_Lop._ Till then I am satisfied, and if this prove true, Hence-forward Mistriss of your self I give ye, And I to serve ye: For my lusty Captain, I'll make him dance, and make him think the Devil Claws at his breech, and yet I will not hurt him: Come now to bed, and prove but constant this way, I'll prove the man you ever wished. _Isab._ You have blest me. [_Exeunt._ _Actus Quartus. Scæna Prima._ _Enter_ Silvio. _Sil._ What labour and what travel have I run through And through what Cities to absolve this Riddle Diviners, Dreamers, School-men, deep Magicians, All have I try'd, and all give several meaning, And from all hope of any future happiness, To this place am I come at length, the Countrey, The people simple, plain, and harmless witty, Whose honest labours Heaven rewards with plenty Of Corn, Wine, Oyl, which they again as thankful, To their new Crops, new pastimes celebrate, And crown their joyful harvests with new voices; By a rich Farmer here I am entertain'd, And rank'd among the number of his servants, Not guessing what I am, but what he would have me, Here may be so much wit (though much I fear it) To undo this knotty question; and would to Heaven. _Enter_ Soto _with a Proclamation_. My fortunes had been hatch'd with theirs, as innocent, And never known a pitch above their plainness. _Soto._ That it is, that it is, what's this word now? this Is a plaguy word, that it is _r. e. a._ that it is, reason, By your leave, Mr. _Soto_, by your leave, you are too quick, Sir, There's a strange parlous _T._ before the reason, A very tall _T._ which makes the word _High Treason_. _Sil._ What Treason's that? does this fellow understand Himself? _Soto._ Pitch will infect, I'll meddle no more with this geer; What a devil ails this fellow? this foolish fellow? Being admitted to be one of us too, That are the masters of the sports proceeding, Thus to appear before me too, unmorris'd? Do you know me friend? _Sil._ You are my Masters Son, Sir. _Soto._ And do you know what sports are now in season? _Sil._ I hear there are some a-foot. _Soto._ Where are your Bells then? Your Rings, your Ribons, friend? & your clean Napkins? Your Nosegay in your hat, pinn'd up, am not I here? My fathers eldest Son, and at this time, Sir, I would have ye know it, though ye be ten times his servant A better man than my father far, Lord of this Harvest, Sir, And shall a man of my place want attendance? _Sil._ 'Twas want of knowledge, Sir, not duty, bred this, I would have made Suit else for your Lordships service.