Ia. Protest, you sawsie Iacke, you! I shood doe my country, and Court-ship good service to beare thy coalts teeth out of thy head, for suffering such a reverend word to passe their guarde; why, the oldest Courtier in the World, man, can doe noe more then protest.
Bul. Indeede, Page, if you were in Fraunce, you wood be broken upon a wheele for it, there is not the best Dukes sonne in France dares say I protest, till he be one and thirty yeere old at least, for the inheritance of that word is not to be possest before.
Wil. Well, I am sorry for my presumtion then, but more sory for my Ladies, marie most sorry for thee good Lord Momford, that will make us most of all sory for our selves, if wee doe not fynde her out.
Ia. Why, alas, what shood wee doe? all the starres of our heaven see, we seeke her as fast as we can if she be crept into a rush we will seeke her out or burne her.
Enter Momford.
Mom. Villaines, where are your Ladies? seeke them out.
Hence, home ye monsters, and still keepe you there
Where levity keepes, in her inconstant Spheare. [Exeunt Pages.
Away, you pretious villaines! what a plague,
Of varried tortures is a womans hart?
How like a peacockes taile with different lightes,
They differ from themselves; the very ayre
Alter the aspen humors of their bloods.
Now excellent good, now superexcellent badd:
Some excellent good, some? but one of all:
Wood any ignorant babie serue her friend
Such an uncivill part? Sblood what is learning?
An artificiall cobwebbe to catch flies,
And nourish Spiders? cood she cut my throate
With her departure, I had byn her calfe,
And made a dish at supper for my guests
Of her kinde charge; I am beholding to her.
Puffe, is there not a feather in this ayre
A man may challenge for her? what? a feather?
So easie to be seene, so apt to trace,
In the weake flight of her unconstant wings?
A mote, man, at the most, that with the Sunne,
Is onely seene, yet with his radiant eye,
We cannot single so from other motes,
To say this mote is she. Passion of death,
She wrongs me past a death; come, come, my friend
Is mine, she not her owne, and theres an end.
Eug. Come uncle shall we goe to supper now?
Mom. Zounes to supper? what a dorr is this?
Eug. Alas what ailes my uncle? Ladies, see.
Hip. Is not your Lordshippe well?