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Whilst through the thicket of an arbour brake

The hunger-bitten wolf o'erpries his haunt

And takes advantage for to eat him up.

Ah, harmless Arden, how hast thou misdone,

That thus thy gentle life is levelled at ?

The many good turns that thou hast done to me.

Now must I quittance with betraying thee.

I that should take the weapon in my hand

And buckler thee from ill-intending foes.

Do lead thee with a wicked fraudful smile,

As unsuspected, to the slaughter-house.

So have I sworn to Mosbie and my mistress,

So have I promised to the slaughtermen ;

And should I not deal currently with them.

Their lawless rage would take revenge on me.

Tush, I will spurn at mercy for this once :

Let pity lodge where feeble women lie,

I am resolved, and Arden needs must die.

Exit Michael.

ACT III

SCENE I

A Room in Franklin's House at Alder's gate.

Enter Arden and Franklin.

Arden. No, Franklin, no : if fear or stormy threats,

If love of me or care of womanhood,

If fear of God or common speech of men,

WTio mangle credit with their wounding words,

And couch dishonour as dishonour buds,

Might join repentance in her wanton thoughts,

No question then but she would turn the leaf

And sorrow for her dissolution ;

But she is rooted in her wickedness.

Perverse and stubborn, not to be reclaimed ; lo

Good counsel is to her as rain to weeds,

And reprehension makes her vice to grow

As Hydra's head that plenished by decay.

Her faults, methink, are painted in my face,

For every searching eye to overread ;

And Mosbie's name, a scandal unto mine,

Is deeply trenched in my blushing brow.

Ah, Franklin, Franklin, when I think on this,

My heart's grief rends my other powers

Worse than the conflict at the hour of death.

Franklin. Gentle Arden, leave this sad lament :

She will amend, and so your griefs will cease ;

Or else she 'll die, and so your sorrows end.

If neither of these two do haply fall,

Yet let your comfort be that others bear

Your woes, twice doubled all, with patience.

Arden. My house is irksome ; there I cannot rest.

Franklin. Then stay with me in. London ; go not home.

Arden. Then that base Mosbie doth usurp my room

And makes his triumph of my being thence.

At home or not at home, where'er I be,

Here, here it lies, ah Franklin, here it lies

That will not out till wretched Arden dies.

Here enters Michael.

Franklin. Forget your griefs a while ; here comes your man.

Arden. What a-clock is 't, sirrah ?

Michael. Almost ten.

Arden. See, see, how runs away the weary time !

Come, Master Franklin, shall we go to bed ?

Exeunt Arden and Michael,

Manet Franklin.

Franklin. I pray you, go before : I'll follow you.

— Ah, what a hell is fretful jealousy !

What pity-moving words, what deep-fetched sighs,

What grievous groans and overlading woes

Accompanies this gentle gentleman !

Now will he shake his care-oppressed head,

Then fix his sad eyes on the sullen earth.

Ashamed to gaze upon the open world ;

Now will he cast his eyes up towards the heavens,

Looking that ways for redress of wrong :

Sometimes he seeketh to beguile his grief

And tells a story with his careful tongue ; 50

Then comes his wife's dishonour in his thoughts

And in the middle cutteth off his tale,

Pouring fresh sorrow on his weary limbs.

So woe-begone, so inly charged with woe,

Was never any lived and bare it so.

Here enters Michael.

Michael. My master would desire you come to bed.

Franklin. Is he himself already in his bed .'

Exit Franklin. Manet Michael.

Michael. He is, and fain would have the light away.

— Conflicting thoughts, encamped in my breast,

Awake me with the echo of their strokes

And I, a judge to censure either side,

Can give to neither wished victory.

My master's kindness pleads to me for life

With just demand, and I must grant it him :

My mistress she hath forced me with an oath,

For Susan's sake, the which I may not break.

For that is nearer than a master's love :

That grim-faced fellow, pitiless Black Will,

And Shakebag, stern in bloody