fists are shut you know and utter
nothing; and besides I doe not thinke my quarrell just for my Ladies
protection in this cause, for I protest she does most abhominablie
miscarrie her selfe.

_Ia_. Protest, you sawsie Iacke, you! I shood doe my country, and
Court-ship good service to beare thy coalts teeth out of thy head, for
suffering such a reverend word to passe their guarde; why, the oldest
Courtier in the World, man, can doe noe more then protest.

_Bul_. Indeede, Page, if you were in _Fraunce_, you wood be broken upon
a wheele for it, there is not the best _Dukes_ sonne in _France_ dares
say I protest, till he be one and thirty yeere old at least, for the
inheritance of that word is not to be possest before.

_Wil_. Well, I am sorry for my presumtion then, but more sory for my
Ladies, marie most sorry for thee good Lord _Momford_, that will make us
most of all sory for our selves, if wee doe not fynde her out.

_Ia_. Why, alas, what shood wee doe? all the starres of our heaven see,
we seeke her as fast as we can if she be crept into a rush we will seeke
her out or burne her.

_Enter Momford_.

_Mom_. Villaines, where are your Ladies? seeke them out.
Hence, home ye monsters, and still keepe you there
Where levity keepes, in her inconstant Spheare. [_Exeunt Pages_.
Away, you pretious villaines! what a plague,
Of varried tortures is a womans hart?
How like a peacockes taile with different lightes,
They differ from themselves; the very ayre
Alter the aspen humors of their bloods.
Now excellent good, now superexcellent badd:
Some excellent good, some? but one of all:
Wood any ignorant babie serue her friend
Such an uncivill part? Sblood what is learning?
An artificiall cobwebbe to catch _flies_,
And nourish _Spiders_? cood she cut my throate
With her departure, I had byn her calfe,
And made a dish at supper for my guests
Of her kinde charge; I am beholding to her.
Puffe, is there not a feather in this ayre
A man may challenge for her? what? a feather?
So easie to be seene, so apt to trace,
In the weake flight of her unconstant wings?
A mote, man, at the most, that with the Sunne,
Is onely seene, yet with his radiant eye,
We cannot single so from other motes,
To say this mote is she. Passion of death,
She wrongs me past a death; come, come, my friend
Is mine, she not her owne, and theres an end.

_Eug_. Come uncle shall we goe to supper now?

_Mom_. Zounes to supper? what a dorr is this?

_Eu