_Fur_. A wonder of mine honour, and withall A worthy presedent for all the World; Heaven blesse you for it, Lady, and your choyce. _Ambo_. Thankes, my good Lord. _Ta_. An Accident that will make pollicie blush, And all the Complements of wealth and state, In the succesfull and unnumbred Race That shall flow from it, fild with fame and grace. _Ki_. So may it speed deere Countesse, worthy _Clarence_. _Ambo_. Thankes, good sir _Cuthberd_. _Fur_. Captaine be not dismaid, Ile marrie thee, For while we live, thou shalt my consort be. _Foul_. By _France_ my Lord, I am not griev'd a whit, Since _Clarence_ hath her; he hath bin in _Fraunce_, And therefore merits her if she were better. _Mom_. Then, Knights, ile knit your happie nuptial knots. I know the Ladies minds better then you; Tho my rare Neece hath chose for vertue only, Yet some more wise then some, they chuse for both, Vertue and wealth. _Eug_. Nay, uncle, then I plead This goes with my choise, _Some more wise then some_, For onely vertues choise is truest wisedome. _Mom_. Take wealth, and vertue both amongst you then, They love ye, Knights, extreamely; and Sir _Cut_: I give the chast _Hippolita_ to you; Sir _Gyles_, this Ladie-- _Pen_. Nay, stay there, my Lord. I have not yet prov'd all his Knightly parts I heare he is an excellent Poet too. _Tal_. That I forgot sweet Lady; good sir _Gyles_, Have you no sonnet of your penne about ye? _Goos_. Yes, that I have I hope, my Lord, my Cosen. _Fur_. Why, this is passing fit. _Goos_. I'de be loth to goe without paper about me against my Mistris, hold my worke againe; a man knows not what neede he shall have perhaps. _Mom_. Well remembred a mine honour sir _Gyles_. _Goos_. Pray read my Lord, I made this sonnet of my Mistris. _Rud_. Nay reade thy selfe, man. _Goos_. No intruth, sir _Cut_: I cannot reade mine owne hand. _Mom_. Well I will reade it. _Three things there be which thou shouldst only crave, Thou Pomroy or thou apple of mine eye; Three things there be which thou shouldst long to have And for which three each modest dame wood crie; Three things there be that shood thine anger swage, An English mastife and a fine French page_. _Rud_. Sblood, Asse, theres but two things, thou shamst thy selfe. _Goos_. Why sir _Cut_. thats _Poetica licentia_, the verse wood have bin too long, and I had put in the third. Slight, you are no Poet I perceive. _Pene_. Tis excellent, servant. _Mom_. Keepe it Lady then, And take the onely Knight of mortall men. _Goos_. Thanke you, good my Lord, as much as tho you had given me twenty shillings in truth; now I may take the married mens parts at football. _Mom_. All comforts crowne you all; and you, Captaine, For merry forme sake let the willowe crowne: A wreath of willow bring us hither straite. _Fur_. Not for a world shood that have bin forgot Captaine it is the fashion, take this Crowne. _Foul_. With all my hart, my Lord, and thanke you too; I will thanke any man that gives me crownes.