SCENE I

_Arden’s House at Feversham._

_Here enters Arden and his wife, Franklin, and Michael_

_Arden._ See how the hours, the gardant of heaven’s gate, Have by their toil removed the darksome clouds, That Sol may well discern the trampled path Wherein he wont to guide his golden car; The season fits; come, Franklin, let’s away.

_Alice._ I thought you did pretend some special hunt, That made you thus cut short the time of rest.

_Arden._ It was no chase that made me rise so early, But, as I told thee yesternight, to go To the Isle of Sheppy, there to dine with my Lord Cheiny; 10 For so his honour late commanded me.

_Alice._ Ay, such kind husbands seldom want excuses; Home is a wild cat to a wandering wit. The time hath been,--would God it were not past,-- That honour’s title nor a lord’s command Could once have drawn you from these arms of mine. But my deserts or your desires decay, Or both; yet if true love may seem desert, I merit still to have thy company.

_Franklin._ Why, I pray you, sir, let her go along with us; 20 I am sure his honour will welcome her And us the more for bringing her along.

_Arden._ Content; sirrah, saddle your mistress’ nag.

_Alice._ No, begged favour merits little thanks; If I should go, our house would run away, Or else be stolen; therefore I’ll stay behind.

_Arden._ Nay, see how mistaking you are! I pray thee, go.

_Alice._ No, no, not now.

_Arden._ Then let me leave thee satisfied in this, That time nor place nor persons alter me, 30 But that I hold thee dearer than my life.

_Alice._ That will be seen by your quick return.

_Arden._ And that shall be ere night, and if I live. Farewell, sweet Alice, we mind to sup with thee.

[_Exit Alice._

_Franklin._ Come, Michael, are our horses ready?

_Michael._ Ay, your horse are ready, but I am not ready, for I have lost my purse, with six and thirty shillings in it, with taking up of my master’s nag.

_Franklin._ Why, I pray you, let us go before, Whilst he stays behind to seek his purse. 40

_Arden._ Go to, sirrah, see you follow us to the Isle of Sheppy To my Lord Cheiny’s, where we mean to dine.

[_Exeunt Arden and Franklin. Manet Michael._

_Michael._ So, fair weather after you, for before you lies Black Will and Shakebag in the broom close, too close for you: they’ll be your ferrymen to long home.

_Here enters the Painter._

But who is this? the painter, my corrival, that would needs win Mistress Susan.

_Clarke._ How now, Michael? how doth my mistress and all at home?

_Michael._ Who? Susan Mosbie? she is your mistress, too? 50

_Clarke._ Ay, how doth she and all the rest?

_Michael._ All’s well but Susan; she is sick.

_Clarke._ Sick? Of what disease?

_Michael._ Of a great fever.

_Clarke._ A fear of what?

_Michael._ A great fever.

Clarke. A fever? God forbid!

_Michael._ Yes, faith, and of a lordaine, too, as big as yourself.

_Clarke._ O, Michael, the spleen prickles you. Go to, you carry an eye over Mistress Susan. 60

_Michael._ I’ faith, to keep her from the painter.

_Clarke._ Why more from a painter than from a serving creature like yourself?

Michael. Because you painters make but a painting table of a pretty wench, and spoil her beauty with blotting.

_Clarke._ What mean you by that?

_Michael._ Why, that you painters paint lambs in the lining of wenches’ petticoats, and we serving-men put horns to them to make them become sheep. 70

_Clarke._ Such another word will cost you a cuff or a knock.

_Michael._ What, with a dagger made of a pencil? Faith, ’tis too weak, and therefore thou too weak to win Susan.

_Clarke._ Would Susan’s love lay upon this stroke.

[_Then he breaks Michael’s head._

_Here enters Mosbie, Greene, and Alice._

_Alice._ I’ll lay my life, this is for Susan’s love. Stayed you behind your master to this end? Have you no other time to brable in But now when serious matters are in hand?-- Say, Clarke, hast thou done the thing thou promised? 80

_Clarke._ Ay, here it is; the very touch is death.

_Alice._ Then this, I hope, if all the rest do fail, Will catch Master Arden, And make him wise in death that lived a fool. Why should he thrust his sickle in our corn, Or what hath he to do with thee, my love, Or govern me that am to rule myself? Forsooth, for credit sake, I must leave thee! Nay, he must leave to live that we may love, May live, may love; for what is life but love? 90 And love shall last as long as life remains, And life shall end before my love depart.

_Mosbie._ Why, what is love without true constancy? Like to a pillar built of many stones, Yet neither with good mortar well compact Nor with cement to fasten it in the joints, But that it shakes with every blast of wind, And, being touched, straight falls unto the earth, And buries all his haughty pride in dust. No, let our love be rocks of adamant, 100 Which time nor place nor tempest can asunder.

_Greene._ Mosbie, leave protestations now, And let us bethink us what we have to do. Black Will and Shakebag I have placed i’ the broom, Close watching Arden’s coming; let’s to them And see what they have done. [_Exeunt._

IV. i. 1. _gardant_: A, B read _gardeant_, modern editors _guardians_.

IV. i. 3. _path_: so Warnke for _pace_ of A, B, C; but _pace_ in the sense of ‘path’ is not impossible.

IV. i. 17. _desires_: so Warnke for _deserves_, A, B, C.

IV. i. 44. ‘A certain broom-close betwixt Feversham and the Ferry.’--Holinshed.

IV. i. 45. Cf. _Ecclesiastes_, vii. 5.

IV. i. 96. _nor with cement_: Delius _for nor semell_, A, B.