Crashe in my Ladies Celler yfaith, _monsieur_.

_Bul_. _Remercy de bon ceur, monsieurs_.

[_Exeunt_.

(SCENE 3.)

_Enter Clarence, Momford_.

_Mom_. How now, my friend? does not the knowing beames,
That through thy common sence glaunce through thy eyes,
To read that letter, through thine eyes retire
And warme thy heart with a triumphant fire?

_Cla_. My Lord, I feele a treble happines
Mix in one soule, which proves how eminent
Things endlesse are above things temporall,
That are in bodies needefully confin'de:
I cannot suffer their dimensions pierst,
Where my immortall part admits expansure,
Even to the comprehension of two more
Commixt substantially with her meere selfe.

_Mom_. As how my strange, and riddle-speaking friend?

_Cla_. As thus, my Lord; I feele my owne minds joy,
As it is separate from all other powers,
And then the mixture of an other soule
Ioyn'de in direction to one end, like it;
And thirdly the contentment I enjoy,
As we are joynd, that I shall worke that good
In such a noble spirit as your Neece,
Which in my selfe I feele for absolute;
Each good minde dowbles his owne free content,
When in an others use they give it vent.

_Mom_. Said like my friend, and that I may not wrong
Thy full perfections with an emptier grace,
Then that which show presents to thy conceits,
In working thee a wife worse then she seemes;
Ile tell thee plaine a secret which I know.
My Neece doth use to paint herselfe with white,
Whose cheekes are naturally mixt with redd,
Either because she thinks pale-lookes moves most:
Or of an answereable nice affect
To other of her modest qualities;
Because she wood not with the outward blaze
Of tempting beauty tangle wanton eies;
And so be troubled with their tromperies:
Which construe as thou wilt, I make it knowne,
That thy free comment may examine it,
As willinger to tell truth of my Neece,
Then in the least degree to wrong my friend.

_Cla_. A jealous part of friendship you unfold;
For was it ever seene that any Dame
Wood change of choice a well mixt white and red
For bloodles palenes, if she striv'd to move?
Her painting then is to shun motion,
But if she mended some defects with it,
Breedes it more hate then other ornaments;
(Which to suplie bare nature) Ladies weare?
What an absurd thing is it to suppose;
(If nature made us either lame or sick,)
We wood not seeke for sound limmes, or for health
By Art the Rector of