Clarke. Why, sir, I’ll do it for you at any time,
Provided, as you have given your word, 250
I may have Susan Mosbie to my wife.
For, as sharp-witted poets, whose sweet verse
Make heavenly gods break off their nectar draughts
And lay their ears down to the lowly earth,
Use humble promise to their sacred Muse,
So we that are the poets’ favourites
Must have a love: ay, Love is the painter’s muse,
That makes him frame a speaking countenance,
A weeping eye that witnesses heart’s grief.
Then tell me, Master Mosbie, shall I have her? 260
Alice. ’Tis pity but he should; he’ll use her well.
Mosbie. Clarke, here’s my hand: my sister shall be thine.
Clarke. Then, brother, to requite this courtesy,
You shall command my life, my skill, and all.
Alice. Ah, that thou couldst be secret.
Mosbie. Fear him not; leave; I have talked sufficient
Clarke. You know not me that ask such questions.
Let it suffice I know you love him well,
And fain would have your husband made away:
Wherein, trust me, you show a noble mind, 270
That rather than you’ll live with him you hate,
You’ll venture life, and die with him you love.
The like will I do for my Susan’s sake.
Alice. Yet nothing could inforce me to the deed
But Mosbie’s love. Might I without control
Enjoy thee still, then Arden should not die:
But seeing I cannot, therefore let him die.
Mosbie. Enough, sweet Alice; thy kind words makes me melt.
Your trick of poisoned pictures we dislike;
Some other poison would do better far. 280
Alice. Ay, such as might be put into his broth,
And yet in taste not to be found at all.