_Michael._ But he hath sent a dagger sticking in a heart, With a verse or two stolen from a painted cloth, The which I hear the wench keeps in her chest. Well, let her keep it! I shall find a fellow That can both write and read and make rhyme too. And if I do--well, I say no more: I’ll send from London such a taunting letter As she shall eat the heart he sent with salt 160 And fling the dagger at the painter’s head. _Alice._ What needs all this? I say that Susan’s thine. _Michael._ Why, then I say that I will kill my master, Or anything that you will have me do. _Alice._ But, Michael, see you do it cunningly. _Michael._ Why, say I should be took, I’ll ne’er confess That you know anything; and Susan, being a maid, May beg me from the gallows of the sheriff. _Alice._ Trust not to that, Michael. _Michael._ You cannot tell me, I have seen it, I. 170 But, mistress, tell her, whether I live or die, I’ll make her more worth than twenty painters can; For I will rid mine elder brother away, And then the farm of Bolton is mine own. Who would not venture upon house and land, When he may have it for a right down blow? _Here enters Mosbie._ _Alice._ Yonder comes Mosbie. Michael, get thee gone, And let not him nor any know thy drifts. [_Exit Michael._ Mosbie, my love! _Mosbie._ Away, I say, and talk not to me now. 180 _Alice._ A word or two, sweet heart, and then I will. ’Tis yet but early days, thou needst not fear. _Mosbie._ Where is your husband? _Alice._ ’Tis now high water, and he is at the quay. _Mosbie._ There let him be; henceforward know me not. _Alice._ Is this the end of all thy solemn oaths? Is this the fruit thy reconcilement buds? Have I for this given thee so many favours, Incurred my husband’s hate, and, out alas! Made shipwreck of mine honour for thy sake? 190 And dost thou say ‘henceforward know me not’? Remember, when I lock’d thee in my closet, What were thy words and mine; did we not both Decree to murder Arden in the night? The heavens can witness, and the world can tell, Before I saw that falsehood look of thine, ’Fore I was tangled with thy ’ticing speech, Arden to me was dearer than my soul,-- And shall be still: base peasant, get thee gone, And boast not of thy conquest over me, 200 Gotten by witchcraft and mere sorcery! For what hast thou to countenance my love, Being descended of a noble house, And matched already with a gentleman Whose servant thou may’st be!--and so farewell. _Mosbie._ Ungentle and unkind Alice, now I see That which I ever feared, and find too true: A woman’s love is as the lightning-flame, Which even in bursting forth consumes itself. To try thy constancy have I been strange; 210 Would I had never tried, but lived in hope! _Alice._ What need’st thou try me whom thou ne’er found false? _Mosbie._ Yet pardon me, for love is jealous.