_Eug_. Why, _Clarence_ is your judgement bent to show A common lovers passion? let the World, That lives without a hart, and is but showe, Stand on her empty, and impoisoned forme, I knowe thy kindenesse and have seene thy hart Clest [Cleft?] in my uncles free and friendly lippes, And I am only now to speake and act The rite's due to thy love: oh, I cood weepe A bitter showre of teares for thy sicke state, I cood give passion all her blackest rites And make a thousand vowes to thy deserts. But these are common, knowledge is the bond, The seale, and crowne of our united mindes; And that is rare and constant, and for that, To my late written hand I give thee this. See, heaven, the soule thou gau'st is in this hand. This is the Knot of our eternitie, Which fortune, death, nor hell, shall ever loose. _Enter Bullaker, Iack, Wil_. _Ia_. What an unmannerly tricke is this of thy Countesse to give the noble count her uncle the slippe thus? _Wil_. Vnmannerlie, you villaynes? O that I were worthy to weare a Dagger to any purpose for thy sake? _Bul_. Why young Gentlemen, utter your anger with your fists. _Wil_. That cannot be, man, for all 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_.