_Mom_. What, rude? Mistris _Wynnifred_? nay faith you shall come to him, and kisse him, for his kindenesse. _Wyn_. Nay good, my Lord, I'le never goe to the market for that ware, I can have it brought home to my Dore. _Mom_. O _Wynnifred_, a man may know by the market-folkes how the market goes. _Wyn_. So you may, my Lord, but I know few Lords that thinke scorne to go to that market themselves. _Mom_. To goe to it _Wynnifred_? nay to ride to it yfaith. _Wyn_. Thats more then I know my Lord. _Mom_. Youle not beleeve it till you are then a horsebacke, will ye? _Wyn_. Come, come, I am sent of a message to you, will you heare it? _Mom_. Stoppe, stoppe, faire _Wynnifred_, would you have audience so soone, there were no state in that yfaith. This faire gentlewoman sir-- _Wyn_. Now we shall have a fiction I beleive. _Mom_. Had three Suiters at once. _Wyn_. Youle leave out none my Lord. _Mom_. No more did you, _Wynnifred_: you enterferde with them all in truth. _Wyn_. O Monstrous Lord by this light! _Mom_. Now sir to make my tale short I will doe that which she did not; vz. leave out the two first. The third comming, the third night for his turne-- _Wyn_. My Lord, my Lord, my Lady does that that no body else does, desires your company; and so fare you well. _Mom_. O stay a little sweet _Wynnifred_, helpe me but to trusse my Poynts againe, and have with you. _Wyn_. Not I by my truth my Lord, I had rather see your hose about your heeles, then I would helpe you to trusse a poynt. _Mom_. O witty _Wynnifred_? for that jest, take thy passeport, and tell thy Ladie[14], thou leftst me with my hose about my heeles. _Wyn_. Well, well my Lord you shall sit till the mosse grow about your heeles, ere I come at you againe. [_Exit_. _Mom_. She cannot abide to heare of her three Suiters, but is not this very fit my sweet _Clarence_? Thou seest my rare Neece cannot sleepe without me; but for thy company sake, she shall to night; and in the morning I will visit her earely; when doe thou but stand in that place, and thou maiest chance heare (but art sure to see) in what subtill, and farre-fetcht manner Ile solicite her about thee. _Cla_. Thank's, worthy Lord. [_Exeunt_. _Finis Actus Primi_. _Actvs Secvndi_. SCENA PRIMA. _Clarence Solus_.