_Alice._ And then--conceal the rest, for ’tis too bad, Lest that my words be carried with the wind, And published in the world to both our shames. I pray thee, Mosbie, let our springtime wither; Our harvest else will yield but loathsome weeds. Forget, I pray thee, what hath passed betwixt us, For how I blush and tremble at the thoughts! _Mosbie._ What? are you changed? 70 _Alice._ Ay, to my former happy life again, From title of an odious strumpet’s name To honest Arden’s wife, not Arden’s honest wife. Ha, Mosbie! ’tis thou has rifled me of that And made me slanderous to all my kin; Even in my forehead is thy name ingraven, A mean artificer, that low-born name. I was bewitched: woe worth the hapless hour And all the causes that enchanted me! _Mosbie._ Nay, if you ban, let me breathe curses forth, 80 And if you stand so nicely at your fame, Let me repent the credit I have lost. I have neglected matters of import That would have stated me above thy state, Forslowed advantages, and spurned at time: Ay, Fortune’s right hand Mosbie hath forsook To take a wanton giglot by the left. I left the marriage of an honest maid, Whose dowry would have weighed down all thy wealth, Whose beauty and demeanour far exceeded thee: 90 This certain good I lost for changing bad, And wrapt my credit in thy company. I was bewitched,--that is no theme of thine, And thou unhallowed has enchanted me. But I will break thy spells and exorcisms, And put another sight upon these eyes That showed my heart a raven for a dove. Thou art not fair, I viewed thee not till now; Thou art not kind, till now I knew thee not; And now the rain hath beaten off thy gilt, 100 Thy worthless copper shows thee counterfeit. It grieves me not to see how foul thou art, But mads me that ever I thought thee fair. Go, get thee gone, a copesmate for thy hinds; I am too good to be thy favourite.