Can teach all strings to speak in their best

grace,

20

From the shrill'st treble to the hoarsest base.
To end her many praises in one word,
She's Beauty and Perfection's eldest daughter,
Only found by yours, though many a heart hath
          sought her.

Frank.  But that I know your virtues and

chaste thoughts,

25

I should be jealous of your praise, Sir Charles.

Cran. He speaks no more than you approve.

Mal. Nor flatters he that gives to her her due.

Mrs. F. I would your praise could find a fitter
          theme

Than my imperfect beauties to speak on!

30

Such as they be, if they my husband please,
They suffice me now I am marrièd.
His sweet content is like a flattering glass,
To make my face seem fairer to mine eye;

But the least wrinkle from his stormy brow

35

Will blast the roses in my cheeks that grow.

Sir F. A perfect wife already, meek and
          patient !
How strangely the word husband fits your
          mouth,
Not married three hours since ! Sister, 't is

good;

39

You that begin betimes thus must needs prove
Pliant and duteous in your husband's love. —
Gramercies, brother! Wrought her to 't al-
          ready, —
'Sweet husband,' and a curtsey, the first day?
Mark this, mark this, you that are bachelors,

And never took the grace 1 of honest man;

45

Mark this, against you marry, ² this one phrase :
In a good time that man both wins and woos
That takes his wife down ³ in her wedding shoes.

Frank. Your sister takes not after you, Sir
          Francis,

All his wild blood your father spent on you;

50

He got her in his age, when he grew civil.
All his mad tricks were to his land entail'd,
And you are heir to all; your sister, she
Hath to her dower her mother's modesty.

Sir C. Lord, sir, in what a happy state live

you !

55

This morning, which to many seems a burden,
Too heavy to bear, is unto you a pleasure.
This lady is no clog, as many are ;
She doth become you like a well-made suit,

In which the tailor hath us'd all his art ;

60

Not like a thick coat of unseason'd frieze,
Forc'd on your back in Summer. She 's no chain
To tie your neck, and curb you to the yoke ;
But she's a chain of gold to adorn your neck.

You both adorn each other, and your hands,

65

Methinks, are matches. There's equality
In this fair combination; you are both
Scholars, both young, both being descended
          nobly.
There's music in this sympathy ; it carries

Consort and expectation of much joy,

70

Which God bestow on you from this first day
Until your dissolution, — that's for aye !

Sir F. We keep you here too long, good
          brother Frankford.
Into the hall ; away! Go cheer your guests.
What ! Bride and bridegroom both withdrawn

at once ?

75

If you be mist, the guests will doubt their wel-
          come,
And charge you with unkindness.

Frank.                                      To prevent it,
I'll leave you here, to see the dance within.

Mrs. F.  And so will I.

                Exeunt  [MASTER AND MISTRESS
                                FRANKFORD].

Sir. F.                     To part you it were sin. —

Now, gallants, while the town musicians

80

Finger their frets ⁴ within, and the mad lads
And country lasses, every mother's child,
With nosegays and bride-laces ⁵ in their hats,
Dance all their country measures, rounds, and
          jigs,
What shall we do ? Hark! They're all on the

hoigh ; 6

85

They toil like mill-horses, and turn as round, —
Marry, not on the toe! Ay, and they caper,
Not] ⁷ without cutting; you shall see, to-
          morrow,
The hall-floor peckt and dinted like a mill-
          stone,
Made with their high shoes. Though their skill

be small,

90

Yet they tread heavy where their hobnails fall.

Sir F. Well, leave them to their sports ! —
          Sir Francis Acton,
I'll make a match with you! Meet me to-
          morrow
At Chevy Chase; I'll fly my hawk with yours.

Sir F. For what? For what?

Sir C.            Why, for a hundred pound.

95

Sir F. Pawn me some gold of that!

Sir C.                          Here are ten angels; ⁸
I'll make them good a hundred pound to-mor-
          row
Upon my hawk's wing.

Sir. F.                        'T is a match; 't is done.
Another hundred pound upon your dogs; —
Dare ye, Sir Charles?

Sir C.                     I dare; were I sure to lose,

I durst do more than that; here is my hand,

101

The first course for a hundred pound !

Sir F.                                                A match.

Wen. Ten angels on Sir Francis Acton's
          hawk ;
As much upon his dogs!

Cran. I'm for Sir Charles Mountford: I have

seen

105

His hawk and dog both tried. What ! Clap ye
          hands, ⁹
Or is't no bargain?

Wen.                     Yes, and stake them down.
Were they five hundred, they were all my own.

Sir F. Be stirring early with the lark tomorrow ;

486

I'll rise into my saddle ere the sun

110

Rise from his bed.

Sir C.                     If there you miss me, say
I am no gentleman! I'll hold my day.

Sir F. It holds on all sides. — Come, to-night
          let's dance ;

Early to-morrow let 's prepare to ride :

114

We'd need be three hours up before the bride.
                                                           Exeunt.

Enter NICHOLAS and JENKIN, JACK SLIME,
ROGER BRICKBAT, with Country Wenches,
and two or three Musicians.

Jen. Come, Nick, take you Joan Miniver, to
trace withal ; Jack Slime, traverse you with
Cicely Milkpail ; I will take Jane Trubkin, and
Roger Brickbat shall have Isabel Motley. And

now that they are busy in the parlour, come,

5

strike up ; we'll have a crash ² here in the
yard.

Nich. My humour is not compendious : danc-
ing I possess not, though I can foot it; yet,

since I am fallen into the hands of Cicely

10

Milkpail, I consent.

Slime. Truly, Nick, though we were never
brought up like serving courtiers, yet we have
been brought up with serving creatures, — ay,

and God's creatures, too ; for we have been

15

brought up to serve sheep, oxen, horses, hogs,
and such like; and, though we be but country
fellows, it may be in the way of dancing we can
do the horse-trick as well as the serving-men.

Brick. Ay, and the cross-point too.

20

Jen. O Slime! O Brickbat! Do not you know
that comparisons are odious? Now we are odi-
ous ourselves, too; therefore there are no com-
parisons to be made betwixt us.

Nich. I am sudden, and not superfluous;

25

I am quarrelsome, and not seditious;
I am peaceable, and not contentious;
I am brief, and not compendious.

Slime. Foot it quickly ! If the music over come

not my melancholy, I shall quarrel; and if

30

they suddenly do not strike up, I shall presently
strike thee down.

Jen. No quarrelling, for God's sake ! Truly,
if you do, I shall set a knave between ye.

Slime. I come to dance, not to quarrel.

35

Come, what shall it be? Rogero ? ³

Jen. Rogero ? No ; we will dance The Begin-
          ning of the World.

Cicely. I love no dance so well as John come

kiss me now.

40

Nich. I that have ere now deserv'd a cush-
          ion, call for the Cushion-dance.

Brick. For my part, I like nothing so well as
          Tom Tyler.

Jen. No ; we 'll have The Hunting of the

45

          Fox.

Slime. The Hay, The Hay !  There's nothing like The Hay.

Nich. I have said, I do say, and I will say

again —

50

Jen. Every man agree to have it as Nick says !

All. Content.

Nich. It hath been, it now is, and it shall
          be —

Cicely. What, Master Nicholas ? What ?

55

Nich.  Put on your Smock a' Monday.

Jen. So the dance will come cleanly off ! Come,
for God's sake, agree of something : if you like
not that, put it to the musicians ; or let me

speak for all, and we 'll have Sellenger's

60

Round.

All. That, that, that !

Nich. No, I am resolv'd thus it shall be ;
First take hands, then take ye to your heels.

Jen. Why, would you have us run away ?

65

Nich. No; but I would have you shake your
heels. — Music, strike up !

                  They dance ;  NICK dancing, speaks
                     stately and scurvily, the rest after
                     the country fashion.

Jen. Hey ! Lively, my lasses ! Here's a turn
          for thee !                                         Exeunt.

Wind horns. Enter SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD,
   SIR  FRANCIS  ACTON,  MALBY,  CRANWELL,
   WENDOLL, Falconer, and Huntsmen.

Sir F. So ; well cast off ! Aloft, aloft ! Well
          flown !
Oh, now she takes her at the souse, ⁵ and strikes
          her
Down to the earth, like a swift thunder-clap.

Wen. She hath struck ten angels out of my
          way.

Sir F. A hundred pound from me.

5

Sir C. What, falconer !

Falc. At hand, sir !

Sir F. Now she hath seiz'd the fowl and 'gins
          to plume ⁶ her,
Rebeck ⁷ her not; rather stand still and check
          her !
So, seize her gets, ⁸ her jesses, ⁹ and her bells ! ¹⁰
          Away !

Sir F. My hawk kill'd, too.

Sir C.           Ay, but 't was at the querre,

10

Not at the mount like mine.

Sir F.                        Judgment, my masters !

Cran. Yours mist her at the ferre. ¹¹

Wen. Ay, but our merlin first had plum'd

the fowl,

15

And twice renew'd ¹² her from the river too.
Her bells, Sir Francis, had not both one weight,
Nor was one semi-tune above the other.
Methinks, these Milan bells do sound too full,
And spoil the mounting of your hawk.

Sir C.                                                 'T is lost.

20

Sir F. I grant it not. Mine likewise seiz'd a
          fowl
Within her talons, and you saw her paws

487

Full of the feathers; both her petty singles ¹
And her long singles grip'd her more than
          other ;
The terrials ² of her ³ legs were stain'd with

blood,

25

Not of the fowl only; she did discomfit
Some of her feathers; but she brake away.
Come, come; your hawk is but a rifler. ⁴

Sir C.                                                                How !

Sir F. Ay, and your dogs are trindle-tails ⁵
          and curs.

Sir C.                  You stir my blood.

30

You keep not one good hound in all your ken-
          nel,
Nor one good hawk upon your perch.

Sir F.                                                     How, knight !

Sir C. So, knight. You will not swagger, Sir ?

Sir F. Why, say I did ?

Sir C.                                  Why, Sir,

I say you would gain as much by swagg'ring

35

As you have got by wagers on your dogs.
You will come short in all things.

Sir F.                                                     Not in this !
Now I'll strike home.      [Strikes Sir Charles.]

Sir C.                      Thou shalt to thy long home,
Or I will want my will.

Sir F. All they that love Sir Francis, follow

me !

40

Sir C. All that affect Sir Charles, draw on
          my part !

Cran. On this side heaves my hand.

Wen.                                       Here goes my heart.

They divide themselves. SIR CHARLES
    MOUNTFORD,     CRANWELL,     Fa-
    lconer,     and     Huntsman,      fight
    against     SIR    FRANCIS    ACTON,
    WENDOLL,     his     Falconer     and
    Huntsman ;     and    SIR   CHARLES
    hath  the  better,  and  beats  them
    away,  killing  both  of   SIR FRAN-
    CIS'S   men.    Exeunt  all  but   SIR
    CHARLES MOUNTFORD.]

Sir C. My God, what have I done ! What
          have I done !
My rage hath plung'd into a sea of blood,
In which my soul lies drown'd. Poor inno-

cents,

45

For whom we are to answer ! Well, 't is done,
And I remain the victor. A great conquest,
When I would give this right hand, nay, this
          head,
To breathe in them new life whom I have
          slain ! —
Forgive me, God! 'T was in the heat of

blood,

50

And anger quite removes me from myself.
It was not I, but rage, did this vile murder ;
Yet I, and not my rage, must answer it.
Sir Francis Acton, he is fled the field ;
With him all those that did partake his quarrel ;

And I am left alone with sorrow dumb,

56

And in my height of conquest overcome.

          Enter SUSAN.

Susan. O God ! My brother wounded 'mong
          the dead !
Unhappy jest, that in such earnest ends !

The rumour of this fear stretcht to my ears,

60

And I am come to know if you be wounded.

Sir F. Oh, sister, sister ! Wounded at the
          heart.

Susan. My God forbid !

Sir. C. In doing that thing which he for-
          bad,
I am wounded, sister.

Susan.                        I hope, not at the heart.

65

Sir C. Yes, at the heart.

Susan.                       O God! A surgeon, there.

Sir C. Call me a surgeon, sister, for my
          soul !
The sin of murder, it hath pierc'd my heart
And made a wide wound there ; but for these
          scratches,
They are nothing, nothing.

Susan.              Charles, what have you done ?

70

Sir Francis hath great friends, and will pursue
          you
Unto the utmost danger ⁶ of the law.

Sir C. My conscience is become mine enemy,
And will pursue me more than Acton can.

Susan. Oh ! Fly, sweet brother !

Sir C.                                 Shall I fly from thee ?

75

Why, Sue, art weary of my company?

Susan. Fly from your foe!

Sir C.                           You, sister, are my friend,
And flying you, I shall pursue my end. 

Susan. Your company is as my eyeball
          dear ;

Being far from you, no comfort can be near.

80

Yet fly to save your life! What would I care
To Spend my future age in black despair,
So you were safe ? And yet to live one week
Without my brother Charles, through every
          cheek
My streaming tears would downwards run so

rank, 7

85

Till they could set on either side a bank,
And in the midst a channel; so my face
For two salt-water brooks shall still find place.

Sir C. Thou shalt not weep so much; for I
          will stay,

In spite of danger's teeth. I'll live with thee,

90

Or I'll not live at all. I will not sell
My country and my father's patrimony,
Nor thy sweet sight, for a vain hope of life.

          Enter Sheriff, with Officers.

Sher. Sir Charles, I am made the unwilling
          instrument

Of your attach 8 and apprehension.

95

I 'm sorry that the blood of innocent men
Should be of you exacted. It was told me
That you were guarded with a troop of friends,
And therefore I come thus arm'd.

Sir C.                                        Oh, Master Sheriff !

I came into the field with many friends,

100

488

But see, they all have left me ; only one
Clings to my sad misfortune, my dear sister.
I know you for an honest gentleman ;
I yield my weapons, and submit to you.
Convey me where you please!

Sher.                                          To prison, then,

105

To answer for the lives of these dead men.

Susan.  O God ! O God !

Sir C.                              Sweet sister, every strain
Of sorrow from your heart augments my pain ;
Your grief abounds, ¹ and hits against my
          breast.

Sher. Sir, will you go ?

Sir C.           Even where it likes you best.

110