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But my deserts or your desires decay,

Or both ; yet if true love may seem desert,

I merit still to have thy company.

Franklin. Why, I pray you, sir, let her go along with us ;

I am sure his honour will welcome her

And us the more for bringing her along.

Arden. Content ; sirrah, saddle your mistress' nag.

Alice. No, begged favour merits little thanks ;

If I should go, our house would run away.

Or else be stolen ; therefore I'll stay behind.

Arden. Nay, see how mistaking you are ! I pray thee, go.

Alice. No, no, not now.

Arden. Then let me leave thee satisfied in this,

That time nor place nor persons alter me,

But that I hold thee dearer than my life.

Alice. That will be seen by your quick return.

Arden. And that shall be ere night, and if I live.

Farewell, sweet Alice, we mind to sup with thee.

Exit Alice.

Franklin. Come, Michael, are our horses ready ?

Michael. Ay, your horse are ready, but I am not ready,

for I have lost my purse, with six and thirty

shillings in it, with taking up of my master's nag.

Franklin. Why, I pray you, let us go before,

Whilst he stays behind to seek his purse.

Arden. Go to, sirrah, see you follow us to the Isle of Sheppy

To my Lord Cheiny's, where we mean to dine.

Exeunt Arden and Franklin. Manet Michael.

Michael. So, fair weather after you, for before you lies

Black Will and Shakebag in the broom close, too

close for you : they 'll be your ferrymen to long home.

Here enters the Painter.

But who is this ? the painter, my corrival, that

would needs win Mistress Susan.

Clarke. How now, Michael? how doth my mistress and all at home ?

Michael. Who? Susan Mosbie? she is your mistress, too ?

Clarke. Ay, how doth she and all the rest ?

Michael. All 's well but Susan ; she is sick.

Clarke. Sick? Of what disease?

Michael. Of a great fever.

Clarke. A fear of what ?

Michael. A great fever,

Clarke. A fever? God forbid !

Michael. Yes, faith, and of a lordaine, too, as big as yourself.

Clarke. O, Michael, the spleen prickles you. Go to,

you carry an eye over Mistress Susan.

Michael. I' faith, to keep her from the painter.

Clarke. Why more from a painter than from a serving

creature like yourself?

Michael. Because you painters make but a painting

table of a pretty wench, and spoil her beauty with blotting.

Clarke. What mean you by that ?

Michael. Why, that you painters paint lambs in the lin-

ing of wenches' petticoats, and we serving-men put

horns to them to make them become sheep.

Clarke. Such another word will cost you a cuff or a knock.

Michael. What, with a dagger made of a pencil ? Faith,

'tis too weak, and therefore thou too weak to win Susan.

Clarke. Would Susan's love lay upon this stroke.

Then he breaks Michael's head.

Here enters Mosbie, Greene and Alice.

Alice. I'll lay my life, this is for Susan's love.

Stayed you behind your master to this end ?

Have you no other time to brable in

But now when serious matters are in hand ? —

Say, Clarke, hast thou done the thing thou promised .?

Clarke. Ay, here it is ; the very touch is death

Alice. Then this, I hope, if all the rest do fail,

Will catch Master Arden,

And make him wise in death that lived a fool.

Why should he thrust his sickle in our com,

Or what hath he to do with thee, my love,

Or govern me that am to rule myself?

Forsooth, for credit sake, I must leave thee I

Nay, he must leave to live that we may love.

May live, may love ; for what is life but love ?

And love shall last as long as life remains,

And life shall end before my love depart.

Mosbie. Why, what is love without true constancy ?

Like to a pillar built of many stones.

Yet neither with good mortar well compact

Nor with cement to fasten it in the joints,

But that it shakes with every blast of wind,

And, being touched, straight falls unto the earth,

And buries all his haughty pride in dust.

No, let our love be rocks of adamant,

Which time nor place nor tempest can asunder.

Greene. Mosbie, leave protestations now,