drum,
Yet I bring matter
In this poor paper
Will make my young mistress,
Delighting in kisses,
Do as all maidens will,
Hearing of such an ill,
As to have lost
The thing they wish'd most,
A husband, a husband,
A pretty sweet husband,
Cry O, O, O,
And alas, and at last
Ho, ho, ho,
As I do.

CLARE. Return'd so soon from London? what's the news?

CLOWN. O mistress, if ever you have seen Demoniseacleer, look into mine
eyes: mine eyes are Severn, plain Severn; the Thames nor the river of
Tweed are nothing to them: nay, all the rain that fell at Noah's flood
had not the discretion that my eyes have: that drunk but up the whole
world, and I have drowned all the way betwixt this and London.

CLARE. Thy news, good Robin.

CLOWN. My news, mistress? I'll tell you strange news. The dust upon
London way being so great, that not a lord, gentleman, knight, or knave
could travel, lest his eyes should be blown out: at last they all
agreed to hire me to go before them, when I, looking but upon this
letter, did with this water, this very water, lay the dust, as well as
if it had rained from the beginning of April till the last of May.

CLARE. A letter from my Scarborow I give it thy mistress.

CLOWN. But, mistress--

CLARE. Prythee, begone,
I would not have my father nor these gentlemen
Be witness of the comfort it doth bring.

CLOWN. O, but mistress--

CLARE. Prythee, begone,
With this and the glad news leave me alone.

[_Exit_ CLOWN.

THOM. 'Tis your turn, knight; take your liquor, know I am bountiful;
I'll forgive any man anything that he owes me but his drink, and that
I'll be paid for.

CLARE. Nay, gentlemen, the honesty of mirth
Consists not in carousing with excess;
My father hath more welcomes than in wine.
Pray you, no more.

THOM. Says my sister so? I'll be ruled by thee then. But do you hear? I
hope hereafter you'll lend me some money. Now we are half-drunk, let's
go to dinner. Come, knight.
[_Exeunt_.

_Manet_ CLARE.

CLARE. I am glad you're gone.
Shall I now open't? no, I'll kiss it first,
Because this outside last did kiss his hand.
Within this fold (I'll call't a sacred sheet)
Are writ black lines, where our white hearts shall meet.
Before I ope this door of my delight,
Methinks I guess how kindly he doth write
Of his true love to me; as chuck, sweetheart,
I prythee do not think the time too long
That keeps us from the