_Sci._ My marvel is no less, my good mother, Than my grief is great, to see, of all other, The proud scorn of Wit, son to Dame Nature, Who sent me a picture of his stature, With all the shape of himself there opening: His amorous love thereby betokening, Borne toward me in abundant fashion; And also, further, to make right relation Of this his love, he put in commission Such a messenger as no suspicion Could grow, in me, of him--Confidence. _Exp._ Um! _Sci._ Who, I ensure ye, with such vehemence, And faithful behaviour in his moving, Set forth the pith of his master's loving That no living creature could conjecte But that pure love did that Wit direct. _Exp._ So? _Sci._ Now, this being since the space Of three times sending from place to place, Between Wit and his man, I hear no more Neither of Wit, nor his love so sore! How think you by this, my own dear mother? _Exp._ Daughter! in this I can think none other But that it is true--this proverb old: Hasty love is soon hot, and soon cold! Take heed, daughter! how you put your trust To light lovers, too hot at the first! For had this love of Wit been grounded, And on a sure foundation founded, Little void time would have been between ye But that this Wit would have sent or seen ye. _Sci._ I think so. _Exp._ Yea; think ye so or no, Your mother, Experience, proof shall show That Wit hath set his love, I dare say-- And make ye warrantise!--another way. [WIT _cometh before_. [_Wit._] But your warrantise warrant no troth! Fair lady! I pray you be not wroth Till you hear more; for, dear Lady Science! Had your lover, Wit--yea, or Confidence, His man--been in health all this time spent, Long or this time Wit had come or sent; But the truth is, they have been both sick, Wit and his man: yea, and with pains thick Both stayed by the way, so that your lover Could neither come nor send by none other. Wherefore blame not him, but chance of sickness! _Sci._ Who is this? _Exp._ Ingnorancy, or his likeness. _Sci._ What, the common fool? _Exp._ It is much like him. _Sci._ By my sooth! his tongue serveth him now trim. What sayest thou, Ingnorancy? Speak again! _Wit._ Nay, lady! I am not Ingnorancy, plain, But I am your own dear lover, Wit, That hath long loved you, and loveth you yet; Wherefore I pray thee now, my own sweeting! Let me have a kiss at this our meeting. _Sci._ Yea, so ye shall, anon, but not yet. Ah, sir! this fool here hath got some wit. Fall you to kissing, sir, now-a-days? Your mother shall charm you; go your ways!