SCENE I.--_A Garden at Old Ford.

_Enter_ ROSE, _alone, making a garland_.

Rose. Here sit thou down upon this flow’ry bank, And make a garland for thy Lacy’s head. These pinks, these roses, and these violets, These blushing gilliflowers, these marigolds, The fair embroidery of his coronet, Carry not half such beauty in their cheeks, As the sweet countenance of my Lacy doth. O my most unkind father! O my stars, Why lowered you so at my nativity, To make me love, yet live robbed of my love? Here as a thief am I imprisonëd For my dear Lacy’s sake within those walls, Which by my father’s cost were builded up For better purposes; here must I languish For him that doth as much lament, I know, Mine absence, as for him I pine in woe.

_Enter_ SYBIL.

_Sybil._ Good morrow, young mistress. I am sure you make that garland for me; against I shall be Lady of the Harvest.

_Rose._ Sybil, what news at London?

_Sybil._ None but good; my lord mayor, your father, and master Philpot, your uncle, and Master Scot, your cousin, and Mistress Frigbottom by Doctors’ Commons, do all, by my troth, send you most hearty commendations.

_Rose._ Did Lacy send kind greetings to his love?

_Sybil._ O yes, out of cry, by my troth. I scant knew him; here ’a wore a scarf; and here a scarf, here a bunch of feathers, and here precious stones and jewels, and a pair of garters,--O, monstrous! like one of our yellow silk curtains at home here in Old Ford house, here in Master Belly-mount’s chamber. I stood at our door in Cornhill, looked at him, he at me indeed, spake to him, but he not to me, not a word; marry go-up, thought I, with a wanion![18] He passed by me as proud--Marry foh! are you grown humorous, thought I; and so shut the door, and in I came.

[18] With a vengeance.

_Rose._ O Sybil, how dost thou my Lacy wrong! My Rowland is as gentle as a lamb, No dove was ever half so mild as he.

_Sybil._ Mild? yea, as a bushel of stamped crabs.[19] He looked upon me as sour as verjuice. Go thy ways, thought I; thou may’st be much in my gaskins,[20] but nothing in my nether-stocks. This is your fault, mistress, to love him that loves not you; he thinks scorn to do as he’s done to; but if I were as you, I’d cry: Go by, Jeronimo, go by![21]

[19] Crushed crab apples.

[20] A kind of trousers, first worn by the Gascons.

[21] A phrase from Kyd’s _Spanish Tragedy_.

I’d set mine old debts against my new driblets, And the hare’s foot against the goose giblets, For if ever I sigh, when sleep I should take, Pray God I may lose my maidenhead when I wake.

_Rose._ Will my love leave me then, and go to France?

_Sybil._ I know not that, but I am sure I see him stalk before the soldiers. By my troth, he is a proper man; but he is proper that proper doth. Let him go snick-up,[22] young mistress.

[22] _i.e._ Go and be hanged!

_Rose._ Get thee to London, and learn perfectly, Whether my Lacy go to France, or no. Do this, and I will give thee for thy pains My cambric apron and my Romish gloves, My purple stockings and a stomacher. Say, wilt thou do this, Sybil, for my sake?

_Sybil._ Will I, quoth a? At whose suit? By my troth, yes I’ll go. A cambric apron, gloves, a pair of purple stockings, and a stomacher! I’ll sweat in purple, mistress, for you; I’ll take anything that comes a God’s name. O rich! a cambric apron! Faith, then have at ‘up tails all.’ I’ll go jiggy-joggy to London, and be here in a trice, young mistress. [_Exit._

_Rose._ Do so, good Sybil. Meantime wretched I Will sit and sigh for his lost company. [_Exit._