University of Virginia Library

Act 2.

Scene 1.

Lucy. Phillis.
Lu.
Y'are the first Maid that ere I entertain'd
Upon so small acquaintance. Yet y'are welcom,
I like your hand and carriage.

Phi.
'Tis your favour.
But love, they say sweet Mistriss, is receiv'd
At the first sight, and why not service then,
Which often brings more absolute returns
Of the dear trust impos'd, and firmer faith
By Servants then by Lovers?

Lu.
Stay there Phillis.
I may, by that, conjecture you have been
Deceiv'd by some false Lover.

Phi.
Who, I Mistriss?
I hope I look too merrily for such a one,
Somewhat too coursly too, to be belov'd;
If, I were sad and handsome, then it might
Be thought I were a little love sick. Pray
How long has this disease affected you;
This melancholy, Mistriss? Not ever since
You lost your father I hope.

Lu.
For the most part.
Thou saidst, me thought, that love might be tane in
At the first sight.

Phi.
There 'tis I find her.
Love, Mistriss? yes, a Maid may take in more
Love at one look, or at a little loop-hole,
Then all the Doddy poles in Town can purge
Out of her while she lives; she smothring it,
And not make known her passion. There's the mischief!

Lu.
Suppose she love an enemy to her house.

Phi.
An enemy! Put case the case were yours.

Lu.
But 'tis no case of mine; put by I pray thee.

Phi.
I'le put it to you though I miss your case.
Suppose it were your house, and Master Arthur,
Whose father was your fathers enemy,
Were your belov'd—

Lu.
Pray thee no more.

Phi.
Now I have struck the vein. Suppose I say,
All this were true; would you confound your self
In smothering your love, which, in it self,
Is pure and innocent, until it grow
To a pernicious disease within you;
And hide it in your bosom, till it work
Your kindled heart to ashes?

Lu.
Thou hast won
My patience to attention: Therefore tell me
If thou canst find or think it honourable
In me to take such an affection?

Phi.
Yes, and religious; most commendable,
Could you but win his love into a marriage,
To beget peace between your families.
How many, and what great examples have we,
From former ages, and of later times,
Of strong dissentions between furious factions,
That to their opposite houses have drawn in
Eithers Allies and Friends, whole Provinces,
Yea, Kingdoms into deadly opposition;
Till the wide wounds on both sides have sent forth
Rivers of blood, which onely have been stop'd
By the soft bands of love in marriages
Of equal branches, sprung from the first roots
Of all those Hell-bred hatreds!

Lu.
My good Maid—

Phi.
Yes, I have been a good one to my grief.

Lu.
Thou hast given me strength to tell thee, and I hope
When it is told, I shall have yet more ease.

Phi.
I warrant you Mistriss. Therefore out with it.

Lu.
I love that worthy Gentleman; and am confident
That in the time of our two fathers friendship
He' affected me no less: But since that time
I have not seen him, nor dare mention him
To wrong my brothers patience, who is so passionate,
That could he but suspect I bred a thought
That favour'd him, I were for ever lost.
For this sad cause, as well as for the loss
Of my dear Father, I have sigh'd away
Twelve Moons in silent sorrow; and have heard
That Arthur too (but for what cause I know not)
Has not been seen abroad; but spends his time
In pensive solitude.

Phi.
Perhaps he grieves
As much for the supposed loss of you,
As of his Father too.

Lu.
The best construction,
I make of his retiredness, is the blest
Prevention (which I daily pray for) of
A fatal meeting 'twixt him and my Brother,
Which would be sure the death of one or both.
And now that fear invades me, as it does alwayes,
My Brother being abroad; and such an absence
Has not been usual: I have not seen him
Since yesterday—

Phi.
Fear nothing, Mistriss. Now you have eas'd your mind,
Let me alone to comfort you. And see your Brother.

Enter Theoph.
The.
How is it with you Sister?

Phi.
Much better now then when you left me Brother,
If no ill accident has happened yon
Since your departure; as I fear there has:
Why look you else so sadly? speak, dear Brother.
I hope you did not meet the man you hate.
If you did, speak. If you have fought and slain him,
I charge you tell, that I may know the worst
Of fortune can befal me: I shall gain
Perhaps a death by't.

The.
You speak as if you lov'd the man I hate,
And that you fear I have kil'd him.

Phi.
Not for love
Of him I assure you Sir; but of your self.
Her fear in this case, Sir, is that the Law
May take from her the comfort of her life
In taking you from her, and so she were
But a dead woman. We were speaking
Of such a danger just as you came in;
And truly, Sir, my heart even tremble-tremble-trembles,
To think upon it yet. Pray, Sir, resolve her.

The.
Then 'twas your frivolous fear that wrought in her.
Good Sister be at peace: for, by my love to you,
(An oath I will not violate) I neither saw
Nor sought him, I. But other thoughts perplex me.

Lu.
What, were you at the wedding, Brother?

The.
Whose wedding, Sister?

Lu.
Your lost love Millicents. Are you now sad
After your last leave taking?

The.
What do you mean?

Lu.
There may be other matches, my good Brother—

The.
You wrong me shamefully, to think that I
Can think of other then her memorie.
Though she be lost and dead to me, can you
Be so unnatural as to desire
The separation of a thought of mine
From her dear memorie; which is all the comfort
My heart is married to, or I can live by.

Phi.
Surely good Sir, in my opinion,
Sharp, eager stomacks may be better fed
With a'ery smell of meat, then the bare thought
Of the most curious dainties—

The.
What piece of impudence have you receiv'd
Into my house?

Lu.
Pray Brother pardon me.
I took her, as I find her, for my comfort,
She has by councel and discourse wrought much
Ease and delight into my troubled thoughts.

The.
Good Maid forgive me; and my gentle Sister,
I pray thee bear with my destractions.

Phi.
A good natur'd Gentleman for all his hasty flashes.

The.
And now I'le tell you Sister (do not chide me)
I have a new affliction.

Lu.
What is it brother?

The.
I am ingag'd unto a Gentleman,
(A noble valiant Gentleman) for my life,
By hazarding his own, in my behalf.

Lu.
It was then against Arthur.
What villain was't durst take your cause in hand
Against that man?

The.
You wrong me beyond suffrance,
And my dear fathers blood within your self,
In seeming careful of that mans safety—

Phi.
His safety Sir? Alas! she means, he is
A villain that would take the honor of
His death out of your hands, if he must fall
By sword of man.

The.
Again, I ask you pardon. But I had
A quarrel yesterday, that drew strong odds
Upon my single person; Three to one:
When, at the instant, that brave Gentleman
With his sword, sides me, puts 'em all to flight—

Lu.
But how can that afflict you?

The.
How quick you are!

Lu.
Good Brother I ha'done.

The.
My affliction is,
That I not know the man, to whom I am
So much ingag'd, to give him thanks at least.
Enter Nath.
O Sir y'are welcome, though we parted somewhat
Abruptly yesterday.

Nat.
I thank you Sir.

The.
Pray thee Nat. tell me, for I hope thou know'st him;
What Gentleman was that came in betwixt us?

Nat.
If the devil know him no better, he will lose
A part of his due I think. But to the purpose,
I knew your wonted nature would be friends
With me before I could come at you. However, I
Have news for you that might deserve your love,
Were you my deadly enemy.

The.
What is't pray thee?

Nat.
Sweet Mistriss Lucy so long unsaluted?

Kiss.
Lu.
My Brother attends your news Sir.

Nat.
My Wench become her Chamber-maid! very pretty!
How the Jade mumps for fear I should discover her.

The.
Your news good Nat? what is it ready made,
Or are you now but coining it?

Nat.
No, it was coin'd last night, o'the right stamp,
And passes current for your good. Now know,
That I, and Mun, and Vince, with divers others
Of our Comrades, were last night at the Bride-house.

The.
What mischief did you there?

Nat.
A Masque, a Masque lad, in which we presented
The miseries of inforced Marriages
So lively—Zooks, lay by your captious countenance,
And hear me handsomely.

Lu.
Good brother do, it has a fine beginning.

Nat.
But mark what follows;
This morning, early up we got again,
And with our Fidlers made a fresh assault
And battery 'gainst the bed-rid bride-grooms window,
With an old song, a very wondrous old one,
Of all the cares, vexations, fears and torments,
That a decrepit, nasty, rotten Husband
Meets in a youthful, beauteous, sprightly wife:
So as the weak wretch will shortly be afraid,
That his own feebler shadow makes him Cuckold.
Our Masque o're night begat a separation
Betwixt 'em before bed time: for we found
Him at one window, coughing and spitting at us;
She at another, laughing, and throwing money
Down to the Fidlers, while her Uncle Testy,
From a third Port-hole raves, denouncing Law,
And thundring statutes 'gainst their Minstralsie.

Lucy.
Would he refuse his bride-bed the first night?

Phi.
Hang him.

Nat.
Our Horn-masque put him off it, (bless my invention)
For which, I think, you'l Judge she'le forsake him
All nights and dayes hereafter. Here's a blessing
Prepard now for you, if you have grace to follow it.

The.
Out of my house, that I may kill thee; Go:
For here it were inhospitable. Hence,
Thou busie vaillain, that with sugard malice
Hast poyson'd all my hopes; ruin'd my comforts
In that sweet soul for ever. Go, I say,
That I may with the safety of my man-hood,
Right me upon that mischievous head of thine.

Nat.
Is this your way of thanks for courtesies;
Or is't our luck alwayes to meet good friends,
And never part so? yet before I go,
I will demand your reason (if you have any)
Wherein our friendly care can prejudice you;
Or poyson any hopes of yours in Millicent?

Lu.
Pray brother tell him.

The.
Yes: that he may die
Satisfied, that I did but Justice on him,
In killing him. That villain, old in mischief,
(Hell take him) that has married her, conceives
It was my plot (I know he does) and, for
A sure revenge, will either work her death
By poyson, or some other cruelty,
Or keep her lock'd up in such misery,
That I shall never see her more.

Nat.
I answer—

The.
Not in a word, let me intreat you, go.

Nat.
Fair Mistriss Lucy—

The.
Neither shall she hear you.

Nat.
Her Maid shall then: or I'le not out to night.

Phil.
On what acquaintance Sir.

He takes her aside.
Nat.
Be not afraid: I take no notice o'thee,
I like thy course, Wench, and will keep thy councel,
And come sometimes, and bring thee a bit and th'wilt.

Phi.
I'le see you choak'd first.

Nat.
Thou art not the first
Cast Wench that has made a good Chamber-maid.

Phi.
O you are base, and I could claw your eyes out.

Nat.
Pray tell your Master now: so fare you well Sir.

Exit.
Lu.
I thank you, Brother, that you promise me
You will not follow him now, some other time
Will be more fit. What said he to you, Phillis?

Phi.
Marry he said (help me good apron strings.)

The.
What was it that he said?

Phi.
I have it now.
It was in answer, Sir, of your objections.
First, that you fear'd the old man, wickedly,
Would make away his wife: to which he saies,
That is not to be fear'd, while she has so
Much fear of Heaven before her eyes. And next,
That he would lock her up from sight of man:
To which he answers, she is so indued
With wit of woman, that were she lock'd up,
Or had locks hung upon her, locks upon locks;
Locks of prevention, or security:
Yet being a woman, she would have her will;
And break those locks as easily as her Wedlock.
Lastly, for your access unto her sight;
If you have Land he saies to sell or Mortgage,
He'le undertake his doors, his wife and all,
Shall fly wide open to you.

The.
He could not say so.

Lu.
Troth, but tis like his wild way of expression.

Phi.
Yes; I knew that: my wit else had been puzzl'd.

The.
And now I find my self instructed by him;
And friends with him again. Now, Arnold, any tidings.

Ent. Arn.
Ar.
Not of the gentleman that fought for you.
But I have other newes thats worth your knowledge.
Your enemy, young Arthur, that has not
Been seen abroad this twel'moneth is got forth
In a disguise I hear, and weapon'd well.
I have it from most sure inteligence.
Look to your self, sir.

Lu.
My blood chills again.

The.
Pseugh, Ile not think of him. To dinner sister.

Scene. 2.

Quick-sands. Testy. Millicent.
Qui.
Here was a good night, and good morrow to
Given by a crew of Devils.

Tes.
'Twas her plot,
And let her smart for't.

Mil.
Smart, Sir, did you say?
I think 'twas smart enough for a young Bride
To be made lye alone, and gnaw the sheets
Upon her wedding.

Tes.
Rare impudence!

Mil.
But for your satisfaction, as I hope
To gain your favour as you are my Uncle,
I know not any acter in this business.

Ent. Buz. with a paper.
Buz.
Sir, her's a letter thrown into the entry.

Quick reads it.
Tes.
It is some villanous libel then I warrant.
Sawst thou not who convai'd it in?

Buz.
Not I. I onely found it, Sr.

Qui.
Pray read it you. Not my own house free from 'em!
The devil ow'd me a spight; and when he has plow'd
An old mans lust up, he sits grinning at him.
Nay, I that have so many gallant enemies
On fire, to do me mischief, or disgrace;
That I must provide tinder for their sparks!
The very thought bears weight enough to sink me.

Mil.
May I be worthy, Sir, to know your trouble?

Qui.
Do you know your self?

Mil.
Am I your trouble then?

Qui.
Tis sworn and written in that letter there
Thou shalt be wicked. Hundreds have tane oaths
To make thee false, and me a horned Monster.

Mil.
And does that trouble you?

Tes.
Does it not you?

Mil.
A dream has done much more. Pray, Sir, your patience,
And now I will be serious, and endeavour
To mend your faith in me. Is't in their power
To destroy vertue, think you; or do you
Suppose me false already; tis perhaps
Their plot to drive you into that opinion.
And so to make you cast me out amongst 'em:
You may do so upon the words of strangers;
And if they tell you all, your gold is counterfeit,
Throw that out after me.

Tes.
Now shee speaks woman.

Mil.
But since these men pretend, and you suppose 'em
To be my friends, that carry this presumption
Over my will, Ile take charge of my self,
And do fair justice, both on them and you:
My honour is my own; and i'm no more
Yours yet, on whom my Uncle has bestowed me,
Then all the worlds (the ceremony off)
And will remain so, free from them and you;
Who, by the false light of their wild-fire flashes
Have slighted and deprav'd me and your bride bed;
Till you recant your wilfull ignorance,
And they their petulant folly.

Tes.
This sounds well.

Mil.
Both they and you trench on my Peace and Honor;
Dearer then beauty, pleasure wealth and fortune;
I would stand under the fall of my estate
Most chearefully, and sing: For there be wayes
To raise up fortunes ruines, were her towers
Shattered in pieces, and the glorious ball
Shee stands on cleft asunder: But for Peace
Once ruin'd, there's no reparation;
If Honour fall, which is the soul of life,
Tis like the damned, it nere lifts the head
Up to the light again.

Tes.
Neece, thou hast won mee;
And Nephew, she's to good for you. I charge you
Give her her will: Ile have her home again else.

Qui.
I know not what I can deny her now.

Mil.
I ask but this, that you will give me leave
To keep a vow I made, which was last night
Because you flighted me.

Tes.
Stay there a little.
I'le lay the price of twenty Maidenheads
Now, as the market goes, you get not hers
This seav'night.

Mil.
My vow is for a moneth; and for so long
I crave your faithful promise not to attempt me.
In the meantime because I will be quit
With my trim, forward Gentlemen, and secure you
From their assaults; let it be given out,
That you have sent me down into the countrey
Or back unto my Uncles; whither you please.

Quic.
Or, tarry, tarry—stay, stay here a while.

Mil.
So I intend, Sir, Ile not leave your house,
But be lock'd up in some convenient room
Not to be seen by any, but your selfe:
Or else to have the liberty of your house
In some disguise, (if it were possible)
Free from the least suspition of your servants.

Tes.
What needs all this?
Do we not live in a well govern'd City?
And have not I authority? Ile take
The care and guard of you and of your house
'Gainst all outragious attempts; and clap
Those Goatish Roarers up, fast as they come.

Quic.
I understand her drift, Sir, and applaud
Her quaint devise. Twill put 'em to more trouble,
And more expence in doubtful search of her,
The best way to undo 'em is to foil 'em
At their own weapons. Tis not to be thought
The'l seek, by violence to force her from me,
But wit; In which wee'l overcome 'em.

Tes.
Agree on't twixt your selves. I see y'are friends
I'le leave you to your selves.
Heark hither Neece.—Now I dare trust you with him
He is in yeares, tis true. But hear'st thou girl
Old Foxes are best blades.

Mil.
I'm sure they stink most.

Tes.
Good keeping makes him bright and young again.

Mil.
But for how long.

Tes.
A year or two perhaps.
Then, when he dies, his wealth makes thee a Countess.

Mil.
You speak much comfort, Sir.

Tes.
That's my good Girl.
And Nephew, Love her, I find she deserves it;
Be as benevolent to her as you can;
Shew your good will at least. You do not know
How the good will of an old man may work
In a young wife. I must now take my journey
Down to my countrey house. At your moneths end
Ile visit you again. No ceremony
Joy and content be with you.

Quic., Mil.
And a good journey to you.

Exit Test.
Quic.
You are content you say to be lock'd up
Or put in some disguise, and have it said
Y'are gone unto your Uncles. I have heard
Of some Bridegrooms, that shortly after Marriage
Have gone to see their Uncles, seldom Brides.
I have thought of another course.

Mil.
Be't any way.

Quic.
What if it were given out y'are run away
Out of a detestation of your match?

Mil.
'Twould pull a blot upon my reputation.

Quic.
When they consider my unworthiness
'Twill give it credit. They'l commend you for it.

Mil.
You speak well for your self.

Quic.
I speak as they'l speak.

Mil.
Well; let it be so then: I am content.

Quic.
Wee'l put this instantly in act. The rest,
As for disguise, or privacy in my house,
You'll leave to me.

Mil.
All, Sir, to your dispose,
Provided still you urge not to infringe
My vow concerning my virginity.

Quic.
Tis the least thing I think on,
I will not offer at it till your time.

Mil.
Why here's a happiness in a husband now.

exeunt.

Scene 3.

Dionysia. Rafe.
Dio.
Thou tell'st me things, that truth never came near.

Ra.
Tis perfect truth: you may believe it, Lady.

Dio.
Maintain't but in one sillable more, Ile tear
Thy mischievious tongue out.

Ra.
Fit reward for Tell-troths.
But that's not the reward you promis'd me
For watching of your brothers actions;
You said forsooth (if't please you to remember)
That you would love me for it.

Dio.
Arrogant Rascal.
I bad thee bring account of what he did
Against his enemy; and thou reportst.
He took his enemies danger on himself,
And help't to rescue him whose bloody father
Kild ours. Can truth or common reason claim
A part in this report? My brother doe't!
Or draw a sword to help Theophilus.

Ra.
Tis not for any spight I ow my Master,
But for my itch at her that I do this.
I am strangely taken. Such brave spirited women
Have cherish'd strong back'd servingmen ere now.

Dio.
Why dost not get thee from my sight, false fellow?

Ra.
Ile be believed first. Therefore pray have patience
To peruse that.

gives her a paper.
Dio.
My brothers charecter!
Theophilus sisters name—The brighter Lucy
So often written? nothing but her name—
But change of attributes—one serves not twice.
Blessed, divine, Illustrious, all perfection;
And (so heaven bless me) powerful in one place.
The worst thing I read yet, heap of all vertues—
Bright shining, and all these ascrib'd to Lucy.
O I could curse thee now for being so just
Would thou had'st belied him still.

Ra.
I nere belied him, I.

Dio.
O mischief of affection! Monstrous! horrid.
It shall not pass so quietly. Nay stay.

Ra.
Shee'l cut my throat I fear.

Dio.
Thou art a faithful servant.

Ra.
It may do yet:
To you I am sweet Lady, and to my master
In true construction: he is his friend I think
That finds his follies out to have them cur'd,
Which you have onely the true spirit to do.

Dio.
How I do love thee now!

Ra.
And your love Mistress,
(Brave sprightly Mistress) is the steeple top
Or rather Weathercock o'top of that
To which aspires my lifes ambition.

Dio.
How didst thou get this paper.

Ra.
Amongst many
Of his rare twelve-moneths melancholy works,
That lie in's study. Mistress tis apparent
His melancholy all this while has been
More for her Love, then for his fathers death.

Dio.
Thou hast my love for ever.

Ra.
Some small token
In earnest of it. Mistress, would be felt,

He offers to kiss her, she strikes him.
Dio,
Take that in earnest then.

Ra.
It is a sure one.
And the most feeling pledge she could have given:
For she is a virago. And I have read
That your viragoes use to strike all those
They mean to lie with: And from thence tis taken
That your brave active women are call'd strikers.

Dio.
Set me that chair.

Ra.
The warm touch of my flesh
Already works in her. I shall be set
To better work immediately. I am prevented.
Away and be not seen. Be sure I love thee.

Enter Arthur.
Ra.
A ha! This clinches. Another time I'm sure on't.

exit.
Ar.
Sister! where are you? How now not well or sleepy.

(She sits.
Dio.
Sick brother—sick at heart, oh—

Ar.
Passion of heart! where are our servants now
To run for doctors? ho—

Dio.
Pray stay and hear me.
Her's no work for them. They'l find a master here
Too powerful for the strength of all their knowledge.

Ar.
What at thy heart?

Dio.
Yes, brother, at my heart.
Too scornful to be dispossest by them.

Ar.
What may that proud grief be? good sister name it.

Dio.
It grieves me more to name it, then to suffer't.
Since I have endur'd the worst on't, and prov'd constant
To sufferance and silence, twere a weakness
Now to betray a sorrow, by a name,
More fit to be severely felt then known.

Ar.
Indeed I'le know it.

Dio.
Rather let me die,
Then so afflict your understanding, Sir.

Ar.
It shall not afflict me.

Dio.
I know you'l chide me for't.

Ar.
Indeed you wrong me now. Can I chide you?

Dio.
If you be true and honest you must do't,
And hartily.

Ar.
You tax me nearly there.

Dio.
And that's the physick must help me or nothing.

Ar.
With grief I go about to cure a grief then.
Now speak it boldly, Sister.

Dio.
Noble Physitian—It is—

Ar.
It is! What is it? If you love me, speak.

Dio.
Tis—love and I beseech thee spare me not.

Ar.
Alas dear sister, canst thou think that love
Deserves a chiding in a gentle breast?

Dio.
Do you pitty me already. O faint man
That tremblest but at opening of a wound!
What hope is there of thee to search and dress it?
But I am in thy hands, and forc'd to try thee.
I love—Theophilus—

Ar.
Ha!

Dio.
Theophilus, brother;
His son that slew our father. Ther's a love!
O more then time 'twere look'd, for fear it festers.

Ar.
She has put me to't indeed. What must I do?
She has a violent spirit; so has he;
And though I wish most seriously the match,
Whereby to work mine own with his fair Sister,
The danger yet, in the negotiation
May quite destroy my course; spoyle all my hopes.
Ile therefore put her off on't if I can.

Dio.
Can you be tender now?

Ar.
What? To undo you?
I love you not so slightly. Pardon me.
A rough hand must be us'd: For here's a wound
Must not be gently touch'd; you perish then,
Under a Brothers pitty. Pray sit quiet;
For you must suffer all.

Dio.
I'le strive to do it.

Ar.
To love the Son of him that slew your Father!
To say it shews unlovingness of nature;
Forgetfulness in blood, were all but shallow
To the great depth of danger your fault stands in.
It rather justifies the act it self,
And commends that down to posterity
By your blood-cherishing embraces. Children,
Born of your body, will, instead of tears,
By your example, offer a thankful joy
To the sad memory of their Gransiers slaughter.
Quite contrary! How fearful 'tis to think on't!
What may the world say too? There goes a daughter,
Whose strange desire leap'd from her Fathers ruine;
Death gave her to the Bride-groom; and the marriage
Knit fast and cemented with blood. O Sister—

Dio.
O Brother.

Ar.
How! Well? And so quickly cur'd?

Dio.
Dissembler; foul dissembler.

Ar.
This is plain.

Dio.
Th'hast play'd with fire; and like a cunning fellow
Bit in thy pain o'purpose to deceive
Anothers tender touch. I know thy heart weeps
For what't has spoke against. Thou that darst love
The daughter of that Feind that slew thy father,
And plead against thy cause! unfeeling man,
Can not thy own words melt thee? To that, end
I wrought and rais'd 'em: 'Twas to win thy health,
That I was sick; I play'd thy disease to thee,
That thou mightst see the loath'd complection on't,
Far truer in another then ones self.
And, if thou canst, after all this, tread wickedly,
Thou art a Rebel to all natural love,
And filial duty; dead to all just councel:
And every word thou mock'dst with vehemence
Will rise a wounded father in thy conscience,
To scourge thy Judgement. There's thy Saint crost out,
And all thy memory with her. I'le nere trust
She tears & throws the paper to him.
Revenge again with thee (so false is manhood)
But take it now into mine own powerfully,
And see what I can do with my life's hazard;
Your purpose shall nere thrive. There I'le make sure work.

Exit.
Ar.
How wise and cunning is a womans malice;
I never was so cozened.

Exit.