Chapter II: Part 2

_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_.