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wou'd sing, but that gentle lady hath crack'd the

strings o'my voice; an 'twill please you weep,

marry I'll take the loudest pipe, and shou'd I fail

in giving entertaiment, why then I'll to Paul's,

and there i'the presence of Bonner, be whipp'd for a slanderer.

PASCENTIUS.

I pray thee Fool do as I list.

FOOL.

Now then I'll pipe, but my troth you

seem sad, and needs will me to sing merrily; well,

an folly will please you, I'll to't straight.

FOOL sings.

A Fool must needs be merry,

Lack, lack, and a well a day,

And in his shoes must bury

His sorrow and all his care;

Then is not the Fool's lot hard,

Is not his mind sore treated,

Do not his friends of's poor brains

Make physic for their senses?

Then lack, lack and well a day.

But in this our world 'tis true,

Lack, lack and well a day,

We our old friends change for new,

When they no longer suit us;

Then heigh-ho poor dobbins all,

Be sharp with men I pray you,

They carry fool's minds indeed,

Yet are but knaves I tell you.

Then lack, lack, ah! well a day.

FLAVIA.

Good honest Fool, I do sincerely thank thee.

FOOL.

Nay, nay, say not so, an I had flatter'd,

why then perchance I had merited this, but i'faith

gentle lady, he that says nought, save the bare

truth, doth oft times meet but a bare compliment.

But an you do flatter, methinks the compliment

will favour more of untruth, than did the flattery,

but thus it goes with our slippery world.

PASCENTIUS.

Who is it comes this way?

FLAVIA.

Let us retire,

Perchance it may be one of our pursuers.

FOOL.

An thou'lt listen a while to me I'll tell

thee thou need'st not fear, 'tis but the Post on's

way to your father's palace.

Enter POST.

PASCENTIUS.

Friend, thou out runnest almost speed itself;

Whither ar't bound?

POST.

I am for London, Sir.

PASCENTIUS.

Nay stop one moment, I conjure thee stop!

Say what these tidings that demand such haste?

POST.

That which my packets do contain.

PASCENTIUS.

An thou will tell me their contents, there's gold.

FOOL.

Now, i'troth, thou'lt unlock letters,

packets, and all, look, look, the knave doth han-

dle it with good grace, sirrah an thou play'dst on

David's harp, thy fingers ne'er wou'd move so

glibly o'er the strings, as o'er yon gold, do'st hear me.

POST.

Thy gold indeed doth please, it fills my purse,

And though it should not, yet what matters it?

I am well fee'd for telling that alone,

Which every simple peasant soon must know,

Then thus it is; Vortigern is accus'd

Of the base murder of Constantius!

FLAVIA.

Heavens!

POST.

Yea, and even now the Princes marching hither

From Scotland, with them bring a numerous army.

PASCENTIUS.

Alas my father! yet I do beseech thee,

How know they this? Who was't instructed them?

POST

Swift messengers dispatch'd by friends to Rome,

Further I know not--therefore must away.

[Exit Post.

FOOL.

Go to, go to, I do believe thee; marry

an thou art humble, thy purse is somewhat proud-

er. Good Sir, wer't not best we put on, I am

faint at heart; marry 'tis pity my wits did not fill

their owner, as well as those who do beg them.

PASCENTIUS.

Let's on, and yet what course is't fit we take?

The night doth throw his sooty mantle round,

And robs us of the cheering light of day.

FLAVIA.

Oh! Wou'd this night cou'd pluck my sorrow from me,

Or that the long eternal sleep of death

Wou'd close life's wretched, weary pilgrimage.

PASCENTIUS.

Oh! Sister an thou lov'st me grieve not so.

FLAVIA.

If charity be meek, so will I be,

And where thou lead'st, resign'd I'll follow thee.

FOOL.

Marry, an you'll listen to a fool, perchance

he may for once speek wisely.

PASCENTIUS.

Out with thy council then.

FOOL.

Thus it is--chance hath made me your

fool, and chance will now that your fool speak

something like wisdom; marry is not this the

road to Scotland? Do'st understand me?

PASCENTIUS.

Truly, I understand thee.

FOOL.

To't again, what say'st thou o'joining the

young Princes on their march?

PASCENTIUS.

It is mostly wisely