Rut. I'le watch you for that trick, baboon, I'le Smoke you: the rogue sweats, as if he had eaten Grains, he broyles, if I do come to the Basting of you. Arno. Your Lordship May happily speak this, to fright a stranger, But 'tis not in your honour, to perform it; The Custom of this place, if such there be, At best most damnable, may urge you to it, But if you be an honest man you hate it, How ever I will presently prepare To make her mine, and most undoubtedly Believe you are abus'd, this custome feign'd too, And what you now pretend, most fair and vertuous.

Clod. Go and believe, a good belief does well Sir; And you Sir, clear the place, but leave her here.

Arn. Your Lordships pleasure.

Clod. That anon Arnoldo, This is but talk.

Rut. Shall we goe off?

Arn. By any means, I know she has pious thoughts enough to guard her: Besides, here's nothing due to him till the tye be done, Nor dare he offer.

Rut. Now do I long to worry him: Pray have a care to the main chance.

Zen. Pray Sir, fear not. [Exit Ar. and Rut.

Clod. Now, what say you to me?

Zen. Sir it becomes The modestie, that maids are ever born with, To use few words.

Clod. Do you see nothing in me? Nothing to catch your eyes, nothing of wonder The common mould of men, come short, and want in? Do you read no future fortune for your self here? And what a happiness it may be to you, To have him honour you, all women aim at? To have him love you Lady, that man love you, The best, and the most beauteous have run mad for? Look and be wise, you have a favour offer'd you I do not every day propound to women; You are a prettie one; and though each hour I am glutted with the sacrifice of beautie, I may be brought, as you may handle it, To cast so good a grace and liking on you. You understand, come kiss me, and be joyfull, I give you leave.

Zen. Faith Sir, 'twill not shew handsome; Our sex is blushing, full of fear, unskil'd too In these alarms.

Clod. Learn then and be perfect.

Zen. I do beseech your honour pardon me, And take some skilfull one can hold you play, I am a fool.

Clod. I tell thee maid I love thee, Let that word make thee happie, so far love thee, That though I may enjoy thee without ceremony, I will descend so low, to marry thee, Me thinks I see the race that shall spring from us, Some Princes, some great Souldiers.

Zen. I am afraid Your honour's couzen'd in this calculation; For certain, I shall ne're have a child by you.

Clod. Why?

Zen. Because I must not think to marry you, I dare not Sir, the step betwixt your honour, And my poor humble State.

Clod. I will descend to thee, And buoy thee up.

Zen. I'le sink to th' Center first. Why would your Lordship marry, and confine that pleasure You ever have had freely cast upon you? Take heed my Lord, this marrying is a mad matter, Lighter a pair of shackles will hang on you, And quieter a quartane feaver find you. If you wed me I must enjoy you only, Your eyes must be called home, your thoughts in cages, To sing to no ears then but mine; your heart bound, The custom, that your youth was ever nurst in, Must be forgot, I shall forget my duty else, And how that will appear—

Clod. Wee'l talk of that more.

Zen. Besides I tell ye, I am naturally, As all young women are, that shew like handsome, Exceeding proud, being commended, monstrous. Of an unquiet temper, seldom pleas'd, Unless it be with infinite observance, Which you were never bred to; once well angred, As every cross in us, provokes that passion, And like a Sea, I roule, toss, and chafe a week after. And then all mischief I can think upon, Abusing of your bed the least and poorest, I tell you what you'le finde, and in these fitts, This little beauty you are pleased to honour, Will be so chang'd, so alter'd to an ugliness, To such a vizard, ten to one, I dye too, Take't then upon my death you murder'd me.

Clod. Away, away fool, why dost thou proclame these To prevent that in me, thou hast chosen in another?

Zen. Him I have chosen, I can rule and master, Temper to what I please, you are a great one Of a strong will to bend, I dare not venture. Be wise my Lord, and say you were well counsel'd, Take mony for my ransom, and forget me, 'Twill be both safe, and noble for your honour, And wheresoever my fortunes shall conduct me, So worthy mentions I shall render of you, So vertuous and so fair.

Clod. You will not marrie me?

Zen. I do beseech your honour, be not angry At what I say, I cannot love ye, dare not; But set a ransom, for the flowr you covet.

Clod. No mony, nor no prayers, shall redeem that, Not all the art you have.

Zen. Set your own price Sir.

Clod. Goe to your wedding, never kneel to me, When that's done, you are mine, I will enjoy you: Your tears do nothing, I will not lose my custom To cast upon my self an Empires fortune.

Zen. My mind shall not pay this custom, cruel man. [Ex.

Clod. Your body will content me: I'le look for you. [Ex.

Enter Charino, and servants in blacks. Covering the place with blacks.

Char. Strew all your withered flowers, your Autumn sweets By the hot Sun ravisht of bud and beauty Thus round about her Bride-bed, hang those blacks there The emblemes of her honour lost; all joy That leads a Virgin to receive her lover, Keep from this place, all fellow-maids that bless her, And blushing do unloose her Zone, keep from her: No merry noise nor lusty songs be heard here, Nor full cups crown'd with wine make the rooms giddy, This is no masque of mirth, but murdered honour. Sing mournfully that sad Epithalamion I gave thee now: and prethee let thy lute weep.

Song, Dance. Enter Rutilio.

Rut. How now, what livery's this? do you call this a wedding? This is more like a funeral.

Char. It is one, And my poor Daughter going to her grave, To his most loath'd embraces that gapes for her. Make the Earles bed readie, is the marriage done Sir?

Rut. Yes they are knit; but must this slubberdegullion Have her maiden-head now?

[Char.] There's no avoiding it.

Rut. And there's the scaffold where she must lose it.

[Char.] The bed Sir.

Rut. No way to wipe his mouldy chaps?

Char. That we know.

Rut. To any honest well-deserving fellow, And 'twere but to a merry Cobbler, I could sit still now, I love the game so well; but that this puckfist, This universal rutter—fare ye well Sir; And if you have any good prayers, put 'em forward, There may be yet a remedie.

Char. I wish it, [Exit Rut. And all my best devotions offer to it.

Enter Clodio, and Guard.

Clod. Now is this tye dispatch'd?

Char. I think it be Sir.

Clod. And my bed ready?

Char. There you may quickly find Sir, Such a loath'd preparation.

Clod. Never grumble, Nor fling a discontent upon my pleasure, It must and shall be done: give me some wine, And fill it till it leap upon my lips: [wine Here's to the foolish maidenhead you wot of, The toy I must take pains for.

Char. I beseech your Lordship Load not a Fathers love.

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