beene thrust
into the world to seeke its owne entertainment, without so much as an
epistle, or under the Shelter of any generous spirit, is now almost
become worne out of memory: and comming to be press'd to the publique
view againe, it having none to speake for it (the _Author_ being dead) I
am bold to recommend the same to your Worships protection, I know your
studies are more propense to more serious subjects, yet vouchsafe, I
beseech you, to recreate your selfe with this at some vacant time when
your leasure will permit you to peruse it, and daigne mee to bee_,

Your Worships bounden Servant,

HVGH PERRY.




SIR GYLES GOOSECAPPE, _Knight_,

A Comedy presented by the Chil. of the Chappell.


AT LONDON: Printed by _Iohn Windet_, for _Edward Blunt_. 1606.



_Eugenia_, A widowe and a Noble Ladie.
_Hippolyta_,  |
_Penelope_,   |  Ladie-virgines, and Companions to Eugenia.
_Wynnifred_, gentlewoman to Eugenia.
_Monford_, A Noble Man, uncle to Eugenia.
_Clarence_, Gentleman, friend to _Monf_.
_Fowlweather_, A french affected Travayler, and a Captaine.
_Sir Gyles Goosecap_, a foolish Knight.
_Sir Cuthbert Rudsbie_, a blunt Knight.
_Sir Clement Kingcob_, a Knight,
_Lord Tales_.
_Lord Furnifall_.
_Bullaker_, a french Page.
_Iack_,  |
_Will_,  |  Pages.



Sir Gyles Goosecappe, _Knight_.


_Actvs Primvs_.

SCAENA PRIMA.


    _Enter Bullaker with a Torche_.

_Bullaker_. This is the Countesse _Eugenias_ house, I thinke. I can
never hit of theis same English City howses, tho I were borne here: if I
were in any City in _Fraunce_, I could find any house there at midnight.

    _Enter Iack, and Will_.

_Iack_. Theis two strange hungry Knights (_Will_) make the leanest
trenchers that ever I waited on.

_Will_. A plague on them _Iack_; they leave us no fees at all, for our
attendance. I thinke they use to set their bones in silver they pick
them so cleane.--See, see, see, _Iack_, whats that.

_Iack_. A my word (_Will_) tis the great _Baboone_, that was to be seen
in _Southwarke_.

_Will_. Is this he? Gods my life what beastes were we, that we wood not
see him all this while, never trust me if he looke not somewhat like a
man: see how pretely he holds the torche in one of his forefeete: wheres
his keeper trowe, is he broke loose?

_Iack_. Hast ever an Apple about thee (_Will_)? Weele take him up; sure,
we shall get a monstrous deale of mony with him.

_Will_. That we shall yfath, boy! and looke thou here, heres a red
cheeckt apple to take him up with.

_Ia_. Excellent fit a my credit; lets lay downe our provant, and to him.

_Bul_. Ile let them alone a while.

_Ia_. Give me the apple to take up _Iack_, because my name is _Iack_.

_Will_. Hold thee, _Iack_, take it.

_Ia_. Come, _Iack_, come, _Iack_, come, _Iack_.

_Bul_. I will come to you sir, Ile _Iack_ ye a my word, Ile _Iack_ ye.

_Will_. Gods me he speakes, _Iack_. O pray pardon us, Sir.

_Bul_. Out, ye _mopede monckies_, can yee not knowe a man from a
_Marmasett_, in theis Frenchified dayes of ours? nay, ile _Iackefie_
you a little better yet.

_Both_. Nay good Sir, good Sir, pardon us.

_Bul_. Pardon us! out ye home-bred peasants, plain English, pardon us?
if you had parled, & not spoken, but said _Pardonne moy_, I wood have
pardon'd you, but since you speake and not parley, I will cudgell ye
better yet.

_Ambo_. _O pardonne moy, mounsieur_.

_Bul_. _Bien je vous remercy_; thers _pardonne four vous_, sir, now.

_Will_. Why I thanke ye for it, Sir; you seeme to bee a Squire of our
order Sir.

_Ia_. Whose page might you be Sir.

_Bul_. I am now the great French Travalers page.

_Will_. Or rather the _French_ Travalers great page, Sir; on, on.

_Bul_. Hight Captaine _Fowleweather_, alias Commendations; whose
valours within here at super with the Countes _Eugenia_, whose propper
eaters I take you two to be.

_Will_. You mistake us not Sir.

_Ia_. This Captaine _Fowleweather_, alias Commendations--

_Will_. Is the Gallant that will needs be a sutor to our Countes.

_Bul_.[1] Faith, and if Fouleweather be a welcome suter to a faire Lady,
has good lucke.

_Ia_. O Sir, beware of one that can showre into the lapps of Ladies.
Captaine Fowleweather? why hees a Captinado, or Captaine of Captaines,
and will lie in their joyntes that give him cause to worke uppon them so
heauylie, that he will make their hartes ake I warrant him. Captaine
Fowleweather? why he will make the cold stones sweate for feare of him,
a day or two before he come at them. Captaine Fowleweather? why he does
so dominere, and raigne over women.

_Will_. A plague of Captaine Fowleweather, I remember him now _Iack_,
and know him to be a dull moist-braind Asse.

_Ia_. A Southerne man I thinke.

_Will_. As fearefull as a Haire, and will lye like a Lapwing,[2] and I
know how he came to be a Captain, and to have his Surname of
Commendations.

_Ia_. How I preethee _Will_?

_Will_. Why Sir he served the great Lady Kingcob and was yeoman of her
wardroppe, & because a cood brush up her silkes lustely, she thought he
would curry the enemies coates as soundly, and so by her commendations,
he was made Captaine in the lowe Countries.

_Ia_. Then being made Captaine onely by his Ladies commendations,
without any worth also of his owne, he was ever after surnamd Captaine
Commendations?

_Will_. Right.

_Bul_. I, Sir right, but if he had not said right, my Captaine should
have taken no wrong at his handes, nor yours neyther, I can tell ye.

_Ia_. What are those two Knights names, that are thy Captaines
_Comrades_, and within at Supper with our Lady?

_Bul_. One of their names Sir, is, Sir _Gyles Goosecappe_, the others
Sir _Cutt Rudseby_.

_Will_. Sir _Gyles Goosecappe_? what's he? a gentleman?

_Bul_. I, that he is, at least if he be not a noble man; and his chiefe
house is in Essex.

_Ia_. In Essex? did not his Auncestors come out of London.

_Bul_. Yes that they did Sir, the best _Gosecappes_ in England, come out
of London I assure you.

_Will_. I, but, Sir, these must come into it before they come out ont I
hope; but what countriman is Sir _Cutt Rudesby_?

_Bul_. A Northern man, or a Westernman I take him, but my Captaine is the
Emphaticall man; and by that pretty word Emphaticall you shall partly
know him: for tis a very forcible word in troth, and yet he forces it
too much by his favour; mary no more then he does all the rest of his
wordes; with whose multiplicity often times he travailes himselfe out
of all good company.

_Iack_. Like enough; he travaild for nothing else.

_Will_. But what qualities haunt Sir _Gyles Goosecappe_ now Sir.

_Bul_. Sir _Gyles Goosecap_ has always a deathes head (as it were) in
his mouth, for his onely one reason for everything is, because we are
all mortall; and therefore he is generally cald the mortall Knight; then
hath he another pretty phrase too, and that is, he will "tickle the
vanity ant" still in everything; and this is your _Summa totalis_ of
both their virtues.

_Ia_. Tis enough, tis enough, as long as they have land enough, but now
muster your third person afore us I beseech you.

_Bul_. The third person and second Knight, blunt Sir _Cutt Rudesby_, is
indeed blunt at a sharpe wit, and sharpe at a blunt wit; a good bustling
Gallant, talkes well at Rovers; he is two parts souldier; as slovenlie
as a Switzer, and somewhat like one in face too; for he weares a bush
beard, will dead a Cannan shot better then a wool-packe: he will come
into the presence like yor _Frenchman_ in foule bootes, and dares eat
Garlike as a preparative to his Courtship. You shall know more of him
hereafter; but, good wags, let me winne you now for the Geographicall
parts of your Ladies in requitall.

_Will_. That you shall Sir, and the Hydrographicall too and you will;
first my Lady the widowe, and Countes _Eugenia_, is in earnest, a most
worthy Lady, and indeede can doe more than a thousand other Ladies can
doe I can tell you.

_Bul_. What's that I pray thee?

_Ia_. Mary Sir, he meanes she can doe more than sleepe, and eate, and
drinke; and play at noddy[3], and helpe to make hir selfe ready[4].

_Bul_. Can she so?

_Will_. She is the best scholler of any woman but one[5] in England; she
is wise and vertuous.

_Ia_. Nay she has one strange quality for a woman besides, tho these be
strange enough that he has rekoned.

_Bul_. For Gods sake whats that?

_Ia_. She can love reasonable constantly, for she loved her husband
only, almost a whole yeere together.

_Bul_. Thats strange indeed, but what is your faire Lady Sir?

_Ia_. My Lady Sir, the Lady _Hippolita_--

_Will_. That is as chast as ever was _Hippolitus_.

_Ia_. (True, my prety _Parenthesis_) is halfe a maid, halfe a wife, and
halfe a widdow.

_Bul_. Strange tale to tell; how canst thou make this good, my good
_Assumpsit_.

_Ia_. Thus Sir: she was betroathed to a gallant young gentleman that
loude hir with such passion, and admiration that he never thought he
could be so blessed as to enjoy her in full marriage, till the minister
was marrying them; and even then when he was saying I _Charles_ take
thee _Hippolita_ with extreame joy, he began to looke pale, then going
forwards saying, to my wedded wife, he lookt paler, and, then
pronouncing, for richer for poorer as long as we both shall live, he
lookt extreame pale. Now, sir, when she comes to speake her parte, and
said, I _Hippolyta_ take thee _Charles_, he began to faint for joy, then
saying to my wedded husband, he began to sinke, but then going forth too,
for better for worse, he could stand no longer, but with very conceit,
it seemd, that she whom he tendred as the best of all things, should
pronounce the worst, and for his sake too, he suncke down right, and
died sodenly: And thus being halfe married, and her halfe husband wholy
dead, I hope I may with discretion affirme her, halfe a maide, halfe a
wife, and halfe a widdowe: do ye conceive me Sir?

_Bul_. O Lord Sir, I devoure you quicke; and now Sir I beseech you open
unto me your tother Lady, what is shee?

_Will_. Ile answere for her, because I know her Ladiship to be a perfect
maide indeed.

_Bul_. How canst thou know that?

_Will_. Passing perfectly I warrant ye.

_Ia_. By measuring her necke twice, and trying if it will come about hir
forehead, and slip over her nose?

_Will_. No Sir no, by a rule that will not slip so I warrant you, which
for her honours sake I will let slip unto you. Gods so _Iack_, I thinke
they have supt.

_Ia_. Bir Lady we have waited well the while.

_Will_. Well though they have lost their attendance, let not us lose our
supper, _Iack_.

_Ia_. I doe not meane it; come Sir you shall goe in, and drinke with us
yfaith.

_Bul_. _Pardonne moy, mounsieur_.

_both_. No pardoning in truth Sir.

_Bul. Ie vous remercie de bon Ceur_.

                           [_Exeunt_.



SCAENA 2.


    _Enter Goosecappe, Rudesby, Fouleweather, Eugenia,
    Hippol., Penelope, Wynne_.

_Rud_. A plague on you, sweet Ladies, tis not so late; what needed you
to have made so short a supper?

_Goos_. In truth Sir _Cutt_. we might have tickled the vanity ant an
howre longer, if my watch be trustible.

_Foul_. I but how should theis beauties know that Sir _Gyles_? your
watch is mortall, and may erre.

_Go_. Thats sooth Captaine, but doe you heare honest friend, pray take a
light, and see if the moone shine, I have a Sunne Diall will resolue
presently.

_Fo_. Howsoever beleeve it, Ladies, tis unwholesome, uncourtly,
unpleasant to eate hastely, and rise sodainly; a man can shew no
discourse, no witt, no stirring, no variety, no pretty conceits, to make
the meate goe downe emphatically.

_Eu_. _Wynnefred_.

_Wyn_. Madam.

_Eu_. I prethee goe to my uncle the Lord _Monford_, and intreat him to
come quicken our Eares with some of his pleasant Spirit; This same
_Fowleweather_ has made me so melancholly, prethie make haste.

_Wyn_. I will Madam.    [_Exit_.

_Hip_. We will bid our guests good night, Madam; this same
_Fowleweather_ makes me so sleepy.

_Pen_. Fie uppon it; for Gods sake shut the Casements, heres such a
fulsome Aire comes into this Chamber; in good faith Madame you must
keepe your House in better reparations, this same _Fowlweather_ beats
in so filthily.

_Eug_. Ile take order with the Porter for it, Lady: good night,
gentlemen.

_Ru_. Why good night, and be hangd, and you'l needs be gon.

_Goos_. God give you good night Madams, thanke you for my good cheere,
weele tickle the vanity ant no longer with you at this time but ile
indite your La. to supper at my lodging one of these mornings; and that
ere long too, because we are all mortall you know.

_Eu_, Light the Lady _Penelope_, and the Lady _Hippolyta_ to their
Chambers; good night faire Ladies.

_Hip_. Good night, Madam; I wish you may sleep well after your light
supper.

_Eug_, I warrant you, Lady, I shall never be troubled with dreaming of
my _French_ Suter.
                      [_Exeunt_.

_Ru_. Why how now my _Frenchified_ captain _Fowlweather_? by Cods ludd
thy Surname is never thought upon here, I perceive heeres nobody gives
thee any commendations.

_Fo_. Why this is the untravaild rudnes of our grose Englesh Ladies now;
would any _French_ Lady use a man thus thinke ye? be they any way so
uncivill, and fulsome? they say they weare fowle smockes, and course
smockes; I say they lie, and I will die int.

_Rud_. I, doe so, pray thee, thou shalt die in a very honorable cause,
thy countries generall quarrell right.

_Foul_. Their smockes, quoth you? a my word you shall take them up so
white, and so pure, so sweet, so Emphaticall, so mooving--

_Rud_. I marry Sir, I thinke they be continually moving.

_Foul_. But if their smockes were course or foule.

_Rud_. Nay I warrant thee thou carest not, so thou wert at them.

_Foul_. S'death they put not all their virtues in their smockes, or in
their mockes, or in their stewde cockes as our Ladies doe.

_Rud_. But in their stewd pox, thers all their gentilitie.

_Goos_. Nay, good Sir _Cutt_., doe not agravate him no more.

_Foul_. Then they are so kinde, so wise, so familiar, so noble, so sweet
in entertainment, that when you shall have cause to descourse or
sometimes to come neerer them; if your breath be ill, your teeth ill, or
any thing about you ill, why they will presently breake with ye, in
kinde sort, good termes, pretty experiments, and tell you plaine this;
thus it is with your breath, Sir, thus it is with your teeth, Sir, this
is your disease, and this is your medicine.

_Goos_. As I am true mortall Knight, it is most superlatively good, this.

_Foul_. Why this is courtly now, this is sweete, this plaine, this is
familiar, but by the Court of _France_, our peevish dames are so proud,
so precise, so coy, so disdainfull, and so subtill, as the _Pomonian_
Serpent, _mort dieu_ the Puncke of _Babylon_ was never so subtill.

_Rud_. Nay, doe not chafe so, Captaine.

_Foul_. Your _Frenchman_ would ever chafe, sir _Cutt_., being thus
movde.

_Rud_. What? and play with his beard so?

_Foul_. I and brystle, it doth expresse that passion of anger very full,
and emphaticall.

_Goos_: Nay good Knight if your _French_ wood brystle, let him alone, in
troth our Ladies are a little too coy, and subtill, Captaine, indeed.

_Foul_. Subtill, sir _Gyles Goosecappe_? I assure your soule, they are
as subtill with their suters, or loves, as the latine Dialect, where the
nominative Case, and the Verbe, the Substantive, and the Adjective, the
Verbe, and the [ad]Verbe, stand as far a sunder, as if they were perfect
strangers one to another, and you shall hardly find them out; but then
learne to Conster, and perse them, and you shall find them prepared and
acquainted, and agree together in Case, gender, and number.

_Goos_. I detest[6], Sir _Cutt_, I did not thinke he had bin halfe the
quintessence of a scholler he is.

_Foul_. Slydd there's not one of them truely emphaticall.

_Goos_. Yes, I'le ensure you Captaine, there are many of them truely
emphaticall: but all your _French_ Ladies are not fatt? are they sir?

_Foul_. Fatt sir? why doe ye thinke emphaticall is fatt, sir _Gyles_?

_Rud_. Gods my life, brother Knight, didst thou thinke so? hart I know
not what it is my selfe, but yet I never thought it was fatt, Ile be
sworne to thee.

_Foul_. Why if any true Courtly dame had had but this new fashioned
sute, to entertaine anything indifferently stuffed, why you should have
had her more respective by farre.

_Rud_. Nay, theres some reason for that, Captaine, me thinks a true
woman should perpetually doate upon a new fashion.

_Foul_. Why y'are i'thright sir _Cutt. In nova fert animus mutatas
dicere formas_[7]. Tis the mind of man, and woman to affect new
fashions; but to our Mynsatives[8] for sooth, if he come like to your
_Besognio_,[9] or your bore, so he be rich, or emphaticall, they care
not; would I might never excell a dutch Skipper in Courtship, if I did
not put distaste into my cariage of purpose; I knew I should not please
them. _Lacquay? allume le torche_.

_Rud_. Slydd, heres neyther Torch, nor Lacquay, me thinks.

_Foul_. _O mon dieu_.

_Rud_. O doe not sweare Captaine.

_Foul_. Your Frenchman ever sweares, Sir _Cutt_, upon the lacke of his
Lacquay, I assure you.

_Goos_. See heere he comes, and my Ladies two pages, they have been
tickling the vanity ont yfaith.



SCAENA TERTIA.


    _Enter to them Iack, Bullaker, Will_.

_Ia_. Captaine _Fowleweather_, my Lady the Countes _Eugenia_ commends
her most kindly to you, and is determined to morrowe morning earely, if
it be a frost, to take her Coach to Barnet to bee nipt; where if it
please you, to meete her, and accompany her homewarde, joyning your wit
with the frost, and helpe to nip her, She does not doubt but tho you had
a sad supper, you will have a joyfull breakefast.

_Foul_. I shall indeed, my deare youth.

_Rud_. Why Captaine I abus'd thee, I see: I said the Ladies respected
thee not, and now I perceive the widow is in love with thee.

_Foul_. Sblood, Knight, I knew I had strucke her to the quicke, I
wondred shee departed in that extravagant fashion: I am sure I past one
_Passado_ of Courtship upon her, that has hertofore made a lane amongst
the _French_ Ladies like a Culvering shot, Ile be sworne; and I thinke,
Sir _Gyles_, you saw she fell under it.

_Goos_. O as cleare as candlelight, by this daylight.

_Rud_. O good Knight a the post[10], heele sweare anything.

_Will_. The other two Ladies commend them no lesse kindly to you two
Knights too; & desire your worships wood meete them at Barnet ith
morning with the Captaine.

_Foul. Goos. Rud_. O good Sir.

_Goos_. Our worships shall attend their Ladiships thether.

_Ia_. No Sir _Gyles_ by no meanes, they will goe privately thether, but
if you will meet them there.

_Rud_. Meet them? weele die fort, but weele meet them.

_Foul_. Let's goe thether to night, Knights, and you be true Gallants.

_Rud_. Content.

_Ia_. How greedely they take it in, Sirra?

_Goos_. No it is too farre to goe to night, weele be up betimes ith
morning, and not goe to bedd at all.

_Foul_. Why its but ten miles, and a fine cleere night, sir _Gyles_.

_Goos_. But ten miles? what do ye talke, Captaine?

_Rud_. Why? doost thinke its any more?

_Goos_. I, Ile lay ten pounds its more than ten miles, or twelve eyther.

_Rud_. What, to _Barnet_.

_Goos_. I, to _Barnet_.

_Rud_. Slydd, Ile lay a hundred pound with thee, if thou wilt.

_Goos_. Ile lay five hundred, to a hundred. Slight I will not be
outborne with a wager, in that I know: I am sure it was foure yeeres
agon ten miles thether, and I hope tis more now. Slydd doe not miles
grow thinke you, as well as other _Animals_?

_Ia_. O wise Knight!

_Goos_. I never innd in the Towne but once, and then they lodged me in a
Chamber so full of these Ridiculous Fleas, that I was fain to lie
standing all night, and yet I made my man rise, and put out the Candle
too, because they should not see to bite me.

_Foul_. A pretty project.

_Bul_. Intruth Captaine, if I might advise you, you should tarry, and
take the morning afore you.

_Foul_. How? _O mon Dieu_! how the villaine _poultroune_, dishonours his
travaile! You _Buffonly Mouchroun_, are you so mere rude, and English to
advise your Captaine?

_Rud_. Nay, I prethee _Fouleweather_, be not tempesteous with thy
poore Lacquay.

_Foul_. Tempesteous, Sir _Cutt_? will your _Frenchman_, thinke you,
suffer his Lacquay to advise him?

_Goos_. O God you must take heed Lacquy how you advise your Captaine;
your French lacquay would not have done it.

_Foul_. He would have bin poxt first. _Allume le torche_, sweet Pages
commend us to your Ladies, say we kisse their white hands, and will not
faile to meete them; Knights, which of you leades?

_Goos_. Not wee, sir; you are a Captaine, and a leader.

_Rud_. Besides, thou art commended for the better man, for thou art very
Commendations it selfe, and Captaine Commendations.

_Foul_. Why? what tho I be Captain Commendations?

_Rud_. Why and Captaine Commendations, is harty commendations, for
Captaines are harty I am sure, or else hang them.

_Foul_. Why, what if I be harty Commendations? come, come, sweete
Knights, lead the way.

_Rud_. O Lorde Sir, alwayes after my harty Commendations.

_Foul_. Nay then you conquer me with precedent, by the autenticall forme
of all Iustice letters.
                                        [_Alloun. Exeunt_.

_Ia_. Here's a most sweet Gudgeon swallowed, is there not?

_Will_. I but how will they disgest it, thinkest thou when they shall
finde our Ladies not there?

_Ia_. I have a vaunt-currying[11] devise shall make them digest it most
healthfully.

                [_Exeunt_.



SCENA QUARTA.


    _Enter Clarence, Musicians_.

_Cla_. Worke on, sweet love; I am not yet resolved
T'exhaust this troubled spring of vanities
And Nurse of perturbations, my poore life,
And therefore since in every man that holds
This being deare, there must be some desire,
Whose power t'enjoy his object may so maske
The judging part, that in her radyant eyes
His estimation of the World may seeme
Vpright, and worthy, I have chosen love
To blind my Reason with his misty hands
And make my estimative power beleive
I have a project worthy to imploy
What worth so ever my whole man affordes:
Then sit at rest, my soule, thou now hast found
The end of thy infusion; in the eyes
Of thy divine _Eugenia_ looke for Heaven.
Thanks gentle friends.    [_A song to the Violls_.
Is your good Lord, and mine, gon up to bedd yet?

    _Enter Momford_.

_Mom_. I do assure ye not, sir, not yet, nor yet, my deepe, and studious
friend; not yet, musicall _Clarence_.

_Cla_. My Lord?

_Mom_. Nor yet, thou sole divider of my Lordshippe.

_Cla_. That were a most unfit division,
And farre above the pitch of my low plumes;
I am your bold, and constant guest my Lord.

_Mom_. Far, far from bold, for thou hast known me long
Almost these twenty yeeres, and halfe those yeeres
Hast bin my bed-fellow; long time before
This unseene thing, this thing of naught indeed,
Or _Atome_ cald my Lordshippe shind in me,
And yet thou mak'st thy selfe as little bould
To take such kindnes, as becomes the Age
And truth of our indissolable love,
As our acquaintance sprong but yesterday;
Such is thy gentle, and too tender spirit.

_Cla_. My _Lord_, my want of Courtship makes me feare
I should be rude, and this my meane estate
Meetes with such envie, and detraction,
Such misconstructions and resolud misdoomes
Of my poore worth, that should I be advaunce'd
Beyond my unseene lowenes, but one haire,
I should be torne in peeces with the Spirits
That fly in ill-lungd tempests through the world,
Tearing the head of vertue from her shoulders
If she but looke out of the ground of glorie.
Twixt whom and me, and every worldly fortune
There fights such sowre, and curst _Antipathy_,
So waspish and so petulant a Starre,
That all things tending to my grace or good
Are ravisht from their object, as I were
A thing created for a wildernes,
And must not thinke of any place with men.

_Mom_. O harke you Sir, this waiward moode of yours
Must sifted be, or rather rooted out.
Youle no more musick Sir?

_Cla_. Not now, my Lord.

_Mom_. Begon my masters then to bedd, to bedd.

_Cla_. I thanke you, honest friends.

                           [_Exeunt Musicians_.

_Mo_. Hence with this book, and now, _Mounsieur Clarence_, me thinks
plaine and prose friendship would do excellent well betwixt us: come
thus, Sir, or rather thus, come. Sir, tis time I trowe that we both
liv'd like one body, thus, and that both our sides were slit, and
concorporat with _Organs_ fit to effect an individuall passage even for
our very thoughts; suppose we were one body now, and I charge you
beleeve it; whereof I am the hart, and you the liver.

_Cla_. Your Lordship might well make that division[12], if you knew the
plaine song.

_Mo_. O Sir, and why so I pray?

_Cla_. First because the heart, is the more worthy entraile, being the
first that is borne, and moves, and the last that moves, and dies; and
then being the Fountaine of heate too: for wheresoever our heate does
not flow directly from the hart to the other _Organs_ there, their
action must of necessity cease, and so without you I neither would nor
could live.

_Mom_. Well Sir, for these reasons I may be the heart, why may you be
the liver now?

_Cla_. I am more then asham'd, to tell you that my _Lord_.

_Mom_. Nay, nay, be not too suspitious of my judgement in you I beseech
you: asham'd friend? if your love overcome not that shame, a shame take
that love, I saie. Come sir, why may you be the liver?

_Cla_. The plaine, and short truth is (my _Lord_) because I am all
liver, and turn'd lover.

_Mom_. Lover?

_Cla_. Lover, yfaith my _Lord_.

_Mom_. Now I prethee let me leape out of my skin for joy: why thou wilt
not now revive the sociable mirth of thy sweet disposition? wilt thou
shine in the World anew? and make those that have sleighted thy love
with the Austeritie of thy knowledge, dote on thee againe with thy
commanding shaft of their humours?

_Cla_. Alas, my Lord, they are all farre out of my aime; and only to fit
my selfe a little better to your friendshippe, have I given these
wilfull raynes to my affections.

_Mom_. And yfaith is my sower friend to all worldly desires ouer taken
with the hart of the World, Love? I shall be monstrous proud now, to
heare shees every way a most rare woman, that I know thy spirit, and
judgement hath chosen; is she wise? is she noble? is she capable of thy
vertues? will she kisse this forehead with judiciall lipps where somuch
judgement and vertue deserves it? Come brother Twin, be short, I charge
you, and name me the woman.

_Cla_. Since your Lordship will shorten the length of my follies
relation, the woman that I so passionately love, is no worse Lady then
your owne Neece, the too worthy Countesse _Eugenia_.

_Mom_. Why so, so, so, you are a worthy friend, are you not, to conceale
this love-mine in your head, and would not open it to your hart? now
beshrow my hart, if my hart danse not for joy, tho my heeles do not; and
they doe not, because I will not set that at my heeles that my friend
sets at his heart? friend, and Nephews both? nephew is a far inferior
title to friend I confesse, but I will preferre thee backwards (as many
friends doe) and leave their friends woorse then they found them.

_Cla_. But, my noble Lord, it is almost a prodegie, that I being onely a
poore Gentleman, and farre short of that state and wealth that a Ladie
of her greatnesse in both will expect in her husband--

_Mom_. Hold thy doubt friend, never feare any woman, unlesse thyselfe be
made of straw, or some such drie matter, and she of lightning.
_Audacitie_ prospers above probability in all Worldly matters. Dost not
thou know that Fortune governes them without order, and therefore reason
the mother of order is none of her counsaile? why should a man desiring
to aspire an unreasonable creature, which is a woman, seeke her fruition
by reasonable meanes? because thy selfe binds upon reason, wilt thou
looke for congruity in a woman? why? there is not one woman amongst one
thousand, but will speake false _Latine_, and breake _Priscians_ head.
Attempt nothing that you may with great reason doubt of and out of doubt
you shall obtaine nothing. I tell thee, friend, the eminent confidence
of strong spirits is the onely witch-craft of this World, Spirits
wrastling with spirits as bodies with bodies: this were enough to make
thee hope well, if she were one of these painted communities, that are
ravisht with Coaches, and upper hands,[13] and brave men of durt: but
thou knowest friend shees a good scholler, and like enough to bite at
the rightest reason, and reason evermore _Ad optima hortatur_: to like
that which is best, not that which is bravest, or rightest, or greatest,
and so consequently worst. But prove what shee can, wee will turne her,
and winde her, and make her so plyant, that we will drawe her thorugh a
wedding ring yfaith.

_Cla_. Would to God we might, my Lord.

_Mom_. He warrant thee, friend.

    _Enter Messenger_.

_Mes_. Here is Mistris _Wynnifred_ from my Lady _Eugenia_ desires to
speake with your Lordshippe.

_Mom_. Marrie, enter, Mistris _Wynnifred_, even here I pray thee;--from
the Lady _Eugenia_, doe you heare, friend?

_Cla_. Very easily on that side, my Lord.

_Mom_. Let me feele. Does not thy heart pant apace? by my hart, well
labor'd _Cupid_, the field is yours, sir. God! and upon a very
honourable composition. I am sent for now I am sure, and must even
trusse, and to her.

    _Enter Wynnifred_.

Witty Mistris _Wynnifred_, nay come neere, woman. I am sure this
Gentleman thinkes his Chamber the sweeter for your deare presence.

_Wyn_. My absence shall thanke him, my Lord.

_Mom_. What, rude? Mistris _Wynnifred_? nay faith you shall come to him,
and kisse him, for his kindenesse.

_Wyn_. Nay good, my Lord, I'le never goe to the market for that ware, I
can have it brought home to my Dore.

_Mom_. O _Wynnifred_, a man may know by the market-folkes how the market
goes.

_Wyn_. So you may, my Lord, but I know few Lords that thinke scorne to
go to that market themselves.

_Mom_. To goe to it _Wynnifred_? nay to ride to it yfaith.

_Wyn_. Thats more then I know my Lord.

_Mom_. Youle not beleeve it till you are then a horsebacke, will ye?

_Wyn_. Come, come, I am sent of a message to you, will you heare it?

_Mom_. Stoppe, stoppe, faire _Wynnifred_, would you have audience so
soone, there were no state in that yfaith. This faire gentlewoman sir--

_Wyn_. Now we shall have a fiction I beleive.

_Mom_. Had three Suiters at once.

_Wyn_. Youle leave out none my Lord.

_Mom_. No more did you, _Wynnifred_: you enterferde with them all in
truth.

_Wyn_. O Monstrous Lord by this light!

_Mom_. Now sir to make my tale short I will doe that which she did not;
vz. leave out the two first. The third comming, the third night for his
turne--

_Wyn_. My Lord, my Lord, my Lady does that that no body else does,
desires your company; and so fare you well.

_Mom_. O stay a little sweet _Wynnifred_, helpe me but to trusse my
Poynts againe, and have with you.

_Wyn_. Not I by my truth my Lord, I had rather see your hose about your
heeles, then I would helpe you to trusse a poynt.

_Mom_. O witty _Wynnifred_? for that jest, take thy passeport, and tell
thy Ladie[14], thou leftst me with my hose about my heeles.

_Wyn_. Well, well my Lord you shall sit till the mosse grow about your
heeles, ere I come at you againe.    [_Exit_.

_Mom_. She cannot abide to heare of her three Suiters, but is not this
very fit my sweet _Clarence_? Thou seest my rare Neece cannot sleepe
without me; but for thy company sake, she shall to night; and in the
morning I will visit her earely; when doe thou but stand in that place,
and thou maiest chance heare (but art sure to see) in what subtill, and
farre-fetcht manner Ile solicite her about thee.

_Cla_. Thank's, worthy Lord.

                                [_Exeunt_.

_Finis Actus Primi_.




_Actvs Secvndi_.

SCENA PRIMA.


    _Clarence Solus_.

_Cla_. I that have studied with world-skorning thoughts
The way of Heaven, and how trew Heaven is reacht
To know how mighty, and how many are
The strange affections of enchaunted number;
How to distinguish all the motions
Of the Celestiall bodies, and what power
Doth separate in such forme this massive Rownd;
What is his Essence, Efficacies, Beames,
Foot-steps, and Shadowes; what Eternesse[15] is,
The World, and Time, and Generation;
What Soule, the worlds Soule is, what the blacke Springs
And unreveald Originall of Things,
What their perseverance; what's life, and death,
And what our certaine Restauration;
Am with the staid-heads of this Time imploy'd
To watch with all my Nerves a Female shade.

    _Enter Wynnifred, Anabell, with their sowing workes
    and sing: After their song Enter Lord Momford_.

_Mom_. Witty Mistrisse _Wynnifred_, where is your Countesse, I pray?

_Wyn_. Faith your Lordship is bould enough to seeke her out, if she were
at her urinall?

_Mom_. Then sh'as done, it seemes, for here she comes to save me that
labour; away, wenches, get you hence wenches.
                                                 [_Exeunt_.

_Eu_. What, can you not abide my maides, unkle?

_Mom_. I never cood abide a maide in my life Neece, but either I draw
away the maide, or the maidenhead with a wet finger[16].

_Eug_. You love to make your selfe worse then you are still.

_Mom_. I know few mend in this World, Madam. For the worse the better
thought on, the better the worse spoken on ever amongst women.

_Eu_. I wonder where you have binne all this while with your sentences.

_Mom_. Faith where I must be againe presently. I cannot stay long with
you my deere Neece.

_Eu_. By my faith but you shall, my Lord. Cods pittie what will become
of you shortly, that you drive maids afore you, and offer to leave
widowes behind you, as mankindelie as if you had taken a surfet of our
Sex lately, and our very sight turnd your stomacke?

_Mom_. Cods my life, she abuses her best unkle; never trust me if it
were not a good revenge to helpe her to the losse of her widow-head.

_Eu_. That were a revenge, and a halfe, indeed.

_Mom_. Nay twere but a whole revenge Neece, but such a revenge as would
more then observe the true rule of a revenger.

_Eu_. I know your rule before you utter it, _Vlciscere inimico_ [sic]
_sed sine tuo incommodo_.

_Mom_. O rare Neece, you may see, what tis to be a scholler now;
learning in a woman is like waight in gold, or luster in Diamants, which
in no other Stone is so rich or refulgent.

_Eug_. But say deere Vnckle how could you finde in your heart to stay so
long from me?

_Mom_. Why, alas Neece, y'are so smeard with this willfull widdows
three-yeeres blacke weede, that I never come to you, but I dreame of
Coarses, and Sepulchres, and Epitaphs, all the night after, and
therefore adew deere Neece.

_Eug_. Beshrew my heart my Lord, if you goe theis three houres.

_Mom_. Three houres? nay Neece, if I daunce attendance three hours
(alone in her Chamber) with any Lady so neere alide to me, I am very
idle yfaith--Mary with such an other I would daunce, one, two, three,
foure, and five, tho it cost me ten shillings. And now I am in, have at
it! my head must devise something, while my feet are pidling thus, that
may bring her to some fit consideration of my friend, who indeed is
onely a great scholler, and all his honours, and riches lie in his
minde.

_Eu_. Come, come, pray tell me uncle, how does my cosen _Momford_?

_Mom_. Why, well, very well Neece, and so is my friend _Clarence_ well
too, and then is there a worthy gentleman well as any is in England I
can tell ye.    [_He daunceth speaking_.

_Eug_. But when did you see my Cosen?

_Mom_. And tis pitty but he should do well, and he shall be well too,
if all my wealth will make him well.

_Eug_. What meanes he by this, tro? your Lord is very dancitive me
thinkes.

_Mom_. I, and I could tell you a thing would make your Ladyship very
dancitive, or else it were very dunsative yfaith. O how the skipping of
this Christmas blocke of ours moves the block-head heart of a woman and
indeed any thing that pleaseth the foolish eye which presently runnes
with a lying tale of Excellence to the minde.

_Eug_. But I pray tell me my Lord could you tell me of a thing would
make me dance say you?

_Mom_. Well, farewell sweet Neece, I must needs take my leave in
earnest.

_Eu_. Lord blesse us, heres such a stir with your farewels.

_Mom_. I will see you againe within these two or three dayes a my word
Neece.

_Eug_. Cods pretious, two or three dayes? why this Lord is in a
maruallous strange humor. Sit downe, sweet Vnkle; yfaith I have to
talke with you about greate matters.

_Mom_. Say then deere Neece, be short utter your minde quickly now.

_Eug_. But I pray tell me first, what's that would make me daunce
yfaith?

_Mom_. Daunce, what daunce? hetherto your dauncers legges bow for-sooth,
and Caper, and jerke, and Firke, and dandle the body above them, as it
were their great childe; though the speciall jerker be above this place
I hope here lies that shud fetch a perfect woman over the Coles yfaith.

_Eug_. Nay good Vnkle say what's the thing you could tell me of?

_Mom_. No matter, no matter: But let me see a passing prosperous
fore-head of an exceeding happy distance betwixt the eye browes; a cleere
lightning eye; a temperate, and fresh bloud in both the cheekes:
excellent markes, most excellent markes of good fortune.

_Eug_. Why, how now Vnkle did you never see me before?

_Mom_. Yes Neece; but the state of these things at this instant must be
specially observed, and these outward signes being now in this cleere
elevation, show your untroubled minde is in an excellent power, to
preferre them to act forth then a little, deere Neece.

_Eug_. This is excellent.

_Mom_. The Crises here are excellent good; The proportion of the chin
good; the little aptness of it to sticke out good; and the wart above it
most exceeding good. Never trust me, if all things be not answerable to
the prediction of a most Divine fortune towards her; now if she have the
grace to apprehend it in the nicke; thers all.

_Eug_. Well my Lord, since you will not tell me your secret, ile keepe
another from you; with whose discovery, you may much pleasure me, and
whose concealement may hurt my estate. And if you be no kinder then to
see me so indangered; ile be very patient of it, I assure you.

_Mom_. Nay then it must instantly foorth. This kinde conjuration even
fires it out of me; and (to be short) gather all your judgment
togeather, for here it comes. Neece, _Clarence, Clarence_, rather my
soule then my friend _Clarence_, of too substantiall a worth, to have
any figures cast about him (notwithstanding, no other woman with Empires
could stirre his affections) is with your vertues most extreamely in
love; and without your requitall dead. And with it Fame shall sound this
golden disticke through the World of you both.

    _Non illo melior quisquam, nec amantior aequi
    Vir fuit, aut illa reverentior ulla Deorum_[17].

_Eug_. Ay me poore Dame, O you amase me Vncle,
Is this the wondrous fortune you presage?
What man may miserable women trust?

_Mom_. O peace good Lady, I come not to ravish you to any thing. But now
I see how you accept my motion: I perceive (how upon true triall) you
esteeme me. Have I rid all this Circuite to levie the powers of your
Iudgment, that I might not proove their strength too sodainly with so
violent a charge; And do they fight it out in white bloud, and show me
their hearts in the soft Christall of teares?

_Eug_. O uncle you have wounded your selfe in charging me that I should
shun Iudgement as a monster, if it would not weepe; I place the poore
felicity of this World in a woorthy friend, and to see him so unworthily
revolted, I shed not the teares of my Brayne, but the teares of my
soule. And if ever nature made teares th'effects of any worthy cause,
I am sure I now shed them worthily.

_Mom_. Her sensuall powers are up yfaith, I have thrust her soule quite
from her Tribunall. This is her _Sedes vacans_ when her subjects are
priviledged to libell against her, and her friends. But weeps my kinde
Neece for the wounds of my friendship? And I toucht in friendship for
wishing my friend doubled in her singular happinesse?

_Eug_. How am I doubl'd? when my honour, and good name, two essentiall
parts of me; would bee lesse, and loste?

_Mom_. In whose Iudgment?

_Eug_. In the judgment of the World.

_Mom_. Which is a fooles boult. _Nihil a virtute nec a veritate
remotius, quàm vulgaris opinio_: But my deare Neece, it is most true
that your honour, and good name tendred, as they are the species of
truth, are worthily two esentiall parts of you; But as they consist only
in ayrie titles, and corrupteble bloud (whose bitternes _sanitas & non
nobilitas efficit_) and care not how many base, and execrable acts they
commit, they touch you no more then they touch eternity. And yet shall
no nobility you have in eyther, be impaired neither.

_Eug_. Not to marry a poore Gentleman?

_Mom_. Respect him not so; for as he is a Gentleman he is noble; as he
is wealthily furnished with true knowledge, he is rich, and therein
adorn'd with the exactest complements belonging to everlasting
noblenesse.

_Eug_. Which yet will not maintaine him a weeke: Such kinde of
noblenesse gives no cotes of honour nor can scarse gette a cote for
necessity.

_Mom_. Then is it not substantiall knowledge (as it is in him) but
verball, and fantasticall for _Omnia in illa ille complexu tenet_.

_Eug_. Why seekes he me then?

_Mom_. To make you joynt partners with him in all things, and there is
but a little partiall difference betwixt you, that hinders that
universall joynture: The bignesse of this circle held too neere our eye
keepes it from the whole Spheare of the Sun; but could we sustaine it
indifferently betwixt us, and it would then without checke of one beame
appeare in his fulnes.

_Eug_. Good Vnckle be content, for now shall I never dreame of
contentment.

_Mom_. I have more then done Lady, and had rather have suffer'd an
alteration of my being, then of your Judgment; but (deere Neece) for
your own honours sake repaire it instantly.

    _Enter Hippolyta. Penelope. Iacke. Will_.

See heere comes the Ladies; make an Aprill day on't[18], deare love,
and bee sodainly cheerefull. God save you, more then faire Ladies,
I am glad your come, for my busines will have me gone presently.

_Hip_. Why my Lord _Momford_ I say? will you goe before Dinner?

_Mom_. No remedy, sweet Beauties, for which rudnesse I lay my hands thus
low for your pardons.

_Pen_. O Courteous Lo. _Momford_![19]

_Mom_. Neece?----_Mens est quae sola quietos,
    Sola facit claros, mentemque honoribus ornat_.[20]

_Eug_. _Verus honos juvat, at mendax infamia terret_.[21]

_Mom_. Mine owne deare nephew?

_Cla_. What successe my Lord?

_Mom_. Excellent; excellent; come Ile tell thee all.--_Exeunt_.

_Hip_. Doe you heare Madam, how our youthes here have guld our three
suiters?

_Eug_. Not I, Lady; I hope our suiters are no fit meat for our Pages.

_Pe_. No Madam, but they are fit sawce for any mans meat, Ile warrent
them.

_Eug_. What's the matter _Hippolyta_?

_Hip_. They have sent the Knights to _Barnet_, Madam, this frosty
morning to meet us there.

_Eug_. I'st true, youths? are Knights fit subjects for your knaveries?

_Will_. Pray pardon us, Madam, we would be glad to please anie body.

_Ia_. I indeed, Madam, and we were sure we pleased them highly, to tell
them you were desirous of their company.

_Hip_. O t'was good, _Eugenia_, their livers were too hot, you know, and
for temper sake they must needs have a cooling carde[22] plaid upon
them.

_Wil_. And besides Madam we wood have them know that your two little
Pages, which are lesse by halfe then two leaves, have more learning in
them then is in all their three volumnes.

_Ia_. I yfaith _Will_, and put their great pagicall index to them, too.

_Hip_. But how will ye excuse your abuses, wags?

_Wil_. We doubt not, Madam, but if it please your Ladiship to put up
their abuses.

_Ia_. Trusting they are not so deere to you, but you may.

_Wil_. We shall make them gladly furnishe their pockets with them.

_Hip_. Well, children and foules, agree as you will, and let the World
know now, women have nothing to doe with you.

_Pe_. Come, Madam, I thinke your Dinner bee almost ready.

    _Enter Tales, Kingcob_.

_Hip_. And see, here are two honourable guests for you, the Lord
_Tales_, and sir _Cutberd Kingcob_.

_Ta_. Lacke you any guests, Madam?

_Eu_. I, my Lord, such guests as you.

_Hip_. Theres as common an answere, as yours was a question, my Lord.

_King_. Why? all things shood be common betwixt Lords, and Ladies, you
know.

_Pe_. Indeed sir _Cutberd Kingcob_, I have heard, you are either of the
familie of Love[23], or of no religion at all.

_Eug_. He may well be said to be of the family of love, he does so flow
in the loves of poore over-throwne Ladies.

_King_. You speake of that I wood doe, Madam, but in earnest, I am now
suing for a new Mistres; looke in my hand sweet Lady, and tell me what
fortune I shall have with her.

_Eug_. Doe you thinke me a witch, Sir _Cutberd_?

_King_. Pardon me Madam, but I know you to bee learned in all things.

_Eug_. Come on, lets see.

_Hip_. He does you a speciall favour Lady, to give you his open hand,
for tis commonly shut they say.

_King_. What find you in it, Madam?

_Eug_. Shut it now, and ile tell yee.

_King_. What now Lady?

_Eug_. Y'ave the worst hand that ever I saw Knight have; when tis open,
one can find nothing in it, and when tis shut one can get nothing out
ont.

_King_. The age of letting goe is past, Madam; we must not now let goe,
but strike up mens heeles, and take am as they fall.

_Eug_. A good Cornish principle beleeve it sir _Cutberd_.

_Tales_. But I pray tell me, Lady _Penelope_, how entertaine you the
love of my Cosen sir _Gyles Goosecappe_.

_Pene_. Are the _Goosecaps_ a kin to you, my Lord?

_Ta_. Even in the first degree, Madam. And, Sir _Gyles_, I can tell ye,
tho he seeme something simple, is compos'd of as many good parts as any
Knight in England.

_Hip_. He shood be put up for concealement then, for he shewes none of
them.

_Pen_. Are you able to reckon his good parts, my Lord?

_Ta_. Ile doe the best I can, Lady; first, he danses as comely, and
lightly as any man, for upon my honour, I have seene him danse upon
Egges, and a has not broken them.

_Pene_. Nor crackt them neyther.

_Ta_. That I know not; indeed I wood be loath to lie though he be my
kinsman, to speake more then I know by him.

_Eug_. Well, forth my Lord.

_Ta_. He has an excellent skill in all manner of perfumes, & if you
bring him gloves from forty pence, to forty shillings a paire, he will
tell you the price of them to two pence.

_Hip_. A pretty sweet quality beleeve me.

_Tales_. Nay Lady he will perfume you gloves himselfe most delicately,
and give them the right Spanish Titillation.

_Pene_. Titillation what's that my Lord?

_Tal_. Why, Lady, tis a pretty kinde of terme new come up in perfuming,
which they call a Titillation.

_Hip_. Very well expounded, my Lord; forth with your kinsmans parts I
pray.

_Tal_. He is the best Sempster of any woman in England, and will worke
you needle-worke-edgings, and _French_ purles, from an Angell to foure
Angells a yarde.

_Eug_. That's pretious ware indeed.

_Tal_. He will worke you any flower to the life, as like it as if it
grew in the very place, and being a delicate perfumer, he will give it
you his perfect, and naturall savour.

_Hip_. This is wonderfull; forth, sweet Lord _Tales_.

_Tal_. He will make you flyes, and wormes, of all sorts most lively, and
is now working a whole bed embrodred, with nothing but glowe wormes;
whose lights a has so perfectly done, that you may goe to bed in the
Chamber, doe any thing in the Chamber, without a Candle.

_Pene_. Never trust me, if it be not incredible; forth my good Lord.

_Tal_. He is a most excellent Turner, and will turne you wassel-bowles,
and posset Cuppes caru'd with libberds faces, and Lyons heads with
spouts in their mouths, to let out the posset Ale, most artificially.

_Eug_. Forth, good Lord _Tales_.

_Pene_. Nay, good my Lord no more; you have spoken for him thoroughly I
warrant you.

_Hip_. I lay my life _Cupid_ has shot my sister in love with him out of
your lips, my Lord.

_Eug_. Well, come in, my Lords, and take a bad Dinner with me now, and
we will all goe with you at night to a better supper with the Lord and
Lady _Furnifall_.

_King_. _Tale_. We attend you, honorable Ladies.

                                        _Exeunt_.




_Actvs Tertii_.

SCAENA PRIMA.


    _Enter Rudesby, Goosecappe_.

_Rud_. _Bullaker_.

_Bul_. I, Sir.

_Rud_. Ride, and catch the Captaines Horse.

_Bul_. So I doe Sir.

_Rud_. I wonder, Sir _Gyles_, you wood let him goe so, and not ride
after him.

_Goos_. Wood I might never be mortall sir _Cutt_: if I rid not after
him, till my horse sweat, so that he had nere a dry thread on him, and
hollod, and hollod to him to stay him, till I had thought my fingers
ends wood have gon off with hollowings; Ile be sworne to yee, & yet he
ran his way like a _Diogenes_, and would never stay for us.

_Rud_. How shall wee doe to get the lame Captaine to London, now his
horse is gone?

_Goos_. Why? he is but a lame jad neyther, Sir _Moyle_, we shall soone
our'take him I warrent ye.

_Rud_. And yet thou saist thou gallopst after him as fast as thou
coodst, and coodst not Catch him; I lay my life some Crabfish has
bitten thee by the tongue, thou speakest so backward still.

_Goos_. But heres all the doubt, sir _Cutt_: if no body shoold catch him
now, when he comes at London, some boy or other wood get uppe on him,
and ride him hot into the water to wash him; Ile bee sworne I followed
one that rid my Horse into the Thames, till I was up tooth knees
hetherto; and if it had not beene for feare of going over shooes,
because I am troubled with the rheume, I wood have taught him to wash my
Horse when he was hot yfaith.

    _Enter Fowleweathter_.

How now sweet Captaine, dost feele any ease in thy paine yet?

_Rud_. Ease in his paine quoth you, has good lucke if he feele ease in
paine, I thinke, but wood any asse in the World ride downe such a Hill
as High-gate is, in such a frost as this, and never light.

_Foul_. Cods precious, sir _Cutt_: your _Frenchman_ never lights
I tell ye.

_Goos_. Light, sir _Cutt_! Slight, and I had my horse againe, theres
nere a paltry English frost an them all shood make me light.

_Rud_. Goe too, you _French_ Zanies you, you will follow the _French_
steps so long, till you be not able to set one sound steppe oth ground
all the daies of your life.

_Goos_. Why, sir _Cut_: I care not if I be not sound, so I be well, but
we were justly plagu'd by this Hill, for following women thus.

_Foul_. I, and English women too, sir _Gyles_.

_Rud_. Thou art still prating against English women, I have seene none
of the _French_ Dames, I confesse, but your greatest gallants, for men
in _France_, were here lately,[24] I am sure, and me thinks there
should be no more difference betwixt our Ladies, and theirs, then there
is betwixt our Lords, and theirs, and our Lords are as farr byond them
yfaith, for person, and Courtship, as they are beyond ours for
phantasticality.

_Foul_. O Lord sir _Cut_. I am sure our Ladies hold our Lords tacke for
Courtship, and yet the _French_ Lords put them downe; you noted it, sir
_Gyles_.

_Goos_. O God sir, I stud, and heard it, as I sat ith presence.

_Rud_. How did they put them downe, I pray thee?

_Foul_. Why for wit, and for Court-ship Sir _Moile_.

_Rud_.[25] As how, good left-handed _Francois_.

_Foul_. Why Sir when _Monsieur Lambois_ came to your mistris the Lady
_Hippolyta_ as she sate in the presence,--sit downe here good Sir _Gyles
Goose-cappe_,--he kneeld me by her thus Sir, and with a most queint
_French start_ in his speech of ah _bellissime_, I desire to die now,
saies he, for your love that I might be buried here.

_Rud_. A good pickt-hatch[26] complement, by my faith; but I prethee
what answer'd she.

_Foul_. She, I scorne to note that, I hope; then did he vie[27] it
againe with an other hah.

_Rud_. That was hah, hah, I wood have put the third hah to it, if I had
beene as my Mistris, and hah, hah, haht him out of the presence yfaith.

_Foul_. Hah, saies he, theis faire eyes, I wood not for a million they
were in _France_, they wood renew all our civill-wars againe.

_Goos_. That was not so good, me thinkes, Captaine.

_Rud_. Well iudgd, yfaith; there was a little wit in that, I must
confesse, but she put him downe far, and aunswered him with a
question, and that was whether he wood seeme a lover, or a jester? if a
lover, a must tell her far more lykelier then those, or else she was far
from believing them; if a Jester, she cood have much more ridiculous
jests then his of twenty fooles, that followed the Court; and told him
she had as lieve be courted with a brush faggot as with a Frenchman,
that spent it selfe all in sparkes, and would sooner fire ones chimney
then warme the house, and that such sparkes were good enough yet to set
thatcht dispositions a fire, but hers was tild with sleight, and
respected them as sleightly.

_Goos_. Why so Captaine, and yet you talke of your great Frenchmen;
[would] to God little England had never knowne them _I_ may say.

_Foul_. What's the matter sir _Gyles_? are you out of love with
Frenchmen now of a sodaine?

_Goos_. Slydd Captaine, wood not make one, Ile be sworne? Ile be sworne,
they tooke away a mastie Dogge of mine by commission: now I thinke on't,
makes my teares stand in my eyes with griefe, I had rather lost the
dearest friend that ever _I_ lay withall in my life be this light; never
stir if he fought not with great _Sekerson_[28] foure hours to one,
foremost take up hindmost, and tooke so many loaves from him, that he
sterud him presently: So at last the dog cood doe no more then a Beare
cood doe, and the beare being heavie with hunger you know, fell upon the
Dogge, broke his backe, and the Dogge never stird more.

_Rud_. Why thou saist the Frenchmen tooke him away.

_Goos_. Frenchmen, _I_, so they did too, but yet, and he had not bin
kild, twood nere a greevd me.

_Foul_. O excellent unity of speech.

    _Enter Will, and Iacke at seuerall Doores_.

_Will_. Save ye, Knights.

_Ia_. Save you, Captaine.

_Foul_. Pages, welcome my fine Pages.

_Rud_. Welcome, boyes.

_Goos_. Welcome, sweet _Will_, good _Iacke_.

_Foul_. But how chaunce you are so farre from London now pages? is it
almost Dinner time?

_Wil_. Yes indeed Sir, but we left our fellowes to wait for once, and
cood not chuse in pure love to your worships, but we must needs come,
and meet you, before you mett our Ladies, to tell you a secret.

_Omnes_. A secret, what secret I pray thee?

_Ia_. If ever your worships say any thing, we are undone for ever.

_Omnes_. Not for a World beleeve it.

_Will_. Why then this it is; we over-heard our Ladies as they were
talking in private say, they refus'de to meet you at _Barnet_ this
morning of purpose, because they wood try which of you were most
patient.

_Ia_. And some said you, Sir _Gyles_, another you Sir [_Cutt_] and the
third you Captaine.

_Om_. This was excellent.

_Wil_. Then did they sweare one another not to excuse themselves to you
by any meanes, that they might try you the better; now if they shall see
you say nothing in the World to them what may come of it, when Ladies
begin to try their suters once, I hope your wisedomes can judge a
little.

_Foul_. O ho, my little knave, let us alone now yfaith; wood I might be
Casheird, if I say any thing.

_Rud_. Faith, and I can forbeare my Tongue as well as another, I hope.

_Goos_. Wood I might be degraded, if I speake a word, Ile tell them I
care not for loosing my labour.

_Foul_. Come Knights shall wee not reward the Pages?

_Rud_. Yes I prethee doe, sir _Gyles_ give the boyes something.

_Goos_. Never stirre, sir _Cutt_, if I have ever a groat about me but
one three pence.

_Foul_. Well Knights ile lay out fors all; here, my fine Pages.

_Wil_. No in deed, ant please your worship.

_Foul_. O Pages, refuse a Gentlemans bounty?

_Ia_. Cry you mercy, Sir; thanke you sweet Captaine.

_Foul_. And what other newes is stirring, my fine villiacos.

_Wil_. Marry Sir, they are invited to a great supper to night to your
Lords house, Captaine, the Lord _Furnifall_, and there will be your
great cosen Sir _Gyles Goosecappe_, the Lorde _Tales_, and your Vnckle,
Sir _Cutt. Rudesby_, Sir _Cutbert Kingcob_.

_Foul_. The Lord _Tales_, what countriman is he?

_Ia_. A kentish Lord, sir; his ancestors came forth off Canterbury.

_Foul_. Out of Canterbury.

_Wil_. Indeed, Sir, the best _Tales_ in England are your Canterbury
_Tales_, I assure ye.

_Rud_. The boy tels thee true Captaine.

_Ia_. He writes his name Sir, _Tales_, and he being the tenth sonne his
Father had; his Father Christned him _Decem Tales_, and so his whole
name is the Lord _Decem Tales_.

_Goos_. A my mortality the boy knowes more then I doe of our house.

_Rud_. But is the Ladie _Furnifall_ (Captaine) still of the same
drinking humor she was wont to be?

_Foul_. Still of the same, Knight, and is never in any sociable veine
till she be typsie, for in her sobriety she is madd, and feares my good
little old Lord out of all proportion.

_Rud_.[29] And therefore, as I heare, he will earnestly invite guests to
his house, of purpose to make his wife dronke, and then dotes on her
humour most prophanely.

_Foul_. Tis very true Knight; we will suppe with them to night; and you
shall see her; and now I thinke ont, ile tell you a thing Knights,
wherein perhaps you may exceedingly pleasure me.

_Goos_. What's that, good Captaine?

_Foul_. I am desirous to helpe my Lord to a good merry Foole, and if I
cood helpe him to a good merry one, he might doe me very much credit I
assure ye.

_Rud_. Sbloud thou speakest to us as if we cood serue thy turne.

_Foul_. O _Fraunce_, Sir _Cutt_. your Frenchman wood not have taken me
so, for a world, but because Fooles come into your companies many times
to make you merry.

_Rud_. As thou doest.

_Goos_. Nay good sir _Cut_. you know fooles doe come into your
companies.

_Rud_. I and thou knowst it too, no man better.

_Foul_. Beare off with Choller Sir _Gyles_.

_Wil_. But wood you helpe your Lord to a good foole so faine, Sir?

_Foul_. I, my good page exceeding faine.

_Ia_. You meane a wench, do you not, Sir? a foolish wench?

_Foul_. Nay I wood have a man foole, for his Lord; Page.

_Wil_. Does his Lord: love a foole, so well I pray?

_Foul_. Assure thy selfe, page, my Lord loves a foole, as he loves
himselfe.

_Ia_. Of what degree wood you have your Foole Sir? for you may have of
all manner of degrees.

_Foul_. Faith, I wood have him a good Emphaticall Foole, one that wood
make my Lord laugh well, and I carde not.

_Wil_. Laugh well (um): then we must know this, Sir, is your Lord
costive of laughter, or laxative of laughter?

_Foul_. Nay he is a good merry little Lord, and indeed sometimes
Laxative of Laughter.

_Wil_. Why then sir the lesse wit will serue his Lordships turne, marry
if he had bin costive of laughter he must have had two or three drams of
wit the more in his foole, for we must minister according to the
quantity of his Lord[ship's] humor, you know, and if he shood have as
much witt in his foole being laxative of laughter, as if he were costive
of Laughter, why he might laugh himselfe into an _Epilepsie_, and fall
down dead sodainly, as many have done with the extremity of that
passion; and I know your Lord cares for nothing, but the health of a
Foole.

_Foul_. Thart ith right, my notable good page.

_Ia_. Why, and for that health, sir, we will warrant his Lordship, that
if he should have all _Bacon_[30] _de sanitate tuenda_ read to him, it
shood not please his Lordship so well as our Foole shall.

_Foul_. Remercy, my more then English pages.

_Goos_. A my word I have not seene pages have so much wit, that have
never bin in _France_ Captaine.

_Foul_. Tis true indeed Sir _Gyles_, well then my almost french Elixers
will you helpe my Lord to a Foole so fit for him as you say.

_Wil_. As fit, Ile warrant you Captaine, as if he were made for him, and
he shall come this night to supper, and foole where his Lord: sits at
table.

_Foul_. Excellent fit, faile not now, my sweet pages.

_Ia_. Not for a world, sir, we will goe both and seeke him presently.

_Foul_. Doe so my good wagges.

_Wil_. Save you Knights.

_Ia_. Save you Captaine.
                            _Exeunt_.

_Foul_. Farewell, my pretty knaves; come, Knights, shall we resolve to
goe to this Supper?

_Rud_. What else?

_Goos_. And let's provide torches for our men to sit at dore withall,
Captaine.

_Foul_. That we will, I warrent you, sir _Giles_.

_Rud_. Torches? why the Moone will shine, man.

_Goos_. The Moone, sir _Cut_: I scorne the Moone yfaith. Slydd,
sometimes a man shall not get her to shine, and if he wood give her a
couple of Capons, and one of them must be white too. God forgive me, I
cud never abide her since yesterday, she seru'd me such a tricke tother
night.

_Rud_. What tricke, sir _Gyles_?

_Goos_. Why sir _Cut_. cause the daies be mortall, and short now you
know, and I love daie light well; I thought it went away faster than it
needed, and run after it into _Finsbury_-fieldes ith calme evening to
see the wind-Mils goe; and even as I was going over a Ditch the Moone by
this light of purpose runnes me behind a Cloud, and lets me fall into
the Ditch by Heaven.

_Rud_. That was ill done in her, indeed sir _Gyles_.

_Goos_. Ill done sir _Cut_? Slydd a man may beare, and beare, but, and
she have noe more good manners, but to make every blacke slovenly Cloud
a pearle in her eye I shall nere love English Moone againe, while I
live, Ile be sworne to ye.

_Foul_. Come, Knights, to London: Horse, Horse, Horse.

_Rud_. In what a case he is with the poor English Moone, because the
_French_ Moones (their Torches) will be the lesse in fashion, and I
warrent you the Captaine will remember it too: tho he say nothing, he
seconds his resolute chase so, and follows him, Ile lay my life you
shall see them the next cold night, shut the Mooneshine out of their
Chambers, and make it lie without Doores all night. I discredit my wit
with their company, now I thinke on't, plague a god on them; Ile fall a
beating on them presently.

                              [_Exit_.



[SCENE 2.]


    _Enter Lord Momford, and Clarence. Clarence, Horatio_.

_Cla_. Sing good _Horatio_, while I sigh, and write.
According to my master _Platos_ minde,
The soule is musicke, and doth therefore joy
In accents musicall, which he that hates
With points of discord is together tyed,
And barkes at _Reason_, Consonant in sense.
Divine _Eugenia_, beares the ocular forme
Of musicke, and of _Reason_, and presents
The soule exempt from flesh in flesh inflam'd[31];
Who must not love her then, that loves his soule?
To her I write; my friend, the starre[32] of friends
Will needs have my strange lines greet her strange eies
And for her sake ile power my poore Soule forth
In floods of inke; but did not his kinde hand
Barre me with violent grace, I wood consume
In the white flames of her impassionate love,
Ere my harsh lipps shood vent the odorous blaze.
For I am desperate of all worldly joyes,
And there was never man so harsh to men.
When I am fullest of digested life
I seeme a livelesse _Embrion_ to all,
Each day rackt up in night-like Funerall.
Sing, good _Horatio_, whilst I sigh, and write.

                    _Canto.

      The Letter.

  Suffer him to love that suffers not loving; my love
  is without passion, and therefore free from alteration._

Prose is too harsh, and Verse is Poetry.
Why shood I write; then? merrit[33] clad in inke
Is but a mourner, and as good as naked.
I will not write, my friend shall speake for me.
Sing one stave more, my good _Horatio_.

                    _Canto_.

I must remember I know whom I love
A dame of learning, and of life exempt
From all the idle fancies of her Sex,
And this, that to an other dame wood seeme
Perplext and foulded in a rudelesse[34] vaile,
Will be more cleere then ballads to her eye.
Ile write, if but to satisfie my friend.
Your third staunce sweet _Horatio_, and no more.

                    _Canto_.

How vainele doe I offer my strange love?
I marry, and bid states, and entertaine
Ladies with tales, and jests, and Lords with newes,
And keepe a House to feast _Acteons_ hounds
That eate their Master, and let idle guests
Draw me from serious search of things divine?
To bid them sit, and welcome, and take care
To sooth their pallats with choyce kitchin-stuff,
As all must doe that marry, and keepe House,
And then looke on the left side of my yoake
Or on the right perhaps, and see my wife
Drawe in a quite repugnant course from me,
Busied to starch her French purles, and her puffs,
When I am in my _Anima reflexa.
Quid est faelicitas? quae origo rerum_?
And make these beings that are knowne to be
The onely serious object of true men
Seeme shadowes, with substantiall stir she keeps
About her shadowes, which if husbands love
They must beleeve; and thus my other selfe
Brings me another body to dispose,
That have already much too much of one,
And must not looke for any Soule of her
To helpe to rule two bodies?

_Mom_. Fie for shame;
I never heard of such an antedame[35].
Doe women bring no helpe of soule to men?
Why, friend, they eyther are mens soules themselves,
Or the most witty Imitatrixes of them;
Or prettiest sweet apes of humaine Soules,
That ever Nature fram'd; as I will prove.
For first they be _Substantiae lucidae_,
And purer then mens bodies, like their soules,
Which mens harsh haires both of their brest and chinne
Occasioned by their grose and ruder heate
Plainely demonstrats: Then like soules they doe,
_Movere corpora_, for no power on Earth
Moves a mans body, as a woman does.
Then doe they _Dare formas corpori_,
Or adde faire formes to men, as their soules doe:
For but for women, who wood care for formes?
I vow I never wood wash face, nor hands,
Nor care how ragg'd, or slovenly I went,
Wer't not for women, who of all mens pompes
Are the true final causes: Then they make
Men in their Seedes immortall, like their soules,
That els wood perish in a spanne of time.
Oh! they be soule-like creatures, and my Neece
The soule of twenty rare soules stil'd in one.

_Cla_. That, that it is, my Lord, that makes me love.

_Mom_. Oh are ye come Sir, welcome to my Neece,
As I may say, at midnight; gentle friend,
What have you wrot I pray?

_Cla_. Strange stuffe my Lord.

_Mom_. Indeed the way to believe is to love
                      [_Hee reads and comments_.
And the right way to love is to believe.
This I will carry now with pen, and incke,
For her to use in answere; see, sweet friend,
She shall not stay to call, but while the steele
Of her affection is made softe and hott,
Ile strike, and take occasion by the brow.
Blest is the wooing thats not long a dooing.
                                          [_Exit_.

_Cla_. Had ever man so true, and noble friend?
Or wood men thinke this sharpe worlds freezing Aire
To all true honour and iuduciall love,
Wood suffer such a florishing pyne in both
To overlooke the boxe-trees of this time?
When the learn'd minde hath by impulsion wrought
Her eyes cleere fire into a knowing flame;
No elementall smoke can darken it,
Nor Northren coldnesse nyppe her _Daphnean_ Flower.
O sacred friendship, thanks to thy kinde power,
That being retir'd from all the faithlesse World,
Appear'st to me in my unworldly friend,
And for thine own sake let his noble minde,
By moving presedent to all his kinde,
(Like just _Deucalion_) of Earths stony bones
Repaire the World with humaine bloud and flesh,
And dying vertue with new life refresh.

                                         [_Exit_.




_Actvs Qvartvs_.


    _Enter Tales, Kingcob, Eugenia, Hippolyta, Penelope, Winnifred_.

_King_. Tis time to leave your Chests, Ladies; tis too studious an
exercise after Dinner.

_Tal_. Why is it cal'd Chests?

_Hip_. Because they leane upon their Chests that play at it.

_Tal_. I wood have it cald the strife of wits, for tis a game so witty,
that with strife for maisterie, we hunt it eagerly.

_Eug_. Specially where the wit of the _Goosecaps_ are in chase my Lord.

_Tal_. I am a _Goosecappe_ by the mothers side, Madam; at least my
mother was a _Goosecappe_.

_Pene_. And you were her white[36] sonne, I warrant my Lord.

_Tal_. I was the youngest, Lady, and therefore must bee her white sonne,
yee know; the youngest of ten I was.

_Hip_. And the wisest of Fifteene.

_Tal_. And sweet Lady will yee cast a kinde eye now upon my Cosin, Sir
_Gyles Goosecappe_.

_Pene_. Pardon my Lord, I have never a spare eye to cast away,
I assure ye.

_Tal_. I wonder you shood count it cast away, Ladie, uppon him; doe you
remember those fewe of his good parts I rehearst to you.

_Pene_. Verie perfectly, my Lord; amongst which one of them was, that he
is the best Sempster of any woman in England: pray lets see some of his
worke?

_Hip_. Sweet Lord, lets see him sowe a little.

_Tal_. You shall, a mine honour, Lady.

_Eug_. Hees a goodly greate Knight indeed; and a little needle in his
hand will become him prettelie.

_King_. From the _Spanish_ Pike to the _Spanish_ Needle, he shall play
with any Knight in England, Ladie.

_Eug_. But not _è converso_, from the _Spanish_ needle to the _Spanish_
Pike.

_King_. I thinke he be too wise for that indeed, Madam, for he has
twenty Miles length in land lies togeather, and he wood bee loath to
bring it all to the length of a Pike.

_Hip_. But no man commends my blount Servant sir _Cut. Rudesby_,
methinks.

_King_. Hee is a kinde Gentleman, Ladie, though hee bee blunt, and is of
this humour, the more you presume upon him without Ceremonie, the more
he loves you; if he know you thinke him kinde once, and will say nothing
but still use him, you may melt him into any kindnesse you will; he is
right like a woman, and had rather, you shood bluntlie take the greatest
favour you can of him, then shamefastly intreat it.

_Eug_. He saies well to you _Hippolita_.

_Hip_. I, Madam, but they saie, he will beat one in jest, and byte in
kindenesse, and teare ones ruffes in Courtshippe.

_King_. Some that he makes sport withall perhappes, but none that he
respects, I assure ye.

_Hip_. And what's his living sir _Cutbeard_?

_King_. Some two thousand a yeere, Ladie.

_Hip_. I pray doe not tell him that I ask't, for I stand not upon
living.

_King_. O good Ladie, who can live without living?

    _Enter Momford_.

_Mom_. Still heere, Lordings? good companions yfaith; I see you come not
for vittles.

_Tal_. Vittles, my Lord? I hope wee have vittles at home.

_Mom_. I, but, sweet Lord, there is a principle in the Polititians
physicke: Eat not[37] your meat upon other mens trenchers, and beware of
surfets of your owne coste. Manie good companions cannot abide to eate
meate at home, ye know. And how faires my noble Neece now, and her faire
Ladie Feeres[38]?

_Eug_. What winde blowes you hether, troe?

_Mom_. Harke you, Madam, the sweet gale of one _Clarences_ breath, with
this his paper sayle blowes me hether.

_Eug_. Aye me still, in that humour? beshrewe my heart, if I take anie
Papers from him.

_Mom_. Kinde bosome doe thou take it then.

_Eug_. Nay then never trust me.

_Mom_. Let it fall then or cast it away, you were best, that every body
may discover your love suits, doe; theres somebody neare, you note
it.--And how have you spent the time since Dinner, nobles?

_King_. At chests, my Lord.

_Mom_. Read it, Neece.

_Eug_. Heere, beare it backe, I pray.

_Mom_. I beare you on my backe to heare you. And how play the Ladies,
sir _Cuthberd_? what men doe they play best withall, with Knights or
rookes?

_Tal_. With Knights, my Lord.

_Mom_. T'is pitty their boord is no broader, and that some men called
guls are not added to their game.

_King_. Why, my Lo? it needs not, they make the Knights guls.

_Mom_. That's pretty, sir _Cuthbert_.--You have begon I know, Neece;
forth I command you.

_Eug_. O yare a sweet uncle.

_Mom_. I have brought here a little _Greeke_, to helpe mee out withall,
and shees so coy of her learning forsooth, she makes it strange.--Lords
and Ladies, I invite you all to supper to night, and you shall not deny
me.

_All_. We will attend your Lordshippe.

_Tal_. Come Ladies let's into the gallery a little.

                                             [_Exeunt_.

_Mom_. And now what saies mine owne deare Neece yfaith?

_Eug_. What shood she say to the backside of a paper?

_Mom_. Come, come, I know you have byn a' the belly side.

_Eug_. Now was there ever Lord so prodigall
Of his owne honour'd bloud, and dignity?

_Mom_. Away with these same horse-faire allegations; will you answer the
letter?

_Eug_. Gods my life, you goe like a cunning spokesman, answer uncle;
what, doe you thinke me desperate of a husband?

_Mom_. Not so, Neece; but carelesse of your poore Vncle.

_Eug_. I will not write, that's certaine.

_Mom_. What, wil you have my friend and I perish? doe you thirst our
blouds?

_Eug_. O yare in a mighty danger, noe doubt on't.

_Mom_. If you have our blouds, beware our ghosts, I can tell ye; come,
will ye write?

_Eug_. I will not write yfaith.

_Mom_. Yfaith dame, then I must be your secretary, I see; heres the
letter, come, doe you dictate, and ile write.

_Eug_. If you write no otherwise then I dictate, it will scarce prove a
kinde answer, I beleeve.

_Mom_. But you will be advis'de, I trust. Secretaries are of counsell
with their Countesses; thus it begins: _Suffer him to love, that suffers
not loving_. What answere you to that?

_Eug_. He loves extreamely that suffers not in love.

_Mom_. He answers you for that presently, his love is without passion,
and therefore free from alteration, for _Pati_ you know is _in
alterationem labi_; he loves you in his soule, he tels you, wherein
there is no passion. Saie dame what answer you?

_Eug_. Nay if I answere anie thing--

_Mom_. Why? very well, ile answer for you.

_Eug_. You answere? shall I set my hand to your answere?

_Mom_. I, by my faith shall ye.

_Eug_. By my faith, but you shall answere as I wood have you then.

_Mom_. Alwaies put in with advice of your secretary, Neece, come, what
answere you?

_Eug_. Since you needes will have my Answere, Ile answere briefely to
the first, and last part of his letter.

_Mom_. Doe so, Neece; and leave the midst for himselfe a gods name: what
is your answeare?

_Eug_. _I cannot but suffer you to love, if you doe love_.

_Mom_. Why very good, there it is,--_and will requite your love_; say
you so?    [_He writes, and she dictates_.

_Eug_. Beshrowe my lipps then, my Lord.

_Mom_. Beshrowe my fingers but you shall; what, you may promise to
requite his love, and yet not promise him marriage, I hope; well,--
_and will requite your love_.

_Eug_. Nay good my Lord, hold your hand, for ile be sworne, ile not set
my hand too't.

_Mom_. Well hold off your hand, good Madam, till it shood come on, Ile
be ready for it anon, I warrent ye. Now forth,--my love is without
passion, and therefore free from alteration: what answere you to that
Madam?

_Eug_. Even this, my Lord: _your love, being mentall, needs no bodily
Requitall_.

_Mom_. I am content with that, and here it is;--_but in hart_.

_Eug_. What but in hart?

_Mom_. Hold off your hand yet I say;--_I doe embrace, and repay it_.

_Eug_. You may write, uncle, but if you get my hand to it--

_Mom_. Alas Neece, this is nothing, ist anything to a bodily marriage,
to say you love a man in soule, if your harts agree, and your bodies meet
not? simple marriage rites, now let us foorth: he is in the way to
felicity, and desires your hand.

_Eug_. _My hand shall alwaies signe the way to felicity_.

_Mom_. Very good; may not any woman say this now. Conclude now, sweet
Neece.

_Eug_. _And so God prosper your journey_.

_Mom_. Charitably concluded, though farre short of that love I wood have
showen to any friend of yours, Neece, I sweare to you. Your hand now,
and let this little stay his appetite.

_Eug_. Read what you have writ my Lord.

_Mom_. What needs that, Madam? you remember it, I am sure.

_Eug_. Well if it want sense in the Composition, let my secretary be
blam'd for't; thers my hand.

_Mom_. Thanks, gentle Neece; now ile reade it.

_Eug_. Why now, more then before I pray?

_Mom_. That you shall see straite.--_I cannot but suffer you to love if
you doe love, and will requite your love_.

_Eug_. Remember that requitall was of your owne putting in, but it shall
be after my fashion, I warrant ye.

_Mom_. Interrupt me no more.--_Your love being mentall needs no bodily
requitall, but in hart I embrace, and repay it; my hand shall alwaies
signe the way to felicity, and my selfe knit with you in the bands of
marriage ever walke with you, in it, and so God prosper our journey:
                                                       Eugenia_.

_Eug_. Gods me life, tis not thus I hope.

_Mom_. By my life but it is, Neece.

_Eug_. By my life but tis none of my deed then.

_Mom_. Doe you use to set your hand to that which is not your deed; your
hand is at it, Neece, and if there be any law in England, you shall
performe it too.

_Eug_. Why? this is plaine dishonoured deceit.
Does all your truest kindnes end in law?

_Mom_. Have patience Neece, for what so ere I say,
Onely the lawes of faith, and thy free love
Shall joyne my friend and thee, or naught at all.
By my friends love, and by this kisse it shall.

_Eug_. Why, thus did false _Acontius_ snare _Cydippe_.

_Mom_. Indeed, deere love, his wile was something like,
And then tis no unheard of treachery,
That was enacted in a goddes Eye:
_Acontius_ worthy love feard not _Diana_
Before whom he contriv'd this sweet deceite.

_Eug_. Well there you have my hand, but ile be sworne
I never did thing so against my will.

_Mom_. T'will prove the better, Madam, doubt it not.
And to allay the billows of your bloud,
Rais'd with my motion bold and opposite,
Deere Neece, suppe with me, and refresh your spirites:
I have invited your companions,
With the two guests that din'd with you to daie,
And will send for the old Lord _Furnifall_,
The Captaine, and his mates, and (tho at night)
We will be merry as the morning _Larke_.

_Eug_. No, no my Lord, you will have _Clarence_ there.

_Mom_. Alas poore Gentleman, I must tell you now,
He's extreame sicke, and was so when he writt,
Tho he did charge me not to tell you so;
And for the World he cannot come abroade.

_Eug_. Is this the man that without passion loves?

_Mom_. I doe not tell you he is sicke with love;
Or if he be, tis wilfull passion.
Which he doth choose to suffer for your sake,
And cood restraine his sufferance with a thought,
Vppon my life, he will not trouble you;
And therefore, worthy Neece, faile not to come.

_Eug_. I will on that condition.

_Mom_.                           Tis perform'd.
For were my friend well, and cood comfort me,
I wood not now intreate your company,
But one of you I must have, or I die:
Oh such a friend is worth a monarchy.

                                     [_Exeunt_.



(SCENE 2.)


    _Enter Lord Furnifall, Rudsbie, Goosecappe, Foulweather, Bullaker_.

_Fur_. Nay, my gallants, I will tell you more.

_All_. Forth, good my Lord.

_Fur_. The evening came, and then our waxen starres
Sparkled about the heavenly Court of _Fraunce_,
When I then young and radiant as the sunne
Gave luster to those lamps, and curling thus
My golden foretoppe stept into the presence,
Where set with other princely Dames I found
The Countesse of _Lancalier_, and her neece,
Who as I told you cast so fix'd an eye
On my behaviours, talking with the King.

_All_. True, my good Lord.

_Fur_. They rose when I came in, and all the lights
Burn'd dim for shame, when I stood up, and shin'd.

_Foul_. O most passionate description, sir _Cutt_.

_Rud_. True, of a candles end.

_Goos_. The passingst description of a candle that ever lived,
sir _Cutt_.

_Fur_. Yet aym'd I not at them, nor seemed to note
What grace they did me, but found courtly cause
To talke with an accomplisht gentleman
New come from Italy; in quest of newes
I spake _Italian_ with him.

_Rud_. What so young?

_Fur_. _O rarissime volte cadono nel parlar nostro familiare_.

_Foul_. Slid, a cood speake it, Knight, at three yeeres old.

_Fur_. Nay, gentle Captaine, doe not set me forth;
I love it not, in truth I love it not.

_Foul_. Slight, my Lord, but truth is truth, you know.

_Goos_. I dare ensure your Lordship, Truth is truth, and I have heard in
_France_, they speake _French_ as well as their mother tongue, my Lord.

_Fur_. Why tis their mother tongue, my noble Knight.
But (as I tell you) I seem'd not to note
The Ladies notes of me, but held my talke,
With that Italionate Frenchman, and tooke time
(Still as our conference serv'd) to shew my Courtship
In the three quarter legge, and setled looke,
The quicke kisse of the top of the forefinger,
And other such exploytes of good Accost;
All which the Ladies tooke into their eyes
With such attention that their favours swarm'd
About my bosome, in my hart, mine eares,
In skarffes about my thighes, upon mine armes
Thicke on my wristes, and thicker on my hands,
And still the lesse I sought, the more I found.
All this I tell to this notorious end,
That you may use your Courtship with lesse care
To your coy mistresses; As when we strike
A goodly Sammon, with a little line,
We doe not tugge to hale her up by force,
For then our line wood breake, and our hooke lost;
But let her carelesse play alongst the streame,
As you had left her, and sheele drowne her selfe.

_Foul_. A my life a most rich comparison.

_Goos_. Never stirre if it be not a richer Caparison then my Lorde my
Cosin wore at Tilt, for that was brodred with nothing but moone-shine
ith the water, and this has Sammons in't; by heaven a most edible
Caparison.

_Ru_. Odious thou woodst say, for Comparisons are odious.

_Foul_. So they are indeed, sir _Cut_., all but my Lords.

_Goos_. Be Caparisons odious, sir _Cut_; what, like flowers?

_Rud_. O asse they be odorous.[39]

_Goos_. A botts a that stincking word odorous, I can never hitt on't.

_Fur_. And how like you my Court-counsell, gallants, ha?

_Foul_. Out of all proportion excellent, my Lord; and beleeve it, for
Emphaticall Courtship, your Lordship puts downe all the Lords of the
Court.

_Fur_. No, good Captaine, no.

_Foul_. By _France_ you doe, my Lord, for Emphaticall Courtship.

_Fur_. For Emphaticall Courtship indeed I can doe somewhat.

_Foul_. Then does your merry entertainment become you so festifally,
that you have all the bravery of a Saint _Georges_ Day about ye, when
you use it.

_Fur_. Nay thats too much, in sadnesse, Captaine.

_Goos_. O good, my Lord, let him prayse you, what so ere it costs your
Lordship.

_Foul_. I assure your Lordship, your merry behaviour does so festifally
show upon you, that every high holliday, when Ladies wood be most
beautifull, every one wishes to God she were turnd into such a little
Lord as you, when y'are merry.

_Goos_. By this fire they doe my Lord, I have heard am.

_Fur_. Marry God forbid, Knight, they shood be turnd into me; I had
rather be turnd into them, a mine honour.

_Foul_. Then for your Lordships quips, and quicke jests, why _Gesta
Romanorum_ were nothing to them, a my vertue.

_Fur_. Well, well, well, I will heare thee no more, I will heare thee
no more, good Captaine. Tha's an excellent wit, and thou shalt have
Crownes, a mine honour, and now Knights, and Captaine, the foole you
told me off, do you all know him?

_Goos_. I know him best my Lord.

_Fur_. Doe you sir _Gyles_? to him then, good Knight, and be here with
him and here, and here, and here againe; I meane paint him unto us sir
_Gyles_, paint him lively, lively now, my good Knightly boy.

_Goos_. Why my good Lord? he will nere be long from us, because we are
all mortall you know.

_Fur_. Very true.

_Goos_. And as soone as ever we goe to Dinner, and Supper together--

_Rud_. Dinner and supper together, whens that troe?

_Goos_. A will come you in amongst us, with his Cloake buttond, loose
under his chinne.

_Rud_. Buttond loose, my Lord?

_Goos_. I my Lord, buttond loose still, and both the flaps cast over
before both his shoulders afore him.

_Rud_. Both shoulders afore him?

_Fur_. From before him he meanes; forth good sir _Gyles_.

_Goos_. Like a potentate, my Lord?

_Rud_. Much like a Potentate indeed.

_Goos_. For all the world like a Potentate, sir _Cut_. ye know.

_Rud_. So Sir.

_Goos_. All his beard nothing but haire.

_Rud_. Or something else.

_Goos_. Or something else as you say.

_Foul_. Excellent good.

_Goos_. His Mellons, or his Apricocks, Orrenges alwaies in an uncleane
hand-kerchiffe, very cleanely, I warrant you, my Lord.

_Fur_. A good neate foole, sir _Gyles_, of mine honour.

_Goose_. Then his fine words that he sets them in, concaticall, a fine
Annisseede wench foole, upon ticket, and so forth.

_Fur_. Passing strange words beleeve me.

_Goos_. Knoth every man at the table, though he never saw him before, by
sight, and then will he foole you so finely my Lord, that he will make
your hart ake, till your eyes runne over.

_Fur_. The best that ever I heard, pray mercy, good Knight, for thy
merry description. Captaine, I give thee twenty companies of
commendations, never to be cashierd.

    _Enter Iacke, and Will on the other side_.

_Am_. Save your Lordship.

_Fur_. My pretty cast-of _Merlins_,[40] what prophecies with your little
maestershippes?

_Ia_. Things that cannot come to passe my Lord, the worse our fortunes.

_Foul_. Why, whats the matter Pages?

_Rud_. How now, my Ladies foysting[41] hounds.

_Goos_. M. _Iacke_, M. _Ia_. how do ye M. _William_? frolicke?

_Wil_. Not so frolicke, as you left us, sir _Gyles_.

_Fur_. Why wags, what news bring you a Gods name?

_Ia_. Heavy newes indeed, my Lord, pray pardon us.

_Fur_. Heavy newes? not possible your little bodies cood bring am then,
unload those your heavy newes, I beseech ye.

_Wil_. Why my Lord the foole we tooke for your Lord: is thought too wise
for you, and we dare not present him.

_Goos_. Slydd Pages, youle not cheates of our foole, wil ye?

_Ia_. Why, sir _Gyles_, hees too dogged, and bitter for you in truth; we
shall bring you a foole to make you laugh, and he shall make all the
World laugh at us.

_Wil_. I indeed, sir _Gyles_, and he knowes you so wel too.

_Gyles_. Know me? slight he knowes me no more then the begger knowes his
dish.[42]

_Ia_. Faith he begs you to be content, sir _Gyles_, for he wil not come.

_Goos_. Beg me? slight, I wood I had knowne that, tother Day, I thought
I had met him in Paules, and he had bin any body else but a piller, I
wood have runne him through by heaven: beg me?

_Foul_. He begges you to be content, sir _Gyles_; that is, he praies
you.

_Goos_. O does he praise me then I commend him.

_Fur_. Let this unsutable foole goe, sir _Gyles_; we will make shift
without him.

_Goos_. That we wil, a my word, my Lord, and have him too for all this.

_Wil_. Doe not you say so, sir _Gyles_, for to tell you true that foole
is dead.

_Goos_. Dead? slight that can not be, man; I know he wood ha writ to me
ant had byn so.

_Fur_. Quick or dead, let him goe, sir _Giles_.

_Ia_. I, my Lord, for we have better newes for you to harken after.

_Fur_. What are they, my good Novations?

_Ia_. My Lord _Momford_ intreates your Lordship, and these knights and
captaine to accompany the Countesse _Eugenia_, and the other two Ladies,
at his house at supper to night.

_Wil_. All desiring your Lo: to pardon them, for not eating your meat to
night.

_Fur_. Withall my hart wagges, and thers amends; my harts, now set your
courtshippe a' the last, a the tainters, and pricke up your selves for
the Ladies.

_Goos_. O brave sir _Cut_: come lets pricke up the Ladies.

_Fur_. And will not the Knights two noble kinsemen be there?

_Ia_. Both will be there, my Lord.

_Fur_. Why theres the whole knot of us then, and there shall we knocke
up the whole triplicitie of your nuptials.

_Goos_. Ile make my Lord my Cosin speake for me.

_Foul_. And your Lordship will be for me I hope.

_Fur_. With tooth and naile Captaine, a my Lord[ship].

_Rud_. Hang am Tytts! ile pommell my selfe into am.

_Ia_. Your Lo: your Cosin, sir _Gyles_, has promist the Ladies they
shall see you sowe.

_Goos_. Gods me, wood I might never be mortall, if I doe not carry my
worke with me.

_Fur_. Doe so sir _Gyles_, and withall use meanes
To taint their high blouds with the shafte of Love.
Sometimes a fingers motion wounds their mindes:
A jest, a jesture, or a prettie laugh:
A voyce, a present; ah, things done ith nicke
Wound deepe, and sure; and let flie your gold,
And we shall nuptialls have, hold, belly, hold.

_Goos_. O rare sir _Cut_. we shall eate nut-shells: hold, belly, hold!

                                      [_Exeunt_.

_Ia_.--O pittifull Knight, that knowes not nuptialls from nut-shells!

_Wil_. And now _Comme porte vous, monsieur_!

_Bul_. _Porte bien, vous remercy_.

_Ia_. We may see it indeed, Sir, and you shall goe afore with us.

_Bul_. No good _monsieurs_.

_Wil_. Another Crashe in my Ladies Celler yfaith, _monsieur_.

_Bul_. _Remercy de bon ceur, monsieurs_.

                               [_Exeunt_.



(SCENE 3.)


    _Enter Clarence, Momford_.

_Mom_. How now, my friend? does not the knowing beames,
That through thy common sence glaunce through thy eyes,
To read that letter, through thine eyes retire
And warme thy heart with a triumphant fire?

_Cla_. My Lord, I feele a treble happines
Mix in one soule, which proves how eminent
Things endlesse are above things temporall,
That are in bodies needefully confin'de:
I cannot suffer their dimensions pierst,
Where my immortall part admits expansure,
Even to the comprehension of two more
Commixt substantially with her meere selfe.

_Mom_. As how my strange, and riddle-speaking friend?

_Cla_. As thus, my Lord; I feele my owne minds joy,
As it is separate from all other powers,
And then the mixture of an other soule
Ioyn'de in direction to one end, like it;
And thirdly the contentment I enjoy,
As we are joynd, that I shall worke that good
In such a noble spirit as your Neece,
Which in my selfe I feele for absolute;
Each good minde dowbles his owne free content,
When in an others use they give it vent.

_Mom_. Said like my friend, and that I may not wrong
Thy full perfections with an emptier grace,
Then that which show presents to thy conceits,
In working thee a wife worse then she seemes;
Ile tell thee plaine a secret which I know.
My Neece doth use to paint herselfe with white,
Whose cheekes are naturally mixt with redd,
Either because she thinks pale-lookes moves most:
Or of an answereable nice affect
To other of her modest qualities;
Because she wood not with the outward blaze
Of tempting beauty tangle wanton eies;
And so be troubled with their tromperies:
Which construe as thou wilt, I make it knowne,
That thy free comment may examine it,
As willinger to tell truth of my Neece,
Then in the least degree to wrong my friend.

_Cla_. A jealous part of friendship you unfold;
For was it ever seene that any Dame
Wood change of choice a well mixt white and red
For bloodles palenes, if she striv'd to move?
Her painting then is to shun motion,
But if she mended some defects with it,
Breedes it more hate then other ornaments;
(Which to suplie bare nature) Ladies weare?
What an absurd thing is it to suppose;
(If nature made us either lame or sick,)
We wood not seeke for sound limmes, or for health
By Art the Rector of confused Nature?
So in a face, if Nature be made lame,
Then Art can make it, is it more offence
To helpe her want there then in other limmes?
Who can give instance where Dames faces lost
The priviledge their other parts may boast.

_Mom_. But our most Court received Poets saies,
That painting is pure chastities abator.

_Cla_. That was to make up a poore rime to Nature.
And farre from any judgment it confered
For lightnes comes from harts, and not from lookes,
And if inchastity possesse the hart;
Not painting doth not race it, nor being cleare
Doth painting spot it:
_Omne bonum naturaliter pulchrum_.
For outward fairenes beares the divine forme,
And moves beholders to the Act of love;
And that which moves to love is to be wisht,
And each thing simply to be wisht is good.
So I conclude mere painting of the face
A lawful and a commendable grace.

_Mom_. What paradox dost thou defend in this?
And yet through thy cleare arguments I see
Thy speach is farre exempt from flatterie;
And how illiterate custome groslie erres
Almost in all traditions she preferres.
Since then the doubt I put thee of my Neece,
Checks not thy doubtlesse love, forth my deare friend,
And to add[43] force to those impressions,
That now have caru'd her phantasie with love,
I have invited her to supper heere.
And told her thou art most extreamly sick,
Which thou shalt counterfeit with all thy skill.

_Cla_. Which is exceeding smale to conterfeit.

_Mom_. Practise a little, love will teach it thee;
And then shall _Doctor Versey_ the physitian,
Come to thee while her selfe is in my house,
Whith whom as thou confer'st of thy disease,
He bring my Neece with all the Lords, and Ladies
Within your hearing, under fain'd pretext
To shew the Pictures that hang neere thy Chamber;
Where when thou hearst my voyce, know she is there,
And therefore speake that which may stir her thoughts,
And make her flie into thy opened armes.
Ladies, whom true worth cannot move to ruth,
Trew lovers must deceive to shew their truth.

                                    [_Exeunt_.

_Finis Actus Quarti_.




_Actvs Qvinti_.

SCENA PRIMA.


    _Enter Momford, Furnifall, Tales, Kingcob, Rudesbie, Goosecap,
    Foulweather, Eugenia, Hippolyta, Penelope, Winnifred_.

_Mom_. Where is sir _Gyles Goose-cappe_ here?

_Goos_. Here my Lord.

_Mom_. Come forward, Knight; t'is you that the Ladies admire at working,
a mine honour.

_Goos_. A little at once my Lorde for idlenes sake.

_Fur_. Sir _Cut_, I say, to her Captaine.

_Penel_. Come good servant let's see what you worke.

_Goos_. Why looke you, Mistris, I am makeing a fine dry sea, full of
fish, playing in the bottome, and here ile let in the water so lively,
that you shall heare it rore.

_Eug_. Not heare it, sir _Gyles_?

_Goos_. Yes in sooth, Madam, with your eyes.

_Tal_. I, Lady; for when a thing is done so exceedingly to the life, as
my Knightly cosen does it, the eye oftentimes takes so strong a heede of
it, that it cannot containe it alone, and therefore the eare seemes to
take part with it.

_Hip_. That's a verie good reason, my Lord.

_Mom_. What a jest it is, to heare how seriouslie he strives to make his
foolish kinsmans answeres wise ones?

_Pene_. What shall this be, servant?

_Goos_. This shall be a great Whale, Mistris, at all his bignesse
spouting huge Hils of salt-water afore him, like a little water squirt,
but you shall not neede to feare him Mistris, for he shal be silke, and
gould, he shall doe you noe harme, and he be nere so lively.

_Pene_. Thanke you, good servant.

_Tal_. Doe not thinke, Lady, but he had neede tell you this a forehand:
for, a mine honour, he wrought me the monster _Caucasus_ so lively, that
at the first sight I started at it.

_Mom_. The monster _Caucasus_? my Lord, _Caucasus_ is a Mountaine;
_Cacus_ you meane.

_Tal_. _Cacus_ indeede, my Lord, crie you mercie.

_Goos_. Heere ile take out your eye, and you wil Mistris.

_Pene_. No by my faith, Servant, t'is better in.

_Goos_. Why, Ladie, Ile but take it out in jest, in earnest.

_Pene_. No, something else there, good servant.

_Goos_. Why then here shall be a Camell, and he shall have hornes, and
he shall looke for all the World like a maide without a husband.

_Hip_. O bitter sir _Giles_.

_Ta_. Nay he has a drie wit, Ladie, I can tell ye.

_Pene_. He bobd me there indeed, my Lord.

_Fur_. Marry him, sweet Lady, to answere his bitter bob.

_King_. So she maie answere him with hornes indeed.

_Eug_. See what a pretty worke he weares in his boote-hose.

_Hip_. Did you worke them your selfe, sir _Gyles_, or buy them?

_Goos_. I bought am for nothing, Madam, in th'exchange.

_Eug_. Bought am for nothing?

_Tal_. Indeed, Madam, in th'exchange they so honour him for his worke,
that they will take nothing for any thing he buies on am; but wheres the
rich night-cap you wroght, cosen? if it had not bin too little for you,
it was the best peece of worke, that ever I sawe.

_Goos_. Why, my Lord, t'was bigge enough; when I wrought it, for I wore
pantables then you knowe.

_Tal_. Indeed the warmer a man keepes his feete the lesse he needs weare
uppon his head.

_Eug_. You speake for your kinsman the best that ever I heard, my Lord.

_Goos_. But I beleeve, Madam, my Lord my cosen has not told you all my
good parts.

_Ta_. I told him so I warrant you, cosen.

_Hip_. What doe you thinke hee left out sir _Gyles_?

_Goos_. Marry, Madam, I can take _Tobacco_ now, and I have bought
glow-wormes to kindle it withall, better then all the burning glasses
ith World.

_Eug_. Glowe-wormes, sir _Giles_? will they make it burne?

_Goos_. O good Madam, I feed am with nothing but fire, a purpose, Ile
besworne they eat me five Faggots a-weeke in Charcoale.

_Tal_. Nay he has the strangest devices, Ladies, that ever you heard,
I warrent ye.

_Fur_. That's a strange device indeed, my Lord.

_Hip_. But your sowing, sir _Gyles_, is a most gentlewoman-like quality,
I assure you.

_Pene_. O farr away, for now, servant, you neede never marry, you are
both husband, and wife your selfe.

_Goos_. Nay indeed, mistris, I wood faine marry for all that, and ile
tell you my reason, if you will.

_Pene_. Let's here it good servant.

_Goos_. Why, Madam, we have a great match at football towards, married
men against batchellers, and the married men be all my friends, so I
wood faine marry to take the married mens parts in truth.

_Hip_. The best reason for marriage that ever I heard sir _Gyles_.

_Goos_. I pray will you keepe my worke a little, Mistris; I must needes
straine a little courtesie in truth.    [_Exit Sir Gyles_.

_Hip_. Gods my life, I thought he was a little to blame.

_Rud_. Come, come, you he[a]re not me, dame.

_Pur_. Well said, sir _Cut_: to her now; we shall heare fresh courting.

_Hip_. Alas, sir _Cut_, you are not worth the hearing, every body saies
you cannot love, howsoever you talke on't.

_Rud_. Not love, dame? slidd what argument woodst have of my love, tro?
lett me looke as redde as Scarlet a fore I see thee, and when thou comst
in sight if the sunne of thy beauty, doe not white me like a shippards
holland, I am a _Iewe_ to my Creator.

_Hip_. O excellent!

_Rud_. Let me burst like a Tode, if a frowne of thy browe has not turned
the very heart in my bellie and made mee readie to be hangd by the
heeles for a fortnight to bring it to the right againe.

_Hip_. You shood have hangd longer sir _Cut_: tis not right yet.

_Rud_. Zonnes, bid me cut off the best lymme of my body for thy love,
and ile lai't in thy hand to prove it. Doost thinke I am no Christian,
have I not a soule to save?

_Hip_. Yes tis to save yet I warrant it, and wilbe while tis a soule if
you use this.

_Fur_. Excellent Courtship of all hands, only my Captaines Courtship, is
not heard yet. Good Madam give him favour to court you with his voyce.

_Eug_. What shood he Court me withall else, my Lord?

_Mom_. Why, I hope Madam there be other things to Court Ladies withall
besides voyces.

_Fur_. I meane with an audible sweete song Madam.

_Eug_. With all my heart my Lord, if I shall bee so much indebted
to him.

_Foul_. Nay I will be indebted to your eares Ladie for hearing me sound
musicke.

_Fur_. Well done Captaine, prove as it wil now.

    _Enter Messenger_.

_Me_. My Lord, Doctor _Versey_ the Physitian is come to see master
_Clarence_.

_Mom_. Light, and attend him to him presently.

_Fur_. To Master _Clarence_? what is your friend sicke?

_Mom_. Exceeding sicke.

_Tal_. I am exceeding sorrie.

_King_. Never was sorrow worthier bestowed
Then for the ill state of so good a man.

_Pene_. Alas poore Gentleman; good my Lord lets see him.

_Mom_. Thankes gentle Ladie, but my friend is loth
To trouble Ladies since he cannot quitt them.
With anything he hath that they respect.

_Hip_. Respect, my Lord! I wood hold such a man
In more respect then any Emperour:
For he cood make me Empresse of my selfe
And in mine owne rule comprehend the World.

_Mom_. How now young Dame? what sodainly inspird?
This speech hath silver haires, and reverence askes,
And sooner shall have duty done of me,
Then any pompe in temperall Emperie.

_Hip_. Good Madam get my Lord to let us greet him.

_Eug_. Alas we shall but wrong and trouble him.
His Contemplations greet him with most welcome.

_Fur_. I never knew a man of so sweet a temper,
So soft and humble, of so high a Spirit.

_Mom_. Alas, my noble Lord, he is not rich,
Nor titles hath, nor in his tender cheekes
The standing lake of Impudence corrupts;
Hath nought in all the World, nor nought wood have,
To grace him in the prostituted light.
But if a man wood consort with a soule
Where all mans Sea of gall and bitternes
Is quite evaporate with her holy flames,
And in whose powers a Dove-like innocence
Fosters her own deserts, and life and death
Runnes hand in hand before them, all the Skies
Cleere, and transparent to her piercing eyes,
Then wood my friend be something, but till then
A _Cipher_, nothing, or the worst of men.

_Foul_. Sweet Lord, lets goe visit him.

    _Enter Goose-cappe_.

_Goos_. Pray, good my Lord, what's that you talke on?

_Mom_. Are you come from your necessarie busines, Sir _Gyles_? we talke
of the visiting of my sicke friend _Clarence_.

_Goos_. O good my Lord lets visite him, cause I knowe his brother.

_Hip_. Know his brother, nay then Count doe not denie him.

_Goos_. Pray my Lord whether was eldest, he or his elder brother?

_Mom_. O! the younger brother eldest while you live, sir _Gyles_.

_Goos_. I say so still my Lord, but I am so borne downe with truth, as
never any Knight ith world was I thinke.

_Ta_. A man wood thinke he speakes simply now; but indeed it is in the
will of the parents, to make which child they will youngest, or eldest:
For often we see the youngest inherite, wherein he is eldest.

_Eug_. Your logicall wit my Lord is able to make any thing good.

_Mom_. Well come sweet Lords, and Ladies, let us spend
The time till supper-time with some such sights,
As my poore house is furnished withall,
Pictures, and jewels; of which implements,
It may be I have some will please you much.

_Goos_, Sweet Lord, lets see them.

                                 [_Exeunt_.


[SCENE 2.]


    _Enter Clarence, and Doctor_.

_Do_. I thinke your disease sir, be rather of the minde then the body.

_Cla_. Be there diseases of the minde _Doctor_?

_Do_. No question sir, even as there be of the body.

_Cla_. And cures for them too?

_Do_. And cures for them too, but not by Physick.

_Cla_. You will have their diseases, greifes? will you not?

_Do_. Yes, oftentimes.

_Cla_. And doe not greifes ever rise out of passions?

_Do_. Evermore.

_Cla_. And doe not passions proceed from corporall distempers?

_Do_. Not the passions of the minde, for the minde many times is sicke,
when the bodie is healthfull.

_Cla_. But is not the mindes-sicknes of power to make the body sicke?

_Do_. In time, certaine.

_Cla_. And the bodies ill affections able to infect the mind?

_Do_. No question.

_Cla_. Then if there be such a naturall commerce of Powers betwixt them,
that the ill estate of the one offends the other, why shood not the
medicines for one cure the other?

_Do_. Yet it will not you see. _Hei mihi quod nullis amor est
medicabilis herbis_.[44]

_Cla_. Nay then, Doctor, since you cannot make any reasonable Connexion
of these two contrarieties the minde, and the body, making both subiect
to passion, wherein you confound the substances of both, I must tell you
there is no disease of the minde but one, and that is _Ignorance_.

_Do_. Why what is love? is not that a disease of the mind?

_Cla_. Nothing so: for it springs naturally out of the bloode, nor are
we subject to any disease, or sorrowe, whose causes or effects simply
and natively concerne the body, that the minde by any meanes partaketh,
nor are there any passions in the soule, for where there are no
affections, there are no passions: And _Affectus_ your Master _Galen_
refers _parti irascenti_, For _illic est anima sentiens ubi sunt
affectus_: Therefore the Rationall Soule cannot be there also.

_Do_. But you know we use to say, my minde gives me this or that, even
in those addictions that concerne the body.

_Cla_. We use to say so indeed, and from that use comes the abuse of all
knowledge and her practice, for when the object in question only
concerns the state of the body; why shood the soule bee sorry or glad
for it? if she willingly mixe her selfe, then she is a foole, if of
necessity, and against her will, a slave, and so, far from that wisdome
and freedome that the Empresse of Reason and an eternall Substance shood
comprehend.

_Do_. Divinely spoken, Sir, but verie Paradoxicallie.

    _Enter Momford, Tales, Kingcob, Furnif; Rudes, Goos: Foul:
    Eugenia, Penelope, Hippolyta, Winnifred_.

_Mom_. Who's there?

[_Fur_.?] I, my Lord.

_Mom_. Bring hether the Key of the gallery, me thought
I heard the Doctor, and my friend.

_Fur_. I did so sure.

_Mom_. Peace then a while, my Lord,
We will be bold to evesdroppe; For I know
My friend is as respective in his Chamber
And by himselfe, of any thing he does
As in a _Criticke Synods_ curious eyes,
Following therein _Pythagoras_ golden rule--
_Maximè omnium teipsum reverere_.

_Cla_. Know you the Countesse _Eugenia_, Sir?

_Do_. Exceeding wel, Sir; she's a good learned scholler.

_Cla_. Then I perceive you know her well indeed.

_Do_. Me thinks you two shood use much conference.

_Cla_. Alas sir, we doe verie seldome meet,
For her estate and mine are so unequall,
And then her knowledge passeth mine so farre,
That I hold much too sacred a respect,
Of her high vertues to let mine attend them.

_Do_. Pardon me, Sir, this humblenes cannot flowe
Out of your judgment but from passion.

_Cla_. Indeed I doe account that passion
The very high perfection of my minde,
That is excited by her excellence,
And therefore willingly, and gladly feele it.
For what was spoken of the most chast Queene
Of rich _Pasiaca_ [?] may be said of her.
_Moribus Antevenit sortem[45], virtutibus Annos,
Sexum animo, morum Nobilitate Genus_.

_Do_. A most excellent _Distick_.

_Mom_. Come, Lords, away, lets not presume too much
Of a good nature; not for all I have
Wood I have him take knowledge of the wrong
I rudely offer him: come then ile shew
A few rare jewels to your honour'd eyes;
And then present you with a common supper.

_Goos_. Iewells, my Lord? why is not this candlesticke one of your
jewells pray?

_Mom_. Yes marry is it, sir _Gyles_, if you will.

_Goos_. Tis a most fine candlesticke in truth, it wants nothing but
the languages.

_Pene_. The languages servant why the languages?

_Goos_. Why Mistris; there was a lattin candlesticke here afore, and
that had the languages I am sure.

_Tal_. I thought he had a reason for it Lady.

_Pene_. I, and a reason of the Sunne too, my Lord, for his father wood
have bin ashamed on't.
                          [_Exeunt_.

_Do_. Well, master _Clarence_, I perceive your minde
Hath so incorparate it selfe with flesh
And therein rarified that flesh to spirit,
That you have need of no Physitians helpe.
But, good Sir, even for holy vertues health
And grace of perfect knowledge, doe not make
Those ground workes of eternity you lay
Meanes to your ruine, and short being here:
For the too strict and rationall Course you hold
Will eate your body up; and then the World,
Or that small poynt of it where vertue lives,
Will suffer Diminution: It is now
Brought almost to a simple unity,
Which is (as you well know) _Simplicior puncto_.
And if that point faile once, why, then alas
The unity must onely be suppos'd.
Let it not faile then, most men else have sold it;
Tho you neglect your selfe, uphould it.
So with my reverend love I leave you sir.    [_Exit_.

_Cla_. Thanks, worthy Doctour, I do amply quite you;
I proppe poore vertue, that am propt my selfe,
And only by one friend in all the World!
For vertues onely sake I use this wile,
Which otherwise I wood despise, and scorne.
The World should sinke, and all the pompe she hugs
Close in her hart, in her ambitious gripe,
Ere I sustaine it, if this slendrest joynt
Mou'd with the worth that worldlings love so well
Had power to save it from the throate of hell.
        [_He drawes the curtains, and sits within them_.

    _Enter Eugenia, Penelope, Hippolita_.

_Eug_. Come on, faire Ladies, I must make you both
Familiar witnesses of the most strange part
And full of impudence, that ere I plaide.

_Hip_. What's that, good Madam?

_Eug_. I that have bene so more then maiden-nice
To my deere Lord and uncle not to yeeld
By his importunate suite to his friends love
In looke, or almost thought; will of my selfe,
Farre past his expectation or his hope,
In action and in person greete his friend,
And comfort the poore gentlemans sicke state.

_Pene_. Is this a part of so much Impudence?

_Eug_. No but I feare me it will stretch to more.

_Hip_. Marry, Madam, the more the merrier.

_Eug_. Marrie Madam? what shood I marrie him?

_Hip_. You take the word me thinkes as tho you would,
And if there be a thought of such kind heate
In your cold bosome, wood to god my breath
Might blowe it to the flame of your kind hart.

_Eug_. Gods pretious, Ladie, know ye what you say,
Respect you what I am, and what he is,
What the whole world wood say, & what great Lords
I have refused, and might as yet embrace,
And speake you like a friend to wish me him?

_Hip_. Madam I cast all this, and know your choyse
Can cast it quite out of the christall dores
Of your Iudiciall eyes: I am but young,
And be it said, without all pride I take
To be a maid, I am one, and indeed
Yet in my mothers wombe to all the wiles
Weeud[46] in the loomes of greatnes, and of state:
And yet even by that little I have learn'd
Out of continuall conference with you,
I have cride haruest home of thus much judgment
In my greene sowing time, that I cood place
The constant sweetnes of good _Clarence_ minde,
Fild with his inward wealth and noblenes,
(Looke, Madam) here, when others outward trash
Shood be contented to come under here.

_Pene_. And so say I uppon my maidenhead.

_Eug_. Tis well said, Ladies, thus we differ then,
I to the truth-wife, you to worldly men.
And now sweet dames obserue an excellent jest
(At least in my poore jesting.) Th'Erle my unckle
Will misse me straite, and I know his close drift
Is to make me, and his friend _Clarence_ meete
By some device or other he hath plotted.
Now when he seekes us round about his house
And cannot find us, for we may be sure
He will not seeke me in his sicke friends Chamber,
(I have at all times made his love so strange,)
He straight will thinke, I went away displeas'd,
Or hartely careles of his hardest suite.
And then I know there is no griefe on Earth
Will touch his hart so much; which I will suffer,
To quite his late good pleasure wrought on me,
For ile be sworne in motion, and progresse
Of his friends suite, I never in my life
Wrastled so much with passion or was mov'd
To take his firme love in such jelouse part.

_Hip_. This is most excellent, Madam, and will prove
A neecelike, and a noble friends Revenge.

_Eug_. Bould in a good cause; then lets greet his friend.--
Where is this sickely gentleman? at his booke?
Now in good truth I wood theis bookes were burnd
That rapp men from their friends before their time,
How does my uncles friend, no other name
I need give him, to whom I give my selfe.

_Cla_. O Madam let me rise that I may kneele,
And pay some duty to your soveraigne grace.

_Hip_. Good _Clarence_, doe not worke your selfe disease
My Lady comes to ease and comfort you.

_Pene_. And we are handmaides to her to that end.

_Cla_. Ladies, my hart will breake if it be held
Within the verge of this presumtuous chaire.

_Eug_. Why, _Clarence_ is your judgement bent to show
A common lovers passion? let the World,
That lives without a hart, and is but showe,
Stand on her empty, and impoisoned forme,
I knowe thy kindenesse and have seene thy hart
Clest [Cleft?] in my uncles free and friendly lippes,
And I am only now to speake and act
The rite's due to thy love: oh, I cood weepe
A bitter showre of teares for thy sicke state,
I cood give passion all her blackest rites
And make a thousand vowes to thy deserts.
But these are common, knowledge is the bond,
The seale, and crowne of our united mindes;
And that is rare and constant, and for that,
To my late written hand I give thee this.
See, heaven, the soule thou gau'st is in this hand.
This is the Knot of our eternitie,
Which fortune, death, nor hell, shall ever loose.

    _Enter Bullaker, Iack, Wil_.

_Ia_. What an unmannerly tricke is this of thy Countesse to give the
noble count her uncle the slippe thus?

_Wil_. Vnmannerlie, you villaynes? O that I were worthy to weare a
Dagger to any purpose for thy sake?

_Bul_. Why young Gentlemen, utter your anger with your fists.

_Wil_. That cannot be, man, for all fists are shut you know and utter
nothing; and besides I doe not thinke my quarrell just for my Ladies
protection in this cause, for I protest she does most abhominablie
miscarrie her selfe.

_Ia_. Protest, you sawsie Iacke, you! I shood doe my country, and
Court-ship good service to beare thy coalts teeth out of thy head, for
suffering such a reverend word to passe their guarde; why, the oldest
Courtier in the World, man, can doe noe more then protest.

_Bul_. Indeede, Page, if you were in _Fraunce_, you wood be broken upon
a wheele for it, there is not the best _Dukes_ sonne in _France_ dares
say I protest, till he be one and thirty yeere old at least, for the
inheritance of that word is not to be possest before.

_Wil_. Well, I am sorry for my presumtion then, but more sory for my
Ladies, marie most sorry for thee good Lord _Momford_, that will make us
most of all sory for our selves, if wee doe not fynde her out.

_Ia_. Why, alas, what shood wee doe? all the starres of our heaven see,
we seeke her as fast as we can if she be crept into a rush we will seeke
her out or burne her.

    _Enter Momford_.

_Mom_. Villaines, where are your Ladies? seeke them out.
Hence, home ye monsters, and still keepe you there
Where levity keepes, in her inconstant Spheare.    [_Exeunt Pages_.
Away, you pretious villaines! what a plague,
Of varried tortures is a womans hart?
How like a peacockes taile with different lightes,
They differ from themselves; the very ayre
Alter the aspen humors of their bloods.
Now excellent good, now superexcellent badd:
Some excellent good, some? but one of all:
Wood any ignorant babie serue her friend
Such an uncivill part? Sblood what is learning?
An artificiall cobwebbe to catch _flies_,
And nourish _Spiders_? cood she cut my throate
With her departure, I had byn her calfe,
And made a dish at supper for my guests
Of her kinde charge; I am beholding to her.
Puffe, is there not a feather in this ayre
A man may challenge for her? what? a feather?
So easie to be seene, so apt to trace,
In the weake flight of her unconstant wings?
A mote, man, at the most, that with the Sunne,
Is onely seene, yet with his radiant eye,
We cannot single so from other motes,
To say this mote is she. Passion of death,
She wrongs me past a death; come, come, my friend
Is mine, she not her owne, and theres an end.

_Eug_. Come uncle shall we goe to supper now?

_Mom_. Zounes to supper? what a dorr is this?

_Eug_. Alas what ailes my uncle? Ladies, see.

_Hip_. Is not your Lordshippe well?

_Pene_. Good, speake my Lord.

_Mom_. A sweete plague on you all, ye witty rogues;
Have you no pitty in your villanous jests,
But runne a man quite from his fifteene witts?

_Hip_. Will not your Lordship see your friend, and Neece.

_Mom_. Wood I might sinke if I shame not to see her
Tush t'was a passion of pure jealousie,
Ile make her now amends with Adoration.
Goddesse of learning, and of constancy,
Of friendshippe, and of everie other vertue.

_Eug_. Come, come you have abus'de me now, I know,
And now you plaister me with flatteries.

_Pene_. My Lord, the contract is knit fast betwixt them.

_Mom_. Now all heavens quire of Angels sing Amen,
And blesse theis true borne nuptials with their blisse;
And Neece tho you have cosind me in this,
Ile uncle you yet in an other thing,
And quite deceive your expectation.
For where you thinke you have contracted harts
With a poore gentleman, he is sole heire
To all my Earledome, which to you and yours
I freely and for ever here bequeath.
Call forth the Lords, sweet Ladies; let them see
This sodaine, and most welcome Noveltie;
But cry you mercy, Neece, perhaps your modesty
Will not have them partake this sodaine match.

_Eug_. O uncle, thinke you so? I hope I made
My choyce with too much Judgment to take shame
Of any forme I shall performe it with.

_Mom_. Said like my Neece, and worthy of my friend.

    _Enter Furnifall, Tal: King: Goos: Rud: Foul: Ia: Will, Bullaker_.

_Mom_. My Lords, take witnes of an absolute wonder,
A marriage made for vertue, onely vertue:
My friend, and my deere Neece are man and wife.

_Fur_. A wonder of mine honour, and withall
A worthy presedent for all the World;
Heaven blesse you for it, Lady, and your choyce.

_Ambo_. Thankes, my good Lord.

_Ta_. An Accident that will make pollicie blush,
And all the Complements of wealth and state,
In the succesfull and unnumbred Race
That shall flow from it, fild with fame and grace.

_Ki_. So may it speed deere Countesse, worthy _Clarence_.

_Ambo_. Thankes, good sir _Cuthberd_.

_Fur_. Captaine be not dismaid, Ile marrie thee,
For while we live, thou shalt my consort be.

_Foul_. By _France_ my Lord, I am not griev'd a whit,
Since _Clarence_ hath her; he hath bin in _Fraunce_,
And therefore merits her if she were better.

_Mom_. Then, Knights, ile knit your happie nuptial knots.
I know the Ladies minds better then you;
Tho my rare Neece hath chose for vertue only,
Yet some more wise then some, they chuse for both,
Vertue and wealth.

_Eug_. Nay, uncle, then I plead
This goes with my choise, _Some more wise then some_,
For onely vertues choise is truest wisedome.

_Mom_. Take wealth, and vertue both amongst you then,
They love ye, Knights, extreamely; and Sir _Cut_:
I give the chast _Hippolita_ to you;
Sir _Gyles_, this Ladie--

_Pen_. Nay, stay there, my Lord.
I have not yet prov'd all his Knightly parts
I heare he is an excellent Poet too.

_Tal_. That I forgot sweet Lady; good sir _Gyles_,
Have you no sonnet of your penne about ye?

_Goos_. Yes, that I have I hope, my Lord, my Cosen.

_Fur_. Why, this is passing fit.