_Mosbie._ Disturbèd thoughts drives me from company And dries my marrow with their watchfulness; Continual trouble of my moody brain Feebles my body by excess of drink, And nips me as the bitter north-east wind Doth check the tender blossoms in the spring. Well fares the man, howe’er his cates do taste, That tables not with foul suspicion; And he but pines amongst his delicates, Whose troubled mind is stuffed with discontent. 10 My golden time was when I had no gold; Though then I wanted, yet I slept secure; My daily toil begat me night’s repose, My night’s repose made daylight fresh to me. But since I climbed the top-bough of the tree And sought to build my nest among the clouds, Each gentle stirry gale doth shake my bed, And makes me dread my downfall to the earth. But whither doth contemplation carry me? The way I seek to find, where pleasure dwells, 20 Is hedged behind me that I cannot back, But needs must on, although to danger’s gate. Then, Arden, perish thou by that decree; For Greene doth ear the land and weed thee up To make my harvest nothing but pure corn. And for his pains I’ll hive him up a while, And after smother him to have his wax: Such bees as Greene must never live to sting. Then is there Michael and the painter too, Chief actors to Arden’s overthrow; 30 Who when they shall see me sit in Arden’s seat, They will insult upon me for my meed, Or fright me by detecting of his end. I’ll none of that, for I can cast a bone To make these curs pluck out each other’s throat, And then am I sole ruler of mine own. Yet Mistress Arden lives; but she’s myself, And holy Church rites makes us two but one. But what for that? I may not trust you, Alice: You have supplanted Arden for my sake, 40 And will extirpen me to plant another. ’Tis fearful sleeping in a serpent’s bed, And I will cleanly rid my hands of her. _Here enters Alice._ But here she comes, and I must flatter her. --How now, Alice? what, sad and passionate? Make me partaker of thy pensiveness: Fire divided burns with lesser force. _Alice._ But I will dam that fire in my breast Till by the force thereof my part consume. Ah, Mosbie! 50 _Mosbie._ Such deep pathaires, like to a cannon’s burst Discharged against a ruinated wall, Breaks my relenting heart in thousand pieces. Ungentle Alice, thy sorrow is my sore; Thou know’st it well, and ’tis thy policy To forge distressful looks to wound a breast Where lies a heart that dies when thou art sad. It is not love that loves to anger love. _Alice._ It is not love that loves to murder love. _Mosbie._ How mean you that? 60 _Alice._ Thou knowest how dearly Arden loved me. _Mosbie._ And then?