_Alice._ Ay, now I see, and too soon find it true, Which often hath been told me by my friends, That Mosbie loves me not but for my wealth, Which too incredulous I ne’er believed. Nay, hear me speak, Mosbie, a word or two; 110 I’ll bite my tongue if it speak bitterly. Look on me, Mosbie, or I’ll kill myself: Nothing shall hide me from thy stormy look. If thou cry war, there is no peace for me; I will do penance for offending thee, And burn this prayer-book, where I here use The holy word that had converted me. See, Mosbie, I will tear away the leaves, And all the leaves, and in this golden cover Shall thy sweet phrases and thy letters dwell; 120 And thereon will I chiefly meditate, And hold no other sect but such devotion. Wilt thou not look? is all thy love o’erwhelmed? Wilt thou not hear? what malice stops thine ears? Why speaks thou not? what silence ties thy tongue? Thou hast been sighted as the eagle is, And heard as quickly as the fearful hare, And spoke as smoothly as an orator, When I have bid thee hear or see or speak, And art thou sensible in none of these? 130 Weigh all thy good turns with this little fault, And I deserve not Mosbie’s muddy looks. A fence of trouble is not thickened still: Be clear again, I’ll ne’er more trouble thee. _Mosbie._ O no, I am a base artificer: My wings are feathered for a lowly flight. Mosbie? fie! no, not for a thousand pound. Make love to you? why, ’tis unpardonable; We beggars must not breathe where gentles are. _Alice._ Sweet Mosbie is as gentle as a king, 140 And I too blind to judge him otherwise. Flowers do sometimes spring in fallow lands, Weeds in gardens, roses grow on thorns; So, whatsoe’er my Mosbie’s father was, Himself is valued gentle by his worth. _Mosbie._ Ah, how you women can insinuate, And clear a trespass with your sweet-set tongue! I will forget this quarrel, gentle Alice, Provided I’ll be tempted so no more. _Here enters Bradshaw._ _Alice._ Then with thy lips seal up this new-made match. _Mosbie._ Soft, Alice, here comes somebody. 151 _Alice._ How now, Bradshaw, what’s the news with you? _Bradshaw._ I have little news, but here’s a letter That Master Greene importuned me to give you. _Alice._ Go in, Bradshaw; call for a cup of beer; ’Tis almost supper-time, thou shalt stay with us. [_Exit Bradshaw._ _Then she reads the letter._ ‘We have missed of our purpose at London, but shall perform it by the way. We thank our neighbour Bradshaw.--Yours, Richard Greene.’ How likes my love the tenor of this letter? 160 _Mosbie._ Well, were his date completed and expired. _Alice._ Ah, would it were! Then comes my happy hour: Till then my bliss is mixed with bitter gall. Come, let us in to shun suspicion. _Mosbie._ Ay, to the gates of death to follow thee. [_Exeunt._ III. v. 4. _drink_: perhaps we ought to read _think_. III. v. 17. _stirry_: this is meant by the _starry_ of the Quartos.