Mosbie. What, sister, is it Clarke must be the man?
Susan. It resteth in your grant; some words are past,
And haply we be grown unto a match,
If you be willing that it shall be so.
Mosbie. Ah, Master Clarke, it resteth at my grant:
You see my sister’s yet at my dispose,
But, so you’ll grant me one thing I shall ask,
I am content my sister shall be yours.
Clarke. What is it, Master Mosbie?
Mosbie. I do remember once in secret talk 610
You told me how you could compound by art
A crucifix impoisoned,
That whoso look upon it should wax blind
And with the scent be stifled, that ere long
He should die poisoned that did view it well.
I would have you make me such a crucifix.
And then I’ll grant my sister shall be yours.
Clarke. Though I am loth, because it toucheth life,
Yet, rather or I’ll leave sweet Susan’s love,
I’ll do it, and with all the haste I may. 620
But for whom is it?
Alice. Leave that to us. Why, Clarke, is it possible
That you should paint and draw it out yourself,
The colours being baleful and impoisoned,
And no ways prejudice yourself withal?
Mosbie. Well questioned, Alice; Clarke, how answer you that?
Clarke. Very easily: I’ll tell you straight
How I do work of these impoisoned drugs.
I fasten on my spectacles so close
As nothing can any way offend my sight; 630
Then, as I put a leaf within my nose,
So put I rhubarb to avoid the smell,
And softly as another work I paint.
Mosbie. ’Tis very well; but against when shall I have it?