A Collection of Old English Plays, Vol. III | Page 7

was fain to lie
standing all night, and yet I made my man rise, and put out the Candle
too, because they should not see to bite me.
Foul. A pretty project.
Bul. Intruth Captaine, if I might advise you, you should tarry, and take
the morning afore you.
Foul. How? _O mon Dieu_! how the villaine _poultroune_, dishonours
his travaile! You _Buffonly Mouchroun_, are you so mere rude, and
English to advise your Captaine?
Rud. Nay, I prethee _Fouleweather_, be not tempesteous with thy poore
Lacquay.
Foul. Tempesteous, Sir _Cutt_? will your _Frenchman_, thinke you,
suffer his Lacquay to advise him?
Goos. O God you must take heed Lacquy how you advise your
Captaine; your French lacquay would not have done it.
Foul. He would have bin poxt first. _Allume le torche_, sweet Pages
commend us to your Ladies, say we kisse their white hands, and will
not faile to meete them; Knights, which of you leades?
Goos. Not wee, sir; you are a Captaine, and a leader.

Rud. Besides, thou art commended for the better man, for thou art very
Commendations it selfe, and Captaine Commendations.
Foul. Why? what tho I be Captain Commendations?
Rud. Why and Captaine Commendations, is harty commendations, for
Captaines are harty I am sure, or else hang them.
Foul. Why, what if I be harty Commendations? come, come, sweete
Knights, lead the way.
Rud. O Lorde Sir, alwayes after my harty Commendations.
Foul. Nay then you conquer me with precedent, by the autenticall
forme of all Iustice letters. [_Alloun. Exeunt_.
Ia. Here's a most sweet Gudgeon swallowed, is there not?
Will. I but how will they disgest it, thinkest thou when they shall finde
our Ladies not there?
Ia. I have a vaunt-currying[11] devise shall make them digest it most
healthfully.
[Exeunt.

SCENA QUARTA.
_Enter Clarence, Musicians_.
Cla. Worke on, sweet love; I am not yet resolved T'exhaust this
troubled spring of vanities And Nurse of perturbations, my poore life,
And therefore since in every man that holds This being deare, there
must be some desire, Whose power t'enjoy his object may so maske
The judging part, that in her radyant eyes His estimation of the World
may seeme Vpright, and worthy, I have chosen love To blind my
Reason with his misty hands And make my estimative power beleive I
have a project worthy to imploy What worth so ever my whole man
affordes: Then sit at rest, my soule, thou now hast found The end of thy

infusion; in the eyes Of thy divine Eugenia looke for Heaven. Thanks
gentle friends. [A song to the Violls. Is your good Lord, and mine, gon
up to bedd yet?
Enter Momford.
Mom. I do assure ye not, sir, not yet, nor yet, my deepe, and studious
friend; not yet, musicall Clarence.
Cla. My Lord?
Mom. Nor yet, thou sole divider of my Lordshippe.
Cla. That were a most unfit division, And farre above the pitch of my
low plumes; I am your bold, and constant guest my Lord.
Mom. Far, far from bold, for thou hast known me long Almost these
twenty yeeres, and halfe those yeeres Hast bin my bed-fellow; long
time before This unseene thing, this thing of naught indeed, Or Atome
cald my Lordshippe shind in me, And yet thou mak'st thy selfe as little
bould To take such kindnes, as becomes the Age And truth of our
indissolable love, As our acquaintance sprong but yesterday; Such is
thy gentle, and too tender spirit.
Cla. My _Lord_, my want of Courtship makes me feare I should be
rude, and this my meane estate Meetes with such envie, and detraction,
Such misconstructions and resolud misdoomes Of my poore worth, that
should I be advaunce'd Beyond my unseene lowenes, but one haire, I
should be torne in peeces with the Spirits That fly in ill-lungd tempests
through the world, Tearing the head of vertue from her shoulders If she
but looke out of the ground of glorie. Twixt whom and me, and every
worldly fortune There fights such sowre, and curst _Antipathy_, So
waspish and so petulant a Starre, That all things tending to my grace or
good Are ravisht from their object, as I were A thing created for a
wildernes, And must not thinke of any place with men.
Mom. O harke you Sir, this waiward moode of yours Must sifted be, or
rather rooted out. Youle no more musick Sir?

Cla. Not now, my Lord.
Mom. Begon my masters then to bedd, to bedd.
Cla. I thanke you, honest friends.
[Exeunt Musicians.
Mo. Hence with this book, and now, _Mounsieur Clarence_, me thinks
plaine and prose friendship would do excellent well betwixt us: come
thus, Sir, or rather thus, come. Sir, tis time I trowe that we both liv'd
like one