eat one
Of a strong will to bend, I dare not venture.
Be wise my Lord, and say you were well counsel'd,
Take mony for my ransom, and forget me,
'Twill be both safe, and noble for your honour,
And wheresoever my fortunes shall conduct me,
So worthy mentions I shall render of you,
So vertuous and so fair.

_Clod_. You will not marrie me?

_Zen_. I do beseech your honour, be not angry
At what I say, I cannot love ye, dare not;
But set a ransom, for the flowr you covet.

_Clod_. No mony, nor no prayers, shall redeem that,
Not all the art you have.

_Zen_. Set your own price Sir.

_Clod_. Goe to your wedding, never kneel to me,
When that's done, you are mine, I will enjoy you:
Your tears do nothing, I will not lose my custom
To cast upon my self an Empires fortune.

_Zen_. My mind shall not pay this custom, cruel man. [_Ex_.

_Clod_. Your body will content me: I'le look for you. [_Ex_.

_Enter_ Charino, _and servants in blacks. Covering the
place with blacks_.

_Char_. Strew all your withered flowers, your Autumn sweets
By the hot Sun ravisht of bud and beauty
Thus round about her Bride-bed, hang those blacks there
The emblemes of her honour lost; all joy
That leads a Virgin to receive her lover,
Keep from this place, all fellow-maids that bless her,
And blushing do unloose her Zone, keep from her:
No merry noise nor lusty songs be heard here,
Nor full cups crown'd with wine make the rooms giddy,
This is no masque of mirth, but murdered honour.
Sing mournfully that sad Epithalamion
I gave thee now: and prethee let thy lute weep.

Song, Dance. _Enter_ Rutilio.

_Rut_. How now, what livery's this? do you call this a wedding?
This is more like a funeral.

_Char_. It is one,
And my poor Daughter going to her grave,
To his most loath'd embraces that gapes for her.
Make the Earles bed readie, is the marriage done Sir?

_Rut_. Yes they are knit; but must this slubberdegullion
Have her maiden-head now?

[_Char_.] There's no avoiding it.

_Rut_. And there's the scaffold where she must lose it.

[_Char_.] The bed Sir.

_Rut_. No way to wipe his mouldy chaps?

_Char_. That we know.

_Rut_. To any honest well-deserving fellow,
And 'twere but to a merry Cobbler, I could sit still now,
I love the game so well; but that this puckfist,
This universal rutter--fare ye well Sir;
And if you have any good prayers, put 'em forward,
There may be yet a remedie.

_Char_. I wish it, [_Exit_ Rut.
And all