_Mar._ How fortune tempers lucky haps with frowns, And wrongs me with the sweets of my delight! Love is my bliss, and love is now my bale. Shall I be Helen in my froward fates, As I am Helen in my matchless hue, And set rich Suffolk with my face afire? If lovely Lacy were but with his Peggy, The cloudy darkness of his bitter frown Would check the pride of these aspiring squires. Before the term of ten days be expir'd, Whenas they look for answer of their loves, My lord will come to merry Fressingfield, And end their fancies and their follies both: Till when, Peggy, be blithe and of good cheer. _Enter a_ Post _with a letter and a bag of gold._ _Post._ Fair, lovely damsel, which way leads this path? How might I post me unto Fressingfield? Which footpath leadeth to the Keeper's lodge? _Mar._ Your way is ready, and this path is right: Myself do dwell hereby in Fressingfield; And if the Keeper be the man you seek, I am his daughter: may I know the cause? _Post._ Lovely, and once belovèd of my lord,-- No marvel if his eye was lodg'd so low, When brighter beauty is not in the heavens,-- The Lincoln Earl hath sent you letters here, And, with them, just an hundred pounds in gold. Sweet, bonny wench, read them, and make reply. [_Gives letter and bag._ _Mar._ The scrolls that Jove sent Danaë, Wrapt in rich closures of fine burnish'd gold, Were not more welcome than these lines to me. Tell me, whilst that I do unrip the seals, Lives Lacy well? how fares my lovely lord? _Post._ Well, if that wealth may make men to live well. _Mar._ [_reads._] _The blooms of the almond tree grow in a night, and vanish in a morn; the flies hæmeræ, fair Peggy, take life with the sun, and die with the dew; fancy that slippeth in with a gaze, goeth out with a wink; and too timely loves have ever the shortest length. I write this as thy grief and my folly, who at Fressingfield loved that which time hath taught me to be but mean dainties: eyes are dissemblers, and fancy is but queasy; therefore know, Margaret, I have chosen a Spanish lady to be my wife, chief waiting-woman to the Princess Elinor; a lady fair, and no less fair than thyself, honourable and wealthy. In that I forsake thee, I leave thee to thine own liking; and for thy dowry I have sent thee an hundred pounds; and ever assure thee of my favour, which shall avail thee and thine much. Farewell._ _Not thine, nor his own,_ _Edward Lacy._ Fond Ate, doomer of bad-boding fates, That wraps proud fortune in thy snaky locks, Did'st thou enchant my birthday with such stars As lighten'd mischief from their infancy? If heavens had vow'd, if stars had made decree, To show on me their froward influence, If Lacy had but lov'd, heavens, hell, and all Could not have wrong'd the patience of my mind.