Lady Len. Lord Bridegroom, will you interpret me?
Rob. A sable shield: the word,[190] Vidua spes. 60
What—the forlorn hope, in black, despairing?
Lady Lentulus, is this the badge of all your suitors?
Lady Len. Ay, by my troth, my lord, if they come to me.
Rob. I could give it another interpretation. Methinks this lover has learn’d of women to deal by contraries; if so, then here he says, the widow is his only hope.
Lady Len. No; good my lord, let the first stand.
Rob. Inquire of him, and he’ll resolve the doubt.
Abi. What’s here?—a ship sailing nigh her haven?
With good ware belike: ’tis well ballast. 70
Tha. O this your device smells of the merchant. What’s your ship’s name, I pray? The Forlorn Hope?
Abi. No; The Merchant Royal.
Tha. And why not Adventurer?