SIR RALPH. Alas, good heart, I pity thy hard hap! And I'll employ all that I may for thee. Frank Goursey, wench! I do commend thy choice: Now I remember I met one Francis, As I did seek my man,--then, that was he,-- And Philip too,--belike that was thy brother: Why, now I find how I did lose myself, And wander[420] up and down, mistaking so. Give me thy hand, Mall: I will never leave, Till I have made your mothers friends again, And purchas'd to ye both your hearts' delight, And for this same one bad many a good night. 'Twill not be long, ere that Aurora will, Deck'd in the glory of a golden sun, Open the crystal windows of the east, To make the earth enamour'd of her face, When we shall have clear light to see our way: Come; night being done, expect a happy day. [_Exeunt. Enter_ MISTRESS BARNES. MRS BAR. O, what a race this peevish girl hath led me! How fast I ran, and now how weary I am! I am so out of breath I scarce can speak,-- What shall I do?--and cannot overtake her. 'Tis late and dark, and I am far from home: May there not thieves lie watching hereabout, Intending mischief unto them they meet? There may; and I am much afraid of them, Being alone without all company. I do repent me of my coming forth; And yet I do not,--they had else been married, And that I would not for ten times more labour. But what a winter of cold fear I thole[421], Freezing my heart, lest danger should betide me! What shall I do to purchase company? I hear some halloo here about the fields: Then here I'll set my torch upon this hill, Whose light shall beacon-like conduct them to it; They that have lost their way, seeing a light, For it may be seen far off in the night, Will come to it. Well, here I'll lie unseen, And look who comes, and choose my company. Perhaps my daughter may first come to it. [_Enter_ MISTRESS GOURSEY.] MRS GOUR. Where am I now? nay, where was I even now? Nor now, nor then, nor where I shall be, know I. I think I am going home: I may as well Be[422] going from home; 'tis[423] so very dark, I cannot see how to direct a step. I lost my man, pursuing of my son; My son escap'd me too: now, all alone, I am enforc'd[424] to wander up and down. Barnes's wife's[425] abroad: pray God, that she May have as good a dance, nay, ten times worse! O, but I fear she hath not; she hath light To see her way. O, that some[426] bridge would break, That she might fall into some deep digg'd ditch, And either break her bones or drown herself! I would these mischiefs I could wish to her Might light on her!--but, soft; I see a light: I will go near; it is comfortable, After this night's sad spirits-dulling darkness. How now? what, is it set to keep itself? MRS BAR. A plague on't, is she there? [_Aside_.] MRS GOUR. O, how it cheers and quickens up my thoughts! MRS BAR. O that it were the basilisk's fell eye, To poison thee! [_Aside_.]