_Old K._ Do not say so for shame, she'll laugh at thee, A wife ne'er looks for't, 'tis a batchelors penny, He may giv't to a begger-wench, i'th' progress time, And ne'er be call'd to account for't. [_Ex._ _Sir Gr._ Would I had known so much, I could ha' stopt a beggers mouth by th' way. _Enter Page and Fidlers boy_. That rail'd upon me, 'cause I'd give her nothing-- What, are they come? _Pag._ And plac'd directly, Sir, Under her window. _Sir Gr._ What may I call you, Gentleman? _Boy._ A poor servant to the Viol, I'm the Voice, Sir. _Sir Gr._ In good time Master _Voice_? _Boy._ Indeed good time does get the mastery. _Sir Gr._ What Countreyman, Master _Voice_. _Boy._ Sir, born at _Ely_, we all set up in _El[y,]_ But our house commonly breaks in _Rutland-shire_. _Sir Gr._ A shrewd place by my faith, it may well break your voice, It breaks many a mans back; come, set to your business. SONG. _Fain would I wake you, Sweet, but fear_ _I should invite you to worse chear;_ _In your dreams you cannot fare_ _Meaner than Musick; no compare;_ _None of your slumbers are compil'd_ _Under the pleasure makes a Child;_ _Your day-delights, so well compact,_ _That what you think, turns all to act:_ _I'd wish my life no better play,_ _Your dream by night, your thought by day._ _Wake gently, wake,_ _Part softly from your dreams;_ _The morning flies_ _To your fair eyes,_ _To take her special beams._ _Sir Gr._ I hear her up, here Master _Voice_, Pay you the Instruments, save what you can, _Enter Neece above._ To keep you when you're crackt. [_Exit Boy._ _Neece._ Who should this be? That I'm so much beholding to, for sweetness? Pray Heaven it happens right. _Sir Gr._ Good morrow, Mistriss. _Neece._ An ill day and a thousand come upon thee. _Sir Gr._ 'Light, that's six hundred more than any Almanack has. _Neece._ Comes it from thee? it is the mangiest Musick That ever woman heard. _Sir Gr._ Nay, say not so, Lady, There's not an itch about 'em.