 | The right excellent and famous Historye, of Promos and Cassandra ... the fyrste parte |  |
Scena. 3.
Rosko (Lamias man) Lamia.Ros.
Good people, did none of you, my mistresse Lamia see?
La.
Rosko, what newes, that in such haste you come blowing?
Ros.
Mistresse, you must shut vp your shops, & leaue your occupying.
La.
What so they be, foolish knaue, tell mee true?
Ros,
Oh yll, for thirtie? besydes you.
La.
For mee good fellowe, I praye thee why so?
Ros.
Be patient Mistresse, and you shall knowe,
La.
Go too, saye on:
Ros,
Marrie, right nowe at the Sessions I was,
And thirtie must to Trussum corde go.
Among the which (I weepe to showe) alas:
La.
Why, what's the matter man?
Ros.
O Andrugio,
For louing too kindlie, must loose his heade,
And his sweete hart, must weare the shamefull weedes:
Ordainde for Dames, that fall through fleshly deedes.
Is this offence, in question come againe?
Tell, tell, no more, 'tys tyme this tale were done:
See, see, howe soone, my triumphe turnes to paine.
Ros.
Mistresse, you promised to be quiet,
For Gods sake, for your owne sake, be so
La.
Alas poore Rosko, our dayntie dyet,
Our brauerie and all we must forgo.
Ros.
I am sorie.
La.
Yea, but out alas, sorrowe wyll not serue:
Rosko, thou must needes prouide thee else where,
My gaynes are past, yea, I my selfe might starue:
Saue that, I did prouide for a deare yeare.
Ros.
They rewarde fayre (their haruest in the stacke,)
When winter coms, that byd their seruaunts packe.
Alas Mistresse, if you turne mee off now,
Better then a Roge, none wyll me allowe.
La.
Thou shalt haue a Pasporte,
Ros.
Yea, but after what sorte?
La.
Why, that thou wart my man.
Ros.
O the Iudge, sylde showes the fauour,
To let one theefe, bayle another:
Tush I know, ere long you so wyll slyp awaye,
As you, for your selfe, must seeke some testimony
Of your good lyfe.
La.
Neuer feare: honestly
Lamia nowe meanes to lyue, euen tyll she dye.
Ros.
As iumpe as Apes, in vewe of Nuttes to daunce,
Kytte wyll to kinde, of custome, or by chaunce:
Well, howe so you stande vpon this holy poynt,
For the thing you knowe, you wyll ieobarde a ioynt.
La.
Admitte I woulde, my hazarde were in vaine.
Ros.
Perhappes I know, to turne the same to gaine.
La.
Thou comforts mee, good Rosko, tell mee howe?
Ros.
You wyl be honest, 'twere syn to hinder you.
La.
I dyd but ieast, good sweete seruaunt tell mee.
Ros.
Sweete seruaunt now, and late, pack syr, god bwy ye.
Tush, to trye thy vnwillingnesse, I dyd but ieast.
Ros.
And I doo but trye, how long you woulde be honest.
La.
I thought thy talke was too sweete to be true.
Ros.
Yea, but meant you, to byd honestie adue?
La.
No, I dyd so long since, but inforste by neede,
To byd him welcome home againe, I was decreede.
Ros.
Uerie good, Mistresse, I know your minde,
And for your ease, this remedie I finde:
Prying abroade, for playe fellowes and such,
For you Mistresse, I hearde of one Phallax,
A man esteemde, of Promos verie much:
Of whose Nature, I was so bolde to axe,
And I smealt, he lou'd lase mutton well.
La.
And what of this?
Ros.
Marry of this, if you the waye can tell
To towle him home, he of you wyll be fayne:
Whose countenaunce, wyll so excuse your faultes,
As none for life, dare of your lyfe complaine.
La.
A good deuice, God graunt vs good successe:
But I praye thee, what trade doth he professe?
Ros.
He is a paltrie petyfogger.
La.
All the better, suspition wyll be the lesse.
Well, go thy wayes, and if thou him espye,
Tell him from mee, that I a cause or two,
Woulde put to him, at leysure wyllinglie.
Ros.
Hir case is so common, that smal pleading wyl serue,
I go (nay ronne) your commaundement to obserue.
La.
Aye me alas, lesse Phallax helpe, poore wench vndone I am:
My foes nowe in the winde, wyll lye to worke my open shame:
Now enuious eyes will prie abroade, offenders to intrap,
Of force now Lamia, must be chaste, to shun a more mishap.
And wanton girle, how wilt thou shift, for garments fine and gay?
For dainty fare, can crusts cōtent? who shal thy houserent pay?
And that delights thee most of all, thou must thy daliaunce leaue?
And can then the force of lawe, or death, thy minde of loue bereaue?
In good faith, no: the wight that once, hath tast the fruits of loue,
Untill hir dying daye will long, Sir Chaucers iests to proue.
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