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.