heeles for a fortnight to bring it to the right againe.

_Hip_. You shood have hangd longer sir _Cut_: tis not right yet.

_Rud_. Zonnes, bid me cut off the best lymme of my body for thy love,
and ile lai't in thy hand to prove it. Doost thinke I am no Christian,
have I not a soule to save?

_Hip_. Yes tis to save yet I warrant it, and wilbe while tis a soule if
you use this.

_Fur_. Excellent Courtship of all hands, only my Captaines Courtship, is
not heard yet. Good Madam give him favour to court you with his voyce.

_Eug_. What shood he Court me withall else, my Lord?

_Mom_. Why, I hope Madam there be other things to Court Ladies withall
besides voyces.

_Fur_. I meane with an audible sweete song Madam.

_Eug_. With all my heart my Lord, if I shall bee so much indebted
to him.

_Foul_. Nay I will be indebted to your eares Ladie for hearing me sound
musicke.

_Fur_. Well done Captaine, prove as it wil now.

_Enter Messenger_.

_Me_. My Lord, Doctor _Versey_ the Physitian is come to see master
_Clarence_.

_Mom_. Light, and attend him to him presently.

_Fur_. To Master _Clarence_? what is your friend sicke?

_Mom_. Exceeding sicke.

_Tal_. I am exceeding sorrie.

_King_. Never was sorrow worthier bestowed
Then for the ill state of so good a man.

_Pene_. Alas poore Gentleman; good my Lord lets see him.

_Mom_. Thankes gentle Ladie, but my friend is loth
To trouble Ladies since he cannot quitt them.
With anything he hath that they respect.

_Hip_. Respect, my Lord! I wood hold such a man
In more respect then any Emperour:
For he cood make me Empresse of my selfe
And in mine owne rule comprehend the World.

_Mom_. How now young Dame? what sodainly inspird?
This speech hath silver haires, and reverence askes,
And sooner shall have duty done of me,
Then any pompe in temperall Emperie.

_Hip_. Good Madam get my Lord to let us greet him.

_Eug_. Alas we shall but wrong and trouble him.
His Contemplations greet him with most welcome.

_Fur_. I never knew a man of so sweet a temper,
So soft and humble, of so high a Spirit.

_Mom_. Alas, my noble Lord, he is not rich,
Nor titles hath, nor in his tender cheekes
The standing lake of Impudence corrupts;
Hath nought in all the World, nor nought wood have,
To grace him in the prostituted light.
But if a man wood consort with a soule
Where all mans Sea of gall and bitternes
Is quite evaporate with her holy flames,
And in whose powers a