Io. Will ye prate more? Ile see that presently.
Asca. Stay, Ioculo, it is the Eccho, Boy,
That mocks our griefe and laughes at our annoy.
Hard by this grove there is a goodly plaine
Betwixt two hils, still fresh with drops of raine,
Where never spreading Oake nor Poplar grew
Might hinder the prospect or other view,
But all the country that about it lyes
Presents it selfe vnto our mortall eyes;
Save that vpon each hill, by leavie trees,
The Sun at highest his scorching heat may leese:
There, languishing, my selfe I will betake
As heaven shal please and only for her sake.
Io. Stay, maister; I have spied the fellow that mocks vs all this while: see where he sits.
Aramanthus sitting.
Asca. The very shape my vision told me off, That I should meet with as I strayed this way.
Io. What lynes he drawes? best go not over farre.
Asca. Let me alone; thou doest but trouble mee.
Io. Youle trouble vs all annon, ye shall see.
Asca. God speed, faire Sir.
Io. My Lord, do ye not mark How the skie thickens and begins to darke?