id="id00099">MILLISCENT.
You will subscribe it! good, good, tis well;
Love hath two chairs of state, heaven and hell.
My dear Mounchensey, thou my death shalt rue,
Ere to my heart Milliscent prove untrue.

[Exit.]

SCENE II. The same.

[Enter Blague.]

HOST. Ostlers, you knaves and commanders, take the horses of the knights and competitors: your honourable hulks have put into harborough, they'll take in fresh water here, and I have provided clean chamber-pots. Via, they come!

[Enter Sir Richard Mounchesney, Sir Raph Jerningham, young
Frank Jerningham, Raymond Mounchesney, Peter Fabell, and
Bilbo.]

HOST. The destinies be most neat Chamberlains to these swaggering puritans, knights of the subsidy.

SIR MOUNCHESNEY.
God a mercy, good mine host.

SIR JERNINGHAM.
Thanks, good host Blague.

HOST. Room for my case of pistolles, that have Greek and Latin bullets in them; let me cling to your flanks, my nimble Giberalters, and blow wind in your calves to make them swell bigger. Ha, I'll caper in mine own fee-simple; away with puntillioes and Orthography! I serve the good Duke of Norfolk. Bilbo, Titere tu, patulae recubans sub tegmine fagi.

BILBO. Truly, mine host, Bilbo, though he be somewhat out of fashion, will be your only blade still. I have a villanous sharp stomach to slice a breakfast.

HOST. Thou shalt have it without any more discontinuance, releases, or atturnement. What! we know our terms of hunting and the sea-card.

BILBO.
And do you serve the good duke of Norfolk still?

HOST. Still, and still, and still, my souldier of S. Quintins: come, follow me; I have Charles waine below in a but of sack, t'will glister like your Crab-fish.

BILBO. You have fine Scholler-like terms; your Coopers Dixionary is your only book to study in a celler, a man shall find very strange words in it. Come, my host, let's serve the good duke of Norfolk.

HOST. And still, and still, and still, my boy, I'll serve the good duke of Norfolk.

[Exeunt Host and Bilbo.]

[Enter Sir Arthur Clare, Harry Clare, and Milliscent.]

JERNINGHAM.
Good Sir Arthur Clare!

CLARE.
What Gentleman is that? I know him not.

MOUNCHESNEY.
Tis Master Fabell, Sir, a Cambridge scholler,
My son's dear friend.

CLARE.
Sir, I intreat you know me.

FABELL.
Command me, sir; I am affected to you
For your Mounchensey's sake.

CLARE.
Alas, for him,
I not respect whether he sink or swim:
A word in private, Sir Raph Jerningham.

RAYMOND.
Me thinks your father looketh strangely on me:
Say, love, why are you sad?

MILLISCENT.
I am not, sweet;
Passion is strong, when woe with woe doth meet.

CLARE.
Shall's in to breakfast? after we'll conclude
The cause of this our coming: in and feed,
And let that usher a more serious deed.

MILLISCENT.
Whilst you desire his grief, my heart shall bleed.

YOUNG JERNINGHAM.
Raymond Mounchesney, come, be frolick, friend,
This is the day thou hast expected long.

RAYMOND.
Pray God, dear Jerningham, it prove so happy.

JERNINGHAM.
There's nought can alter it. Be merry, lad!

FABELL.
There's nought shall alter it. Be lively, Raymond!
Stand any opposition gainst thy hope,
Art shall confront it with her largest scope.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III. The same.

[Peter Fabell, solus.]

FABELL.
Good old Mounchensey, is thy hap so ill,
That for thy bounty and thy royall parts
Thy kind alliance should be held in scorn,
And after all these promises by Clare
Refuse to give his daughter to thy son,
Only because thy Revenues cannot reach
To make her dowage of so rich a jointure
As can the heir of wealthy Jerningham?
And therefore is the false fox now in hand
To strike a match betwixt her and th' other;
And the old gray-beards now are close together,
Plotting it in the garden. Is't even so?
Raymond Mounchensey, boy, have thou and I
Thus long at Cambridge read the liberall Arts,
The Metaphysickes, Magicke, and those parts
Of the most secret deep philosophy?
Have I so many melancholy nights
Watch'd on the top of Peter-house highest Tower?
And come we back unto our native home,
For want of skill to lose the wench thou lov'st?
We'll first hang Envill in such rings of mist
As never rose from any dampish fen:
I'll make the brind sea to rise at Ware,
And drown the marshes unto Stratford bridge;
I'll drive the Deer from Waltham in their walks,
And scatter them like sheep in every field.
We may perhaps be crost, but, if we be,
He shall cross the devil, that but crosses me.

[Enter Raymond and young Jerningham and young Clare.]

But here comes Raymond, disconsolate and sad,
And here's the gallant that must have the wench.

JERNINGHAM.
I pri'thee, Raymond, leave these solemn dumps:
Revive thy spirits, thou that before hast been
More watchful then the day-proclaiming cock,
As sportive as a Kid, as frank and merry
As mirth herself.
If ought in me may thy content procure,
It is thine own, thou mayst thy self assure.

RAYMOND.
Ha, Jerningham, if any but thy self
Had spoke that word, it would have come as cold
As the bleak Northern winds upon the face
Of winter.
From thee they have some power upon my blood;
Yet being from thee, had but that hollow sound
Come from the lips of any living man,
It might have won the credit of mine ear;
From thee it cannot.

JERNINGHAM.
If I understand thee, I am a villain:
What, dost thou speak in parables to thy friends?

CLARE.
Come, boy, and make me this same groning love,
Troubled with stitches and the cough a'th lungs,
That wept his eyes out when he was a child,
And ever since hath shot at hudman-blind,
Make him leap, caper, jerk, and laugh, and sing,
And play me horse-tricks;
Make Cupid wanton as his mother's dove:
But in this sort, boy, I would have thee love.

FABELL.
Why, how now, mad-cap? What, my lusty Franke,
So near a wife, and will not tell a friend?
But you will to this geere in hugger-mugger;
Art thou turned miser, Rascall, in thy loves?

JERNINGHAM. Who, I? z'blood, what should all you see in me, that I should look like a married man, ha? Am I bald? are my legs too little for my hose? If I feel any thing in my forehead, I am a villain: do I wear a night-cap? Do I bend in the hams? What dost thou see in me, that I should be towards marriage, ha?

CLARE. What, thou married? let me look upon thee, Rogue; who has given out this of thee? how camst thou into this ill name? What company hast thou been in, Rascall?

FABELL.
You are the man, sir, must have Millescent:
The match is making in the garden now;
Her jointure is agreed on, and th' old