n any good and constant,
But what I made myself: why should I grieve then
At that I may mould any way?

_Arn._ You are wide still.

_Rut._ You love a Gentlewoman, a young handsom woman,
I have lov'd a thosand, not so few.

_Arn._ You are dispos'd.

_Rut._ You hope to Marry her; 'tis a lawful calling
And prettily esteem'd of, but take heed then,
Take heed dear Brother of a stranger fortune
Than e're you felt yet; fortune my foe is a friend to it.

_Arn._ 'Tis true I love, dearly, and truly love,
A noble, vertuous, and most beauteous Maid,
And am belov'd again.

_Rut._ That's too much o' Conscience,
To love all these would run me out o' my wits.

_Arn._ Prethee give ear, I am to Marry her.

_Rut._ Dispatch it then, and I'le go call the Piper.

_Arn._ But O the wicked Custom of this Country,
The barbarous, most inhumane, damned Custom.

_Rut_. 'Tis true, to marry is a Custom
I' the world; for look you Brother,
Wou'd any man stand plucking for the Ace of Harts,
With one pack of Cards all dayes on's life?

_Arn._ You do not
Or else you purpose not to understand me.

_Rut._ Proceed, I will give ear.

_Arn._ They have a Custom
In this most beastly Country, out upon't.

_Rut._ Let's hear it first.

_Arn._ That when a Maid is contracted
And ready for the tye o'th' Church, the Governour,
He that commands in chief, must have her Maiden-head,
Or Ransom it for mony at his pleasure.

_Rut._ How might a man atchieve that place? a rare Custom!
An admirable rare Custom: and none excepted?

_Arn._ None, none.

_Rut._ The rarer still: how could I lay about me,
In this rare Office? are they born to it, or chosen?

_Arn._ Both equal damnable.

_Rut._ Me thinks both excellent,
Would I were the next heir.

_Arn._ To this mad fortune
Am I now come, my Marriage is proclaim'd,
And nothing can redeem me from this mischief.

_Rut._ She's very young.

_Arn._ Yes.

_Rut._ And fair I dare proclaim her,
Else mine eyes fail.

_Arn._ Fair as the bud unblasted.

_Rut._ I cannot blame him then, if 'twere mine own case,
I would not go an Ace less.

_Arn._ Fye _Rutilio_,
Why do you make your brothers misery
Your sport and game?

_Rut._ There is no pastime like it.

_Arn._ I look'd for your advice, your timely Counsel,
How to avoid this blow, not to be mockt at,
And my afflictions jeer'd.

_Rut._ I tell thee _Arnoldo_,
An thou wert my Father, as thou art but my Brother,
My younger Brother too, I must be m