Alice. Ah, would we could!
Mosbie. I happened on a painter yesternight,
The only cunning man of Christendom;
For he can temper poison with his oil, 230
That whoso looks upon the work he draws
Shall, with the beams that issue from his sight,
Suck venom to his breast and slay himself.
Sweet Alice, he shall draw thy counterfeit,
That Arden may, by gazing on it, perish.
Alice. Ay, but Mosbie, that is dangerous,
For thou, or I, or any other else,
Coming into the chamber where it hangs, may die.
Mosbie. Ay, but we’ll have it covered with a cloth
And hung up in the study for himself. 240
Alice. It may not be, for when the picture’s drawn,
Arden, I know, will come and show it me.
Mosbie. Fear not; we’ll have that shall serve the turn.
This is the painter’s house; I’ll call him forth.
Alice. But Mosbie, I’ll have no such picture, I.
Mosbie. I pray thee leave it to my discretion.
How! Clarke!
Here enters Clarke.
Oh, you are an honest man of your word! you served me well.