Mom. Well I will reade it. Three things there be which thou shouldst only crave, Thou Pomroy or thou apple of mine eye; Three things there be which thou shouldst long to have And for which three each modest dame wood crie; Three things there be that shood thine anger swage, An English mastife and a fine French page.
Rud. Sblood, Asse, theres but two things, thou shamst thy selfe.
Goos. Why sir Cut. thats Poetica licentia, the verse wood have bin too long, and I had put in the third. Slight, you are no Poet I perceive.
Pene. Tis excellent, servant.
Mom. Keepe it Lady then, And take the onely Knight of mortall men.
Goos. Thanke you, good my Lord, as much as tho you had given me twenty shillings in truth; now I may take the married mens parts at football.
Mom. All comforts crowne you all; and you, Captaine, For merry forme sake let the willowe crowne: A wreath of willow bring us hither straite.
Fur. Not for a world shood that have bin forgot Captaine it is the fashion, take this Crowne.
Foul. With all my hart, my Lord, and thanke you too; I will thanke any man that gives me crownes.
Mom. Now will we consecrate our ready supper
To honourd Hymen as his nuptiall rite;
In forme whereof first daunce, faire Lords and Ladies,
And after sing, so we will sing, and daunce,
And to the skies our vertuous joyes advance.