SCENE III.

_Enter_ Alice, _and_ Mary.

_Alice._ He cannot be so wild still.

_Mary._ 'Tis most certain, I have now heard all, and all the truth.

_Alice._ Grant all that; Is he the first that has been giv'n a lost man, And yet come fairly home? he is young and tender, And fit for that impression your affections Shall stamp upon him, age brings on discretion, A year hence, these mad toys that now possess him Will shew like Bugbears to him, shapes to fright him; Marriage dissolves all these like mists.

_Mary._ They are grounded Hereditary in him, from his father, And to his grave they will haunt him.

_Alice._ 'Tis your fear Which is a wise part in you; yet your love However you may seem to lessen it With these dislikes, and choak it with these errors, Do what you can, will break out to excuse him, Ye have him in your heart, and planted, Cousin, From whence the power of reason, nor discretion Can ever root him.

_Mary._ Planted in my heart, Aunt? Believe it no, I never was so liberal; What though he shew a so so comely fellow Which we call pretty? or say it may be handsom? What though his promises may stumble at The power of goodness in him, sometimes use too?

_Al._ How willingly thy heart betrays thee, Cousin? Cozen thy self no more; thou hast no more power To leave off loving him than he that's thirsty Has to abstain from drink standing before him; His mind is not so monstrous for his shape, If I have Eyes, I have not seen his better. A handsome brown Complexion.

_Mary._ Reasonable, Inclining to a tawney.

_Alice._ Had I said so You would have wish'd my tongue out; then his making.

_Mar._ Which may be mended; I have seen legs straighter, And cleaner made.

_Alice._ A body too.

_Mary._ Far neater, And better set together.

_Alice._ God forgive thee, For against thy Conscience thou lyest stubbornly.

_Mary._ I grant 'tis neat enough.

_Alice._ 'Tis excellent, And where the outward parts are fair and lovely, (Which are but moulds o'th' mind) what must the soul be? Put case youth has his swinge, and fiery Nature Flames to mad uses many times.

_Mary._ All this You only use to make me say I love him; I do confess I do, but that my fondness Should fling it self upon his desperate follies.

_Alice._ I do not counsel that, see him reclaim'd first, Which will not prove a miracle, yet _Mary_, I am afraid 'twill vex thee horribly To stay so long.

_Mary._ No, no Aunt, no, believe me.

_Alice._ What was your dream to-night? for I observ'd ye Hugging of me, with good dear sweet _Tom_.

_Mary._ Fye, Aunt, Upon my Conscience.

_Alice._ On my word 'tis true, Wench; And then ye kiss'd me, _Mary_, more than once too, And sigh'd, and O sweet _Tom_ again; nay, do not blush, Ye have it at the heart, Wench.

_Mary._ I'll be hang'd first, But you must have your way.

_Enter_ Dorothea.

_Alice._ And so will you too, Or break down hedges for it. _Dorothea_, The welcom'st woman living; how does thy Brother? I hear he's turn'd a wondrous civil Gentleman Since his short travel.

_Dor._ 'Pray Heaven he make it good, _Alice_.

_Mary._ How do ye friend? I have a quarrel to ye, Ye stole away and left my company.

_Dor._ O pardon me, dear friend, it was to welcome A Brother that I have some Cause to love well.

_Mary._ Prithee how is he? thou speak'st truth.

_Dor._ Not perfect, I hope he will be.

_Mary._ Never: h'as forgot me, I hear Wench, and his hot love too.

_Alice._ Thou would'st howl then.

_Mary._ And I am glad it should be so; his travels Have yielded him variety of Mistresses, Fairer in his eye far.

_Alice._ O cogging Rascal!

_Mary._ I was a fool, but better thoughts I thank heaven.

_Dor._ 'Pray do not think so, for he loves you dearly, Upon my troth most firmly, would fain see you.

_Mary._ See me friend! do you think it fit?

_Dor._ It may be, Without the loss of credit too; he's not Such a prodigious thing, so monstrous, To fling from all society.

_Mary._ He's so much contrary To my desires, such an antipathy That I must sooner see my grave.

_Dor._ Dear friend, He was not so before he went.

_Mary._ I grant it, For then I daily hop'd his fair Conversion.

_Alice._ Come, do not mask your self, but see him freely, Ye have a mind.

_Mary._ That mind I'll master then.

_Dor._ And is your hate so mortal?

_Mary._ Not to his person, But to his qualities, his mad-cap follies, Which still like _Hydras_ heads grow thicker on him. I have a credit, friend, and Maids of my sort, Love where their modesties may live untainted.

_Dor._ I give up that hope then; 'pray for your friends sake, If I have any interest within ye, Do but this courtesie, accept this Letter.

_Mary._ From him?

_Dor._ The same; 'tis but a minutes reading, And as we look on shapes of painted Devils, Which for the present may disturb our fancy, But with the next new object lose 'em, so If this be foul, ye may forget it, 'pray.

_Mary._ Have ye seen it, friend?

_Dor._ I will not lie; I have not, But I presume, so much he honours you, The worst part of himself was cast away When to his best part he writ this.

_Mary._ For your sake, Not that I any way shall like his scribling.

_Alice._ A shrewd dissembling Quean.

_Dor._ I thank ye, dear friend, I know she loves him.

_Alice._ Yes, and will not lose him, Unless he leap into the Moon, believe that, And then she'l scramble too; young wenches loves Are like the course of quartans, they may shift And seem to cease sometimes, and yet we see The least distemper pulls 'em back again, And seats 'em in their old course; fear her not, Unless he be a Devil.

_Mary._ Now Heaven bless me.

_Dor._ What has he writ?

_Mary._ Out, out upon him.

_Dor._ Ha, what has the mad man done?

_Mary._ Worse, worse, and worse still.

_Alice._ Some Northern Toy, a little broad.

_Mary._ Still fouler! Hey, hey Boys, goodness keep me; Oh.

_Dor._ What ail ye?

_Mary._ Here, take your Spell again, it burns my fingers. Was ever Lover writ so sweet a Letter? So elegant a style? pray look upon't; The rarest inventory of rank Oaths That ever Cut-purse cast.

_Alice._ What a mad Boy is this!

_Mary._ Only i'th' bottom A little Julip gently sprinkled over To cool his mouth, lest it break out in blisters, Indeed law. Yours for ever.

_Dor._ I am sorry.

_Mar._ You shall be welcome to me, come when you please, And ever may command me vertuously, But for your Brother, you must pardon me, Till I am of his nature, no access friend, No word of visitation, as ye love me, And so for now I'le leave ye. [_Exit._

_Alice._ What a letter Has this thing written, how it roars like thunder! With what a state he enters into stile! Dear Mistress.

_Dor._ Out upon him bedlam.

_Alice._ Well, there be waies to reach her yet: such likeness As you two carry me thinks.

_Dor._ I am mad too, And yet can apprehend ye: fare ye well, The fool shall now fish for himself.

_Alice._ Be sure then His tewgh be tith and strong: and next no swearing, He'l catch no fish else, Farewel _Dol._

_Dor._ Farewel _Alice_. [_Exeunt._

_Actus Secundus. Scena Prima._

_Enter_ Valentine, Alice, _and_ Cellide.

_Cel._ Indeed he's much chang'd, extreamly alter'd, His colour faded strangely too.

_Val._ The air, The sharp and nipping air of our new climate I hope is all, which will as well restore To health again th' affected body by it, And make it stronger far, as leave it dangerous; How do's my sweet, our blessed hour comes on now Apace my _Cellide_, (it knocks at door) In which our loves, and long desires like rivers Rising asunder far, shall fall together, Within these [two] daies dear.

_Cel._ When heaven, and you Sir Shall think it fit: for by your wills I am govern'd.

_Alice._ 'Twere good some preparation.

_Enter_ Frank.

_Val._ All that may be: It shall be no blind wedding: and all the joy Of all our friends I hope: he looks worse hourly, How does my friend, my self? he sweats too coldly, His pulse, like the slow dropping of a spowt, Scarce gives his function: how is't man, alas Sir, You look extreme ill: is it any old grief, The weight of which?

_Fra._ None, gentle Sir, that I feel, Your love is too too tender, Nay believe Sir.

_Cel._ You cannot be the master of your health, Either some feaver lyes in wait to catch ye, Whose harbinger's already in your face We see preparing: or some discontent, Which if it lye in this house, I dare say Both for this noble Gentleman, and all That live within it, shall as readily Be purg'd away, and with as much care soften'd, And where the cause is.

_Fran._ 'Tis a joy to be ill, Where such a vertuous fair Physitian Is ready to relieve: your noble cares I must, and ever shall be thankfull for, And would my service (I dare not look upon her) But be not fearfull, I feel nothing dangerous, A grudging caus'd by th' alteration Of air, may hang upon me: my heart's whole, (I would it were.)

_Val._ I knew the cause to be so.

_Fra._ No, you shall never know it.

_Alice._ Some warm broths To purge the bloud, and keep your bed a day Sir, And sweat it out.

_Cel._ I have such cordials, That if you will but promise me to take 'em, Indeed you shall be well, and very quickly, I'le be your Doctor, you shall see how finely I'le fetch ye up again.

_Val._ He sweats extreamly: Hot, very hot: his pulse beats like a drum now, Feel Sister, feel, feel sweet.

_Fra._ How that touch stung me!

_Val._ My gown there.

_Cel._ And those julips in the window.

_Alice._ Some see his bed made.

_Val._ This is most unhappy, Take courage man, 'tis nothing but an ague.

_Cel._ And this shall be the last fit.

_Fra._ Not by thousands: Now what 'tis to be truly miserable, I feel at full experience.

_Alice._ He grows fainter.

_Val._ Come, lead him in, he shall to bed: a vomit, I'le have a vomit for him.

_Alice._ A purge first, And if he breath'd a vein.

_Val._ No, no, no bleeding, A Clyster will cool all.

_Cel._ Be of good cheer Sir.

_Alice._ He's loth to speak.

_Cel._ How hard he holds my hand aunt!

_Alice._ I do not like that sign.

_Val._ Away to's chamber, Softly, he's full of pain, be diligent With all the care ye have: would I had scus'd him.

[_Exeunt._