_Eust._ A wife! God shield, Sir Bartram, that were ill, To leave my wife and wander thus astray: But time and good advice, ere many years, May chance to make my fancy bend that way. What news in Scotland? therefore came I hither, To see your country and to chat together. _Sir Bar._ Why, man, our country's blithe, our king is well, Our queen so-so, the nobles well and worse, And weel are they that are about the king, But better are the country gentlemen: And I may tell thee, Eustace, in our lives We old men never saw so wondrous change. But leave this trattle, and tell me what news In lovely England with our honest friends. _Eust._ The king, the court, and all our noble friends Are well; and God in mercy keep them so! The northern lords and ladies hereabouts, That know I came to see your queen and court, Commend them to my honest friend Sir Bartram,-- And many others that I have not seen. Among the rest, the Countess Elinor, From Carlisle, where we merry oft have been, Greets well my lord, and hath directed me, By message, this fair lady's face to see. [_Shows a portrait._ _Sir Bar._ I tell thee, Eustace, 'less mine old eyes daze, This is our Scottish moon and evening's pride; This is the blemish of your English bride. Who sail by her, are sure of wind at will; Her face is dangerous, her sight is ill: And yet, in sooth, sweet Dick, it may be said, The king hath folly, there's virtue in the maid. _Eust._ But knows my friend this portrait? be advis'd. _Sir Bar._ Is it not Ida, the Countess of Arran's daughter's? _Eust._ So was I told by Elinor of Carlisle: But tell me, lovely Bartram: is the maid Evil-inclin'd, misled, or concubine Unto the king or any other lord? _Sir Bar._ Should I be brief and true, than thus, my Dick: All England's grounds yield not a blither lass, Nor Europe can surpass her for her gifts Of virtue, honour, beauty, and the rest: But our fond king, not knowing sin in lust, Makes love by endless means and precious gifts; And men that see it dare not say't, my friend, But we may wish that it were otherwise. But I rid thee to view the picture still, For by the person's sight there hangs some ill. _Eust._ O, good Sir Bartram, you suspect I love (Then were I mad) her whom I never saw. But, howsoe'er, I fear not enticings: Desire will give no place unto a king: I'll see her whom the world admires so much, That I may say with them, "There lives none such." _Sir Bar._ Be Gad, and sall both see and talk with her; And, when thou'st done, whate'er her beauty be, I'll warrant thee her virtues may compare With the proudest she that waits upon your queen. _Enter_ Servant. _Serv._ My lady entreats your worship in to supper.