Count. Go to my merry daughter; O these locks

Agree well with your habit, do they not?
Enter Juniper.

Junip. Tut, let me alone. By your favour, this is the gentleman, I think: sir, you appear to be an honourable gentleman, I understand, and could wish (for mine own part) that things were conden't otherwise than they are: but (the world knows) a foolish fellow, somewhat proclive and hasty, he did it in a prejudicate humour; marry now, upon better computation, he wanes, he melts, his poor eyes are in a cold sweat. Right noble signior, you can have but compunction; I love the man, tender your compassion.

Max. Doth any man here understand this fellow ?

Junip. O god, sir, I may say frustra to the comprehension of your intellection. Max. Before the lord, he speaks all riddle, I think.

I must have a comment, ere I can conceive him.

Count. Why he sues to have his fellow
Onion pardon'd,

And you must grant it, signior.

Max. O with all my soul, my lord; is

that his motion?

Junip. I, sir, and we shall retort these kind favours with all alacrity of spirit we can, sir, as may be most expedient, as well for the quality as the cause; till when, in spite of this compliment, I rest a poor cobler, servant to my honourable lord here, your friend and Juniper.

Max. How, Juniper! Count. I, signior.

[Exit.

Max. He is a sweet youth, his tongue
has a happy turn when he sleeps.
Enter Paulo Ferneze, Francisco Colonia,
Angelo, Valentine.

Count. I, for then it rests. O, sir, you're
welcome:
[last:

Why God be thanked, you are found at
Signior Colonia, truly you are welcome,
I am glad to see you, sir, so well return'd.
Franc. I gladly thank your honour;
Yet indeed I'm sorry for such cause of
heaviness

. As has possest your lordship in my absence. Count. O Francisco, you knew her what

she was.

Franc. She was a wise and honourable lady.

Count. I, was she not? well, weep not, she is gone. [of one. Passion's dull'd eye can make two griefs Whom death marks out, virtue nor blood can save;

Princes, as beggars, all must feed the grave. Max. Are your horse ready, lord Paulo? Pau. I, signior, they stay for us at the gate. Max. Well, 'tis good. Ladies, I will take my leave of you,

Be your fortunes, as yourselves, fair. Come. let us to horse,

Count Ferneze, I bear a spirit full of thanks for all your honourable courtesies.

Count. Sir, I could wish the number ad value of them more, in respect of your deservings. But, signior Maximilian, i

pray you a word in private.

Aur. I faith, brother, you are fitted for: general yonder. Beshrew my heart (! had Fortunatus' hat here) and I would no wish myself a man, and go with you, đị t'enjoy his presence.

Pau. Why do you love him so wel sister?

Aur. No, by my troth; but I have such an odd pretty apprehension of his humour! methinks, that I am e'en tickled with the conceit of it.

O he is a fine man.

Ang. And methinks another may be fine as he.

Aur. O Angelo! do you think I do ure my comparison against you? no, I am mit so il bred as to be a depraver of you worthiness: believe me, if I had not sent hope of your abiding with us, I shoe? never desire to go out of black whist lived; but learn to speak i' the nose, a turn puritan presently.

Ang. I thank you, lady, I know you ca flout.

Aur. Come, do you take it so? If you wrong me.

Franc. 1, but madam,

Thus to disclaim in all the effects of pleasur May make your sadness seem so mad affected,

And then the proper grace of it is lost. Phan. Indeed, sir, if I did put on th sadness

Only abroad, and in society, And were in private merry, and qui humour'd,

Then might it seem affected, and abhorr But as my looks appear, such is my spirt, Drown'd up with confluence of grief melancholy,

That, like to rivers, run through all my

veins,

Quenching the pride and fervour of my blood.

Max. My honourable lord, no more. There is the honour of my blood engag'd For your son's safety.

Count. Signior, blame me not For tending his security so much; He is mine only son, and that word only Hath, with its strong and repercussive sound, Struck my heart cold, and given it a deep wound.

Max. Why but stay, I beseech you, had your lordship ever any more sons than this? Count. Why have not you known it, Maximilian?

Max. Let my sword fail me then.

By twice so many hours as would fill
The circle of a year, his name Camillo,
Whom in that black and fearful night I lost,
Tis now a nineteen years agone at least,
And yet the memory of it sits as fresh
Within my brain as 'twere but yesterday)
It was the night wherein the great Chaniont,
The general for France, surpriz'd Vicenza ;
Methinks the horror of that clamorous shout
His soldiers gave when they attain'd the
wall,

Yet tingles in mine ears: methinks I see
With what amazed looks, distracted thoughts,
And minds confus'd, we, that were citizens,
Confronted one another; every street
Was fill'd with bitter self-tormenting cries,
And happy was that foot that first could
press

The flow'ry champain, bordering on Verona.
Here I (employ'd about my dear wife's

safety,

Whose soul is now in peace) lost my Camillo, Who sure was murder'd by the barbarous soldiers, [great,

Or else I should have heard--my heart is Sorrow is faint, and passion makes me sweat.

Max. Grieve not, sweet Count, comfort your spirits, you have a son, a noble gentleman, he stands in the face of honour; for his safety let that be no question; I am master of my fortune, and he shall share with me. Farewell, my honourable lord: ladies, once more adieu. For yourself, madam, you are a most rare creature, I tell you so, be not proud of it, I love you. Come, lord Paulo, to horse.

Pau. Adien, good signior Francisco; farewell, sister.

Sound a tucket, and as they pass every one severally departs; Maximilian, Paulo Ferneze, and Angelo remain.

Ang. How shall we rid him hence?
Pau. Why well enough. Sweet signior
Maximilian,

I have some small occasion to stay,
If it may please you but take horse afore,
I'll overtake you ere your troops be rang'd.
Max. Your motion doth taste well; lord
Ferneze, I go.

[Exit Maximilian.

Pau. I, my sweet Rachel,

Ang. Before god she is a sweet wench. Pau. Rachel, I hope I shall not need to urge

The sacred purity of our affects,

As if it hung in trial or suspence;

Since in our hearts, and by our mutual vows,
It is confirm'd and seal'd in sight of heaven.
Nay, do not weep; why stare you? fear
not, love,

Your father cannot be return'd so soon.
I prithee do not look so heavily;
Thou shalt want nothing.

Rach. No! is your presence nothing? I shall want that, and wanting that, want all;

For that is all to me.

Pau. Content thee, sweet,

I have made choice here of a constant friend,
This gentleman; on whose zealous love
I do repose more, than on all the world,
Thy beauteous self excepted; and to him
Have I committed my dear care of thee,
As to my genius, or my other soul.
Receive him, gentle love, and what defects
My absence proves, his presence shali sup-
ply.

The time is envious of our longer stay.
Farewell, dear Rachel.

Rach. Most dear lord, adieu,

Heaven and honour crown your deeds and [Exit Rachel. Paul. Faith tell me, Angelo, how dost

you.

thou like her?

Ang. Troth, well, my lord; but shall I speak my mind?

Pau. I prithee do.

Ang. She is deriv'd too meanly to be wife

To such a noble person in my judgment. Pau. Nay, then thy judgment is too mean, I fear:

Didst thou ne'er read, in difference of good,

'Tis more to shine in virtue than in blood. Ang. Come, you are so sententious, my lord.

SCENE I.

Enter Jaques, solus.

Had I not reason? to behold my door
Beset with unthrifts, and myself abroad?
Why, Jaques was there nothing in the
house

Worth a continual eye, a vigilant thought,
Whose head should never nod, nor eyes once
wink?
[threadbare,

Look on my coat, my thoughts, worn quite That time could never cover with a nap, And by it learn, never with knaps of sleep To smother your conceits of that you keep. But yet I marvel why these gallant youths Spoke me so fair, and I esteem'd a beggar? The end of flattery is gain or lechery: If they seek gain of me, they think ine rich; But that they do not. For their other object, 'Tis in my handsome daughter, if it be And, by your leave, her handsomeness may tell them [ness My beggary counterfeits, and that her neatFlows from some store of wealth, that breaks my coffers [breed; With this same engine, love to mine own But this is answer'd: Beggars will keep fine Their daughters, being fair, though themselves pine.

Well, then it is for her; I, 'tis sure for her,
And I make her so brisk for one of them,
That I might live alone once with my gold.
O'tis a sweet companion, kind and true;
A man may trust it when his father cheats
hím,
[pelf!
Brother, or friend, or wife. O wondrous
That which makes all men false, is true it-
self.
[daughter;

But now this maid is but suppos'd my
For I being steward to a lord of France
Of great estate and wealth, call'd lord Cha-

mont,

He gone into the wars, I stole his treasure; (But hear not any thing) I stole his treasure, And this his daughter, being but two years

old,

Because it lov'd me so, that it would leave The nurse herself, to come into mine arms, And had I left it, it would sure have dy'd. Now herein I was kind, and had a conscience;

And since her lady-mother, that did die In child-bed of her, lov'd me passing well,

It may be nature fashion'd this affection, Both in the child and her: but he's ill bred [dead.

That ransacks tombs, and doth deface the
I'll therefore say no more, suppose the rest.
Here have I chang'd my form, my name
and hers,

And live obscurely, to enjoy more safe
Enter Rachel.
My dearest treasure: but I must abroad.
Rachel!

Rach. What is your pleasure, sir?
Jaq. Rachel, I must abroad.
Lock thyself in, but yet take out the key,
That whosoever peeps in at the key-hole,
May yet imagine there is none at home.
Rach. I will, sir.

Jaq. But hark thee, Rachel, say a the

should comic,

And miss the key, he would resolve indeed None were at home, and so break in the re

ther:

[ter Ope the door, Rachel; set it open, daug But sit in it thyself, and talk aloud, As if there were some more in house wit thee:

Put out the fire, kill the chimney's heart, That it may breathe no more than a dead

man;

[gain The more we spare, my child, the more we [Exeunt

Junip. Go to, it's honourable, check not at the conceit of the gentleman.

Oni. But in truth, sir, you shall do well to think well of love: for it thinks well of you, in me, I assure you.

Chr. Gramercy, fellow Onion; I do think well, thou art in love, art thou?

Oni. Partly, sir; but I am asham'd to say wholly.

Chr. Well, I will further it in thee to any honest woman, or maiden, the best I can.

Junip. Why now you come near him, sir, he doth vaile, he doth remunerate, he doth

chew the cud in the kindness of an honest imperfection to your worship.

Chr. But who is it thou lovest, fellow Onion?

Oni. Marry, a poor man's daughter; but none of the honestest, I hope.

Chr. Why, wouldst thou not have her

honest ?

Oni. O no, for then I am sure she would not have me.

'Tis Rachel de Prie.

Chr. Why she hath the name of a very virtuous maiden.

Junip. So she is, sir; but the fellow talks in quiddities, he.

Chr. What wouldst thou have me do in the matter?

Oni. Do nothing, sir, I pray you, but speak for me.

Chr. In what manner?

Oni. My fellow Juniper can tell you, sir. Junip. Why as thus, sir: your worship may commend him for a fellow fit for consanguinity, and that he shaketh with desire of procreation, or so.

Chr. That were not so good, methinks. Junip. No, sir! why so, sir? what if you should say to her, corroborate thyself, sweet soul, let me distinguish thy paps with my fingers, divine mumps, pretty Pastorella! lookest thou so sweet and bounteous? comtort my friend here.

Chr. Well I perceive you wish I should say something may do him grace, and further his desires, and that be sure I will.

Oni. I thank you, sir; God save your life, I pray God, sir.

Junip. Your worship is too good to live long; you'll contaminate me no service. Chr. Command thou wouldst say; no, good Juniper.

Junip. Health and wealth, sir.

[Exeunt Onion and Juniper. Chr. This wench will I solicit for myself, Making my lord and master privy to it; And if he second me with his consent, I will proceed, as having long ere this Thought her a worthy choice to make my

wife.

SCENE III.

Enter Aurelia, Phanixella.

Aur. Room for a case of matrons, colour'd

black; [us! How motherly my mother's death hath made I would i had some girls now to bring up; OI could make a wench so virtuous, She should say grace to every bit of meat, And gape no wider than a wafer's thick

ness;

Be of a slighter work; for of my word,
You shall be sold as dear, or rather dearer.
Will you be bound to customs and to rites,
Shed profitable tears, weep for advantage,
Or else do all things as you are inclin'd?
Eat when your stomach serves (saith the
physician)

Not at eleven and six. So, if your humour
Be now affected with this heaviness,
1Give it the reins, and spare not, as I do
In this my pleasurable appetite.
It is precisianism to alter that

With austere judgment, that is given by na

ture.

I wept, you saw too, when my mother dy'd;
For then I found it easier to do so,
And fitter with my mode, than not to weep.
But now 'tis otherwise; another time
Perhaps I shall have such deep thoughts of
her,
[hence;
That I shall weep afresh some twelve month
And I will weep, if I be so dispos'd,
And put on black as grimly then as now.
Let the mind go still with the body's stature,
Judgment is fit for judges, give me nature.

[spur.

Your wits are fresh I know, they need no Ang. And therefore you will ride them. Aur. Say, I do,

They will not tire, I hope?

Ang. No, not with you.

Hark you, sweet lady.

Franc. 'Tis much pity, madam, You should have any reason to retain

This sign of grief, much less the thing design'd.

Pha. Griefs are more fit for ladies than their pleasures.

Franc. That is for such as follow nought but pleasures. [tues, But you that temper them sa well with virUsing your griefs so, it would prove them pleasures; [pleasures,

And you would 'scem, in cause of griefs and Equally pleasant.

Phe. Sir, so I do now.

It is the excess of either that I strive

So much to shun, in all my prov'd endea

Ang. Nay, take away the p.

Aur. Tut, then you cannot fly.
Ang. I'll warrant you: I'll borrow C
pid's wings.

Aur. Mass, then I fear me you will &
strange things.

I pray you blame me not, if I suspect you; Your own confession simply doth detect you Nay, and you be so great in Cupid's book "Twill make me jealous. You can with you looks

(I'll warrant you) enflame a woman's hear, And at your pleasure take love's golden dar, And wound the breast of any virtuous ma Would I were hence! good faith, I a afraid

You can constrain one, ere they be aware,
To run mad for your love.
Ang. O this is rare.

Count. By th' mass that is't; here & their names to shew,

Fourteen, or fifteen to one. Good Ange You need not be asham'd of any of them, They are gallants all.

Ang. 'Sblood you are such a lord. Count. Nay stay, sweet Angelo, I am dis pos'd [Exit Anga A little to be pleasant past my custom. He's gone, he's gone, I have disgrac'd h shrewdly. [youth Daughters, take heed of him, he's a wit Look what he says to you, believe him not, He will swear love to every one he sees. Francisco, give them counsel, good Fran(neither

cisco,

I dare trust thee with both, but him with Franc. Your lordship yet may trust boll them with him.

SCENE VI.

Count, Christophero.

Count. Well, go your ways, away. llor now, Christophero,

What news with you?