Who favoureth you no lesse, (ye may be bolde) Than this letter purporteth, which ye have unfolde. 70 _C. Custance._ Howe by this letter of love? is it not fine? _R. Royster._ By the armes of Caleys[518] it is none of myne. _M. Mery._ Fie you are fowle to blame this is your owne hand. E iii _b_ _C. Custance._ Might not a woman be proude of such an husbande? _M. Mery._ Ah that ye would in a letter shew such despite. 75 _R. Royster._ Oh I would I had hym here, the which did it endite. _M. Mery._ Why ye made it your selfe ye tolde me by this light. _R. Royster._ Yea I ment I wrote it myne owne selfe yesternight. _C. Custance._ Ywis sir, I would not have sent you such a mocke. _R. Royster._ Ye may so take it, but I ment it not so by cocke. 80 _M. Mery._ Who can blame this woman to fume and frette and rage? Tut, tut, your selfe nowe have marde your owne marriage. Well, yet mistresse Custance, if ye can this remitte, This gentleman other wise may your love requitte. 84 _C. Custance._ No God be with you both, and seeke[519] no more to me. _Exeat._ _R. Royster._ Wough, she is gone for ever, I shall hir no more see. _M. Mery._ What weepe? fye for shame, and blubber? for manhods sake, Never lette your foe so muche pleasure of you take. Rather play the mans parte, and doe love refraine. If she despise you een despise ye hir againe. 90 _R. Royster._ By gosse[520] and for thy sake I defye hir in deede. _M. Mery._ Yea and perchaunce that way ye shall much sooner speede, For one madde propretie these women have in fey, When ye will, they will not: Will not ye, then will they. Ah foolishe woman, ah moste unluckie Custance, 95 Ah unfortunate woman, ah pievishe Custance, Art thou to thine harmes so obstinately bent, That thou canst not see where lieth thine high preferment? Canst thou not lub[521] dis man, which coulde lub dee so well? Art thou so much thine own foe[?] 100 _R. Royster._ Thou dost the truth tell. _M. Mery._ Wel I lament. _R. Royster._ So do I. _M. Mery._ Wherfor? _R. Royster._ For this thing Bicause she is gone. _M. Mery._ I mourne for an other thing. _R. Royster._ What is it Merygreeke, wherfore thou dost griefe take? _M. Mery._ That I am not a woman myselfe for your sake, I would have you my selfe, and a strawe for yond Gill, 105 And mocke[522] much of you though it were against my will. I would not I warrant you, fall in such a rage, E iv As so to refuse suche a goodly personage. _R. Royster._ In faith I heartily thanke thee Merygreeke. _M. Mery._ And I were a woman. 110 _R. Royster._ Thou wouldest to me seeke.