ACT IV SCENE I _Arden’s House at Feversham._ _Here enters Arden and his wife, Franklin, and Michael_ _Arden._ See how the hours, the gardant of heaven’s gate, Have by their toil removed the darksome clouds, That Sol may well discern the trampled path Wherein he wont to guide his golden car; The season fits; come, Franklin, let’s away. _Alice._ I thought you did pretend some special hunt, That made you thus cut short the time of rest. _Arden._ It was no chase that made me rise so early, But, as I told thee yesternight, to go To the Isle of Sheppy, there to dine with my Lord Cheiny; 10 For so his honour late commanded me. _Alice._ Ay, such kind husbands seldom want excuses; Home is a wild cat to a wandering wit. The time hath been,--would God it were not past,-- That honour’s title nor a lord’s command Could once have drawn you from these arms of mine. But my deserts or your desires decay, Or both; yet if true love may seem desert, I merit still to have thy company. _Franklin._ Why, I pray you, sir, let her go along with us; 20 I am sure his honour will welcome her And us the more for bringing her along. _Arden._ Content; sirrah, saddle your mistress’ nag. _Alice._ No, begged favour merits little thanks; If I should go, our house would run away, Or else be stolen; therefore I’ll stay behind. _Arden._ Nay, see how mistaking you are! I pray thee, go. _Alice._ No, no, not now. _Arden._ Then let me leave thee satisfied in this, That time nor place nor persons alter me, 30 But that I hold thee dearer than my life. _Alice._ That will be seen by your quick return. _Arden._ And that shall be ere night, and if I live. Farewell, sweet Alice, we mind to sup with thee. [_Exit Alice._ _Franklin._ Come, Michael, are our horses ready? _Michael._ Ay, your horse are ready, but I am not ready, for I have lost my purse, with six and thirty shillings in it, with taking up of my master’s nag. _Franklin._ Why, I pray you, let us go before, Whilst he stays behind to seek his purse. 40 _Arden._ Go to, sirrah, see you follow us to the Isle of Sheppy To my Lord Cheiny’s, where we mean to dine. [_Exeunt Arden and Franklin. Manet Michael._ _Michael._ So, fair weather after you, for before you lies Black Will and Shakebag in the broom close, too close for you: they’ll be your ferrymen to long home. _Here enters the Painter._ But who is this? the painter, my corrival, that would needs win Mistress Susan. _Clarke._ How now, Michael? how doth my mistress and all at home? _Michael._ Who? Susan Mosbie? she is your mistress, too? 50 _Clarke._ Ay, how doth she and all the rest? _Michael._ All’s well but Susan; she is sick. _Clarke._ Sick? Of what disease? _Michael._ Of a great fever. _Clarke._ A fear of what? _Michael._ A great fever. Clarke. A fever? God forbid! _Michael._ Yes, faith, and of a lordaine, too, as big as yourself.