_Mom_. Which is a fooles boult. _Nihil a virtute nec a veritate remotius, quàm vulgaris opinio_: But my deare Neece, it is most true that your honour, and good name tendred, as they are the species of truth, are worthily two esentiall parts of you; But as they consist only in ayrie titles, and corrupteble bloud (whose bitternes _sanitas & non nobilitas efficit_) and care not how many base, and execrable acts they commit, they touch you no more then they touch eternity. And yet shall no nobility you have in eyther, be impaired neither. _Eug_. Not to marry a poore Gentleman? _Mom_. Respect him not so; for as he is a Gentleman he is noble; as he is wealthily furnished with true knowledge, he is rich, and therein adorn'd with the exactest complements belonging to everlasting noblenesse. _Eug_. Which yet will not maintaine him a weeke: Such kinde of noblenesse gives no cotes of honour nor can scarse gette a cote for necessity. _Mom_. Then is it not substantiall knowledge (as it is in him) but verball, and fantasticall for _Omnia in illa ille complexu tenet_. _Eug_. Why seekes he me then? _Mom_. To make you joynt partners with him in all things, and there is but a little partiall difference betwixt you, that hinders that universall joynture: The bignesse of this circle held too neere our eye keepes it from the whole Spheare of the Sun; but could we sustaine it indifferently betwixt us, and it would then without checke of one beame appeare in his fulnes. _Eug_. Good Vnckle be content, for now shall I never dreame of contentment. _Mom_. I have more then done Lady, and had rather have suffer'd an alteration of my being, then of your Judgment; but (deere Neece) for your own honours sake repaire it instantly. _Enter Hippolyta. Penelope. Iacke. Will_. See heere comes the Ladies; make an Aprill day on't[18], deare love, and bee sodainly cheerefull. God save you, more then faire Ladies, I am glad your come, for my busines will have me gone presently. _Hip_. Why my Lord _Momford_ I say? will you goe before Dinner? _Mom_. No remedy, sweet Beauties, for which rudnesse I lay my hands thus low for your pardons. _Pen_. O Courteous Lo. _Momford_![19] _Mom_. Neece?----_Mens est quae sola quietos, Sola facit claros, mentemque honoribus ornat_.[20] _Eug_. _Verus honos juvat, at mendax infamia terret_.[21] _Mom_. Mine owne deare nephew? _Cla_. What successe my Lord? _Mom_. Excellent; excellent; come Ile tell thee all.--_Exeunt_. _Hip_. Doe you heare Madam, how our youthes here have guld our three suiters? _Eug_. Not I, Lady; I hope our suiters are no fit meat for our Pages. _Pe_. No Madam, but they are fit sawce for any mans meat, Ile warrent them. _Eug_. What's the matter _Hippolyta_? _Hip_. They have sent the Knights to _Barnet_, Madam, this frosty morning to meet us there. _Eug_. I'st true, youths? are Knights fit subjects for your knaveries? _Will_. Pray pardon us, Madam, we would be glad to please anie body.