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's presence Must now prevent my answer. _Wyfe_. Where is shee? oh wheare, wheare? for by these tokens, These of her childhood most unfallid signes, I knwe her for my doughter. _Mir_. I have bene The longe and wretched owner of that cabinet With all therein contein'd. _Wyfe_. Into thy boosom Oh lett mee rayne a shower of joyfull teares To welcom thee, my _Mirable_. _Godf_. You threatned her but nowe with skaldinge water; mee thinks you had more neede to comfort her with hott waters, for sure shee canott bee warme synce shee came so late out of the could bathe. _Wyf_. Make fyares, bid them make ready wholesom brothes, Make warme the bedd, and see the sheetes well ayred. Att length then have I fownd thee? _Ashb_. But what's shee That's in thy fellow-shippe? _Mir_. My fellowe sharer In all misfortunes; and for many yeares So deere to mee, I canot tast a blessednes Of which shee's not partaker. _Wyfe_. For thy sake Shee shall bee myne too, and (in her) I'l thinke The powers above have for my single losse Given mee at lengthe a duble recompense. _Scrib_. For which hee that protects all inocence Will in good tyme reward you. _Wyfe_. Praye, in, in; This could is prejuditiall to your Healthes. I'l count you boathe my twinnes. [_Ext. Wife, Palestra, and Scribonia_. _Ashb_. Strange alteration! Skoldinge is turn'd to pittye, spleen and mallyce To mercye and compassion. _Fisher_. But your promisse Tutchinge my budgett? _Ashb. Godfreye_, beare it in And lodge it safe; there's no tyme for that; We'll talke of it herafter. _Godf_. Fellow _Gripus_, I am made for this tyme porter. Ladeys, your trusty treasurer. [_Ext. Ashbourne and Godfrey_. _Gripus_. These are the fishermen and I the fishe catcht in the nett; well my comfort is, thoughe my booty have made me no ritcher then I was, poorer then I am I canott bee. Nowe[136] wherein is the ritche more happy then the poore? I thinke rather lesse blessed and that shall approue by this excellent good ballet, thoughe sett to a scurvy tune. Lett ech man speake as he's possest I hold the poore man's state most blest. For if longe lyfe contentment bredes, In that the poore the ritche exceedes; The ritch man's dayes are short, as spent In pleasures and supposed content; Whylst to us poore men care and troble Makes every hower wee wast seeme duble. He that hathe ech daye to
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