Alin. I, two fine Gentlewomen,
Make much of 'em; for they'll stick close to you, Sir:
And these two, in two days.
Rod. That's a fine Riddle.
Alin. To day you shall wed sorrow,
And repentance will come to morrow.
Rod. Sure she's inspired.
Alin. I'll sing ye a fine Song, Sir,
He called down his merry men all,
By one, by two, by three,
William would fain have been the first,
But now the last is he.
Rod. This the meer Chronicle of my mishaps.
Alin. I'll bid you good ev'n, for my Boat stays for me yonder,
And I must sup with the Moon to Night in the Mediterraneum. [Exit.
Rod. When fools and mad folks will be Tutors to me,
And feel my sores, yet I unsensible;
Sure it was set by Providence upon me
To steer my heart right, I am wondrous weary,
My thoughts too, which add more burthen to me;
I have been ill, and (which is worse) pursu'd it,
And still run on; I must think better, nobler,
And be another thing, or not at all.