_Orl._ I cannot speak whether my joy or shame Be greater, but I thank the Heavens for both. Oh look not black upon me, all my friends, To whom I will be reconcil'd, or grow unto This earth, till I have wept a trench That shall be great enough to be my grave, And I will think them too most manly tears, If they do move your pities: it is true, Man should do nothing that he should repent; But if he have, and say that he is sorry, It is a worse fault, if he be not truly. _Lam._ My Lord, such sorrow cannot be suspected: Here take your honoured wife, and joyn your hands. ----She hath married you again: And Gentlemen, I do invite you all, This night to take my house, where on the morrow, To heighten more the reconciling feast, I'll make my self a Husband and a guest. [_Exeunt._ _Actus Quintus. Scæna Prima._ _Enter_ Montague, _and_ Charlotte. _Charl._ Well now I am sure you are mine. _Mont._ I am sure I am glad I have one to own then; you'll find me honest As these days go, enough; poor without question, Which beggars hold a virtue; give me meat, and I Shall do my work, else knock my shooes off, And turn me out again. _Char._ You are a merry fellow. _Mont._ I have no great cause. _Char._ Yes, thy love to me. _Mont._ That's as we make our game. _Char._ Why, you repent then? _Mont._ Faith no worse than I am I cannot be; Much better I expect not: I shall love you, And when you bid me go to bed, obey, Lie still or move, as you shall minister; Keep a four-Nobles Nag, and a _Jack_ _Merling_, learn to love Ale, and play at Two-hand _Irish_, And there's then all I aim at. _Char._ Nay sweet fellow, I'll make it something better. _Mont._ If you do, you'll make me worse: Now I am poor, and willing to do well, Hold me in that course; of all the Kings creatures, I hate his coin, keep me from that, and save me; For if you chance out of your housewivery To leave a hundred pound or two, bestow it In Plumb-broth e'r I know it, else I take it; Seek out a hundred men that want this money, Share it among 'em, they'll cry noble _Montague_, And so I stand again at livery. _Char._ You have pretty fancies, Sir, but married once, This charity will fall home to your self. _Mont._ I would it would, I am afraid my looseness Is yet scarce stopt, though it have nought to work on But the meer air of what I have had. _Char._ Pretty. _Mont._ I wonder sweet heart why you'll marry me, I can see nothing in my self deserves it, Unless the handsome wearing of a band, For that's my stock now, or a pair of garters; Necessity will not let me loose. _Char._ I see Sir, a great deal more, a handsome man, a Husband, To make a right good woman truly happy.