University of Virginia Library

Scene 4.

Beaufort.
Franke. Seruant. To them.
I thanke you all, I thanke thee, Father Fly.
Madam, my Cossen, you looke discompos'd,
I haue beene bold with a sallad, after supper,
O' your owne lettice, here:

Lad.
You haue, my Lord.
But lawes of hospitality, and faire rites,
Would haue made me acquainted.

Bea.
I' your owne house,
I doe acknowledge: Else, I much had trespass'd.
But in an Inne, and publique, where there is licence
Of all community: a pardon o' course
May be su'de out.

Lat.
It will, my Lord, and carry it.
I doe not see, how any storme, or tempest
Can helpe it, now.

Pru.
The thing being done, and past,
You beare it wisely, and like a Lady of iudgement.

Bea.
She is that, secretary Pru.

Pru.
Why secretary?
My wise Lord? is your braine lately maried?

Bea.
Your raigne is ended, Pru, no soueraigne now:
Your date is out, and dignity expir'd.

Pru.
I am annul'd, how can I treat with Lovel,
Without a new commission?

Lad.
Thy gown's commission.

Host.
Haue patience, Pru, expect, bid the Lord ioy.

Pru.
And this braue Lady too. I wish them ioy.

Pei.
Ioy.

Ior.
Ioy.

Iug.
All ioy.

Hos.
I, the house full of ioy.

Fly
Play the bels, Fidlers, crack your strings with ioy.

Pru.
But Lady Letice, you shew'd a neglect
Vn-to-be-pardon'd, to'ards my Lady, your kinswoman,
Not to advise with her.

Bea.
Good politique Pru,
Vrge not your state-aduice, your after-wit;
'Tis neare vpbraiding. Get our bed ready, Chamberlain,
And Host, a Bride-cup, you haue rare conceipts,
And good ingredients, euer an old Host
Vpo' the road, has his prouocatiue drinks.

Lat.
He is either a good Baud, or a Physician.

Bea.
'Twas well he heard you not, his back was turn'd.
A bed, the Geniall bed, a brace of boyes
To night I play for.

Pru.
Giue vs points, my Lord.

Bea.
Here take 'hem, Pru, my cod-piece point, and all,
I ha' claspes, my Letice armes, here take'hem boyes.
What is the chamber ready? speake, why stare you!
On one another?

Ior.
No Sir.

Bea.
And why no?

Ior.
My master has forbid it. He yet doubts
That you are married.

Bea.
Aske his vicar generall,
His Fly, here.

Fly.
I must make that good, they are married.

Host.
But I must make it bad, my hot yong Lord.
Gi' him his doublet againe, the aier is peircing;
You may take cold, my Lord. See whom you ha'married,
Your hosts sonne, and aboy.

Fly.
You are abus'd.

Lad.
Much ioy, my Lord.

Pru.
If this be your Latitia,
Shee'l proue a counterfeit mirth, and a clip'd Lady.

Ser.
A boy, a boy; my Lord has married a boy.

Lat.
Raise all the house in shout, and laughter, a boy!

Host.
Stay, what is here! peace rascals, stop your throats.