ACT III, SCENE I.

MOTH. Harrow,[176] alas! I swelt[177] here as I go; Brenning[178] in fire of little Cupido. I no where hoart yfeel but on mine head. Huh, huh, huh, so; ycapred very wele. I am thine leek, thou Chaucer eloquent; Mine head is white, but, O, mine taile is green. This is the palyes, where mine lady wendeth. _Saint Francis[179] and Saint Benedight,_ _Blesse this house from wicked wight;_ _From the night-mare and the goblin,_ _That is hight Good-fellow Robin;_ _Keep it from all evil spirits,_ _Fairies, weazels, rats, and ferrets:_ _From curfew-time_ _To the next prime._ Come forth, mine duck, mine bride, mine honeycomb; Come forth, mine cinnamon.

_Enter_ MISTRESS POTLUCK.

POT. Who is't that calls?

MOTH. A knight most gent.

POT. What is your pleasure, sir?

MOTH. Thou art mine pleasure, by dame Venus brent; So fresh thou art, and therewith so lycand.[180]

POT. Alas! I am not any flickering thing: I cannot boast of that slight-fading gift You men call beauty; all my handsomeness Is my good-breeding and my honesty. I could plant red where you now yellow see; But painting shows an harlot.

MOTH. Harlot! so Called from one Harlotha, concubine To deignous[181] Wilhelm, hight the Conqueror.

POT. Were he ten Williams and ten conquerors, I'd have him know't, I scorn to be his harlot. I never yet did take press-money to Serve under any one.

MOTH. Then take it now. Werme kiss! Thine lips ytaste like marrow-milk; Me-thinketh that fresh butter runneth on them. I grant well now, I do enduren woe, As sharp as doth the Tityus in hell, Whose stomach fowls do tyren[182] ever more, That highten vultures, as do tellen clerks.

POT. You've spoke my meaning, though I do not know What 'tis you said. Now see the fortune on't; We do know one another's souls already; The other must needs follow. Where's your dwelling?

MOTH. Yclose by Aldersgate there dwelleth one Wights clepen Robert Moth; now Aldersgate[183] Is hoten so from one that Aldrich hight; Or else of elders, that is, ancient men; Or else of aldern-trees, which growden there; Or else, as heralds say, from Aluredus: But whencesoe'er this yate[184] ycalled is, There dwelleth Robert Moth, thine paramour.

POT. Can you be constant unto me, as I Can be to you?

MOTH. By Woden, god of Saxons, From whence comes We'nsday, that is, Woden'sday, Truth is a thing that ever I will keep, Unto thylke day in which I creep into My sepulchre; I'll be as faithful to thee, As Chaunticleer to Madam Partelot.[185]

POT. Here then I give away my heart to you; As true a heart as ever widow gave.

MOTH. I Robert Moth, this tenth [year] of our king,[186] Give to thee, Joan Potluck, my bigg'st cramp-ring:[187]

And with it my carcase entire I bequeathen Under my foot to hell, above my head to heaven; And to witnesse[188] that this is sooth, I bite thy red lip with my tooth.

POT. Though for a while our bodies now must part, I hope they will be join'd hereafter.

MOTH. O! And must we part? Alas! and must we so? Sin it may be no bet,[189] now gang in peace.

[_Exit_ POTLUCK.

Though soft into my bed I gin to sink To sleep long as I'm wont to done,[190] yet all Will be for nought; I may well lig and wink, But sleep shall there none in this heart ysink. [_Exit._